4 Generations
In addition to the break-up of my marriage, I have lost three family members in the past three months. While the first two were quite painful, the most recent one seemed to hit closest to home.
My paternal grandmother, Estella Lopez, died peacefully on July 7th. All 4 of her kids, as well as most of her grandchildren, were in the hospital room with her when she passed. She had been diagnosed with cancer a mere 8 days prior to her death, which also came on her daughter’s birthday.
In the dedication of my personal copy of my graduate thesis, I said that my grandmother “delivered this family from white cotton to white collar.” This woman constantly worked multiple jobs to care for her children when her husband left her. My father and his brothers worked in the south Texas cotton fields as very young boys to help the family out, but my grandmother held them all together. She was always particularly proud of the fact that she never needed help from welfare to support her four children—they made do on their own.
It was a very proud moment 10 years ago when I became the first member of our family to graduate from college—a moment my grandmother was there to share. But a memory just as strong was formed 3 years prior to that. In 1994, at the end of my freshman year, my dad and grandma came to L.A. to bring me home for the summer. We made the drive home the day after my last final, and had some quality time between the three of us. We stopped for the night when we got to Eugene, so that we could call on a cousin of mine for breakfast the next day. We were able to contact him, and my dad took us all out to eat. When I turned 30, my grandma gave me several pages of diary entries she had made in the previous 10 years, and she contemporaneously described that breakfast as being a very special treat. I’m very thankful that we could make that happen for her.
Eerily, she died on 7/7/07, and, as my uncle noted after she passed, “She always loved the slot machines at the casinos.” And as my cousin pointed out, “The only time she could walk fast was when she got to the casino.”
Rest peacefully, Grandma, and we’ll carry your torch.
My paternal grandmother, Estella Lopez, died peacefully on July 7th. All 4 of her kids, as well as most of her grandchildren, were in the hospital room with her when she passed. She had been diagnosed with cancer a mere 8 days prior to her death, which also came on her daughter’s birthday.
In the dedication of my personal copy of my graduate thesis, I said that my grandmother “delivered this family from white cotton to white collar.” This woman constantly worked multiple jobs to care for her children when her husband left her. My father and his brothers worked in the south Texas cotton fields as very young boys to help the family out, but my grandmother held them all together. She was always particularly proud of the fact that she never needed help from welfare to support her four children—they made do on their own.
It was a very proud moment 10 years ago when I became the first member of our family to graduate from college—a moment my grandmother was there to share. But a memory just as strong was formed 3 years prior to that. In 1994, at the end of my freshman year, my dad and grandma came to L.A. to bring me home for the summer. We made the drive home the day after my last final, and had some quality time between the three of us. We stopped for the night when we got to Eugene, so that we could call on a cousin of mine for breakfast the next day. We were able to contact him, and my dad took us all out to eat. When I turned 30, my grandma gave me several pages of diary entries she had made in the previous 10 years, and she contemporaneously described that breakfast as being a very special treat. I’m very thankful that we could make that happen for her.
Eerily, she died on 7/7/07, and, as my uncle noted after she passed, “She always loved the slot machines at the casinos.” And as my cousin pointed out, “The only time she could walk fast was when she got to the casino.”
Rest peacefully, Grandma, and we’ll carry your torch.
1 comment:
beautiful picture and story, Mike.
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