A Tribute to Mom and Dad in 2011 for 1955

MY LETTER FOR MOM AND DAD'S 56th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.  MY BROTHER, STEVEN, READ IT ALOUD DURING THEIR PARTY

 (photo: Dad, Rick, me and my Mom, the bride)

MY WEDDING DAY ~ June 24, 1955

I see the picture in black and white but my memories are in vivid Technicolor.  The day was bright, hot and happy.  Mama bought me my own wedding dress, the same color as hers, yellow.  Yellow is her favorite color and even though mine is pink, she suggested both of our wedding dresses be the same color and who was I to argue?  A beautiful wedding dress of my own?   She said my new father was marrying all of us.  Me, my two brothers and Mama.

As I think back to that day, a mere fifty-six years ago when I was eight years old, I can feel the yellow dotted Swiss gathered skirt under my fingers.  Bumpy and beautiful.  And the slip was white organdy, falling in several ruffles down the front where the yellow skirt parted and opened to allow the slip to show in all its glory.  It made a crinkle sound when I walked and I closed my eyes and listened and smiled.  New panties, new socks and new shoes too.

And I wore my Easter hat.  It fit over the top of my head like it was made just for me.  Little yellow flowers adorned it and Mama plopped it over my very curly hair.  She was quite the wild woman in those days trying to keep my hair tightly curled to match hers.  It never did hold and still doesn’t follow in her naturally-curly gene pool as so many other attributes I received from her bloodline.

In this picture, I look very sober but I was gurgling with happiness inside because Mama smiled so much and my new father made her laugh too.  Instead, the photographer probably caught me in between a smile as is the case to this day.  I guess I should be happy I didn’t have my eyes closed or my mouth open?  Ricky, as he was called in those days, smiled and laughed.  He got new clothes too but not nearly as beautiful as my glorious yellow wedding dress.

The day was wonderful and the wooden pews were hard.  The church was filled with smiling family and friends to watch and listen. 

Seeing Mama and my new father standing in the front of all the wooden benches with my cousin, Lynette and her husband, Del, beside them seemed far away from where I sat with Ricky and my Auntie Dorothy.  I could see the strange man’s face, Reverend Hudson, but only the backs of the four others as they listened to his words.  I heard Mama say, “I do,” and I grinned back at Auntie Dorothy as she watched me steadily through the ceremony and smiled at me every five minutes.

Then it was over and we followed everyone out of the Christian Church and I could hardly wait to be part of the rest of the day.  I’d been careful with my new wedding dress.  Not a crease or smudge of dirt was allowed near any of it!  So, imagine my dismay when the party went on without us!  What?  It was no place for children?  I thought it was our party too.  Nevertheless, I do not have any memories of the reception and neither do my brothers, Ricky and Stevie. 

Now, we are Rick, Steven and Patricia.  Now, they are Mom and Dad.  The memories remain vivid and Auntie Dorothy is no longer alive, but that special day fifty six years ago will always touch my heart and remind my soul about love, commitment and honor by these two wonderful people who have made such a difference in our lives.

Lovingly from across the miles on this special occasion, I remain an appreciative daughter,

Patricia

   

Sitting here with my fingers on the keys as if in a trance, numbed with disbelief and sadness.  Over the past few years, I have studiously endeavored to follow my Spanish blood line, trying to walk in my grandmother's footsteps across Spain, sailing with her by ship to Hawaii, learning about the flowers and growing up in Hawaii before moving to California with her family and eventually becoming my adored grandmother/abuelita.  Over these years I have met so many lovely, loving members of an extended family I was unaware of and many people do not know my story, somehow lost in the genealogy midst of investigating the Spanish lines of our family.

When I was eight years old, my "dad" married my mother, my two brothers, Rick and Steven and me.... in Woodland, California.   Over the years, he became my dad in every way but his blood line.  I was born a Spaniard but adopted into the Portuguese world.  He always let me visit my grandmother/abuelita from my Spanish family on every visit to California (he also loved her).  It is true when you read ANYONE CAN BE A FATHER BUT IT TAKES SOMEONE SPECIAL TO BE A DADDY.  Manuel Joseph "Koffee" Bettencourt was my daddy and he died May 25, 2012.  My heart aches with a choking sadness.

I lost a friend and my dad that day and I am blessed to have been in Portland at the end of his life.  I am blessed to have been around all my family and be there for my mother, my brothers, my son, my daughter, my nieces, my nephews and my grandchildren.  I am blessed that I could hug dad's sisters, Aunt Ida and Aunt Dee.  I am saddened they didn't arrive in time to say their goodbyes.  And then there is dad's first daughter, Becky.  His blood daughter.  She missed him by one hour.  She tried.  Nobody expected him to move out of our lives so quickly.

