Firstborn Son has one baby book, a scrapbook and a calendar crammed full of notes: his first smile (two weeks old, and no, he wasn’t gassy); the first time he turned over (5 months); first steps (downstairs in the dining room, at 13 months.)
Each book is filled with pictures and detailed captions, including the first gift he ever received, his first visitors at the hospital, and the first time he slept through the night (alas, not until his 12th week.) Later entries include a lock of his hair from his first haircut, pictures from his first trip to the L.A. Zoo, a whole paragraph on the day he first recognized himself in the mirror. (He smiled.)
First things are exciting, worth noting, memorable. With my first two babies, I was manic about documenting everything: first words, first bath in the baby tub, first baby sign, first time he sang a song (“E-I-E-I-O” counts, right?)
My husband was just a meticulous about these little milestones. His weapons of choice have evolved from his trusty Canon and video camera to his cellphone, all within easy reach at all times, ready to capture Baby’s every move.
“Look at how well he’s holding that baby ball!” he marveled. “He’s going to be a basketball player!”
We greeted each baby feat with cheers befitting the Second Coming, with loud congratulations and rejoicing. Sometimes, we even called the grandparents for a live report.
Firstborn Son’s firsts were ours too, after all. We were thrilled and grateful and moved beyond belief that this roly-poly creature was ours and capable of yawning and finding his feet.
I remember staring at my seven-month-old as he grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked. He yelped, outraged, for a moment, and then he did it again. He used to rub his feet together like a cricket when he was excited or happy.
The first time we spent the day at the Huntington Library in San Marino, Firstborn Son’s eyes widened in amazement when the spring breeze tickled his face. He turned to listen to the birds in the trees, the sprinklers turning on and the crunch of twigs and gravel on the garden paths as our stroller meandered through. He stared for what seemed like hours at the grape arbor near the rose garden.
I remember these firsts because I wrote them down, too photos, pressed that “Record” button.
Wonder Boy has his own photo-crammed album and memory books, but admittedly, he has less solos and more photos with Big Brother.
By the time Cheeky Baby came along, I was determined to be just as vigilant with her firsts. But my motivation was less about posterity, and more because I was 40 and already earning an impressive reputation for short term memory loss.
And for everything I document, I know I’m celebrating an achievement of sorts, but also a farewell, for with that first word (it was “up” for the boys, and “Papa” for Cheeky), we are leaving behind sweet babyhood, as triple-roll thighs give way to sturdy toddler legs. Moments like this slip away every day, minute by minute.
I’m now the mom of two teenagers and a 10-year-old, and I’ve marked off the first driving lesson, the first heartbreak, a first job (a happy summer working at Potato Corner in the mall.)
What makes you tick? It’s the question I ask all my subjects and interviewees, all while mentally rubbing my hands together in anticipation. (But not in real life, that would … Continue reading Welcome to my blog
She is “Little Girl,” the beautiful young lady he spied at Rosedale Soda & Ice Cream Parlor one January day in 1950. Ozzie Jones was at the Fort Worth, Texas soda fountain with a friend.
“We both were sitting at the counter of the soda shop on the stools and I saw her,” Jones, now 91, said. “She was beautiful! My friend knew her and so he introduced me to her, and that’s how we first met. I tried to make dates with her but she didn’t ever want to accept them and she kept turning me down.
“I was able to get her phone number and so I called two or three times but she would never answer. She lived in a boarding house with some other girls and they would answer the phone and they told her ‘Hey, this man keeps calling for you!’ But she didn’t want to talk to me! They convinced her to get the phone and give me a chance so finally she took my phone call. Then we went to the movies and the soda shop on a date. And three months later we were married.”
Ozzie, also known as “Pops,” and “Little Girl” Flossie Mae Jones of Pasadena celebrated their 71st wedding anniversary on April 7. Even with the pandemic winding down, this milestone was celebrated quietly, like last year, when most of the couple’s five children, 14 grandchildren and 17 great-grandchildren had to keep their distance.
