Imagine.
Two people.
A man.
And a woman.
Driving along.
In a racing green Jaguar.
A convertible.
He with his hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Loose strands whipping his face.
She with a brimmed red hat.
Tied under her chin.
Shading her porcelain skin.
Complementing her blue eyes.
The sun is shining.
A breeze is blowing.
As they drive along.
Down the wide open road.
Both laughing.
That image.
Is a memory.
I hold within my thoughts.
Of two people.
My dad.
And my mom.
Long ago.
the beach
spiritual
calm, soothing, serene
the beach
warm sandy surf blending with cool ocean blue
the beach
fresh, salty air
pristine sun-soaked sky
the beach
mind, body, and soul
renewed
When I was a little kid.
Old enough to walk to school.
With an older, by one or two years, brother.
We did just that.
Walk.
To school.
When the rain fell down.
Heavily.
Soaking us to the bones.
My mom would warm up the big ‘ol car.
Some kind of giant machine.
And she would gather us up.
All our things.
Load them in the car.
And drive us.
To our school.
Keeping us nice and dry.
On some of those days.
My mom would pull over.
At the bus stop.
And ask the kids standing there.
Soaking to the bones.
If they’d like a ride.
To school.
Instead of waiting for the bus.
Yes they did.
Want a lift.
So they’d jump into our car.
Our big ‘ol car.
And my mom would drop us all off.
At the curb.
In front of our school.
Ready to learn.
Instead of worrying about how cold we were.
My mom made those days easier.
For me.
For my brother.
And for the other kids who wanted a ride.
He drew her to him.
She hesitated for only a second.
Then followed his lead, pressing herself enticingly against him.
She raised her eyes, looked at him.
He gazed back at her.
As his fingers gently combed her hair.
Her eyes closed.
Felt his hand lift her chin, bringing her glossed lips up, touching his.
Warm breath drawing them closer.
She felt his tongue.
As it skillfully lured its way into her mouth.
Gliding over her silky smooth teeth.
She responded.
Invitingly.
He pressed against her.
His excitement rising, intensely.
She followed his rhythm with equal passion..
He grasped the sides of her face.
Firmly.
Fingers entwined in her wavy locks.
They kissed.
Seductively.
Heated.
Like there was no tomorrow.
Yet.
They wanted to savor the moment.
Savor each other.
So.
They began to slow down.
Touching lip to lip.
Tenderly.
As they fell in love once again.
With another kiss.
Another passionate kiss.
To last a lifetime.
Our wedding day was a simple one. We were wed in a two-story Victorian house. As my maid-of-honor, wearing a forest green knee-length dress, walked down the stairs, she was greeted by seventy-five guests. When the piano player played the “Wedding March”, or more often known by its lyrics ‘Here Comes the Bride…” I, too, walked down the stairs in a traditional white gown wearing a veil, a string of pearls, and holding a small bouquet of flowers. I was greeted by my dad. He walked me to the front of the room, giving me away to Rudy, who, I must say, was looking quite dapper in his black suit and red tie. Rudy’s best-man stood to his right, also wearing a black suit, and my maid-of-honor stood to my left. Our bilingual priest stood in the front, facing us, centered. When the ceremony ended, the small crowd was encouraged to eat the buffet-style food and to simply enjoy themselves. In the most relaxing way.
When Rudy proposed to me, it really was just a question intertwined among the many things we were discussing. Kind of like, “How was your day?” “Fine.” “You want to get married?” “Yeah.” As simple as that. Within three months of that should-be-heavy–question, we were married. We’ve never looked back. Our decision was our own. So easy. So simple. So us.
When our wedding day ended, when we woke up as a married couple the next morning, we knew that our relationship, our lifetime together, was truly beginning right then and there. For us, it wasn’t about the ceremony but rather about what lay ahead. Good times, and difficult ones, too. Of course, we could only imagine what great times we would have, but there was no way we even discussed any not-so-great times. Why bother when we didn’t know what was in store for us? All we knew for sure was that we both loved each other, and just as important Rudy really liked me (and still does) and that I really liked him (and still do). Loving each other seems obvious but, what we know now is that liking each other is what has cemented our relationship.
