Tileman

 This was a story I wrote for a creative writing class in college almost ten years ago. It was one of several stories I wrote, but it was this one that stood out to my professor and he used it as an example in class. It's not so much that I was creative in my writing, but as a writer I took my sister's advice and found my forte writing about what I know. In remembrance of my grandfather's 19th anniversary on March 11th, I decided to post it here on my blog. Though it is significantly longer than my normal posts, I hope you find time to read it and can relate to the love of a grandfather.

 

 

T I L E MAN

By Crystal Dominguez

 

Three steps led up to a small area with a brick wall that hugged the porch. I was there quite often as a child, but now my recollection consisted of only vague, black and white images. Which in a way, complemented the already fixed perception I had of my grandparents from back in the old days.

It was that small, triangular house that sat in the middle of Pershing Drive, where the foundation of my childhood memories would take form. I remember all the identical houses surrounding it with only slight changes in color that separated them. When I would take a few steps back, I noticed that the entire block was synchronized with the same house structure and porch entrance. It was up close that the front porch of my grandparents’ home was permanently marked with a peculiar beauty that I would never be able to erase from my mind.

 

*             *            *

 

I don’t know how many times I tried to pick up the dimes and nickels that were randomly placed on my front porch. They seemed to have been there for as long as I could remember. I always wondered why no one else had yet slipped them into their pockets. They were just there, rusted silver coins that nobody else wanted to pick up. As I grew up, the coins were still there. Their worth still intact, but their rhyme or reason was beyond me. It wasn’t until I was older and able to comprehend the simple fact that the coins were always in the same place because they were stuck in the ground.

My front porch consisted of broken tile, not by accident of course, but purposely placed in a way that created an almost perfectly imperfect pattern with a few coins between random tiles. It was arranged with autumn shades of yellow, red, orange and brown with the exception of this one pattern that sits vaguely in my mind to this day. I think it is blue and white, swirled with . . . well I can’t remember. But regardless of the exact design, I noticed my porch was not the only one that harbored this futile money. When I saw a similar tile jobs at my grandparent’s home as well as other relatives, it was then I realized that was his trademark as a tileman.



My grandpa was an amazing man. Amazing in the fact that he was a wise, good-humored, hardworking gentleman who had made a living placing tile. From my earliest memories of him as a child to the day he died from lung cancer, tile was his life. No matter what he was wearing it seemed as though there were always stains of plaster on his clothes, especially on his pants around the knees. Tile setting was a passion of his, but also a necessity and nothing seemed to stop him. He would have kneeled down in a brand new suit if he had to. Even the day we found out he had cancer, his work seemed to have doubled. I remember staring at him in his recliner as he paused from watching the game, he had his hands pressed against his forehead as he tried hard for a deep breath. I knew it was the exhaustion setting in from chemotherapy. The 12-year-old in me felt scared in that moment as I was the only one in the living room with him, but the 77-year-old in him laughed it off and chalked it up to nothing more than a headache. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He said after I asked.

Albert Campos

 It was in those small, hazel eyes that seemed to tell a whole other story. He was spent. If only as much so as those coins stuck in the ground. It broke me to see the bark of this family tree losing its strength. He was after all, a father of seven kids and 25 grandchildren. I sat there with the football game flickering in the dark living room as I watched one of the biggest sports fans I ever knew, get defeated right in front of me.

 

*             *            *

His house smelled of freshly set cement and green and red chiles boiling in a pan. Loud voices and laughter rang throughout the kitchen as my dad, grandpa and uncles played poker. My younger cousins ran out to the backyard to play, which was a great place for hide and seek as there were always huge stacks of tile piled in his backyard of all colors and sizes. My older cousins were in the guest room hanging out talking about teenage life and there I was just a bored, 10-year-old left in the middle of nowhere, so I worked my way over to the poker table. I watched a few rounds and as the night wound down, I asked if I could play. I did after all have $20 in my plastic, Hello Kitty purse and caught on as quickly as I could to the games they were playing. At first, no one at the table even heard me ask. Then my stubbornness and persistence created a seat for me next to my father. My grandpa literally rolled his eyes at me in disappointment when I actually received enough votes to play, but at the time I didn’t know how serious they took the game. The poker table was no place for a kid, more specifically it was the adult table stacked with an equal amount of chips to Pabst Blue Ribbons. It was in one of the last rounds when I got to play. After a couple encouraging nudges from my father and a few bet-raising winks from my uncles, I matched what at the time looked like a whole lot of royalty in the middle of the table and in my hands. But today realize I beat my grandpa, dad and uncles at one round of Texas Hold Em. As my little hands reached for the middle of the table and pulled the pot towards me, those small, hazel eyes both starred and smiled at me, all-the-while grumbling a few bad words in Spanish, English and jibberish. That was my grandpa. Poker playing, tile-laying, football games, family, beer and hot chile.  

