The River

Zara, Mama and I are still at the cemetery after having located Papa's grave (see post Gravestone Mystery Resolved). Not far away are the resting places of three generations of Sanz women; Mama's eldest Sister, Aunt Leonor along with Grandma Filomena, and Great-grandmas, Celia and Maria, and we cannot possibly leave without passing by and acknowledging the important role played by each during the course of our family history. Having arrived at the cemetery with abundant floral supplies, we accordingly visit their respective graves to place fresh flowers and take a few moments to contemplate the person that was behind each of the inscriptions. Silently we comprehend the enormity of the moment, as three current generations of Sanz women pay their respects to three departed. Working efficiently in unison, we remove the bunches of withered flowers from beside each gravestone, replace them with fresh ones, and finally tidy and clean the surrounding area with a damp cloth. And as I bend down to read the now-faded engraving on the older of the tombstones from the 1960's, I wryly remember the person behind it, Great-grandma Celia; 

Thanks to Great-grandma Celia, I was allowed first place in the line at school when she unexpectedly died in her sleep (See post Share The Moon). Back then, my childish joy was so innocent that I did not comprehend the finality of death, nor the pain that accompanies it. That I would never again sit at the table with Grandma Celia, nor have her tuck me into bed for my afternoons Siestas, as Mama and Grandma Filomena toiled in the hot midday sun of the nearby tomato and banana plantations to put food on the table and money in our pockets. In the midst of our efficiency, Mama brings me back to the moment and shares a nugget of wisdom from her vast life journey: 'La vida es un valle de lágrimas, rodeado por montañas de alegria', life is a valley of tears surrounded by peaks of joy. Her own Mother, my Grandma Filomena was left widowed with eight children and managed perfectly well, so there is no reason why I should not manage likewise after my divorce with just two. And I carry on with the task at hand and do not respond, but I know that Mama is right. She has twenty years of life experience over me, for this was her age when I was born, and they are years which have imbued her with a wisdom and insight that I would be fortunate to possess even a fraction of. 

The mountain cemetery fills me with serene calm and the cycle of human existence sublimely opens out before me; It is indeed a fitting place of final rest for the end of this long and beautiful journey that we call Life. I see life as a mighty river that carries us along from our birth at the minute trickling stream that forms its source, right to the end when it washes out to the open sea and our time on this earth ends. This journey is made up of various stages; smooth calm waters bathed in glorious sunshine representing joyful events such as happy family times, interspersed with rapids and turbulent waters cloaked in darkness representing sadness and tragedy. The River moves relentlessly ever downwards towards the open sea, and no person and no thing can stop this monumental flow. Loved ones join us on this journey and for a while we share the same River before parting ways, for everyone has their own River of Life that they alone must travel, each with their own beginning and their own end. And when it finally reaches the open sea and the circle of our earthly existence closes, we take with us nothing more than fragments of precious moments frozen in time. These we call Memories. Thinking of life in this way fills me with great tranquillity, and along with these profound moments of contemplation, our visit to this beautiful Cemetery of Life is concluded.

After Mama, Zara and I have finished our tasks, we return down the winding mountain roads with our trusted driver Uncle Fernando to the village of San Juan. At home, I take a moment to follow up on my conversation with Fernando (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone) and google the words, 'Columbus Gomera Beatriz de Bobadilla', and sure enough, reams of information appear before me on my laptop screen confirming the connection between said persons. And, by golly what a drama! I find a rare surviving painting of Beatriz herself and realise that she was indeed a stunning beauty. No wonder that Columbus was intoxicated by her, and this is their story;