Years and years after our wedding day, Rudy and I were walking along, hand-in-hand, when he said to me, “I love you. You are so good for me. You make my life so much better. Without you… I don’t want to think about it.” I responded simply with, “I love you, too, Rud.” Then he continued. “What is really cool, though, is not only do I love you, but I really like you, a lot! I think you are an awesome person. I like the kind of wife you are. The kind of mother you are. I just like you!” I hugged him, hugged him tight. “I really like you too, Rud.”
I am, and have been for as long as I can remember, a xenophile.
I. AM. ATTRACTED. TO. FOREIGN. PEOPLE.
Specifically.
To.
Rudy.
Mr. Honduras.
A foreigner.
Who was foreign to me.
When we locked eyes.
Long ago.
But not anymore.
He.
With his chocolate skin.
Makes me swoon.
His don’t mess with me dark features.
That can just as easily turn into a happy, feel-good expression.
And the silken accent that flows off his tongue.
Oh, how it weakens my knees!
Yep.
I am a xenophile.
Enamored with Rudy.
…the world would be a very simple place. All people would be healthy, wealthy and wise. They’d have constant peace of mind and feel content knowing that life is grand. People would spend their days living their passions and feeling worthy. Each individual would happily contribute to this phenomenon we call life.
If I had my way, everyone would own a home. A place to not only find shelter, but to find complete comfort.
If I had my way, every household would have a chef available, preparing meals that are not only delicious, but help promote energy and keep weight in check, which in turn would instill the willingness to meet or exceed personal endeavors.
If I had my way, gym access and personal trainers would be everywhere, encouraging all people to join them, to jump start a life of activity.
If I had my way, vehicles would be purchased, without constraints. And replaced, without question, at the first sign of its discord.
If I had my way, all educational institutions would open their doors wide, allowing every wanting person to build upon an already intact intelligence, free of charge.
The world, in my fantasy mind, or as many would say, my naive mind, would be a very simple place. A place where people lived side-by-side, living independently, yet knowing they could count on anyone, and everyone, to help when a need arose. People would be jovial, simply saying hello to each other, and genuinely wishing one another a wonderful day.
If I had my way, the PEACEFUL world I would create would be overflowing with positive vibes, giving people no time, energy, or even the desire to engage negatively.
Way back. Years ago. I had heard the term blogging, yet didn’t quite understand what that meant. Not until I saw the movie about the girl who blogs for a year, cooking everything Julia Childs, and documenting it, allowing readers to be part of her potential goal being met. “Interesting concept,” I thought. Writing down, whatever, and allowing readers to take a peek into your world. The idea intrigued me, although I wasn’t sure how time worthy it would be for others to explore my day-to-day life. Just a regular person doing regular things.
And then Rudy was offered the job in Arkansas.
So, I signed up. It took me a moment to commit. I gingerly hovered my fingertip above the submit button, while thoughts swirled in my head. Mostly about throwing my life into the cyber winds. Could I really put our world out there. “Well, why not,” I told myself. And so I pressed. Ever so gently, barely registering the new page, create your first post.
Thus, blogging was born.
I thought about what it meant to be living life apart from Rudy. About how we were still in a 100% committed relationship. That it was up to me to hold the fort down here in California, to make sure the kids continued to behave without their dad around. And how all the while Rudy solely maintained another household, and did what he needed to do to make it all work. As I reflect back, I remember in the very beginning I honestly did not know what to write to interest readers about our ordinary daily routines. No one would want to know that I had a cup of coffee in the AM and that news was my main entertainment, while Rudy did the same thing across the country. Then we’d both drive off to work, separately. Later, we would return to separate homes, eat separate meals, watch different TV shows. And so on, and so on. Sounded mundane to me.
Until.
One summer, while visiting Rudy, I looked at my surroundings. I was sitting on a couch haphazardly pushed against a wall, in a room that could be described as a bachelor’s pad. I sat there staring at the keys on my iPad until I felt my thoughts. Those thoughts became words on a page, and those words turned into stories. Stories about how I felt in regards to our situation, him living there and me living here. And that’s when I realized that the interest of my stories lay in me, and if I’m lucky with readers who wanted to know more. I simply wanted to document what was happening, as a sort of journal. As a way to gauge my emotions.
And in part, as a way to be heard. Fully.
