Yellow Bloom

Today, the snow has completely melted and I noticed this lone yellow crocus in my yard.  Seeing it blooming gave me a wonderful feeling that maybe spring was getting ready to show its face.  March is known to be the snowiest month in Colorado but the splash of yellow cheered me up as I realized that spring might arrive next month.

It also reminded me of my granddaughter who loved flowers.  As a tiny toddler, she would gravitate to flowers and it didn't matter what color or if they were blooms from weeds, she loved them. With gentle fingers, she would caress any flower that she happened to see.  In her own language, which no one could understand, she would talk to the flowers.

One time when she was coming to visit me from California, I wrote Grandmother's Garden for her.

Grandmother's Garden

The grandmother,

knowing how much the baby loved flowers,

decided to plant a garden for the tiny child.

Bending her arthritic knees

 to the ground.

she dug into the clay dirt.

Petunias, pansies, geraniums

and those little flowers that

were guaranteed to

spread like a carpet of blue,

were placed into the spaded earth.

Daily, the Grandmother nurtured the garden.

She whispered to the plants, watered

and knew, deep in her heart,

that when her granddaughter

arrived, she would love

the rainbow of colors.

It made her happy knowing how her

granddaughter would love

the flowers.

Suddenly,

a heat wave like there had never been before,

caused the tiny plants to gasp for life.

How they struggled to live.

Many died as they shriveled,

turned brown,

and gave up their fight to survive.

A few, continued to

dig their roots,

drank thirstily when they could

and tried to bloom.

On the day the granddaughter arrived,

The Grandmother, who had wanted the

baby to be greeted by color

knew the garden would

not please the child. 

The little girl

got out of the car

ran straight to a lone flower

that had survived.

She knelt beside it,

talked to it,

admired the yellow bloom

and turning to her Grandmother,

smiled.

E. Moscoso

June 30, 1998

. 

Do You Know What You Want?

Sweet Little Bird

Out of the blue

the hand grasped

the innocent creature.

Desperately

she fluttered her wings,

her heart rapidly beating,

her cries so loud,

as she frantically tried to escape.

Firmly, but gently,

the hand held the shaking body.

Caressing the frightened bird.

Trying to calm the quaking one.

Whispering soft words.

"I love you.

I would never hurt you

sweet little bird.

Listen to my word,

sweet little bird,

I love you."

She could not hear,

she would not feel,

she longed for the freedom

that had once been hers.

Daily, he fed the little bird.

Rubbing its resisting body,

stroking its fighting spirit,

touching the smooth feathers.

One day, the hand opened.

The bird

smelled the freshness,

the openness,

the contentment of being

free and she flew away.

What she wanted so badly

was now hers to enjoy.

Up, up, up, and away she flew.

Her heart trying to sing,

her eyes wanting to see,

her wings attempting to fly.

But,

she missed the warm hand,

the gentle touch,

the soft words,

the love.

Returning, she flew into his heart.

She knew what she had looked

for in the past,

she had finally found,

at last.

E. Moscoso

April 11, 1990

Genealogy

Genealogy is a full-time and never ending job!  In 1989 I drove to Salt Lake City to research my past.  I  looked through films for my parents' names.  It was exciting finding their names, but I had no idea how to proceed. One thing I did learn was that in Arvada, where I live, there is a Morman church where I can obtain the same information!

Looking for ancestors took a back-burner in my life until I happened to be talking with a cousin who was working on genealogy. Her father and my mother were siblings so we decided to join forces. In 1993 we drove to our hometown of Greeley, Colorado to visit an 83 year old relative.

 My Second Cousin Lucy Tenorio Gonzales

Her memory and stories were vivid and this gave me a foundation to begin my research. In 2007 the researching cousin and I drove to New Mexico in search of more information. We traveled to Villa Nueva, Santa Rosa, Pastura, Puerto de Luna, Ft. Sumner and Santa Fe. I returned to New Mexico in 2008, met new cousins, and found interesting information pertaining to my ancestors. I learned that everyone has their own version of things that happened in the past. In 2010, my cousin and I attended a Genealogy Seminar in Albuquerque and met more cousins. A highlight was visiting San Jose church in Laguna where my ggggrandfather had donated an altar screen.