*             *            *

“ . . .people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

 

I didn’t understand the importance and the technicalities of tile setting until later on in my life when my father explained the craft that was passed down to him.

“You see Crystal, there’s different tile for different jobs. You have your tile that can be placed on floors for kitchens and those made for the walls of a bathroom.” I listened to him. There was a passion in his voice, but it was mostly seen through the straight lines and neatly set tile he had placed around the house. “Mastic is used for sheet rock and Thinset is used for cement. Bathrooms use the traditional white, but there is sanded grout that comes in different colors and is used when there is more than a quarter-inch between the joints or to you they’re just spaces.” Although, sometimes lost in his explanation, I always came out understanding more and more about tile…about my dad and grandpa…about life. It went deeper than just home renovation, there were solid parallels between tile setting and everyday life.

My grandpa started his own business as a tileman in the 1960s after he returned from World War II. After a short stint as a fireman, he decided to enter into the tile business for a more profitable career. My father started to work for him and that’s how he learned the trade. They had a very close relationship and my father knew my grandpa more like a best friend than an in-law.

 

I realized the art of placing tile had become a part of my life in more ways than one. There was meaning behind the tile. My grandpa was like the mortar keeping the family together and we were his little tiles. We needed each other. Separately some of us were unique, rough, shiny, rusty and broken, but together we were a masterpiece. Tile was more of a mindset that I got from the man who placed it in my life, but he shared it with others as well...in their homes and businesses around El Paso.

 Pershing Tile, my grandpa’s business, was a small, humble tile company that was named after the street he lived on for so long. It was not very complicated or really that professional, but the end result was well known around the city. He had about four to ten workers depending on whether his sons (my mother’s brothers), my father or my brothers would occasionally help him out at certain tile jobs. It was a trade the whole family knew a lot or at least a little something about. My grandpa paved the way for my father’s business as well. It opened the year I was born in 1983 and was named after me, Crystal Tile Company. It was a way for my father to take part in the trade he loved, but mainly to make ends meet because he had just gone on strike at the smoke stack while my mother was pregnant with me. However, Crystal Tile Company wasn’t too successful and ended a couple years later. All I remember was the tile and white plastered buckets that were now stacked in my backyard, as well as the hundreds of business cards left over that had my name on them. They were plain, white cards that read in bold letters, “Crystal Tile Company, Free Estimates, Henry Dominguez, 751-4951.” It made me feel special to have such a connection to the trade even though I never got my hands dirty.

I was always fascinated by tile when I was little. The only jobs I saw done were the ones in my home. Every single piece of tile placed in my home was done either by my grandpa or my father and brothers. My den had dark reddish brown tiles that looked like huge bricks that had sunk into the ground. The kitchen had yellow and white tiles that were staggered neatly along the counters and walk way. The hallway bathroom was my favorite. Light, pink tiles lined the walls and all along the shower. My mother’s bathroom was decorated in pale shades of brown with reddish toned colors on the floor. No matter where I looked…there was tile. We would use small and large pieces of tile as coasters, wall decorations and as centerpieces on the tables. Even one of our flowerpots in the kitchen had green and white tiles in the shape of leaves all around it.  It wasn’t until later my mother told me she had made it when she was younger. I guess her father had also taught her a thing or two about the trade.  

*             *            *

I watched as my grandpa and my dad kneeled for hours on the bathroom floor. I was worried my mother was going to pass by and be upset with them for making such a mess. But she walked by and instead complemented them on the work they had accomplished so far. It didn’t really seem like they had everything under control, but now I understand why.