You see, I am, and will always be, someone who is more of a listener than a talker. Someone might have asked how it was going with Rudy living so far away. Verbally, I would water the whole situation down, just get it out as efficiently as possible. Then, like a focused listener, I would ask questions, casually deflecting attention away from me and onto my companion.
So, not only has blogging allowed me to detail my life consistently, very specifically, and without interruptions, it’s also where I do most of my talking. Which is a great thing because those who are interested in reading about, or trying to understand who I am and how I think get to eavesdrop with permission. And more importantly, our children will forever have a place to read my thoughts, and share them with generations to come. There will be no guessing as to what I was feeling, thinking, and hoping.
These are my stories.
Living together has its downs. It’s easy to neglect the one you love. To live, day-in, day-out, with the assumption that forever is forever.
I remember a moment in time when Rudy and I were first living together, before we were married. After a day at the beach, I spent the evening lying on the couch, lightly wrapped in only a bed sheet. I had burnt my skin so bad that it hurt to put any type of clothing on. I was in pain and very uncomfortable. After spending a few hours readjusting myself into a never going to find it position, Rudy announced he was going to a friend’s place to watch a game on TV. Seriously, I wondered. Seriously, he said, as a matter-of-fact. My anger took over, immediately, taking my focus off the sunburn, as I marched into the bedroom, dressed, and left our apartment, thinking how I would never leave him when he obviously needed my help. I was mad because he neglected to think of me.
And.
Well.
Living separately has its ups. Sometimes, when striving for simple happiness, living separately can be rewarding.
I remember the two weeks before Rudy and I were going to be married. We had decided that I would return to my parents home, and live there for those weeks leading up to our nuptials. We also decided not to see each other during those separated days. We were to have no interaction together, aside from phone calls. There would be no hand holding, no kisses, and especially, no pillow talk. Just the daily Hello, How are you?, Have a good day!, and I love you. Our reunion was fun. Worth the separation. And it cemented the fact about how much we wanted to be together. No matter what our living situation was.
Living together.
Living separately.
Either way, make life worth the effort; especially, for each other.
Long ago, naming our children took precedence over everything else…
“I’m pregnant,” I said, in a woo-hoo! kind of way. Rudy smiled that I‘m feeling pretty good right now smile of his as he wrapped me in his arms, and laughed that gentle laugh of his. That laugh that said so much. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he blurted, raising his arms to the heavens.
As the initial excitement began to calm, we realized a very important decision was now in order. “What will we name the baby?” we both questioned in unison. We also wanted the surprise element of the baby’s gender, so we needed to be considerate of a boy and a girl.
Fortunately, for the two of us, we knew our children would be given family names. One name from my family, one from Rudy’s. A first name. A middle name. That narrowed down our options, therefore making the process a bit easier.
“If the baby is a boy, how about your name? He could be a junior,” I offered. “No. That’s okay. I’m not sure I like my name enough to pass on,” Rudy stated matter-of-factly.
We pondered the names in our families; the choices: maternal and paternal grandfathers, brothers, and uncles were said aloud. We combined them; one as the first name, another as the middle name, and then switched the order. Nothing felt 100% just right. We moved on to girl names. A just as consuming test – which took months, mind you!
“I really want to name her after my mom, using her middle name, Elizabeth,” I said, as I felt my heart soften, thinking about naming my daughter after my sweet, kind-hearted mom. “I like that,” Rudy said. “I was thinking of Victoria, after my grandma. We would visit her a lot when I was a kid. When it was time to leave I would always run out to the tree in the front yard of her house and hug its trunk so hard that my parents had to struggle to pry me away. You see, I didn’t want to leave Grandma Victoria. She made me happy.” I became teary-eyed thinking of little Rudy crying, screaming. This was going to be harder than we thought, we suddenly realized. Rudy also liked his ambitious, intelligent sister Cecilia’s name. I considered my middle name Anne, too. Anne with an e.
This serious do-not-want-to-pick-a-name-that-will-harm-the-future-of-our-child-by-picking-the-wrong-name job produced two candidates. For a girl baby. Elizabeth Cecilia and Victoria Anne.