Altar Screen donated to San Jose de Laguna Mission

by my ggggrandfather, Jose Manuel Aragon

Since then I have visited cemeteries, spent time in libraries and cultural centers, used the Internet, read books, located other cousins, attended seminars, and written letters to help me compile facts for my family tree. The Denver Public Library has a large research area and much of the same information I found in New Mexico. My huge regret is that when my father and mother told me stories about the past, I never listened. This seems to be the lament of many of my cousins.  My advice for a person interested in digging into the past is to find the oldest relative and get all the information available from that person.

My mother would always say, "Mi abuelo era de Espana." (My grandfather was from Spain.) Research going back to my ggggrandfather is that they all lived in New Mexico. Many Spaniards arrived in Mexico (New Spain) and settled there, possibly for two generations, and then made their way to New Mexico. I have been able to substantiate my ancestry to my ggggrandfather but am having problems locating his father.
There seem to be conflicting records of my gggggrandfather because of the similarity in names and dates.

On my father's side, he would say, "Mis padres eran de Chihuahua, Mexico y mis hermanas nacieron en Mexico.  Yo naci en Nuevo Mexico."  (My parents were from Chihuahua, Mexico and my sisters were born in Mexico.  I was born in New Mexico.) I found records of my father being born in Garfield, New Mexico in 1905. I also have my Grandfather's Declaration of Intention when he entered the United States in 1904. Does that mean my Grandmother was pregnant with my father when they came to the United States?  On the document, the typed 1904 has been crossed out and the year 1899 written in.  Additions or corrections on documents make research difficult!

Another cousin of mine, had a tin type photo and we had it restored.  This, as far as I know, is the only picture of my maternal grandmother.  She is pictured with my great-grandmother and my great-aunt.

My Great Aunt Conrada Ortiz,

my Great Grandmother Luciana Urioste Ortiz, and my Grandmother Valentina Ortiz

Finding bits and pieces of my parents' lives  gives me a better understanding of who they were and how they lived in the past.  I look forward to uncovering and solving more of those old mysteries that are intertwined with my life.



Working in the Fields

During summer vacation, my mother would take my brother and me to work in the fields around Greeley. To a nine year old, it was fun because there was singing, camaraderie, picnics, and it didn't matter how much money I made.  Even at that, it was hard work. Sometimes my knees would feel sore from kneeling in the dirt rows and thinning beats with a hand-held hoe. My favorite field work was filling up sacks with the aromatic onions and getting twenty five cents for each burlap sack filled.  A machine would dig the potatoes up and workers did back-breaking bending to pick the lumpy potatoes. The sun would be hot on my back and a straw hat protected my face. Sometimes, I would be sent to the edge of the field to get a water jug placed in an irrigation ditch under a lone cottonwood tree.  I enjoyed lunch as everyone gathered around the tree and exchanged stories and bragged about how many sacks they had filled. I recall someone making a comment about washing hands before eating and hearing, "It's not the dirt that goes in your mouth but the dirt that comes out that will hurt you!"  The cool shade dried our sweat until it would be time to return for another round of tackling the field! Luckily, we only did this type of work a couple of summers, yet it gave me a sense of how hard field hands need to work for very little pay.

Cycle of Work

by E. Moscoso

Sun on back

thirst in throat

fill the sack

fill the sack.

Knees on ground

blisters on hand

hoe that mound

hoe that mound.

Sweat in beads

rolls down face

pull those weeds

pull those weeds.

Energy sags

body drags

lift those bags

lift those bags.

Shoulders hurt

fingers sore

shake that dirt

shake that dirt.

Time to eat

time to break

cold lunch meat

cold lunch meat.

Too tired to move

rest on bed

same groove

same groove.

Stiff and sore

back aches

same as before

same as before.