Beatriz de Bobadilla was the young widow of Herman de Bobadilla, former Spanish Governor of La Gomera and living a lonely life on Tenerife's neighbouring island when Christopher Columbus stopped by on August 9th, 1492 to carry out essential ship repairs as well as to gather provisions for the long and unknown voyage ahead. Rumour says that he was already familiar with the legendary beauty of Beatriz, having met her previously at the court of the Spanish King and Queen. He was not alone in his admiration, for apparently much to the ire of Queen Isabel, her husband, King Ferdinand was also not immune to the womanly charms of this stunning beauty. So much so, that Queen Isabel took the decision to marry Beatriz off to the nobleman Herman de Bobadilla, and in doing so expelled her love rival to the farthest corner of the Spanish empire, the Canary Islands. For a lady of noble birth used to a life of privilege at the Spanish court, this was tantamount to being exiled to the farthest corner of the Planet. Columbus' arrival on the island in August of 1492 must have served to dispel a lot of the boredom and frustration of this noble lady, languishing in enforced widowhood, yet having lost none of her captivating beauty.

                     

                        
                                               

But why did he not set sail until nearly a month later on September 6th,1492. Why did he delay his departure for so long? Historians repeatedly ask this question with no concrete answer to date. Uncle Fernando pronounces his opinion on a matter that has baffled historians for centuries with one impacting word: 'Beatriz'. And after analysing the fruits of my extensive Google research, I must say that I wholly concur. So, my own Papa was not the only person to be captivated by the charms of the Canary Islands along with its ladies, I wryly think to myself. This contemplation does not last for long, for I am lured back to the present and away from Columbus and Beatriz by Mama, who has just returned from the shops and is resolutely standing in front of me.

Victoriously holding in her hands two pairs of tiny shorts, she tells me that I am now to wear them whenever I return back to the Island for holidays or otherwise; one pair is ash-grey and the other, rose-pink (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone). My capri trousers are now history and I now never need be without shorts; just like the local ladies, when one pair is in the wash, I will still have a clean pair to wear. I have never had shorts this miniscule, not even when I was Zara's aged of eighteen, but I do as I am told and change into said item of clothing. Now I look just like Zara, and I realise that Mama was right: I look, not just like a local, but also years younger. The shorts have easily taken ten years off me. I should have been wearing them years ago! This seventy-two-year-old standing in front of me is one trendy mama and grandmama, with a chic sense of fashion to rival the houses of Armani, Versace and Gucci. Soon she will be headhunted for the runways of Paris, London and Milan, and when this happens, who will cook Zara and I our delicious Spanish meals? 

Next post 14th July: Cars With Memories

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

Gravestone Mystery Resolved

We have reached our destination and, as always, Uncle Fernando makes himself comfortable in his driver's seat. He can go nowhere, and happily starts to read his beloved daily Marca football newspaper until we finally return to our driver and vehicle. Due to lack of effective space, the graves at the cemetery are piled high in locker style, and it feels like everyone is stored away for eternity in chests of drawers. In spite of this it is a beautiful final resting place, the views down to the coastline are spectacular and the warm sun caresses the bones of those departed. We follow the precise coordinates given by the professional over the phone and lo and behold, we come face to face with Papa’s grave, complete with beautiful headstone. Mama is very quiet and so is Zara. As I suspected, they had been laying flowers at the wrong grave, a fresh grave just like Papa’s, still awaiting the arrival of headstone but not Papa’s. ‘These corridors, they all look the same!’ and this is all Mama has to say on the matter. Case closed (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone) 

This is well out of order!' exclaims Zara with hands on hips and in her delightful English manner, 'Nanny, Daddy and I were here two weeks ago, laying flowers and paying our respects to Grandad, and we did it all at the wrong grave!' following the outburst with flamboyant hand gestures in a most definite non-English way. I see she is getting used to local ways fast. 'We chose those flowers with great care and Daddy wept at what he though was Grandad's grave, when all along it was the tomb of a complete stranger!’ she tells me rather vexed. ‘Well, your father will just have to fly back from England to make sure he finally weeps at the correct grave', I assertively reply, now assuming the tone of authoritative Aunt, Tia Maria, 'He is always looking for a good excuse to come and visit you in Tenerife, and, trust me, this is as good a reason as he will ever get!' And we both burst into a fit of infectious laughter which soon spreads to Mama. The other visitors at the cemetery look at us disapprovingly, we are disturbing their moment of tranquillity with loved ones. Clearly merriment and cemeteries are not an acceptable combination, so we cease our laughter but cannot wipe the smiles off our faces imagining Mama, Zola and her Papa weeping with blissful ignorance at the grave of a complete stranger. Laughter is indeed a wonderful anecdote to sadness and we feel no shame, the most welcomed of visitors has joined us at this sombre moment and we are in no hurry to bid him goodbye.