“You see Crystal, placing tile is an easy craft to learn, but it’s very competitive. Back in the day, you needed to know how to plaster walls to even them out before you could even place tile, but after they introduced Sheetrock and Wonderboard it became easier for people to learn.” My father always jumping from one point to another, “It’s a very messy job applying the grout, so people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

I realized this held true when I watched the process unfold before my eyes. They broke off all the old tile that was going to be replaced and started leveling the ground and sweeping up the remaining pieces. They measured the walls and started with the longest wall first. After they were finished cutting pieces of tile with what I used to think looked like a fancy cheese grater, they used a trowel to apply the mastic, which acted as a glue to hold the tile in place. They placed the tile firmly into the ground and used little, white spacers to evenly separate each tile. I remember always playing with those little white spacers because they, for one reason or another, ended up in my Lego box when my sister and I would dump them on the floor and start building nonsense. One day I guess they decided not to use the spacers, but again I learned another tile lesson from my father, who now acts as a messenger for my grandpa who I no longer can ask.

“You see Crystal, in bathrooms . . .” he paused losing his train of thought and slightly thrown off track. “Placing tile is a long process. It takes 24 hours for the mastic to set in with the grout . . . And the spacers are not needed when placing tile in a bathroom. You see, the bathroom tiles already have a built in ridge that spaces them out evenly and typically you are going to use nonskid tile to avoid slippery situations.”

Okay. So he was a little confusing to understand sometimes, especially when he jumbled up his thoughts and spit out mixed sentences, but that was the interesting part. Tile seemed to be a very organized process that had a lot more detail to follow than a foreigner to the craft might expect.

After they had all the tiles in place they mixed the grout and then scooped it out from white buckets and began to spread it on top of the tile with a float pushing the grout into the joints. I was baffled as to why they were putting this on top of the pretty tiles. I thought it was going to get stuck to the tile and ruin everything they had just spent hours on. But they were patient and let it set.

 After learning the messiest part was the most important, the next and final step became my favorite part to watch. They dipped huge orange sponges into the bucket of water and in circular motions wiped down the tile. Very quickly with not much effort the excess grout disappeared and the shiny new tile that had been placed adjusted to its new surroundings. The wet sponges revealed more to me than I think anyone else could understand. No matter how organized you do things and how perfect you want things to be, they have to get a little messy before things start looking good again. I guess this inspired me more than the old cliché that spoke of cloudy days and the trust that there’ll be sunny ones.

 

*             *            *

 

It was March 11, 1996. Exactly one week after his 77^th birthday. It felt like I had just played Las Mananitas for him on my cello. He was in good spirits, but the Hospice nurses let us know he didn’t have much time.

Slowly, one by one, from around town to different states, we all made it to my grandpa’s house for one last goodbye. This time there was an empty poker table, my younger cousins sat quietly in the living room and the tile, well it was still stacked in the backyard. A moment where I wanted to run out and hide from the sadness inside. Many times I saw both my pregnant aunt and sister hold his hand to their bellies as he lay there in his bed slowly leaving us. Tears were rolling down everyone’s cheeks as his breaths were getting further and further apart. His small, hazel eyes closing and his raspy, distinct voice…in the distance. He held on long enough for one more goodbye as my two uncles closed the door to my grandpa’s room for one last time after they shared one final moment with him. He peacefully drifted away…

After my grandpa died I knew I knew him, but maybe not as well as I had liked to. All the stories I heard and the more I learned about him, came mostly from my parents and grandma. I was around him a lot but mostly as a child so I never really had a chance to sit down and have a real conversation with him. I knew there was more than tile to this man. There was a heart big enough to create the big, loving family that I am proud to be a part of. A husband that produced more than just seven kids with his beautiful wife, Carmen. There’s a father that taught his kids more about the ups-and-downs of life than he even knew he did. A father-in-law that handed down a craft and a friendship that would impact the life of other’s in more ways than one, and as a grandfather who would grab the hands of his grandchildren immediately after they walked into his home and take them across the street to the Circle K for candy. His passion for the UTEP Miners, hot chile, backyard huachas, beautiful pieces of tile, a close game, a cold beer, a good joke and a big win at poker. It was these things that made him such a great person. And that’s what I knew of.

