the love of family

abuelita y yo, enero de 1978

Last night I attended what is known as "The Love Party," held at my friend Shaun's house. Some dressed the part, others brought lovely foods, music and beverages. Good times were had by all that I spoke with (and probably by those who I neglected as well). On account of the fact that I'm friends with the organizer of said party, the idea of love was discussed incessantly this week. So I had the opportunity to review my mental notes and reflect a bit on my definition of love.

What I found while traveling around in my mind is that love is limitless, flowing and multiplying indefinitely. Love is built on a foundation which is composed of everything you have known and learned since you were a child. For me, love starts with family. I think of my abuelitos, who showered me with affection, attention and support for my entire childhood. They served as my teachers of morals, culture and decency. They taught me good manners (some were forgotten), hard work, intellectual thirst and curiosity. They taught me to enjoy good foods, to make things last and to value family above all else. I have never met two more beautiful people in my entire life than mis abuelitos, Jorge Ruiz Lara and Leonor Angarita Ruiz Lara. In her book, The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy talks about how when people pass away they leave holes in the universe in the shape of their former selves. Mis abuelitos definitely left a huge hole in my family's heart and in the universe when they left us. Despite their absence on earth, they are still everywhere and in everything, guiding and inspiring me in all that I do.

My parents were young when they had us, younger than I am now is what I mean. Well, my mom anyway. Despite their youthful inexperience, my parents loved and nurtured us, and learned the ins and outs of parenting along the way. What I’ve found is that most parents don't know what the hell they're doing at first, no matter their age. And kids don’t realize this until they’re all grown up and reflect back on their childhoods.

For me, motherly love is best illustrated by the one-on-one moments that my mom and I had when I was young. Since I had two sisters, this time was rare and usually limited to time spent traveling to and from doctor's appointments. When I would inevitably survive a shot in the arm, a stop at McDonald's was to be anticipated. My mom would order nothing, but beg for a few french fries. After all, they're not fattening if you steal them from someone else. My mom would write songs about the scary moments in my life to the tune of My Fair Lady's, "I'm Getting Married In the Morning." They went something like, "I'm having an operation in the morning!" We would sing it with such glee that I actually have good thoughts when I think of the cleft palate surgery that I had at the age of 5.

My mom coupled these songs with stories she would tell about 3 characters which always seemed to be going through the same experiences that my sisters and I were going through. The characters were called Dubadoo, Dubadee and Dubado. We would all climb into my parent's bed and my mom would make up these hilarious stories on the spot. Then we would write our own short stories in our journals and recite them aloud, trying to be as funny as possible in order to entertain each other.

My mom was never a great cook. Being raised in Colombia with maids that cook 4 course meals 3 times a day will do that to a person. Looking back, the meals that my mom made for us were a beautiful expression, despite their pathetic appearance. A typical spread included a pile of peas, 1 or 2 fried eggs and a pile of white rice. The plate was always split into 3 sections and that is as creative as things got on our dinner table, unless my dad was cooking. Then we could expect something super American and exciting, like Cream Chipped Beef or Chicken Ala King. Or, on a truly wonderful night, breakfast for dinner, Waffles!

My dad is, simply put, the best dad a kid could ask for. And I'm not saying that because he’s my blogs most avid reader. My dad was the team captain of the Fitzgerald clan. He may have learned a lot of tricks about how to handle a crew of women from tagging along with my grandma, Rita, to her Girl Scout meetings. She was troop leader. From day one, my dad proved to be a feminist. He never did anything for us that he felt we could do on our own. He loved to spout the “teach a man to fish” lesson. The most challenging childhood task I can remember was stuffing my sleeping bag into this little tiny bag that it came with. When you would look at the two, it just didn’t seem to make sense – the bag being so small and the sleeping bag so huge. My dad made the stuffing process look so easy. My sister, Alicia and I would take our tent down in 4 minutes flat and then sit down for the 10-minute bag stuffing process. It doesn’t seem so hard these days so I guess I learned something.

My dad was our coach, our tutor, our proofreader and editor. He taught me the proper form for shooting a basketball, dribbling, defensive stands and lay-ups. In softball, he taught me how to catch fly balls and grounders, hit a home run and pitch. Looking back, I realize that all these activities were simply a reflection of his love for us. I was the sole fisher woman in my family. I secretly always knew that fishing would be a way for me to get one-on-one time with my dad and I cherished those opportunities. I always admired my dad’s love for nature and for getting away from the drone of suburban life. For two weeks every summer we would pile into our failing Dodge Ram van and head out to West Virginia for camping, hiking, swimming, shuffleboard and family bonding. I can’t think of any hotel that would have been nicer than sleeping under the stars with my family by my side.

My sisters, Alicia and Paula, were my partners and friends from day one. Could there be anything more beautiful than sharing your childhood, your parents, grandparents and cousins with 2 girls, one year older and one year younger than you? I think not. Sure, there were fights and arguments. But, the discord could not stand up to the bond that we all shared. The sweetest moments were those where we suffered a common punishment at the hands of my wonderful parents. I recall slithering along the floors of my house, trying to make it to a central meeting spot so that my sisters and I could try to figure out an exit strategy, or at least keep each other company while on punishment.

One of the hardest things about growing up was leaving this environment where we were all together and going out on my own as a singular human being. A few months ago the five of us were together for about 15 minutes while walking home from dinner. I was immediately struck by a wave of nostalgia; this was the first time it had been just the five is us for probably 10 years. I don't think I'll ever forget that moment, an extraordinary scenario which was once so commonplace.

In its purest form, love is my immediate family, Steve, Claudia, Alicia and Paula. From there, it branches out to my extended family, mis abuelitos, Leonor and Jorge Ruiz Lara, my grandparents, Rita and Stephen Fitzgerald, Sr., my aunt and uncle Jorge and Clemencia, my cousins, Anamaria, Liliana, Nicolas and Santiago Segura, my abuelita’s housekeeper, Maura and my family’s housekeeper and nanny, Miriam. The love density in this short paragraph is truly overwhelming. I'm pretty lucky to have ended up with this crew.



Lurray Caverns, VA, sometime in the early 1980's.