  



‘

Papa’s gravestone is indeed beautiful. Sis and I chose well. Made of shiny black granite, it has a touching inscription in the centre and a cross on the outer left edge. The right edge is empty through personal choice. Sis and I were offered the option of another religious inscription as part of the regular package: ‘An image of Jesus, the Virgin Mary or perhaps an angel praying for the soul of the deceased?’ the professional at the Funeral Parlour gently suggests just a few days after Papa’s passing. Now Sis and I both know that Papa was not particularly religious and none of these suggested images reflect him nor his life style. I suddenly realise what would reflect Papa perfectly: ' How about a Mercedes star? Papa loved his Mercedes cars’, I add enthusiastically (see post Goodbye Mercedes Man), 'Absolutely not!’ is the frosty reply. ‘Madam, this is a funeral parlour not a car dealership. We do not supply vehicle logos, you will have to source it from elsewhere’. He tersely adds. Sis and I look at one another knowingly and concur that this is a subject we can drop as it will not get us anywhere, at least for the moment. So, Papa, we tried our very best to get you a Mercedes Logo but failed miserably, and this is the reason why the left-hand side of your headstone is left unadorned.

The gravestone has laid out on it the precise details of Papa's life in a combination of numbers and letters: And I realise that it is the numbers and not the letters which predominantly define us at the end of this long journey that we call life. Numbers rule our lives, yours and mine, and classify us with exact precision in a way that words cannot; when we were born, when we died, the age we attained upon our departure, the number of children we had. Even our success is measured in numbers; how much wealth we amassed; how much we earned. Some numbers are more impacting than others. Considered unlucky by many, the number thirteen holds for me a special significance; for many of the pivotal moments of my life have taken place in the midst of these two notorious digits, and I await with a mixture of awe and trepidation those events still to unfold. After this minute moment of philosophy is concluded, we set about laying the flowers that should have been laid there weeks ago.

It feels good that we three are now together in front of Papa’s final resting place, complete with headstone albeit minus Mercedes logo, and paying our respects to this man who changed the course of our family history. Now Papa is finally at rest, on The Other Side with his beloved Mama and little Sister Mercedes. The Sister that generated so much emotion in Papa on our visit to his homeland of Andalusia all those years ago when I was a small child of just three (see post The Other Planet). In the midst of this touching moment, Zara asks the question that has also been on the tip of my tongue all morning, 'who on the earth was the stranger that got Grandad's flowers and tears?' 'No idea' shoots back Mama, 'this cemetery is a maze and it's a wonder we found our way here today!' and Zara and I exchange The Look and The Smile that says, as far as Mama is concerned, the subject is closed and off-limits. Mama always insists on having the last word on everything, and our love and affection for her is so great that we readily comply.

To be continued...