We thought he had more time.  We thought we had more time.  And now the rest of the family sits in stun mode with their hearts breaking, their lives changed forever as dad/grandpa/brother/husband moves out of their lives forever.  Forever. 

And then there is my dear mother whose heart is broken, her life in shards.  I am thrilled she agreed to return to Virginia with me for a visit.  She saw dad in every corner of every room of their home and facing the pain is more than she can endure.  Here in Virginia, we cook together, walk together, pack up boxes together and share wine and good memories.  Soon, we will head west where she will help me move into my new home in Arizona.  She will need all her family to embrace her in every way possible when she returns home in July.

Family and blood lines vs adoption lines have blurred over the years.  I am Spanish, yes; but Portuguese through and through, woven through my mind and heart by a man who was always there for me, always listening.  He was firm, sometimes quite so.  But he always loved his three Spanish children and felt we were Portuguese too.  His children to join our baby brother, Carl, who made our family whole.  I will miss this man always and hope others realize how important family is regardless of whether they are born to or adopted into the wonderful circle of life they are blessed with.

Just found COMMENTS on Spanish Pearls and ANNA Gonzales

Life has been in the fast lane for several weeks and I am going to post two separate blogs today.  The first one is responding to many comments that family members have made over the past couple of years that I didn't know existed!!!  You'd think I would have this computer stuff figured out but I am constantly learning.  Lovely comments and my heart just tripped when I read one from ANNA MANLEY (GONZALES) -- She is a young woman I have been looking for many months and there is no way to contact her to respond.  I am very hopeful she continues to read Spanish Pearls so she can give me a contact email?  Anna, please go onto my web site at www.patriciabbsteele.com and go to the Contact link and send me a private email?  I will respond as quickly as possible. 

The second blog I will now post will explain the lagging posts. 

Struggling with the Spanish Naming Rules

With roots in the Middle Ages, Spanish surnames have been around since the 12th century. Children are commonly given two surnames, one from each parent. The middle name (1st surname) is the father's name (apellido paterno), and the last name (2nd surname) is the mother's maiden name (apellido materno).

Trying to keep this naming rule in mind as I set forth on this massive genealogy project to line up the Silvan, Martin, Gonzales, Dovales, Alejo, Hernandez names in the northern part of Spain and the Ruiz, Romero, Garcia and Fernandez names in the southern part of Spain, my brain still pauses and stumbles at times and I have to grab a pencil to draw out the naming map.  Also, deciphering the correct spellings!

Martin is often Martinez.  Silvan is often Silban.  Dovales I thought was Dosales.  All in all, I believe the names are finally correct; now to place them in the proper order.  In Spain, since the father's name is the first surname, or the 'middle' name as we recognize it in America, this means SILVAN is my abuelita's father's name and RUIZ is my abuelo's father's name.
Those are the easy ones since the generation was close enough to personally know on my own.

Then, the generation before them is where the names get fuzzy. 
Abuelita Manuela's father was Juan SILVAN Hernandez.  Her mother was Eustoquia Rita TRASCASAS Marzo.  Why did they give their children Marzo as the middle name for the boys and Trascasas as the middle name for the girls?  Then, there was the exception:  their youngest son (Celestino) had the middle name of Fernandez.  Nobody has the answer to why, why.... cuando???

When abuelita married Bernardo RUIZ Romero, they gave their children the SILVAN name as the middle name for some of their children since it was what Americans call her maiden name, no middle name for others, and American names for others.  I found this happened for several reasons. 

When the Spaniards arrived in California, their Spanish names seemed to broadcast 'poor white trash' in the caste system, as Steve A. put it so eloquently.  Who would want to be called "Spik"?  My father was and so many other Spaniards... so what to do?  They changed their names to sound more American.  (When Spaniards were asked a question upon arrival, they answered with "I no spik-a English" with an intense Spanish accent.   As in many cultures, the new kids on the block were picked on, so the nickname, "Spik" stuck like glue.  Italians were "whops".  Japanese were "Japs".  Chinese were "chinks".  Germans were "krauts".  Demeaning and sad, they wanted to be American!!!

Feliza/Felisa became Alice
Cristencia became Christina
Jose became Joe
Agustin/Augustin became August
Eustoquia Rita became Rita
Francisco became Frank
Maria became Mary or Marie
Miguel became Michael
THEN there were the last names; Martinez was shortened to Martin.  Jorge was changed to George. Souza Bento was shortened to Souza and there's some whisper than some people in that family line used the name "Castro".  Nobody knows who, where or why.

I want my book about the Silvan and Ruiz families to be accurate so rest assured I will nail down the proper name sequence in the Spanish form and how it changed to the American form in my final publication.  For now, the names flit around in my head like a hummingbird around red flowers.