All It Takes Is A Little Love

Back when I was a young girl growing up in Houston, Texas my mother set aside Saturdays as shopping time. First, however, we had to do the weekly chores. My brothers worked on the lawn and Mama and I cleaned the house from one room to the next. Our incentive to work quickly and efficiently was based on the reality that we would not be able to leave to do our weekend shopping until our mother had deemed our efforts to be up to the standards of perfection that she required. Most of the time we would go to the local mall but the trips that we enjoyed the most involved going to downtown Houston to shop at Foley’s, a local department store that literally had everything imaginable under one roof. 

Sometimes my mother and I would have our hair cut and styled in the salon there. We always went to a man named Mr. Peters who was an artist with scissors. I was never particularly impressed with what he did with my hair but he always made my mother look like a movie star. My brothers would sit at the entrance to the salon looking bored out of their minds. Sometimes they became a bit too rascally forcing my mother to give them the evil eye. 

Next we went from floor to floor looking at the newest merchandise and deciding if there was anything that we needed at that moment. If we found something my mother would often take out her metal charge card that had her name and number embossed on the top. Most of the time she insisted on only purchasing things that she was able to afford in the moment. Somehow because of that we always ended up in the Foley’s basement where all of the bargains were housed.

If we had behaved nicely she would give each of us a dollar to use in case we found something that enchanted us. I recall buying things like a coin purse or maybe a cute pair of socks. One time I found a pair of gloves for the winter. The best investment came at the candy counter where sweet delights sat in class cases making our mouths water at the prospect of enjoying their sweetness. Other times I saved my dollar for the next visit when I might purchase something far nicer. 

Of course Foley’s was a fantasy land at Christmas time. The windows in front of the store were festooned with toys that often ended up on our wish lists. Santa came back there year after year and we sat on his lap in awe of the fact that we were able to get close to the jolly old soul. We had to spit out our requests quickly because the lines were long and he wanted to spend time with every child.

When my father was still alive he often took me to the department store. We would head for the record section and listen to the 45 rpm music that he was considering to bring home. He would ask me what I liked best and often purchase the recording that had pleased me in the moment. 

Of course our next stop would be the book section where he invariably found a new volume to bring home. One time he splurged and bought a set of two gorgeous books filled with fairy tales from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen. He would read one of the stories to me each evening after he got home from work. I still have those books and they are treasures. After a time I liked those tales so much that I developed the incentive to read the stories myself.

The last time I accompanied my father to a department store he confided that he had put a special gift for my mother in the layaway, a system for buying and then paying without interest until the cost of the item was secured. He showed me the lamps that he had chosen for her birthday. He imagined them sitting on her dressing table providing light while she put on her makeup and combed her hair. When he died the lamps were still in the store with one more payment to make. I tearfully told my mother about the gift that he had wanted to give her and we made a special trip to secure the lovely items. I still have one of them in my guest room. The other one was accidentally knocked over years later and broke into a thousand pieces. I cried when I heard what had happened. 

After my father died I don’t recall visiting the book section with my mother but sometimes I took that dollar that she gave me and used it to buy a 45 rpm record. I gave most of the ones I had to my daughter a few years ago and she still plays them now and again. 

The nice thing about Foley’s back in the day is that they had a restaurant inside the store. On most of our trips we stopped there for an afternoon pick me up. I always felt elegant there because most of the time eating out meant grabbing a burger from Chuck Wagon or stopping for waffles at One’s A Meal. 

After shopping we lugged our bags down Main Street to one of the movie theaters to watch whatever film was showing. The theaters were as lovely as the department store with gilded ceilings and velvet curtains hiding the screen until it was time for the show. Mama would give us a quarter for refreshments which was more than generous back then. I usually opted for some candy and popcorn and often had change to put in my piggy bank back home.

After the movie we travelled back home either in our own car or inside a city bus. It always felt as though we had experienced something magical with those downtown visits. Eventually Foley’s became Macy’s and one day the downtown store was closed permanently. That was a very sad day for me. 

Those old department stores were glorious and the only time I have ever felt the same magic of my youthful Saturday adventures was in London when we visited Harrod’s and then went down to Selfridge’s which reminded me so much of the department stores of old. Many of them are gone but a few continue to attempt to prosper. One of my dreams is to visit Macy’s in downtown New York City at Christmas time one year. Now that my granddaughter is living there maybe I will finally make it happen.

Courage is often difficult to muster. I have witnessed courageous people throughout my lifetime and wondered what I might do in a moment that demanded me to find the integrity to step forward. I think of the people who provided me with examples of how to be in difficult moments. There was the woman who rescued the screaming children begging for help after their father had killed their mother. While the rest of the adults waited for the police to arrive she demanded the father to surrender the little ones even as he threatened to hurt her like he had done to his wife.