After I had delivered our child, Rudy by my side, and him being overwhelmed by, and amazed with the process of birth, he kissed my puffy – just had a child – face. He had a tear in his eye and quietly whispered “That was amazing! I want to name her Elizabeth Cecilia, after your mom and my sister.” I smiled, lay my head back, and sighed with relief.
Three years later Rudy was in Honduras, with Elizabeth and my niece, a full week before I was to arrive. His sister was getting married. Little did he know that I had a surprise for him. “I’m pregnant!” I cried as I fell into his arms when he greeted me at the arrival gate. Rudy hugged me, Elizabeth hugged me. My niece hugged me. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he shouted, as he raised his arms to the heavens.
Again, family names filled our daily thoughts. The name Victoria Anne sat quietly in our minds, waiting for her turn, if we were to have another girl.
“I really admire my dad,” I simply stated. “Yet, in my family all the first boys were named John so I think it’s best to leave it that way.” Rudy, too, admired my dad, and also agreed with my thoughts on why we shouldn’t name a son after him. “Well, my brother Bill meant a lot to me. Before he died in a car accident when he was 19, he always made time for me. Maybe we can use his name, William?” I questioned. Rudy nodded, knowing how much Bill meant to me, having heard my many stories. “I like the name Roberto, which is my younger brother’s middle name, and my blue-eyed uncle first name,” he said, seemingly deep in thought about those he cares for. The name Roberto seemed so foreign to me, like those Spanish intonations just didn’t know how to roll on my OC tongue. I kept those thoughts to myself.
Months later, as I struggled to get off the couch, to answer the phone, my water broke. “My water broke!” I yelled, hoping Rudy was near enough to hear me.
After securing Elizabeth with a downstairs neighbor, Rudy drove me to the hospital to deliver our second child. But wait! Seriously, did we forget something?! Yep. A camera to capture the moment (when I held my child for the first time). While Rudy returned home to retrieve the video camera, I began to hyperventilate. Unusual for me, which made the experience worse. I was given, what I seem to remember as a paper lunch bag, but was probably actually an oxygen mask, to help soothe me. Rudy returned as quickly as possible, within minutes, it seemed, of the birth. “Its a boy,” the doctor stated. Rudy hugged me. “So, what is our son’s name?” I asked him. Rudy smiled, that smile that makes him even better looking smile of his. “Roberto William.” Perfectly named. “I love it,” I said with exhaustion. I was willing to work the name into my life, to roll it off my tongue, to make it a part of who we had become – an interracial family.
Eight years later, I handed Rudy the home pregnancy (test kit) wand. He looked at the + sign. He looked at me, wide-eyed. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he gleefully cheered, once again sending his arms up toward the heavens.
Naming our last, and final, child now included the involvement of Elizabeth and Roberto. When I went in for a check up and the nurse asked if we’d like to know the sex of the child, before we could even consider our options, the kids – didn’t scream, but were pretty darn close to scaring the other patients – said, “Yes! Please Mom and Dad?” Rudy and I looked at each other, smiled and gave the OK nod and a thumbs up. “It’s a boy!” the nurse happily told Elizabeth and Roberto.
“Bradford,” I said. “Let’s name him Bradford in honor of our marriage. Named after the place where we were married. Let’s have his first name be a surname, like Palmer, on All My Children.” Huh? Rudy’s expression wondered. “Bradford? It sounds like Buford. Like an overbearing rich guy,” he sneered. I laughed. I was really keen on the idea, even though it diverted away from our family names. I figured I had some months to get Rudy used to the idea. “I think Ramon would be good. It was my brother Scott’s middle name. Remember how, a month or so before he died, he shook your hand? A gesture that said ‘I like you. I can see you care for my sister. Sorry if I was ever rude….’. I think to honor his memory would be great. It was also my paternal grandfather’s name. Double great.” Rudy listened, really took to heart in what I was saying. “I want to use my middle name, Antonio, too,” he confirmed. “Well, I have, also, always wanted to give a child of mine two middle names, just as my parents did with my older brother Jim,” I added.
We spent months bouncing names around, listened to the input of soon-to-be big sister Elizabeth and big brother Roberto.
When our third child was born, our son, was named Bradford Ramon Antonio.
All three children’s names warm my soul when I say the names out loud, or if I hear them as they float into one ear and gently, quietly, climb out the other.
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