Right before he died, I wanted him to remember me as an individual rather than just another one of his 25 grandchildren. It wasn’t that I felt deprived, but I wanted him to see that there are certain, distinctive qualities that set each and every one of us apart. I wanted him to know me as a person, know what I’m involved in, how I’m doing in school and how I sound when I play my cello.

I slowly worked my way from a small chair against my grandmother’s wall to an open spot on the floor as I closely and curiously listened to her talk. Before I knew it, the fifteen minutes I had planned on staying had turned into a very quick two hours.

 “I was about your age when I met your grandpa,” she paused taking a moment to reminisce about her past. “ . . . He was so cute.” She said honestly and sarcastically at the same time.

She talked her life as a child; how she dealt with the Depression and the time she spent away from my grandpa when he served in World War II.

It seemed as though everyone had their memories of grandpa, but mine, although chopped and scattered, were a possession I cherished immensely and somehow crumbled together from top to bottom in this blog.

Even though he is no longer here, his presence is locked in each and every tile that is placed in El Paso. He surrounds me in my home, my mind and my heart.

 

It was just recently when I found out why he placed coins around his tile work . . . The year of each coin matches the year he placed the tile at the specific site. Now whenever I see tile he placed in El Paso, including my front porch, I know when my grandpa was at that very spot. Whenever I pass that house on Pershing, I still can’t let go of that peculiar beauty, his creativeness and his trademark. The idea alone creates a warm sense of comfort that fills my heart’s vacancy for my grandpa’s presence. He was a smart man; he left behind a piece of himself for us to embrace.   

The day he died, my family’s sense of humor got us through our great loss and battle with emotions. My aunt laughed and said my grandfather would be disappointed once he got to heaven.

“He probably told God that he needed tile in heaven so it would look pretty. I bet he already is starting his next tile job right now.”

 

*             *            *

I sat in the church surrounded by my brothers and sisters. My hands were interlocked, my head down. I prayed. It was a tough goodbye for me, because at a young age I was still looking for a better grasp on the definition of death.  But I guess God needed a bigger job from my grandpa than we all understood. His white slicked back hair and cute, wrinkled face that still held on to his handsomeness with his favorite red and blue flannel shirt.

 I would miss him more than I understood at the time. It was at the church for his funeral, where I was lost in my own thoughts and memories with the mumbled and monotone sounds in the background, I stared at the floor beneath my feet and cried. Through my tears I could feel my grandpa’s spirit was lifting up all of us.

It was in that moment that my mother told me one of his last big tile jobs was in that church. Chills ran down my spine as I felt a sense of serenity arrest my body. My grandfather placed the pearly-white tile underneath everyone’s feet at St. Joseph’s Church . . . the church where we told him goodbye. It was one of the biggest and most beautiful displays of his work -- of his life that I had ever seen. I felt comforted. And with him beneath our feet, I guess it was his way of letting us know that he was going to carry us through this. It kind of reminded me of the poem, Footprints in the Sand, but in this case of course, it would be tiles.

“You see Crystal,” My father’s voice rang in my head, “ . . .people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

My dad was right. I had to trust that no matter how bad things looked in that moment, God knew what He was doing. Maybe things looked messy and I couldn’t see clearly how things might turn out, but I waited patiently and as always was overly impressed with what God revealed with His wet sponge…

 

                   ________________________________________________

 

Albert Campos 1917-1996

 

The next time you see tile with a coin stuck in the ground in El Paso, Texas...

 

The Tileman was there.

Ladybugs and People

For those that know me well, know I love tiny animals and have a serious case of cute aggression! Basically, I am Elmira from Tiny Toon cartoons minus the craziness. Well...I don't know. 

I was scrolling through something online and saw a picture of a ladybug and it reminded of my brothers. When I was little I would get so excited to catch one. I felt like I could give it the perfect little home with some water and grass in a plastic cup. But by the time my clumsy little hands tried to prepare that and actually catch it -- it would fly away from me. 

