All It Takes Is A Little Love

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.   

I attended a private Catholic high school in the mid to late nineteen sixties. Back then our Catholic parents believed it was their duty to send us to a religious school and so I spent my high school years at Mt. Carmel High School run by Carmelite priests and School Sisters of Notre Dame. Even though we were in Texas our education greatly resembled what Cathlolic students might have found in the midwest because our priests were mostly from Chicago and our nuns often hailed from St. Louis. 

Ours was a rather small and personal school with about one hundred twenty five students in each class. Back then we were grouped according to an admissions exam and our grades and recommendations from middle school. I ended up in the Honors classes but the principal warned me before my first school year started that my test scores indicated that I would probably have trouble with the coursework in that group. He said that I was on probation based on recommendations from my former teachers. Needless to say his announcement made me anxious from the start and determined to prove him wrong. 

I worked hard and spent the next four years with essentially the same small group of students give or take a few changes here and there. Ours was a very traditional and somewhat classical curriculum with Latin, German, History, English, Civics, Physical Science, Biology, Chemistry, Physics, Religion, Speech, Debate, Algebra I and II, Geometry, and what would now be called Pre-Calculus, I saw the other students who were not in this group in the hallways, at lunch, at pep rallies, during Religion classes and in clubs. Otherwise we had very little time together. 

I am proud of the education that I received at Mt. Carmel. It was mostly wonderful but I would have enjoyed having a bit more interaction with the rest of the student body. Many of the girls were members of the drill team and forged great friendships there. I took a slightly different route and tended to encounter many of the same people over and over again. Because I was incredibly shy at the time. I never ventured too far away from the same girls with whom I ate lunch for those four years. Still I always felt that everyone in my class was a good person and most of them were always kind to me. 

I left Mt. Carmel High School in 1966, and began my journey into becoming an adult. As with most people my road was not always straight and narrow. There were twists and turns and challenges in the ensuing years. I kept in touch with some of the people I had known from school while others drifted away. Time passed while we all made life choices and gained confidence in ourselves. 

I stayed in Houston to take care of my mom whose bipolar disorder asserted itself not long after I had graduated from high school. I met a young man who had attended an all boys’ school across town and we were soon falling in love and planning a future together. That future led me in many directions but never too far away from home. Now and again I would encounter some of the students with whom I had gone to high school and some of them literally walked hand in hand with me as we began families, purchased homes and enjoyed moments together. 

Recently our Class of 66 celebrated a 60 year reunion. By then we were all in our late seventies and experiencing the signs of aging. Some of our classmates were already gone from this earth. Nonetheless around thirty something of us drove out to the Monument Inn on a Saturday evening to enjoy a hearty seafood dinner and a celebration of our lives.

Without name tags we may not have recognized each other but with those references we began to see the smiles and the wit that we had known back in the days of our youth. Everyone was so excited to be there and to see each other and tell the stories of where they had been and the adventures they had enjoyed. What we all seemed to have in common was a genuine appreciation for each other and for the education and fun times that we had experienced back in the day. It was a kind of love fest that reminded me of what truly good people with whom I had spent my teen years actaully are. It was incredibly nice to learn about the joys of their lives and tough to hear about losses they may have endured. it was magical to feel so relaxed around people who were simply enjoying each other and celebrating the bygone years. 

I don’t know if we will have another reunion in ten years or even five. We may have reached a point at which we need to get together for an hour or two several times during the year just to stay in touch. People as good as my classmates are a treasure that I hope I will be able to keep close. The Mt. Carmel Class of 66 played a huge role in forming the person that I now am. I will cherish them all forever.

I have been in love with New Orleans since I was nineteen years old. That is when I traveled there on my honeymoon during the peak of the Vietnam War. The world was so uncertain then that marrying early seemed like a reasonable thing to do. Many of my friends were already hitched or planning a wedding for the coming weeks. When I look back on that time I am flabbergasted that my husband and I have made it through fifty eight years and counting. 

