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?
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.
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