Ceremony

(As published in the Yakima Herald, August 25, 2012)
On Aug. 23, 2012, surrounded by his loving family, our beloved father Jose A Villanueva Sr. went peacefully to the arms of his Savior at Emerald Convalescent Center in Wapato, WA. He was born March 30, 1927, in Edinburg, Texas to Chrisoforo & Juana Cortez Villanueva. He spent his early years in Texas & Mexico and received his early education there. From 1945-1947 he served in the United States Army during WWII, being honorably discharged and was awarded the Army of Occupation medal. After returning to civilian life he met and married the love of his life Beatriz Farias in 1949, settling in Yakima County and finally making their home in Sunnyside WA. As a Latino pioneer of the lower Yakima valley, he engaged in many endeavors; he was a migrant farm worker, heavy construction worker, social worker and activist, and entrepreneur. He was best known as owner and operator of La Fiesta Restaurant in Sunnyside, WA. He was instrumental in establishing the first migrant farm worker early childhood daycare center, and a local food cooperative. He was one of the founding board members of Heritage University in Toppenish, WA, and served in support of many local service entities. Most importantly, alongside his wife Beatriz, he established Ministerio Nueva Vida servicing the Latino Catholic community. As part of this ministry they helped found the annual Congresso Charismatico held in Yakima, WA, and was recently honored for these founding efforts. He was a lifetime Catholic and on his 57th wedding anniversary received the Apostolic Blessing in 2006 from Pope Benedict XVI.

He is survived by his wife of 63 years Beatriz and his 11 children. These are: Maria Sanchez (Armando), Gridley, CA, Mario (Jane), Olympia, Mary Jane Allen (Steve), Sunnyside, WA, Frank (Vena), Lacey, WA, Chris (Ester), Bellevue, WA, John (Marti), Grandview, WA, Suzi Carpino (Greg), Sunnyside, WA, Maria Nena Kresse, Kennewick, WA, Joe (Godeleva), Spanaway, WA, Lisa Erickson (Paul), Kennewick, WA, Maria Scudiero (Louis), Pullman, WA. He is also survived by 35 grandchildren, 47 great-grandchildren and numerous nieces and nephews. He is preceded in death by his parents, two brothers and three sisters, his grandson Jose Armando Sanchez, and his son in law Steve Allen.

He was a man who loved his God and tried to share God's love with everyone he met. 

Aaron comes from a musical family.  It was a moving tribute to witness him playing with his father, a sister, an aunt, an uncle, two cousins, and his brother-in-law to honor Grandpa Jose.

Jose's presence was huge in the community.  Over 400 people attended the service, and seven priests officiated the ceremony, including his excellency, Bishop Sevilla.

The boys and I had a view of the ceremony from our perch in the crying room, but missed the stirring Requiem Mass and eulogy given by Bishop Sevilla.

My dear Raphael lifted his hands in prayer, following Bishop's example through the glass.  He's a deep old soul, our Raph.

After the ceremony Aaron wanted to show the boys the back room where he "gowned up" as an alter boy when he was a youth at St. Joseph's, the church where he was baptized as an infant and raised until he moved from Sunnyside.  It was very sentimental for him to take his own sons there.  Nothing had changed.  The cabinetry where he hung up his robes had the same varnish, and the same ancient aroma of sandalwood incense absorbed in the walls.

Grandpa was honored with a 21 Gun Salute, and carried by his sons, a grandson, and son-in-law.

Grandma Beatrice is hospitalized from her condition with Alzheimer's, and sadly was not capable of attending the graveside service.  It was gripping to see the oldest child of Bea and Jose's eleven children, Maria, honored with accepting his flag in her mother's place.

The Portrait

This image hangs in our hallway upstairs, not a Rembrant piece after all, as it was once believed, but it came from his studio where he tutored his students.  It possesses his influence if not his direct brush strokes.