Mike had gone to college at Loyola University in New Orleans and found that it was not a good fit for him. After a couple of years he returned to Houston and enrolled at the University of Houston where his life took a positive turn. We met each other at a birthday party for one of my cousins whose fiancee had invited me because she and I often saw each other at school. She invited Mike because he had been a childhood friend of my cousin. Fate intervened and the rest of the story has played out for almost sixty years. 

Of course Mike wanted to show me New Orleans on our honeymoon. We were both still students and had to plan our celebratory adventure over a weekend so that we would not miss any of our classes. It was also a wise move because we had limited funds for any kind of trip. We flew into New Orleans in what was my first time in an airplane so that alone was exciting. 

Mike had made reservations at Hotel Monteleone in the French Quarter. I remember feeling as though I was in a foreign nation when the taxicab turned onto the narrow streets of our destination. The beautiful old buildings with their wrought iron balconies and colorful stucco and bricks were enchanting and I fell in love with the place in a way that has only grown over the years. 

As fate would have it the hotel was being renovated at the time so we walked on plywood boards in the lobby. Even with all of the construction I saw the beauty of the place and felt the excitement that lay ahead. Everything was luxurious and the people working there overlooked our youthfulness and treated us as though we were celebrities. 

We toured the area and the museums and even went to mass in St. Louis Cathedral. We rode the streetcar down Canal Street to walk around the Loyola campus and saunter through Audubon Park. We munched on beignet at Cafe du Monde and sipped steaming cups of coffee. We ate muffuletta’s at Central Grocery and enjoyed the pralines at Aunt Sally’s. We walked along the Mississippi River and took dozens of photos in Jackson Square. We had the best dinner that I had ever experienced at Broussard’s and sat on the patio at Pat O’Brien’s. Since I had no experience whatsoever with alcohol I settled for a breeze rather than a hurricane and laughed at the idea that I was legal in New Orleans but not back home. We walked up and down  Bourbon Street and I gawked at everything like someone who had been living on a farm for all of my life. I even got asked for my driver’s license when we attempted to go into a jazz club but I did not have a license to show them because I had not yet learned how to drive. The insurance for such a thing would have cost more than my mother had to pay. 

We flew back home after a few days like two innocents who had no idea what challenges lay before us. We were happy and convinced that together we were going to build a great life. As fate would have it we were challenged over and over again with difficulties that might have made all of our plans and dreams fall apart. Somehow we always found the ways to get beyond the major illnesses and difficulties that came again and again. In the process we had two lovely daughters and both of us earned our college degrees. We built incredible friendships, purchased a home, succeeded in our careers and travelled back to New Orleans time and again. Sometimes with our children, later with our grandchildren, always sharing our love for the city with them.

This year was our fifty eighth year together as husband and wife. We went back to the Hotel Monteleone and to the wonders of New Orleans that we had always loved. We thought of how we had grieved after hurricane Katerina when it was uncertain that the city would be able to rise again. We embarked on a food fest that included yet another visit to Broussard’s where we were feted with champagne and a scrumptious dinner. We rode on the streetcar again and walked around a Loyola campus that had grown. We went to Arnaud’s and finally to Commander’s Palace enjoying incredible cuisine and New Orleans hospitality. We found a history center on Royal St. that was enchanting and sheltered us from the heat and humidity. Of course we visited St. Louis Cathedral and the Faulkner bookstore where I always purchase a tome or two. We bought dozens of pralines at Aunt Sally’s to take to our daughters and grandchildren and sat at Cafe du Monde thinking back on all of the times that we had returned . On our last morning we had breakfast at Brennan’s and then walked down to Central Grocery and purchased muffuletta’s for the road. 

For some people Disney World is the way to escape from the realities of the world. For me and Mike it is New Orleans and always will be. We feel the magic there. It has become part of our history together and always makes us smile.