Cars With Memories

It is the present moment, and I am once again back on my beach. On our Island of Tenerife we have known for exactly one week, that within two short months Donald Trump will become the 45th President of the United States of America. With his inauguration I will have lived through eleven US presidents, for I am just eight weeks old when President John F. Kennedy, Thirty-Five, is assassinated. At this moment and on this beach, Sofia is seated next to me, just as she was before I recollected the events leading up to Papa's death (see post Share The Sorrow); his Wake (see posts Gathering And Remembering, The Notebook, The Professionals); the Funeral that followed (see post Goodbye Mercedes Man); the search for The Missing Gravestone (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone); its discovery (see post Gravestone Mystery Resolved); and how the love story of Beatriz and Columbus tied up into all this (see post The River).  All these events have passed through my mind in a matter of hours, minutes and seconds, but in reality one complete year has elapsed and I am now back on my Island and on my beach with my own child (see post Share The Moment), contemplating on the fragility of this existence that we call Life.

It has been good to met with Mama, and in her old age grant her the gift of time spent with one daughter and two grand-daughters; myself, Zara and Sofia, for this even brief period of time. Twenty-one-year-old Sofia will be returning to Finland tomorrow joining her older brother Hugo, and I will still stay on with Mama and neice Zara for a few more days. After a hectic summer of uninterrupted work, I am in need of a respite and vacation of my own. What better place than on my own island of Tenerife, the Hawaii of Europe. The day of Sofia's departure arrives and goes and Mama, Uncle Fernando (chauffeur, historian and poet all rolled into one) and I drive the short journey to the airport as we usually do (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone). Sofia messages to let me know that she has safely arrived in Helsinki and I then set about setting myself a challenge and stepping out of my comfort zone; 

I decide to be brave and rent my own car. The Island's ubiquitous twisting mountain roads with sharp drops down to dry ravines terrify me, and until today I have left the driving on my numerous returns home to the men of my life; first to Hugo and Sofia's Finnish Papa, and then later to Uncle Fernando. But the former is no longer a part of my life, and the latter will soon be eighty, and I realise that sooner or later I will have to take care of the driving myself. I reason to myself that I have successfully survived navigation of the Finnish roads for over twenty years come summer and winter, so this Island's meandering highways cannot surely present me with greater insurmountable challenges.

Before my determination wanes and along with it my courage, I walk over to the car rental shop in the village of San Juan, sit down at the desk manned by a well-dressed lady in her late-thirties to early-forties, and ask for a rental car. For today. A rental car with automatic transmission for this afternoon I add.  She nods at my request and begins to tap on her keyboard searching for my desired vehicle. She seems to be a nice woman and I try to imagine from this first encounter what sort of a person she is when she is not sat behind the desk renting me a car. What is her name? How old is she? Where does she live? Is she single? Married? Any children? How many? Their ages? What are their names? What car does she drive? I want to tell her all about the cars that I have driven and the stories that they could tell. You see, all my cars come loaded with memories. Memories that recall minute details of the vehicles that have passed through our family life and so much more. Memories loaded with joy, but also those weighed down with sorrow. If only I could get her to have a coffee with me, we could discuss all this and so much more. And all at once, a mighty river of words begins to cascade from within me, like water gushing over a precipice pulled by the force of gravity ever-down towards the open sea. 

I want to tell her that I was born in Playa Alcala, the village next door to San Juan where we are now, but that many years ago, when I was just six-years-old, Mama, Papa, Sis and I bid goodbye to Mama's own family, and emigrated to England. That even though I look like you and talk like you, on the inside I am English. I want to tell her that I miss my Papa and that he died one year ago last month at a ripe old age, that four decades may separate today from yesterday, but that I am still the same innocent six-year-old who sat on his knee back then in our caravan, newly arrived in a strange land called England and reciting the new English words of the day in our terrible Spanish accents and listening to the wonders of The English Tea Break (see post Watching The English Part I And II). 