I would chase it and chase it. (You see what I'm saying here?) I remember my brothers would see how hard I tried and they would tell me to show them where the ladybug was. I'd show them. Then they would do something that made so much sense to me at the time, but today makes me cringe. 

He'd carefully grab the ladybug and under its pretty little, red-spotted shell-like body, he'd pull its little black wings off. He'd smile and say, "There now he can't get away from you!"

Photo Jamie Austin

Wow. My brothers are just so smart and they are the best! Just like that, I had a little beetle friend and was going to take care of it forever! 

On the other hand, now the ladybug was unable to take care of its eggs, unable to fulfill its little 1-2 year lifespan and unable to be a ladybug because of my selfish, twisted idea thinking I was taking care of it when I was actually harming it. But at the time, this was irrelevant, it was about me and what I wanted.

My brothers were teenagers at the time and would probably never do that again. I asked them if they remembered and my brother Andy said, "That's an easy memory."

And I'm just talking tiny bugs. But what if you're dealing with your own ladybug problems in your life right now? Whose wings have you pulled off recently? 

 My other brother Gabriel joked, "That's what big brothers are for. Too bad your favorite boyfriends didn't have wings." And that's just the thing. Thank God my brothers never pulled the wings off my ex-boyfriends just so I would be happy. Some people aren't meant to stay in your life. Some are, but fly away for a bit.

 

"If deep down you know you don't belong there then trust yourself. Don't trap yourself."

As I scroll through my timeline I often come across posts that deal with relationship issues, trust issues or insecurities about a loved one. 

Sometimes when we want what we want, we do everything we can to make sure it doesn't leave us. What would we do without them? How will our lives carry on seamlessly? It goes back to the cliche, "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, then it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never meant to be."

That concept would have been tough for my five-year-old mind to comprehend, but what it is today -- is quite simply great advice. 

I realize that the parallel I'm making is somewhat different when it comes to the innocent and childish intentions I had of simply capturing a ladybug as compared to a broken marriage, distant family member or lost friendship. But as adults we need to recognize we are fully capable of making the right decision, yet we still find ourselves running aimlessly with our hands out.

If you're struggling to let go of a person who otherwise wants nothing to do with you, you have to be an adult about the situation. Tearing their wings off and making them stay in your life is going to be more grudge and regret than peace and understanding. 

If you're holding on to just threads of what was once a quilted relationship, you have to let go. 

It's a miserable sight to see someone stay in something they despise and the other person to be content with just barely making it work. You're going to end up with a cup filled with wilted grass, dirty water and a ladybug on its back. Don't be a grown-up brat. It's not just about you and what you want. Think about other people. Are they happy?

Don't stay in something because it's familiar or what you're used to. Don't let someone guilt you into staying either. If deep down you know you don't belong there then trust yourself. Don't trap yourself.

Whose wings have you pulled off? Or is it yours that are missing? 

You shouldn't hold ladybugs hostage. 

So don't do it to people.

LETGOd.

BAD DAYS

Sometimes you just have incredibly bad days. I'm not talking about the life-changing, tragic days. But just flat out bad...days. 

And that's okay. 

As long as you recognize and accept they are bound to happen...You'll be okay. You won't know what will trigger them, why or when they'll happen. But just try your best to deal with life's adversities. Just ACCEPT the fact you won't skip through life whistling the entire time. There will be those pebbles, stones and sometimes boulders that trip you, knock you down and block you. And as long as you can prepare yourself as much as humanly possible, you may or may not be able to gracefully ride through it. 

I went face-first into a boulder yesterday. But it's behind me now. To be completely honest, it looks much smaller behind me then it did head-on. Now I'm skipping again. Well...maybe not skipping, more like limping, but either way I'm still moving forward. Trying to shake the anger, frustration and bad vibes from yesterday. I don't need to dirty the next day with that garbage! 

A saying I dislike is, "Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong!" I hate when people profess this out loud. Especially when only one small thing goes wrong. It's like an invitation for disaster. And guess what? You're hosting that pity party! You stubbed your toe and spilled your coffee and now you're caught up in a fender-bender because you couldn't let it go. Right? 