I got the print in an antique store the first year we lived here, a gift to Aaron because he loves this painting.  When he was little working in the restaurant his family owned, La Fiesta, this image was hanging there, and he thought that it was a painting of Grandpa Joe.  Honestly, the physical resemblance is uncanny, and there is an aire, a spirit, in the expression of this man that has always mirrored Grandpa Joe.  There's something in the downcast eyes, the furrowed brow, the lips set firm, that leads us to realize the man has struggled, and although valiant, he's scarred, he has wounds behind his eyes like a veteran.  Even though his helmet is brassy in the dim, his face in contrast is worn by the tumult of life.  In the conquest much was sacrificed.  To us, this painting will always remain a portraiture of Grandpa Jose.

Yesterday Grandpa passed on, and much as our greif rocks us, we praise God that he's no longer locked down in a broken body, but free and finally at peace.

My husband is the most wonderful man I know, strong and wise, faithful and humble.  Grandpa's essence dwells in him, there in the corner of his smile and the shape of his eyes, the curve of his mouth when he laughs, the way he leans into God's voice, and prays for us in the cool morning air.   I see him in my boys, too, in Raphael's curls that came from Grandpa Jose's grandmother, an African.  In that robust fighter's spirit that Andres harbors with such vivacious energy, and the way he preaches to us about God just like his namesake.  And I'll always be grateful to Grandpa Jose, the scrapper from Texas, the musician, the farmer, the soldier, entrepanuer, and minister, for his strength and courage because it has impacted us all.  Like that painting in our hallway by some anonymous student in Rembrant's studio, we observe the stroke of the master's brush, and carry out his influence in our lives.

Goodnight

On Aaron's baptism, Grandma Beatrice and Grandpa Jose, 1975.

Gpa Joe and Aaron, late 70s.

On Aaron's 30th birthday in 2005, with Grandpa Joe and Grandma Bea.

Andres-Jose Villanueva and his great-grandfather, and namesake, Jose Villanueva, in 2007.

Aaron saying goodbye, August 18, 2012.

*          *         *          *

Good night, sweet king,

you did your part.

You fought and worked, 

now la fiesta can start.

Your labor is done, 

You’ve done your best.

You’ve overcome,

and now you can rest.

Good night, sweet king,

good night, Grandpa Joe

God knows we’ll miss you

but you’re ready to go.

We can hear you now, 

we know what you’d say,

"I’m ready to meet God,

Get out of my way."

Let it pull you out, 

like the ebb on a fishing line,

rock with the music

like a strong base line.

That old truck on blocks

is running again,

get behind the wheel,

take it for a spin.

Find the new day

bright and waiting

don’t let us slow you,

because we’re all fading.

Take off the gloves, 

the fight is done.

You’ve done your part,

And you’ve finally won.

Grandpa Joe was a boxer in Texas as an orphaned kid growing himself up on the streets, and married the cute 14 year old Beatrice when he was 21.  He fired ground artillery at Nazis in WWII, and when he learned I was of German descent he could still drop pick-up lines auf Deutsch.  He worked a great deal of his life as a migrant worker.  Eventually he opened and ran a highly successful Mexican Family Restaurant in Sunnyside, Washington named (appropriately) La Fiesta, where Aaron bussed tables from age 11 to 17.  Jose fathered 11 children with Bea, over 30 grandchildren, and nearly 30 great-grandchildren, and counting.  He was a stern father, dedicated husband, and humble man, always praising God.  And he loved his mariachi musica!

Of Joe's five boys, only Mario had sons to carry the Villanueva name, Aaron and his brother, Isaac.   In 2004 Isaac was blessed with the most beautiful little girl, Mirabella.  And in 2006 Aaron was blessed with a healthy son, and named him in honor of his grandfather.  Andres-Jose, named in the old Castilian manner with the mother's name and father's family name blending, as done since before the Conquistadors arrived in this hemisphere.  

Tonight Grandpa Jose is breathing every four minutes and is no longer responsive after a stroke he suffered last week.  He has opted out of all life supports.  We visited him last weekend in Wapato to say goodbye, and to pray over him.  Please join us in prayer that he is confortable and at peace, and that the massive Villanueva family finds stride with one another other at this difficult time of loss.  

We love you, Grandpa Joe.  