There was the woman in my apartment project who seemed to be a kind of rebel in the way she spoke and dressed. She too endured the wrath of a brutal man who was beating a woman whose screams echoed across the area where we all sat frozen in silence. I can still see her bounding up the stairs and banging on the door using the kind of language that I was unaccustomed to hearing. She won and managed to stop the savagery even before the police arrived. 

There was a student who demonstrated her integrity by stepping forward to urge her fellow classmates to be honest about a cheating scheme. Even as they gave her a cold reception she spoke the truth because it was the right thing to do. 

Ironically everyone of these women were small in size. The men and people they were willing to overcome might have easily broken them in half but honor was more important to them that safety in those moments. They are forever etched in my mind as people of incredible character. My admiration for them has never faded.

So it is with Jack Smith, the man who investigated Donald Trump’s attempts to overthrow the 2020 election results as well as looking into Trump’s illegal determination to keep security documents that should never have left the White House. In each case he took his time to learn the facts and to decide what if any laws had been broken. His ultimate belief backed by an incredible amount of evidence was that Donald Trump had indeed broken the law. As such Trump should have been prosecuted and never again allowed to run for office but sadly Trump was protected from responsibility because he audaciously ran for president once again and won. 

Jack Smith revealed that he had been threatened by Trump and his followers. This is believable because the same thing has happened to others who dared to stand up to Trump or disagree with him. People speaking the truth have lost their jobs and in many cases feared that they would be imprisoned. We saw the same kind of thing with Dr. Anthony Fauci. We saw Liz Cheney being shunned for her participation with the January 6 investigative committee. 

This time around the committee attempted to demean Jack Smith with phony evidence and often with no evidence at all. They let us see how grotesque much of the Republican party has become in bowing to Donald Trump even when it is evident that he has committed many crimes. It is stunning to watch the once Grand Old Party throw all sense of integrity to the wind simply to retain their power and influence with a man who is rapidly destroying decades of progress in our nation. At times they even support the flaunting of the Constitution itself.

There are former Republicans who have found the backbone to point out the rot of the Trump administration but they are far too few. Somehow Trump is surrounded by a cult-like support that overlooks his many flaws as though they are afraid. I keep waiting for that one person in the Republican party who will march forward and finally demand truth and decency. 

We are on the cusp of a midterm election. Nobody knows at this point how it will evolve. We do not know if Trump will be unwilling to accept the results just as he was in 2020. There are threats of ICE officers being sent to the polls. We hear of the possibility that Trump will declare martial law. Trump is offering to pay Americans if Republicans win. All of it is so dirty and so vile and yet all we can do is hope that other citizens will emerge as patriots willing to stand up to such authoritarian ideas. We need to send a message that we the American people will not accept such lawlessness. If Trump keeps his cover and finds ways to win again I fear for what will happen to the future of our nation. 

Things are already falling apart. We have lost our status with the rest of the world. Our economy is shaky and the fact that we are even worried about dirty tricks is an anomaly that never should have happened. God bless the patriots who bravely call out the vile actions of our president and his enablers. They are the best hope that we have for keeping our republic. 

Since the death of my mother in 2011 my brothers have called me the matriarch of the family. It is a title that I don’t wear easily because both my mother and my mother-in-law were such incredible women that I can’t fathom myself being in their orbit. Still I know that as the oldest woman in the family I bear that title like a reluctant queen inheriting a destiny that does not exactly feel right.

Now that my father-in-law has died some will say that my husband, Mike, is the new patriarch. In many ways I think that he actually earned that title long ago. He has been caring very respectfully for my father-in-law for many years now. When my father-in-law remarried when he was in his seventies he embarked on a years long honeymoon with his bride. During that time my husband quietly kept things running for the family at large. It is as though he has practiced being responsible for many years. When his father came to live with us my husband was the caretaker in chief who continually helped his father with virtually every aspect of life. I suppose that Mike is more ready to officially accept the title of patriarch even as it does not seem to fit his idea of his role as a person.

The big difference in how Mike will carry out his duties is that he does not see his responsibilities as authoritarian. His goal has always been to work in tandem with his daughters and grandchildren to honor them as the adults that they are. He respects their wishes and wants to support their dreams. He views them as the hope for the future and sees himself as an assistant for them rather than someone who wants to influence their thinking.

The modern world requires every person to be capable of thinking deeply and critically and Mike is a proponent of that model of living. He likes to engage his family in discussions in which nobody wins or loses. Every idea is acceptable and honored. He is simply waiting in the wings in the event that someone requires his help or asks for his advice. He views himself as a loving supporter of each individual’s dreams.