Next  post 30th June : The River

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

Columbus And The Missing Gravestone

Six long weeks have elapsed since Papa passed away, and once more I have returned to Tenerife, my childhood Island home to oversee the inevitable mountain of paperwork that comes when a family member leaves for The Other Side (see post  Share The Sorrow and Goodbye Mercedes Man). As well as this, I also want to see how Mama is bearing up without the presence of her beloved soul mate, Papa. Mama is most fortunate to have her English grand-daughter living with her and providing much needed company after the void left by Papa’s passing. Zara is indeed blessed with the beauty that the Spaniards so admire, but the part I value most is the inner variety, and she possesses this in plentiful abundance. Outer beauty is transient and with the passing of the years will wither and fade, the inner sort however never leaves your side and is with you to the end of time. When the reality of Mama's loss hits and the valley of tears return as if from nowhere, she need not bear it alone, she has this gentle and noble grandchild by her side to help her swim through the river of pain. And I see this inner beauty in action, as I observe them from a short distance away, harmoniously interacting with one another in the kitchen of Mama's apartment, one speaking English, the other Spanish. Both intertwined with the link to Papa. 

Today is a day with no pressing responsibilities, so Mama, Zara and I decide to visit Papa’s grave at the cemetery high in the mountains overlooking our village of San Juan. I am seated in Mama's lounge and Zara has now come in from the kitchen and joined me. I tell her that I am looking forward to seeing the gravestone that Sis and I selected for her grandfather's grave a few days after the funeral (see post Goodbye Mercedes Man) and in doing so allowed Mama to grieve undisturbed. From the kitchen, Mama overhears our conversation and interrupts to inform me that there will be no headstone to admire as it has still not yet been put in place and she is feeling rather cross about this delay: Papa passed away on the 17^th October and the gravestone was promised for All Saints Day on 1^st November, yet she tells me that she has visited the cemetery twice since All Saints Day and there is no sign of any gravestone, anywhere and Zara confirms this. No headstone. Can I please call the funeral office and follow it up, Mama asks so I do exactly that. 
  

‘Madam’, the professional sounding man at the other end of the line tells me, ‘the headstone was put in place on 31^st October in time for All Saints Day as agreed. Respectfully, ask your Mother to look again’, and he proceeds to give me the precise coordinates of Papa’s grave, level two, grave number four-hundred-and-seventy-one. ‘How can this be possible?’, Mama tells me. ‘Zara, her father and I were there just two weeks ago, laying flowers and I can vouch one hundred percent that there was no gravestone. Have they put it on the wrong grave?’  Mama asks with a look of horror. ‘Have you perhaps visited the wrong grave?’ I reply. ‘Impossible!’ Mama shoots back with a look that could wither the freshest of daisies. ‘I do not get my husband’s grave wrong!’  Prudently, I choose not to elaborate on the subject any further. 

Uncle Fernando is coming by inside the hour to drive us to the cemetery, so we had better hurry, Mama informs us. Somehow, she still finds the time to review the outfits Zara and I are wearing and pass her expert opinion accordingly; Zara is wearing micro shorts, which as far as Mama is concerned are so disgracefully short that when she bends over, Mama does not know where to look for shame. My outfit on the other hand receives the opposite review; 'Get rid of those dowdy, long shorts!', she urges me. She is referring to my stylish capri trousers. 'For goodness sake, you are divorced and newly-single, still young-looking and have fabulous legs. Show them off while you still can, and get yourself a pair of tiny shorts just like the other women on the Island!' This is too much for Zara, who exasperated by what she has heard, interrupts Mama mid-flow and throws her hands up in the air and then turns to me laying out her take on the matter: 

'This whole conversation is a complete farce! I am eighteen-years-old and Nanny wants me to wear shorts down to my knees, whereas you, my middle-aged Aunt,' by now she is pointing an accusatory finger at me, 'cannot be found shorts that are skimpy enough! It's completely unfair'. This heated outburst is soon concluded, but not before the entire topic has been duly summarised in a most astute manner; 'Nanny is basically saying that my shorts are too short, and that yours aren't short enough!' And we cannot both but see the comical side to Mama's way of thinking. Mama's opinion on the matter will not budge.

