Villaescusa, a Silvan/Martin village and a poem

Villaescusa, Province of Zamora, España

Wikipedia defines Villaescusa as a town of Spain, in the province of Zamora, in the community of Castile and Leon with a population of 321 inhabitants.  

This was definitely one of the tiniest ancestral villages we visited, just a few miles from Fuentesauco.  From this village, came Angel Silvan Martin who married Maria Alejo Dosales, the father of Celestino Pedro Silvan Alejo, my second (great) grandfather (bisabuelo) and Margarita Martin Rodriguez, the mother of Agustina Hernandez Martin, my second (great) grandmother (bisabuela).   It is my theory that the Martin and Alejo families from this village were also ancestors to the Martin cousins in California; This link will be discussed at length in my book, Silvan Leaves, which I hope to publish later this year.  

The road into Villaescusa, initially lined with beautiful houses, led us into quickly narrowing streets into the main part of the village where everything changed.   Houses were older, smaller on twisting streets that went in several directions.  We saw a woman in a flowered dress hanging laundry above us from a beautiful balcony nearby with dogs barking from the street below.    

Slowing a bit, we found a few old gentlemen sitting in the small Plaza Mayor before the Ayuntamiento with flags gently blowing in the warming breeze above them.  We counted nine men, sitting in chairs, some near small round tables, all gazing at us with undisguised interest.  We assuredly gave them food for later conversations.  

The ancient church stood in its own little space, stone houses all around in the crux of avenues that intersected before us.  The church was graceful, built with stone bricks in the front and cemented smaller stones at the back end.  We saw the arched, worn-wood doors and commented on the tall pointed top with a stork’s nest and bell tower we'd become so used to marveling at in prior cities.  The church was closed… 

Where was the cemetery? By then, we knew cemeteries were either attached or very near the village churches.  To prove it, we slipped behind the church to follow a solitary road that appeared to run into farmland.  And there it was.   The first view brought the spring of tears behind my eyes.  Five generations from my first father’s birth started there and some ended.  The setting was pastoral and quiet.  

Steven drove slowly through the gate after I unlocked it; I walked up the slight inclining road toward the gated cemetery beside what appeared to be a second church.  It was a peaceful place.   That gate was a bit harder to open but I shook it hard and bam!  It opened with a clang, one side a bit disjointed and I stepped through.  Steven cocked his head at me, laughed quietly and followed me inside.

We saw standing headstones stretched in loosely-structured rows though some were old and weathered, spotted white, their etching long smoothed away; some leaned and some had fallen altogether with their age.  There were graves marked with hard stones, backed with bricks, while steel railings bordered others.  We walked the length and breadth of the small cemetery looking for the names of Silvan, Martin, Alejo, Dosales and Rodriguez.  Nothing.  However, they were there;  They touched me as I slipped through the narrow openings.  I knew they were there.

Leaving quietly after jamming the lopsided gate’s bar back into place, we felt the family’s aura around us as we stepped away and found the huge, ancient tree with its limbs chopped off to read the framed sign held firm to its trunk. (see September 24 blog)  Steven read its poetic Spanish words aloud; emotion overwhelmed us, sweeter than my words can describe.  Sadly, the photo is unclear --- I’d hoped to re-read it again but it was not to be.

Despite Villaescusa being the smallest village we’d explored so far, we could barely find our way out of it afterward.  Such small, twisting and dead end streets!  First you are in the village, next on a dirt road driving without an exit.  Its cluster of houses appeared like a mirage; one could almost imagine the wavering edges, blurry and hidden as we nosed our car through its strangely laid grid of streets.   

And then we were suddenly on the road toward Villamor de los Escuderos for our next adventure.