One thing that both Mike and I have realized is that each person in our family is incredibly unique. Every individual is also genuinely loving of every other member. We may voice our differences and openly and politely discuss them but at the end of the day we do not expect to foist them on each other. We understand that our personal belief systems are the result of every interaction that we have with what we see and read and hear and believe. In the end it is up to those of us who are older is to have enough wisdom to accept that the world is changing and that most of those changes are actually quite good. Going back to the old ways of doing things and then attempting to force them on the rest of the family is unhealthy.

Back in the day we were indeed taught to be seen and not heard around the adults who raised us. We were taken to church and sent to schools that provided us with moral training. As we grew in wisdom and age and grace we realized that in almost every situation young people have a voice and it is important that we provide them with an opportunity to speak their minds without humiliating them or chiding them.

During the last years of his life my father-in-law came to live with me and his son. Each afternoon we sat down at the kitchen table and embarked on discussions over a glass of wine. It was a habit that he had followed for years and we honored him by providing that moment for him. During our conversations he provided his own wisdom but eventually began asking us what we thought about things. I watched him change form someone who believed that he should be in charge to someone who trusted us to do things our own way. I felt his blessing and approval of who we were as people.

At times he began to ask us for advice and to speak of the old ways to relate that he saw much of his youth and even adulthood as being limiting to the young. He was delighted to develop new ways of looking at the world. He became more and more open-minded and in the process our relationship as honored equals elevated our mutual admiration of each other. 

So now that Mike and I have been dubbed as patriarch and matriarch we must do as we believe and open our hearts and minds just as my father-in-law was ultimately so generous to do. Our children and grandchildren are beautiful and brilliant and have so much to teach us. Our journey together is going to be so much fun.

My father-in-law, Julio Gonzalez was born on April 7, 1929 in Lares, Puerto Rico. He was the son of Dr. Modesto Gonzalez Olmo and Maricella Pagan. Julio spent his childhood and teen years in Lares enjoying the love and affection of his many aunts and uncles and cousins. He was a jovial child who liked baseball, loved people and delighted in spreading his ever present sense of humor. 

After graduating from high school Julio joined the army and soon found himself in Korea with a platoon of fellow Puerto Ricans. The war with North Korea left a kind of heaviness on his heart because he lost friends and witnessed the tragedies of war that never really left his memory. He was often reluctant to speak of that time and when he did the emotion in his voice was audible

Once he had performed his duty as an American citizen Julio traveled to Houston, Texas hoping to meet up with a friend from back home. In a strange twist of fate there was a mix up because Julio enrolled at the University of Houston but his friend was at Sam Houston University in Huntsville. It was a story that he often told because the ending to the tale was so happy.

Julio was sitting in the Cougar Den at the University of Houston one afternoon when a group of young women arrived and sat down to join him and his buddies. Among them was Mary Isabel Fisk who ended up seated next to him. They began a conversation that lasted long after the rest of the group had left. One thing led to another and after only a few months the two of them were madly in love and had decided to marry.

Mary Isabel had a five year old son from a previous marriage named Mike whom Julio immediately took under his wing and eventually adopted. The three of them quickly became a family. He soon found a job just down the road from where the trio lived at George Hormel and Sons, the company most famous for making Spam. He started out in the meat cooler but eventually took classes at Massey Business College and ended up working in the offices as an inventory clerk, bookkeeper and accountant.

The trio travelled across America and celebrated life as a family. Eventually Julio’s cousin from Lares, Dr. Efrain Garcia, moved to Houston to practice medicine. The two men and their wives and children became inseparable and Julio often said that Efrain was his brother-cousin. Those years together were joyful for everyone while Julio and Mary became ever more in love with each other.

Mary had been born with a heart defect and at one time was told that she would probably die before she was thirty. With the expertise of Efrain and his fellow cardiologists she lived far beyond expectations. As she and Julio welcomed grandchildren and then great grandchildren they still seemed like honeymooners celebrating one anniversary after another. 

Sadly Mary’s unexpectedly died from a stroke. Julio was bereft and even ended up becoming so ill that he required hospitalization. He overcame his illness and began playing bridge and going out in the evenings where he made many friends and eventually met his second wife, Janell Brooks.

Janell was so good for Julio. She put the spring back in his step. The two of them were in their seventies but seemed like two teenagers.They travelled all over the world and seized life with a gusto that was incredible. For almost twenty years they were quite the couple but then Janelle developed congestive heart failure and she too died.

Once again Julio was devastated and ended up in the hospital for a lengthy visit that even included overcoming a bout with Covid. When he was released he came to live with his son and daughter-in-law. For almost five years they enjoyed their time together. He spent his days learning knew things and listening to music on his computer. He liked to gather each evening over a glass of wine with cheese and crackers or a bowl of nuts where a lively discussion would ensue. Then he enjoyed a nice dinner and an evening of watching movies and television series.