Our words are SO powerful. And if you viewed the air around you as millions of tiny messengers recording what you say, then flying off and spreading it around -- you might put more thought into what you let out of your mouth. Bad thoughts and words equal negativity and the good brings forth positivity. It's simple. We make it hard. 

Yesterday was a very bad day. So bad I couldn't even talk. Which is two things: shocking because I don't know how to shut up and a good thing based on those little messengers in the air around me. But my thoughts were just as wreckless. There's a song I love that is simple, but powerful. "Lord I Need You."

I find myself saying that out loud or in my thoughts when I'm anxious, tired or fearful. It's amazingly helpful and calming. It's something I hope more people do because it brings forth extraordinary peace. But I was so mentally exhausted and physically drained last night...I thought it, but couldn't even say that out loud. I couldn't materialize my thoughts into anything I could communicate. I was flat out defeated. I hit every dead end and ran face-first into every possible obstacle. Full speed. 

I wanted to cry. And looking back, everything that could of went wrong actually did. Its not that I said that out loud in that moment to create it, but most definitely my bad mood was a magnet to more unfortunate situations. However, even in the worst of that moment, I was glad I could recognize that the basis of it all was petty, even though it was a lot to handle alone. 

But I'm better for it today. I'll be better for it tomorrow. 

Today will be better. It will be good. Because that fine line that separated last night from this morning has some silver on it. 

Don't let bad days consume your life. Approach them with grace. We will fall victim to bad days, and we are allowed to have them, but like my mother always says, go lock yourself in your room and have that pity for a party for one. No one needs to be brought down with you. 

Always remember: What you think about and talk about you bring about!! What you think about and talk about you bring about!! What. You. Think. About. And. Talk. About. You. Bring. About!! 

I WILL SEE BETTER DAYS. I WILL HAVE SUFFICE GRACE TO HANDLE THE BAD DAYS. FOR BOTH THE SAME GOES...LORD I NEED YOU! 

http://youtu.be/LuvfMDhTyMA

Dancing with My Grandma

I stared down at the uneven wood floor. I was kind of worried she might slip. We were all in a circle, clapping, singing and dancing. Her feet were to the right of mine. Even though we were in public at a little Mexican restaurant in El Paso, it was okay that she was in her slippers, socks and nightgown. No one cared. I'm not even sure if anyone saw. 

*****

I went to sleep last night worried and scared to be alone. My dog was randomly barking as I was getting ready for bed. I had a strange, unsettling feeling. But I knew I could overcome anxiety with prayer. I was thinking too much. I heard my dad's voice in my head, so I got down on my knees to pray. I needed rest, but I mostly needed direction. Grateful for so many blessings, but I felt so lost. I needed clarity in my career, forgiveness for past mistakes and resolve in my relationships. I prayed for God's will instead of waiting on my plan. I got in bed and finally fell asleep. 

I could hear the radio in the background. I always sleep to soft music. It drifted in and out of my dreams. But the second my dreams took a turn, I couldn't hear anything but scanners, ringing phones and people yelling. I felt frozen in bed. 

I woke up in a cold sweat, but fell back into the same stressful dreams. I was tense. I knew I was dreaming, but the feelings were so familiar. A mix between school and my professional career, the pressures of meeting deadlines, male chauvinists criticizing my work, not making it to class on time and by the time the bell rang I didn't have a ride home. I was lost. 

*****

I saw her walk over to my best friend's grandma. How strange, it would be the first time our grandmothers would meet. No one else saw it, but her. My friend's grandma had tears running down her face as she swept the crooked, uneven wood floors. Overwhelmed and exhausted she said they didn't have enough help for the restaurant. As I looked around I realized she owned the place. I saw all the tables filled with guests and a line of people waiting to get in. But my best friend's family couldn't keep up with the demand. We didn't go there to eat, I wasn't really sure why we were there, but my grandma suggested we help entertain the crowd as they waited.

*****

I waited in front of the school as it cleared out long after the bell. I finally saw a couple friends and asked them for a ride home. School was only five minutes away from my house. She said sure, but she just had to stop in California first. What? That's strange. I could hear the soft music in the background again, falling in and out. Well, I thought to myself, it doesn't seem that far out of the way. After all, she was doing me a favor. 