Why the Beans Can't Be Perfect

Last night for dinner I made a righteous batch of Malagasy Beans and Rice (a delicious recipe from my friend Rachel who lived in Madagascar for a year on mission).  This meal is a favorite for each of us for different reasons:  it's fast and healthy, that makes me happy; it's bright and tasty flavor pleases the boys so they often have two or three helpings; and it's inexpensive and satisfying, which Aaron especially likes.

So, while we ate it up last night, Aaron on his second helping, he looked at me and said,"Andria, these beans are perfect!" Before I could say thank you, Andres piped up from his end of the table.  

"No, dad!  These beans aren't perfect, they're good!"

"Well, I think these beans are perfect, I can have a different opinion," Aaron replied with a shrug.  Andres is a master at luring us into trivial arguments, and we're learning how to diffuse the argument before it really gets going.  

"Dad," Andres stressed, "these beans can't be perfect!"  He seemed pretty offended and curiosity got the best of me.

"Why not, Andres?  What's wrong with my beans?"  Even  I was getting a bit distressed about it.  I mean, they were freaky-good beans. 

"Mom, remember?  Perfect is the enemy of good!  That's why I say they are just good."

At that I burst out laughing.  This had nothing to do with dinner table opinions or picking fights, like I thought, but philosophies from Enlightenment Era France!  My son was quoting back to me a quote I say to him frequently as we work on reading or art, or even behaviors and choices.  

I have a quote on my desk just above my computer where I can see it as I write.  I can see it now, in it's simple black frame, and it's handsome French script.  

"Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien."  

-Voltaire

Perfection is the enemy of good.  I refer to it frequently as I hammer away on my novels, because I am my own worst critique, and chasing perfection often backfires in art, as it does in life, ruining the thing which we strive to perfect.  I share it with Andres because he's a Type A personality and comes by that honestly, as I struggle with letting things go when they fall short from ideal.  I wish someone had shared Voltaire's philosophy with me when I was younger, maybe I would have released myself (and others) from unrealistic expectations.  But I know my son and he has the same drive to do things just perfectly, and pummels himself when he falls short.

It enlightened me then at the table, my beans in their spoon hovering in the air over my dish, as I blinked back tears from laughter at my scowling six year old philosopher quoting Voltaire.  After I explained to Aaron what was really happening, I smiled at Andres in a reassuring way and told him that he was right, that striving to be perfect is an enemy.

"However," I said as I took a bite, "these beans can be very, very close to perfect."

Back to {home} school

I've been feeling a lot of trepidation as home school kindergarten is starting up in a couple weeks.  We literally live around the corner from one of the highest-rating elementary schools in the area, chalked full of shiny teachers with many accolades and superb awards across the spectrum.  What luck!  If only...

Deciding to home school has been a difficult one.  And I'm still not fully sure it's something we'll do indefinitely.  I feel really possessive of my time with my boys right now at this age.  I was talking to a friend last year while at a pumpkin patch bale ride, confiding some of my issues about school, and wondering which would be the best fit for my guy, (I process out loud, you know) and the lady on the bale in front of us turned around and said, "I can't help over-hearing your conversation, I'm sorry.  I've been homeschooling my kids for three years.  I just want to encourage you to do it, you won't regret it."  As a person of faith, I have learned not to sniff at encouraging strangers.  There is something sacred in their messages.

Choosing to home school has been very personal, complicated, and for someone who A) was raised in public school and a secular home, B) had parents who bitterly regret corporal punishment being banned from public schools, C)  had parents who firmly believed public school produced well-socialized children and home school children were backwards, and D) has been behind the lines in the education system and knows first hand the realities therein, this choice remains confusing.  There are things my little man will miss this year.  But my prayer is that the gains outweigh the losses.  I have given up trying to explain why we have made this choice, it's heavy.  And by no means disrespect those who have children in public school.  But it's sort of private, I suppose.

We have registered with the school district's alternative education program for home school families.  I would be his primary teacher during the week in all core content areas, then Thursday and Friday mornings he goes to their classroom with other home school kids to engage in hands-on, interactive group activities.  And the part that Aaron likes best is that the curriculum is paid for through the district, so we don't have to buy it!