Uncle Fernando arrives and the four of us begin the drive up to the mountain cemetery. Zara is still wearing her micro shorts and I am in my beloved capri trouser. We have both chosen to ignore Mama's fashion pleas. Fernando is Mama's older brother and they are both in their seventies, but sat next to one another in the front of his own Toyota SUV 'Tank' ( see post Tanks And Treasures),  they are talking boisterously over one another and squabbling like the children they once were on the neighbouring island of La Gomera. For Mama and her family are not from my Island, I am the first generation of Sanz to be born in Tenerife and claim it as mine. Zara and I smile as we silently observe Mama and her brother from the comfort of the back seat. Fernando has been paralysed from the waist down for the past twenty-five years after colliding into an oncoming car with his motor bike, and we have nothing but admiration for the tenacity of this man who will not let his disability stop him from living life. The vehicle is specially adapted for him with all the controls on the steering wheel so that he can easily access them. On my numerous return visits to the Island, he gladly acts as driver.Tio Fernando, as we call him feels immensely useful chauffeuring us ladies around the Island and we women are grateful to him for his kindness.     

I start to feel nauseous from the numerous bends along the winding mountain roads, so ask Mama to swop places with me. She come to sit in the back with Zara, whilst I slip into the front seat with Uncle Fernando. I was not wholly truthful, when I said that on my visits to the Island, Uncle Fernando acts as our driver. He actually covers very three important roles; as well as chauffeur, he is also local historian and poet, endowed with a mind bursting at the seams with priceless stories, general knowledge, poems, historical facts, and whatever else one can imagine. And while the girls amuse themselves in the back seat, we happily spend the remainder of the drive sharing our treasure trove of historical knowledge with one another and the winding road with its nauseating curves are temporarily forgotten; 


The conquest of the Canary Islands by the Spaniards between the years 1402-1496; Our own indigenous, pre-colonial Guanche history, stretching back centuries before the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadores; The naval battle fought by the English Admiral Nelson against the Spanish fleet in July 1797 off the coast of Tenerife at Santa Cruz harbour and known as The Battle of Santa Cruz. The Spaniards won and Nelson lost famously lost his arm. Spain one, England nil; Christopher Columbus and his historical voyage of discovery to the New World. On 6th September 1492, Columbus set sail on the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria vessels from Mama and Uncle Fernando's own island, La Gomera, still known to this day as 'The Colombine Island'. In the capital city of San Sebastian, it is still possible to visit the home where Columbus stayed during his time on the Island, the location of the church at which he prayed for safe deliverance, as well as the well that he drew water from for ships' provisions and to consecrate any new lands he might stumble on. And stumble he did, on soil eventually christened, 'America'. 

One singular fact puzzles me amongst all these gems of historical facts that we have just shared; why did Columbus choose La Gomera to stop off on his voyage of discovery? Why not another Island, a bigger one such as Tenerife? Fernando will surely know, he seems to know pretty much everything else. Well, for a start, the conquest of the Canary Islands by the Spaniards had not yet been completed by the time Columbus set sail on his historic voyage of 1492. It would still take another four years before the Guanche Kingdom of Chineche or Tenerife, would bow down before the Conquistadores as the last of the Canary Islands to submit to Spanish rule. Plus of course, there was also the little matter of a certain Lady named Beatriz. ' Beatriz who?' I ask. 



'Beatriz de Bobadilla!' Fernando divulges with one impacting phrase and proceeds to momentarily take his sight off the road ahead, gently turns towards me and sighs with the imperceptible exasperation of a teacher faced with a pupil who has clearly not paid attention to classes. And once again, I am converted into an errant seven-year old school girl. 'My dear child, did you learn nothing at your fancy school in England?'  'I learned lots', I reply, 'but I have never heard of anybody called 'Beatriz'. Who was she? And what did she have to do with Columbus?' I ask. But Fernando cannot answer me, for we have now reached the cemetery in Guia de Isora and our important mission of searching for The Missing Gravestone supercedes the mystery of, 'Who was Beatriz?' She will just have to wait until later.

 To be continued....

Next post 16th June :  Gravestone Mystery Resolved

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.