Jubilee

Explaining the layers of my family is like giving a science lecture; I need a flow chart and a lot of space. To keep it simple though, I didn’t have a grandmother growing up. Instead, I had Genevieve and the Sisters, three maiden aunts that were sisters of my father’s mother. For as long as I can remember these women were the matriarchs of the family, holding the threads of our sprawling family together with green chili, watermelon slices and rosary beads. They knew all the stories and memories and I can see how I grew up thinking women could do anything, because these ladies did.

Genevieve lived on the property where my father and all his siblings were born. Her house was an old adobe place with a flat roof and a wood cooking stove. My memories of that small kitchen are as rich as the fresh,, warm tortillas that were passed out anytime my brother and I asked. The Sisters were sisters, but also nuns in the Sister of Mercy order. During the school year, they were teachers in New Mexico, but in the summer, they would come home to Genevieve’s.

The Sisters were Sister Concetta and Sister Magdalene. We just called them Sister. And as a child, I didn’t really spend a lot of time, trying to separate them into individuals. The three of them were a package deal in my mind. But as I got older, I grew to see them as unique.. Genevieve was the strong one. She lived on the land herself and had cattle, and chopped wood for the fire. She knew everyone for miles and men would pull up in front of the house and take off their hats at the door and inquire if there was anything she needed. She’d send them on their way, but maybe with a handful of fresh roasted pinion, or some cookies.

Mary Magdalene was the sweet one. She was a first grade teacher and she liked kids. She was the one that taught me how to make an ojo de Dios. Or a God’s Eye, a Mexican folk art with sticks and yarn. Every year, I would teach that craft to my students and always tell the story about my aunt teaching me that it was a custom of protection. Fathers would make them for their children when they went off to school. I wouldn’t tell them about how her hands held mine and guided me through the motions of the weaving, but I would never fail to forget that memory. I will never forget the day she was buried in the mountains.

Sister Concetta is the only one left. She was the smallest and youngest, but always a take charge kind of girl. She was a principal during her education years and always very well caught up on world affairs. She had good timing and would slip a joke into a story and make everyone laugh. For awhile she lived alone on the ranch, doing all the things all three of the ladies had done for years, chopping wood for the fire, lighting the stove, moving the snow to get to the gate. She was almost ninety years old when she went to live at the Sister of Mercy motherhouse in Nebraska. It always bothered me a lot that she was so far from home. I have wanted to go see her, but I haven’t until now.

This marks Sister Concetta’s 80th year as a nun. In the faith, this is called a jubilee. With five of my cousins, I joined the celebration. Sister is our family saint, but she is well-loved in her community. She is 102 and going strong. I guess chopping wood has given her some stamina. Her hearing isn’t great and she didn’t recognize us, but she knew the names of our parents and then would remember who we belonged to. I am not sure she knew the celebration was for her at first, but she caught on and joined in the singing and sang each of my cousins and myself a blessing as we were leaving.

Afterward, the six of us had dinner in The Haymarket section of Lincoln and it was like all the meals of my youth–laughter, stories, sharing. I can see how love, faith, and strength was born in my life. I am glad I made the journey and made these memories with my cousins. I guess our aunt isn’t done doing her job, because she is still bringing us together and showing us how to be joyful.