Long hours, small pay

life of a field hand

day after day

day after day.

Lent

As ashes were placed on my forehead on Wednesday, the Lenten season began. Ash Wednesday has been in my life for seventy some years reminding me that I am dust and to dust I shall return. It seems as if every decade or so, I experience different feelings and thoughts during Lent.

In the late forties, my Mother and the Victory Noll nuns made sure that children (me) went to church on Ash Wednesday. Very few public school students had dirty foreheads and I was embarrassed at having a smudge on my forehead. What I remember is giving up chocolate for those forty days and I believed this was the least I could do to make up for my sins! On Holy Saturday I'd gorge myself with chocolate!

In the fifties, my attitude changed.  There was something very special in having a religion that stood out from other religions by a mark on my forehead. The smear on my forehead in the shape of a cross was displayed  with pride. I knew it was a time to do spiritual housecleaning by penance, helping others, and being sorry for sins committed. During the forty days I strived to become a better person. Ash Wednesday reminded me that for the next forty days I would spend more time in prayer and religious acts. I prayed daily to become a better person. I wanted to be just like Our Blessed Mother, pure and without sin. I continued giving up chocolate for Lent.

In my early thirties, most of my friends were non-Catholic and I did not attend Ash Wednesday services.  Lent came and went and for me those were ordinary days. At times I would feel a pang of guilt but not enough to get me to go to church. During this time of doubt, I attended mass on Sunday out of duty but  did not receive communion. Once on Ash Wednesday, a bunch of my friends were hanging out when a fallen-away Catholic decided we all needed to have ashes on our foreheads.  He gathered the smokers' ash trays, mixed up the ashes, and placed a round spot on our forehead.  How we laughed at his antics in the dimly lit bar with the smell of beer!  Vatican II had a lot to do with my confusion as I became disillusioned with my faith.  I had removed myself from my faith, yet in an abstract way, I believed in God.

As I grew older, I yearned to return to my roots in Catholicism.  Emotions weighed heavy on me and as I thought about what Lent meant, I could not control my tears.  During the Station of the Cross I felt as if I was present at Jesus' Crucifixion. I felt terrible that I had caused our Lord's death in such a cruel and agonizing way. I attended mass daily.  I realized that during Lent I could erase sins lurking in my thoughts or actions. I remember on Easter Sunday how happy I felt knowing that Jesus had ascended into heaven.

On my journey, I have believed whole heartily in the teachings of the church or at times I became a skeptic.  My closeness to God has never wavered even though I have scoffed at religious views and ideas. Old habits die hard and I still cannot say "thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever and ever, Amen," at the end of the Our Father because this was a protestant ending when I was growing up. I still feel guilty  about eating meat on Friday. I prefer to receive communion from a priest. I had a priest tell me once, "Don't try to be holier than the church."

Slowly, I am learning more about my faith.  I have traveled to different shrines and envy persons who seem so devout. How I would love to have their kind of faith. This year, when the ashes were placed on my forehead I was given a purple bracelet to remind me to deepen my love for God and neighbor by prayer, fasting, and alms giving.

I hope to prepare for Easter by daily meditation.  I will go to confession and on Easter I will celebrate Jesus' ascension into heaven. Lent is the time to delve into my faith, try to overcome any doubts, volunteer at a food bank or a shelter, and pray that the Holy Spirit guides me along my Lenten journey.

Forty Nine Years Ago

In this day and age, rooms at a hospital for expectant mothers, are warm, cozy and pleasant. What I remember is drab cement walls and a dungeon like room with green curtains separating each mother who entered St. Joseph's Hospital. While I waited, I could hear every mother brought in and taken out. It seemed as if every other woman could give birth, but not me! Every sound could be heard, every moan, every scream, every word spoken and every prayer. The year was 1963, St. Joseph's was under construction, and this was my first child being born. What I remember is a lot of pain that lasted from around midnight on the twenty-third of February until I was given a whiff of gas to put me out.  I did not follow my doctor's instructions of breathing normally and counting backwards. Instead, I held my breath.  When I could hold my breath no longer, I took one great big gulp and I was out. I awoke on the twenty-second around noon with my husband on one side of the bed and my mother on the other side.  I could hear my mother saying, "This is not normal, she should be awake, she has not even seen her baby." Once I knew I was alive, I continued to sleep.

