Confronting his grandfather in complete solemnity, the boy holds out his hand and patiently waits for his reward.
Recounting this story fifteen years later, Miguel still has trouble getting through it without frequent bursts of laughter, especially when he reveals he never even got his quarter. Not to mention, this hoodwinking happened twice, with the same tragic result.
He isn't my only cousin with a story of my grandfather's benevolent mischief, however. Pretty much all my cousins, and even aunts and uncles, have countless stories of my grandfather's good-natured tricks.
So why is it that when i asked his ten children to describe him, they used words like, "austere," "hard-headed," and "workaholic"?
"It's curious," says my Aunt Vicky, "it wasn't wasn't until he was older and quit working that we discovered he was such a joker. Growing up, he made us work hard and made sure we abided by our strict Catholic doctrines."
I once heard that the reason people begin fervently reading the bible and frequenting church as they age is that they realize their days are numbered. My grandfather messed up--he did it backwards. Having been a dogmatic, fervent Catholic his whole life, it seems it finally dawned on him that it was time to relax.
Rafarel Jose Reyes Navarijo (yes, the mother's maiden name is essential and always is by Guatemalan standards), was born in 1932. I could talk about how he was the child of a peasant farmer in a third-world country, how he grew up during the depression in this environment, or how his childhood in general unfolded (which I can assure, is of great interest). However, that would only give you a general idea of my grandfather.
As one of his over forty grandchildren, I have come to believe what's most important is what he passed on to each of us, and how his strong character has prevailed after all this time. He passed away several years ago, and yet, I see the remnants of his jovial, strong nature everywhere. Every time my dad finishes a marathon, watching my cousins play the slyest tricks on each other, the cadence of my aunts' voices praying the rosary and even watching my uncles down shots at any family gathering. They all remind me of him.
Of his many traits, I'd say his humor is a big part of what he passed onto our family. Some of my favorite times were watching soccer games. Soccer in my family is like American football to most American families. For a while, my dad organized his own team, recruiting people he knew to play on his team in a Houston-area league. Myself a lover of soccer, I would go and usually tag along with my grandfather. He enjoyed pretending he was in charge of all. "That stupid kid never passes at the right moment!," "See, the problem here is they just won't communicate!" Sometimes he'd steal the ball for fun and hide it just to see the uproar he'd cause.
Just because he enjoyed a good joke every now and then, however, did not mean he was incapable of vengeful wrath. One night in Guatemala, my older sisters and cousins, then in their flirtatious teenage phase, were serenaded by a local group of similarly-minded teenage boys. Mind you, it was past midnight. My aunts found it amusing and indulged their wishes to go out and talk to them. That is, until my grandfather woke up.
We all furiously crammed into a corner room in the house while listening to his thundering steps make his way from the opposite end. He found us all right.
I have to say, watching a 60-something-year-old man run around with a broom smacking everyone on the behind that he could reach, not excluding any adults, while listening to our loud parrot screeching in protest to all the commotion while he's trying to sleep, made for one of the most memorable nights in my life.
Of all traits, however, his religious fervor was the greatest impartment. About three years ago, I went to Guatemala for Holy week. Now, in the United States, Holy Week is that one week around Easter in which Catholics have church every day. It's great because it allows for an extra holiday on Good Friday, usually.
In Guatemala, Holy Week is the week in which businesses shut down, families gather around altars and the entire nation is swept up in intense rituals (remember to exchange plenty of currency beforehand, unless you want to be penniless rather soon, like I was).
For a solid week, we had our routine: wake up early, go to church, come back, do household chores, go to church, go eat, go watch processions, come home, pray. My grandfather saw that this routine was strictly observed.
My favorite part of all was watching processions--large parade-like events in which people walk for endless miles, from dawn till dusk, carrying large, ornate wooden structures with sculptures of Christ and Mary upon their shoulders. I remember going when I was younger. I would ask my grandfather, "Why are they carrying those? What happens if they do?" My grandfather would respond with "Are you happy?"
"Well, yeah."
"You realize that Jesus suffered immensely, just like these people here are doing, so that you could be happy?"
As a child, it seemed simple enough. I continued watching the people laboriously carrying the immensely heavy wooden structures. As the incense drifted through the streets, enveloping all around us in a dreamy haze, I contemplated the meaning of it all.
"You have it lucky," one of my aunts said, nudging me.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"When I was your age, your grandfather would actually make us take part in the processions. From sunrise to sunset, we'd be out there, carrying those heavy statues."
She then told me of the usual fasting and intense prayer that accompanied such days. As I grew, I came to realize all the more just how much my grandfather had sown the seeds for a strong family.
The greatest test of all came the summer of 2002. I was 15 and enjoying my first summer as a high school student. It was one of those mornings in which you are unjustly robbed of what should have been a nice carefree summer day by a phone call that changes your life. Mine came in the form of my sister calling to tell me my cousin Daniel, whom I had grown up with and considered my brother, was in the hospital.
Groggily picking up the phone, I remember irritatedly demanding to know why she woken me at 7 a.m. on a summer day.
"Karina...Daniel's in the hospital."
"What happened?"
"He just got surgery done for appendicitis."
"Oh, well...he's ok, right? People have those all the time."
I expected him to go home that day.
"Well," my sister said slowly, measuring each word carefully, "it wasn't his appendix that was bothering him. They found a tumor."
I remember sitting there and not knowing quite what to think. My family and I found out soon enough that the tumor that had been growing for a number of years, undetected, was fatal. The 17-year-old, easygoing young man we knew as Daniel, who was always dedicated to our family, an avid long-distance cross country runner, who was going into his senior year of high school, wouldn't live past the month.
His parents did not know how to let Daniel know. It hardly seemed just for two parents to tell their son, who aspired to do so much with his life, that he would never see the fruition of all his hard work.
My grandfather got us through it, though.
He'd gather us all together in the hospital. Three times a day, he'd round everyone up to pray in the small chapel of the Texas State Hospital. We'd pray the rosary, and he'd read us comforting passages to alleviate our worries while we prayed. He gave us all hope and made us see that everything in life had its purpose, as impossible as it appeared at times. He brought in his many friends who were priests from both abroad and our local churches. He kept order and balance as well as a smile on everyone's face, including Daniel's. Himself not in the best of health at this point, he was the pillar on which we all were supported.
By the time Daniel’s funeral came around one warm summer day, we were all, including Daniel, prepared to admit of this loss. It was a quiet and peaceful on a warm summer day.
A year later, my grandfather's own time came. In those last few days, we watched people stroll in from various countries and cities in the U.S. He made sure we were the last ones in the room, however.He gathered us all around for one last counsel: "Your grandmother and I loved each and every one of you. We created a family with eleven kids, got to watch our eleven kids have many more kids of their own and watched our family grow and prosper. It's almost inhuman and borderline insane to attempt such a thing. But you know how we did it? We kept God close to us at all times. Without Him, we would have never been able to create such a loving, healthy family. Always remember that anything is possible with His help."
Having been a member of the Franciscan order, he was buried in his brown Franciscan robes. His funeral was carried out in strict Catholic procedures, just as he himself would have had it conducted.
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