While living with his son Julio religiously exercised to stay fit. In spite of the fact that he was in his nineties he looked far younger and enjoyed humor as much as ever. Last December he had a fall that left him bed bound until the present. It was a difficult time for him and eventually his doctor suggested that he enter hospice. Nonetheless he was clear headed and determined to extend his life as much as possible. Sadly his body began to slowly shut down and on Thursday, October 1, he died after a courageous battle that left him thin and weary.

Julio was a man of faith. A good man who loved deeply and did his best to care for the people around him. He was adored by all who knew him. He is survived by his son, Michael Burnett, daughter-in-law, Sharron, granddaughters, Maryellen Greene and Catherine Martin, their husbands, Scott Greene and Jeremy Martin, and great grandchildren, Andrew, Jackie, Benjamin, Eli, Ian, Abigail and William. He is also survived by his beloved nieces, Margarita, Roseanne, Alicia, Sara and Carmine and his sister, Linda. Numerous family members and friends will always remember him for his kindness and sense of fun. He was above all a very giving gentleman. May his memory be a blessing.

There was a time when houses in Houston, Texas almost always were raised from the ground and had porches that led to the front door. Grandpa William and Grandma Minnie had a home like that. There was something quite inviting about that kind of entryway where my grandparents often sat in anticipation of our arrival as though they wanted to greet us as soon as we reached their home.

Their porch was always decked out with a swing, a glider and cushioned chairs. It was a grand extension of the house. Sitting outside was a daily routine for my grandparents once they had completed their daily chores. They knew all of their neighbors who passed by and more often than not stopped to chat for a time.

We spent so many wonderful moments on the porch that Grandpa had constructed with a roof that kept the harshest aspects of the weather from forcing us back inside. He screened in the whole area to keep the flies and mosquitoes from bothering us as we sat in the shade with fans moving the air even on the hottest days.

I loved sitting next to my grandmother on the glider and watching her click the needles that crocheted some of the most beautiful creations that I have ever seen. Grandpa would hold court in a rocking chair puffing on his pipe and telling stories of his younger days. Somehow neither the heat nor the cold forced us back indoors. That porch was incredibly comfortable and always a fun place to be. 

My grandparents lived in the Houston Heights at that time before my father had died. Their house was built of stucco crafted by Grandpa. The porch was the best room in the house that had windows strategically placed to create breezes that kept us comfortable no matter which room we chose but the porch was ultimately the place to be.

Grandma kept orange sodas in the refrigerator for our visits. It never took long before we were all sipping away while being enchanted by the coolness of the porch which benefited from the shade of a strategically placed oak tree. Somehow my grandparents had understood how best to take advantage of the cooling power of nature.

In the fall we would get whiffs of the burning leaves that neighbors collected into the ditches in front of their homes and then set on fire. No candle of modern day has been able to recreate such a delightful aroma. Even better was the fact that everyone up and down Arlington Street was as friendly as people in a small town and they never failed to stop by to welcome us and to chat a bit with my grandparents. 

In the winter we donned our coats and Grandpa set out heaters that somehow kept us as warm as if we were inside. Grandma would bring out the quilts that she made by hand and wrap them around our legs. Instead of orange soda she make hot cocoa for us that was creamy and had just the right amount of chocolate and sugar. 

Spring brought Grandma’s Easter lilies that adorned the entire front of the house. People would drive by slowly to snap photos of the glorious sight and my mother would take a of photo of me there when I made my first Communion. 

I loved visiting my grandparents and most of all I liked that front porch. My own more modern homes had no such thing nor did the other places in our neighborhood. Instead everyone had patios in back of the house behind a fence. We never got to see the parade of life in our hidden haven and nobody came to say hello. Even though it was a private place that felt calm and comfortable it did not have the feel of being part of a friendly community like those houses with front porches always seemed to be. They were a welcoming place where neighbors felt free to gather, a kind of lost concept as the world became more and more modern.

My grandparents home is still there on Arlington Street. The screened in front porch is gone and the stucco has been painted a kind of battleship gray. My grandmother’s lilies are long gone as well and as with most places now the neighbors tend to stay inside with their air conditioning in the spring and summer and their heaters in the winter. The days of the homeyness of a front porch seem to be thing of yesteryear.

I have to admit that I have adapted to that same way of life. When the weather is not too hot or too cold we sit on the patio in our backyard behind a wooden privacy fence. We hear our neighbors enjoying the outdoors but we do not see them. It is sad but true that we are missing something that used to be so enchanting.