On the road, the air was dry, cold and we were in the desert. I recognized we were still on the far westside of El Paso. This shouldn't take long. California isn't that far. But her car became so fragile, old and began to breakdown right in front of my eyes. We came to an unexpected stop. The starter clicked. And then...nothing. She was apologetic to us and said it never happened before. But seeing the door was about to fall off the hinges and the hood was gone, I played along and told her no worries, I was in no rush. But I knew, I really needed to get home. I just wasn't sure for what. 

The sun was going down. It was getting cold, dark and scary. As the car was smoking from the engine, the desert ground seemed like the better place to lie down as we waited for help. Except I didn't remember calling anyone. And where did we get the blankets? I wasn't sure, but I was so happy we all had them. How long would we be there? I needed to get home.

I stared at the stars. I could hear my friends laughing. Not sure why they weren't worried, but glad to hear they were at ease and in good spirits. In that moment everything seemed so different.

I felt so tiny. I felt so strange. The huge sky was about to swallow me whole. But I knew where I was at. I could see the mountains in the distance. I was far enough to be scared, but close enough to home that I felt a sense of peace. That's when I heard her voice and she told me it would be okay and to just be patient.

I looked up surprised as she grabbed a blanket to lay down with me. I was so happy to see my grandma. I didn't remember her being in the car. But however she got there in the desert with us was okay with me! I told her how much I missed her. I stared at her face, her curly dark and gray hair, her distinct eyebrows, shiny-blushed cheekbones and her floral-patterned nightgown. Just like I remembered. She wrapped her arms around me. I wondered if I had fallen asleep in my own dream. 

*****

The car started. We all packed in. I questioned if we left with one new passenger or if we had stalled out with her in the car. Either way, I was happy she was with me. 

As we rode back into town. The sun was up, it was warm and I felt a sense of relief. There was no longer a rush to get home. She was now behind the wheel. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I don't think I had ever been in a car with my grandma as the driver. But this time, I was. She was the same witty, stubborn and graceful woman driving with such authority, confidence and with such ease. 

We stopped to drop off my friend at her family's restaurant. I guess I never knew they had one, but when I saw the heavy burden it placed on them, it made me so sad to see her parents and her grandmother struggle. 

That's when my grandma let go of my hand, and yelled to everyone, "Let's dance! Just dance as you wait to be served!" 

It was a little out of the ordinary, but without delay everyone abided. We were in circles, laughing, singing and clapping! I stared down at my grandma's slippers and wondered if she had them on the whole time. Everyone was taking turns dancing in the middle. Strangers all laughing and dancing together. There was not a social divide that made it weird. Just pure happiness. My grandma was eager to go next. But she'd never been able to walk without using her walker or get up without assistance -- not that I can remember anyway. The wood floors were uneven and I didn't want her to fall so I grabbed her hand. Cumbia music was playing and I knew this adamant woman was about to dance like no one was watching. To my surprise she said it would be okay, so I let go of her hand. There she was, like Ms. America as she would say, drawing in all the attention, her smile, her contagious laughter and her body moved so fluidly across the floor. I stared at her. It was mesmerizing how happy and carefree she was. She looked so strong and sturdy. She pulled me onto the dance floor with her. I felt like a little kid again. 

*** 

I started to hear the faint music in the background again. I knew it was coming from my bedroom and not my dream. I didn't want to wakeup. I wanted to keep dancing with her. But as she slipped into the crowd, I peacefully slipped out of my dream. 

I stared at my blankets. My dog came up to me and just stared at my face. My radio was louder than I thought. I could hear one of my favorite songs on. To live like you are dying. 

http://youtu.be/XiOcW_YR1G8

   

There was no doubt my grandma came to me in my dream to remind me: no matter who, how tough the road, how lost you can feel, scared or how uncertain you are about what the future holds, approach everyday with gratitude, live everyday like your last. And then another song came to mind. Remember when one door shuts another door will open and when you get the chance - 

I hope you dance. 

     Carmen Fierro Campos 1919-2008