By the time I awoke, my little baby was starving and letting everyone know with his crying.  The nurses gave me a crash course on how to breast feed and what I needed to do to get my beautiful baby to latch on and begin drinking.  It took a few attempts but my son and I soon got the hang of what we were supposed to do. The feeling of pride, joy, and love, as I held my baby, filled me with happiness. Giving birth is truly a miracle!

A Mother's Ordeal

Lying here, in this darkened room
I shiver.  Is this my doom?
Across my body, a cramping pain,
if I scream, what will I gain?
I grit my teeth and hold my breath,
I know this pain will be my death.
I must be brave, I must be bold,
for there it is again, taking hold.
A invisible hand grabs my insides,
ripping and tearing, then slowly hides.
It is now worse, where does it hurt?
It is now gone, does pain with me flirt?
Each time it comes it gets worse.
What can I do?  "Oh, help me nurse.
Make this unberable pain flee,
please, come and help me!"

On wheels so slow I am rolled away.
A child is to be born to me today.
Into a brightly lighted room I go
as pain within me continues to grow.
My tortured body can take no more,
there isn't a spot that isn't sore.
My breath is gone, I can only gasp,
"Put me out, let me into sleep lapse."
Masked figures whisper calm and low.
My face and hands with perspiration glow.
A gentle voice: "Push with the pain."
I groan, moan, my body aflame.
God, oh God, help me in this hour of need,
help me deliver this painful seed.
As I am put to sleep relief is felt.
Into peacefulness, my body does melt.

I hear a cry, so loud and shirll.
This is the answer to a mother's ordeal.
All pain is forgotten, all in the past,                                          

Only love for this baby is all that will last.                       

E. Moscoso

February 25, 1963

To my son:  Remember that the love parents have for their child is special and never-ending. Today on your birthday I  hope you have a wonderful day as you celebrate your 49th birthday!

Beauty

In 1959, I wrote a poem called Beauty Queen.  At the time I wrote it, I thought I was being clever and funny. Friends who read it got a good laugh and I never gave it another thought.  Fast forward to the year 2012.  Somehow, I don't find Beauty Queen as hilarious as I once did!

Beauty Queen

I was in college,

my second year,

when I saw her,

what a dear.

I eyed her from a distance

until it paid off --

sheer persistence.

Five feet four

and free from sin.

On her thrity-eights

she wore my pin.

White teeth

like pearls of the sea

and a tiny waist,

just right for me.

Long, blond hair

flowing in the sun

and green eyes

sparkling with fun.

We dated, we wooed,

we fell in love,

me and my

little turtle dove.

I asked her to

be my wife

and be with me

the rest of my life.

She agreed

and we set a date.

I sure give thanks

for my wonderful fate.

She's a perfect beauty queen,

the prettiest girl I have every seen.

On our wedding day
I knew I'd soon be
with my lady sweet.
The one I loved
from her head
to the bottom of her feet.
As we crossed the

threshold of our room

I faintly smelled

her arousing perfume.

She looked at me

and whispered low,

"Get comfy, dear,

let the champagne flow.

I'll be right back,

now, don't go away

for it's time to relax today."

I crawled into bed

to patiently wait

the coming of

my beautiful mate.

"Here I come,

my handsome groom,"

she said, as she

entered the room.

In her hand she carried her hair,

a pink lace girdle

she tossed on the chair.

Her thirty-eights slipped

down to her waist

until her middle was

completely erased.

She stumbled around

and finally found

thick glasses

with frames so round.

Pulling out her partial

she smiled at me,

and lisped,

"Ohs darsling,

I'ms so hasppy."

E. Rodriguez

May 6, 1959