No matter. Ozzie and Flossie, 87, can’t wait to welcome all of them back to the Pasadena home near the Rose Bowl that she helped design in 1970.
The two had four children and were living in Texas when Ozzie, an Air Force veteran, decided to strike out for California.
“It was segregated there in the South and California wasn’t,” he said. “I wanted my kids to have a good education and to have more freedoms. I drove to California and got a job and a place to live. I sent for them about three months later. It was real happy.”
Flossie came by train, with the four children.
“Every time the train would stop, they’d ask, ‘Are we gonna see Daddy now?’ When they finally got to California, they didn’t say a word,” Ozzie laughed.
Their fifth child, Lee, was born in L.A.
The family settled in Pasadena, where Ozzie graduated from East L.A. College and started a 30-year career with the City of Los Angeles. Flossie ran the household, and later worked for AT&T, from where she retired.
They reveled in their family and their hobbies: he is an avid Lakers fan who never misses a game. He’s been a fan since 1960, when the team moved to Los Angeles.
A Southern belle, Louisiana-born Flossie loves to read, and listen to classic country tunes from Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. Even into his 80s, Ozzie was completing marathon bike races with his great-granddaughter C’yana. The couple loved to go eat at Souplantation, and always, spend time with family.
“If you need anything, they are there offering before you even ask,” said granddaughter Latoya Vernon of Alhambra. “They have wide open hearts, and you never left their home without a belly full of laughs, and a glow in your heart. They always make us feel like we matter and have a gift to give the world. Whatever dream we have, they believe in it too. They represent, in everything they do, what the word ‘family’ truly means.”
Daughter Cassandra Mixon of Pasadena said she most admires her parents for “their love for one another, their love for their family, and the love they show to people in general. They always see the good in people.”
Their son Michael, in Texas, said his parents are his greatest supporters.
“When I played basketball at L.A. Valley College and later at Fullerton, my dad would come to the games and cheer me on,” he said. “When I moved to Chicago they came to visit me and endured the cold. I look for every opportunity to visit them in California where I can enjoy their love hugs and smiling faces.”
Daughter Beverly Monroe of Beaumont said she admires the way her Pops loves and honors his wife, and her mother’s generosity to others.
“It’s evident that the vows they took over 71 years ago were taken seriously,” she said. “They’ve been the perfect example of what commitment, sacrifice, patience, and love means in a successful relationship.”
The pandemic has been hard on Ozzie, the people person, who has had to miss group bike rides and two Los Angeles County fairs. His daughters took him there every year.
“The first thing I do is get me a bite to eat, nothing spicy, then I go start off with the animals, and I just go from there,” he said. “And I can’t miss the Mardi Gras parade.”
Both are fully vaccinated now, and looking forward to a wedding anniversary drive-by parade on May 17, as well as attending the annual family reunion at Santa Fe Dam in Irwindale.
“This coronavirus is the only thing stopping me, as soon as it’s done, I’m gonna be on my bike again, I can’t wait,” Ozzie said.And then there are the nicknames. Ozzie has bestowed at least 62, one for each member of the Jones family, even the in-laws. Eldest daughter Beverly is “Chicken,” because that’s all she wanted to eat as a child. Daughter Cassandra is “Princess,” and her daughter Latoya is “Little Princess.”
Soon, Ozzie will have to think of a new nickname. Their first great-great-grandchild is due early next year.
It is the latest link to the family that grew out of that first meeting at the soda shop.
“We still bring those things up, how we met, our courting,” Ozzie said. “There are so many things I love about her, her beauty, her disposition. The secret, I believe, is when you marry, you take the vows and you have to repeat those as you go through life, you don’t give up. That’s what’s kept me and my wife happy.”
He teases her that his anniversary gift this year was “a big ol’ kiss,” and raves about her sweet tea and pound cake. Flossie says she doesn’t know what Ozzie’s best at, “being a father or being a husband, he’s so good at both.”
Asked why she first said no when he asked her out, Ozzie’s “Little Girl” said, “I think I fell in love with him just by looking at him, but I didn’t want him to know that.”
