When my mother’s father, Grandpa Vigil, passed away, my grandma moved in with our family and lived with us for many years. As I consider that time now, it was simply something our family did. There was no question where grandma would go next; she would come to live with us. At the time, I was in elementary school, and I shared a bedroom with my older sister. I was not from the generation of kids where every child had her own bedroom. I had always shared a bedroom with my sister, and there was no reason to question that arrangement. Plus, the only other bedroom was downstairs, and I would have been there alone. I was somewhat of an independent 10-year-old, but I certainly was not brave enough to sleep alone in a bedroom away from everyone else. So, when grandma came to live with us, there were no complaints from me about sharing a bedroom with Grandma Lola. She was probably a bit afraid to sleep alone in that room as well, so the arrangement worked out perfectly. We were together every night to give each other comfort.  

“Mujer!”(woman!) The word filled the entire apartment. In my 5-year-old heart, the two bedroom apartment was small, but my grandpa’s voice was like a bull horn. In my young eyes, he was a huge man with massive hands, but looking back at old pictures, he was actually a slight man with sloped shoulders that rolled forward a bit. According to my mother, those same shoulders bore many heavy weights in his lifetime. Some of the weights were burdensome, but many of them were things that he carried with joy in his heart.  

My grandma and grandpa had eight children, two girls and five boys as well as a daughter who died as an infant. I would imagine part of the reason grandpa’s shoulders rolled forward was from the constant posture of holding his babies and looking down at them with love.

Along with a demanding presence, Luis Vigil carried a calm air that made anyone in his presence feel safe and sound. — My grandpa was also a farmer. Decades of bending forward to plow, pick and care for crops can make anyone’s body compromise to the weight of that life. Based on his extensively long arms, you could tell he was a tall man in his young life. The wide palm of his hands along with his long and bulky fingers indicated a young man who could lift anything when he put his mind to it. —  His fingernails were brittle, cracked, and yellow from a lifetime of smoking. Unfiltered Camels were his favorite. The hair on the top of his head included a large widow’s peak that was only accentuated by the loss of hair on each side of the center point. 

When my sister and I stayed with grandma and grandpa, Grandpa Luis was usually sitting in his big club chair. Nearby was his empty tuna fish can, stuffed with paper towels. He had a persistent cough that was always followed with a quick spit in the can. His heavy smoking had not done his lungs any favors. Most of his time was spent sitting in that chair watching a little 10 by 10 inch black and white television. Grandpa didn’t speak much English. Maybe the television served the purpose of providing background noise as life in the small apartment continued for him. — Directly in front of the chair was a picture window that provided a view of a grass courtyard surrounded by other apartments. That same picture window also afforded grandpa a clear view of my sister and I playing in the courtyard. He was always on guard to make sure Natalie and I were minding our manners and not bothering the neighbors.  

Grandpa and Grandma were content in the small quarters. If I were to visit you in that same apartment today, I would surely be overcome with the a feeling of profound claustrophobia. Even now, my heart races with a sense of being closed in and somewhat trapped as I think about that space. Yet, with that same restlessness, comes a peaceful feeling of warmth and tranquility.  

“Mujer!” he shouts again. While others may have cowered to my grandfathers booming yell, I found that it brought me comfort. I was secure in knowing that this magnificent man with the resonating voice was one of the most gentle people in my life. For me, his strong voice and robust demeanor meant that I always had protection from any danger as long as my grandpa was close by. — The yelling would have been disruptive for others, but Grandma Lola always quietly listened and continued her task at hand. Most times, she was rolling her magical dough and cooking her tortillas. The smell of her tortillas always overtook grandpa’s voice, and it seemed to pat down the rumbling notes of his shout. The aroma made a person feel like grandma was literally taking her arms and squeezing you tightly to calm any anxiety you may have at the moment. Sitting in Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen was the place you could find these marvelous treats. — Many visitors sat at the Vigil table and enjoyed Grandma’s cooking; the tortillas were a mainstay of breakfast at Lola’s house. They came to my plate directly from her comal (Comal-round cast iron griddle). I’m not sure what I may have been doing at that table other than quietly and patiently waiting for that fabulous goodness. The tortilla would be toasty and quickly followed with a pat of butter slowly melting and then at full tilt coming to my mouth to be consumed with the expectation that a second one was soon to come. — Sitting at that table watching grandma create was like watching a professional dancer repeat her routine in a small rectangular space, always resulting with the audience in awe. The repetition of her routine was mesmerizing. She would pick up the dough ball and roll it flat with her trusty rolling pin; she would then peel it off the counter and flip it several times between her hands to make sure the circle stayed exact. In a flash, she would slap it down onto the hot comal, and after a few seconds, cook the other side. Her cooking was quick, precise and oh-so-delicious! That round cast iron griddle seemed to make the most perfect tortillas, and I am yet to find one that comes close to the wonderful taste of my grandma’s.

Many of my childhood memories resulted in the times I would sit in that tiny kitchen. The table where I sat seemed huge to me, but it was simply a typical table for the time. It had a chrome apron and a wood finished top with shiny chrome legs holding it up. Many of the people I loved most dearly sat there from time to time. Frequently, my daddy and my uncles sat at that table with Grandpa Luis and sipped cans of beer. I remember those cans had the finger loop pull tab. I imagine Grandma Lola spent a lot of time picking the tabs off the counter and off the table as several beers were consumed. What comes to my mind about the pull tabs is stepping on the sharp edges with my bare feet. As a child I had an aversion to wearing shoes. I’m sure it was simply me being too lazy to put on shoes because I was in a hurry to get outside to play. My strongest memory of my refusal to wear shoes is a vision of my mother leaning out of her screen door and yelling, “Tracy Lynn, put some shoes on!”  My reaction was likely to step up the speed of my run and ignore the shouts.  

For many children, a visit to their grandparents house is a special treat to be savored until the next visit. For me, it was simply a part of my everyday life. Today, the memory of those stays with grandma and grandpa is never taken for granted, and never wavering is my gratitude to the creator for choosing me to be one of the lucky children to be the granddaughter of these two beautiful souls.