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Ma Tita
When she was born on August 17, 1887, her parents named her Tomasita Aldaz. She married when she was twenty-one, and, as was often the case in those days, had many children. seven of them were sons, and four were daughters. My mother was her youngest daughter. To me and the rest of her numerous grandchildren, she was known only as Ma Tita.
When I was three years old Ma Tita became a widow. It was at this time that my earliest memories of her began. She stood about four feet, ten inches tall, and weighed less than a hundred pounds. She always wore the same style, a dress that was belted at the waist with an A-line skirt that was hemmed to fall well below her knees. It would be made of fabric in a drab pattern with either black, brown, or gray as the predominant color. Her shoes were black and shiny, with one-inch heels, and were secured with shoelaces. Brown cotton stockings, supported with elastic garters, covered her legs no matter what time of year it was. She twisted her long gray hair into a round bun which she fastened to the nape of her neck, then covered it with a thin hairnet. The only morsel of flamboyance she allowed herself was with the colorful scarves she wore knotted tightly under her chin.
Although she lived for a long time with the youngest of her sons, she would visit the rest of her children for two or three weeks at a time, sometimes not returning home for several weeks. She didn't drive, so arrangements were made by the various children to pick her up and take her to her next destination. We knew when we were told, "Ma Tita is coming," that we were in for a lot of hard work, a lot of praying, and a lot of scolding. She would arrive at the door with her brown suitcase. Inside the suitcase, beside her clothing , I knew there would be a little box of Queen Anne Chocolate Covered Cherries.
When she was with us, we couldn't dally with our chores like we could when she was gone. I still can hear her urging us to do our work quickly, "para que miren que son muy mujerotas...," (so that they will see that you are really big girls). When we were done with our work, we were rewarded with a chocolate covered cherry. Heaven help us if we disobeyed. My younger brother and sister still talk about the day she chased them home with a switch she had cut from a bush on her way to go look for them because they had gone without permission. She spoke only Spanish to us, and we would giggle behind her back when we heard her speak in English.
We couldn't understand how she could find so many things to do. She must have crocheted miles and miles of doilies and embroidered hundreds of pillowcases and dish towels. While she crocheted, I watched as yards and yards of thread from the spools in her bag came coiling out of her fingers, amazingly transformed into beautiful flowers, grape clusters, and ruffles. She talked and smoked as she crocheted, the burning cigarette dangling out of her mouth as her hands moved furiously. The long ash would grow and grow, then begin to droop, until I knew it would surely fall off into her delicate work and ruin it, but somehow she always got it into the ashtray in time. My sisters and I were presented with our own crochet hooks, needles, and thimbles and she gave us lessons in crochet and embroidery. When it was time to prepare dinner, the click-ta-click-ta of her wedding band, hitting the rolling pin as it turned, kept rhythm, while the savory smell of cooking tortillas filled the house. She made dozens of tortillas in one session. She kept two griddles hot on the stove as she rolled the dough out for each tortilla. Somehow, when she was ready to put one on to cook, another one would be done, and yet another would be ready to turn over and cook on the other side. She was a one-woman assembly line! She handed us each the rolling pin with a small wad of dough, then cooked the crooked little tortillas we created, and placed them on top of the steaming pile.
Religion and prayer filled her daily life, and while she was with us, it filled ours too. A little plastic bottle full of Holy Water, her rosary, and prayer book went everywhere she went. Pinned under her dress was a medallion bearing the likeness of the Virgin Mary and the Blessed Heart which she said was there to protect her from harm. She told us stories about how el diablo would take different forms and appear to children who were bad. Every night we would pray the rosary and ask God's forgiveness for all the wrongdoings of the day. On Sunday she was the first one ready to go to Mass. As she waited for us to get into the car so she could sit by the door, she would remind us to call on the Holy Family for protection so we would arrive at the church safely. She gave us our own medallions which we carefully pinned to our clothes. Soon it was time for her to move on to the next family she would visit.
After I was married, I didn't see her as often anymore. I moved away and the demands of my own life seemed justification for putting off visiting Ma Tita when I should have. At the time of her death at age ninety, I don't know how long it had been since I had seen her. During the last couple of years of her life, her visiting days came to an end, as she had become too frail to travel, and needed full-time care.
I think of her often. She's in my mind, especially when I work on a sewing project, or when I stop to ask God to be with me before beginning an automobile or airplane trip.....when I see a box of Queen Anne Chocolate Covered Cherries. I never thanked her for the things she taught me. Like most children I was, if not ungrateful, then perhaps just unaware of how important they would become.