I want to tell her that the seeds of Papa's fervour for adventure germinated also within me; for many years later, freshly graduated from University with a degree in Mathematics and a passion for linguistics, I in turn bid farewell to Mama, Papa and Sis in England and departed for a new country named Finland. And so began my own adventure on the untrodden journey of Married Life (see post Grandma Elisabeth And The Hayshoes). At first we were two, then within two years we were joined by Hugo, then four years later Sofia completed our family of four. I want to tell her all this and so much more, but I think that she just wants to rent me a car. 

 

I want to tell her that our last and most recent family car was a snow-white BMW-520i called HIJ-550, or The Executive Milk Float. It was the colour of milk and the sleek engine purred softly like the electric milk floats of my English childhood. I helped to pick it out at the showroom and these were comfortable times of plenty; Hugo and Sofia were transcending from childhood to adolescence, the hectic days of our adult late thirties would soon give way to the calm years of the early forties, and the few scant clouds in the distant horizon were white and fluffy, soon melting away to reveal a backdrop of blue skies. Life was good. I want to tell her that, many years later during the darkest days of my divorce, I would drive in my Executive Milk Float anywhere and everywhere around Helsinki to obliterate the pain of the moment and to contemplate the life I had lost and the one ahead of me erased before it had yet been written. 

I also want to tell her that I was married for exactly twenty-five years, two months and two days when, on a thirteenth day like no other, my life imploded. Please do not ask me for the hours and minutes, for I cannot say. On That Day, the measurement of time as we know it ceased to exist, and in its place appeared the simplified categories of yesterday and today, for tomorrow had just died. That soon three years will have elapsed since That Day when time stood still and my calendar reset itself at zero. That the torrent of divorce pain has now given way to a calm sea of tranquillity. That my new unexpected and unwanted life is blessed in more ways than I could have ever imagined. That I have said goodbye to a marriage, but gained a daughter I never knew I had.

I want to tell her that I have dated many men since my divorce, but that only one has captured my soul and along with it a fragment of me which I cannot retrieve. That the heart is circled by many, but conquered by few. That you are lucky if just one such encounter crosses your path in a lifetime, but that I have been blessed with two and that exactly twenty-nine years separate them. That neither was meant to be, and that the wave of sadness washes over me now as it did then, for it is not every day that you say goodbye to that which conquers the heart and captures the soul. I want to tell her all this and so much more, but I think that she just wants to rent me a car

But let's not dwell on the sorrow, for this will only incarcerate us both in a valley of tears. Rather let's look upwards, towards those peaks of joy that Mama told me about (see post The River), and remember the happier moments of those Cars With Memories; Before the Executive Milk Float came into our life, there was a colossal sky-blue SUV Toyota Land Cruiser BJS-355, or 'The Tank'. This car was the first car that I drove in Finland and cemented my dual role as a mother and driver, for Sofia joined our family soon after the arrival of The Tank. Its sole mission: to keep the new generation of Hayshoes alive on the slippery winter roads and it stepped up to the challenge with honours (see post Grandma Elisabet And The Hayshoes). 

This is the car that left an indelible mark on Sofia, for aged not quite three she one day informed me that, ' I-is-a-big-girl, drive-a-car, look-like-a-you-drive-a-car, go-voom-voom-not-vam-vam'. Even at this tender age, Sofia clearly understood that her Mama was driving a Tank (see post Tanks And Treasures). I have no recollection of similar conversations with her older brother Hugo years earlier at the same age. He showed no such interest in cars. Rather, as we prepared to leave the house, Hugo would resolutely inform me that he would not be divesting himself of my high heels or 'slippers' as he called them. He needed to wear them at all times so that he would stand a good chance of 'marrying Prince'. Unlike his younger Sister who was entranced by cars, the fairy-tale story of girl meets prince, or Cinderella captivated this two-year-old.

Equally important, this was the vehicle that across the radio air waves on a cold Finnish winter's day brought a nine-year-old Tibetan girl into my life. The warm office with its drowsy heat momentarily numbs me, and my mind transports me back to that time and place....

To be continued. 

Next post 9th April: A Tibetan Story

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

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? 

To be continued...

Next post 26th March: 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 alwa, 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 12th March :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.