For his part, Ozzie is as devoted as the first day they met.
“I told Little Girl’ then, that as long as she has life, she has me, and I still say that to her today,” he said.
And in this singular year, Flossie said they hold their blessings close.
“We have our family, we have everything we need, and that’s a good feeling,” she said. “We feel their love for us.”
Pandemic restrictions meant I had to interview Ozzie and Flossie via Zoom and phone, but their graciousness and love was apparent no matter the medium. Ozzie is a charmer, and Flossie is a Southern lady through and through. Their daughters and granddaughter is testament to their loving hearts, too. Stories like this is why I love my work. I learned so much.
I didn’t grow up celebrating Halloween during my childhood on Oct. 31. Instead, we ventured out on Nov. 1, All Saints Day, and Nov. 2, All Souls Day, countrywide holidays that sent waves of families to cemeteries. Not unlike Dias de los Muertos, we prayed and partied at the graveside of departed loved ones.
On the way in, we would pass vendors hawking everything from flowers and candlesticks to snacks and drinks. Mom would stop and greet friends, themselves already settled in for the long day.
In our unspoken catechism, Mom taught us that Nov. 1 was for celebrating Mass, praying to all the saints in heaven. Nov. 2 we dedicated to all souls, but especially those we love and have died. This devotion necessitated the cemetery trips, long a national non-working day for the whole country. Mom herself remembers making these treks as a child, but with strict elders who demanded children remain circumspect and well-behaved.
Of course, we first had to pray before the graves of our elders. Back then, they were mostly just names etched on marble. Luis Jimenez Cruz. Jose Paez Cruz. Francisco Nogra Vicente. Dolores Vicente Cortez. Later, they would come alive through stories: the quiet grandfather and pharmacist who loved to tinker with cars; the mayor uncle assassinated on Christmas Day by a bomb hidden in a gift basket; the much-loved big sister who fainted, pregnant, while ironing, and left behind eight children.
We learned, via a disapproving, motherly stare, not to clamber up gravestones or step on markers. No shouting, of course. But other than that, we were free to roam and keep ourselves busy while the grown-ups prayed and chatted.
I spent hours gingerly fashioning wax balls from hot candle drippings. My sisters and I competed to make the biggest one. We walked around and read the names and dates from each headstone, doing the the math: “Look! Sixty years! 81!” We quieted down when we got to someone who died young or had a photo embedded in their marker.
The day smelled of sampaguita blossoms and burning candles. The cemetery names are themselves a litany of sorts: Paco Park, San Bartolome, Santa Ana, Mandaluyong, and in more modern times, Loyola and Manila Memorial.
Locally, Forest Lawn and Rose Hills will welcome many guests on Nov. 1 and 2, too. We will marvel at how big the tree near Dad’s grave has grown, and admire the festive decorations on other sites. The visits are usually less crowded and quieter than the All Souls Days of many years ago. In this pandemic year, perhaps that is best.
In my personal 2020 ofrenda are memories of people we lost since March: Tita Nene Gundran; Tita Gloria Crisostomo; Tito Mario Cruz; Tita Guing Aranda-Ramos, and mere months later, her husband, Tito Tony Ramos.
We said goodbye to our friend Eugene Villacorta, only 44, on Sept. 15.
By then, we were savvy participants at Zoom rosaries and Masses. But this time, we were allowed to have a socially distanced, outdoor Mass, celebrated by Rev. Kevin Rettig of Arcadia, attended by Gene’s motorcycle-riding friends and those from his Filipino American retreat group. We were able to personally mourn with his brother Norman and his wife and son.
All of them so much more than just names on marble or a small, gold plate. Isabel Allende writes true when she says people die only when we forget them. This is for remembering, then. For always.
The first book I remember reading is “Are You My Mother?” by P.D. Eastman. I must have been 5 or 6, and already attracted to the tall bookshelves that stood … Continue reading A Child of Books
Anissa V. Rivera 