We have been following the UPS tracking online for five days as the materials for Andres' entire kindergarten year embark on their way here--all 70 pounds of material.  We knew it would be coming today.  Andres was eagerly waiting at the window for the big brown truck with the yellow letters.  When it finally came just before lunch, it was like Christmas.  He knew it was all for him.  I put Raph to nap and Andres and I had uninterrupted time to go through all the boxes, and organize them on the bookshelf in what will soon become his classroom at home.   I let him open the boxes himself and pilfer through all the books and manipulatives that he would get to use in school this year.  When he saw his science goggles, he wanted to bust open a Science lesson right away.

"Can we start school today?"  he asked me as I arranged everything on the shelf behind him.  I was pretty tickled too.  After being a Language Arts teacher for 8 years, I still feel the rush of organizing a classroom for the new year.  It's something I've missed these past two years since I've quit teaching, getting my classroom ready for the fresh new year.  And even when I was a public school teacher, I was a "specialty teacher" who had to scrape together my own curricula for differentiated learning objectives based on individual student needs.  I was never, ever handed a calendar with daily lessons or even a spread sheet with quarterly goals.  I never had box full of text books to pass out at the beginning of school.  So this was as momentous for me as it was for Andres.

He was giddy all about it all afternoon.  When we picked Aaron up from work tonight he said "don't tell Dad about the surprise!"  I had to think for a sec before I caught on to what he meant.  As we were putting him in bed he smiled one of his special deep-dimpled smiles at me with his eyes dancing.

"Mom, I can't wait for school to start!"

That's a good sign, I told myself.

I kissed his little cheek and pulled his Spiderman quilt under his chin and said, "Neither can I, sweetheart."

I pray that the year is a good one for both he and I, that we grow and learn together through this experience, that he's bolstered and buoyed, that he he gains confidence as he gains knowledge.

"Mom, it's here!"

Busting open the boxes to see what's inside.

Books!

He's fascinated with ancient Egypt, and was astounded at the unit full of books on the topic in his history box. 

More science stuff.  He's totally looking forward to science this year!

And at the end of the day, we were even tickled to have the boxes to play in.

A Day at the Fair

Aaron and I grew up capping off our summers by going to the Central Washington Sate Fair in Yakima every September.  I loved to watch the sweethearts in Keds and zippered jeans holding hands, or the gangsters with their hair nets clustering under the Hammer trying to look cool under their dark sunglasses.  I was always with my family, and somewhat hindered by the utter un-coolness they brought me.  Although my style was crimped, I was dazzled by the annual trip to the fair.  

There were the wonderful FFA exhibits of grain and produce, the award winning pumpkins that needed cranes to hoist them into place, the witty-looking goats that liked it when you scratched their flanks, and the variety of horses that made me miss Louie.  I loved the majestic Clydesdales with their long flowing fetlocks of white hair around their massive hooves, and the enchanting Frisians with their long, black wavy manes that looked more mermaid hair than horse.  Being a cowgirl who favored the simple cattle-driving quarter horses, I found the Arabians snobby and aloof with their ancient-bred bodies designed to race in desert sand.  And the Thoroughbreds, prancing daintily on long legs in their tidy English saddles just about pushed me over the edge.  But I walked through the stables admiring them all nonetheless.

Yes, I even loved the fair food, the elephant ears, the corn dogs, the curly fries.  I remember one year a booth selling exotic Bier Roks, German turnovers, that were amazing beer-dough dumplings stuffed with ground beef, cabbage, and onions.  I loved the sounds of games, whistles, horns, bells, the Classic Rock music playing from the rides.  Queen.  Bad English.  Pink Floyd.  Anyone with a mullet and guitar was heard blaring from the speakers.  And at night, when the early autumn air turned chilly with the aromas of caramel apples, popcorn, and fallen leaves that forced your hands deep into your pockets as you waited in lines for rides, the brightly colored carnival lights turned on and some kind of magic fell over the fair.  It was the last big hurrah of summer, the glorious finale to the days of swimming pools, laying in the grass under the stars hunting satellites in their orbits, lighting fireworks, playing with cousins, road trips, sleeping in, fishing, inner-tubing on the river, BBQs, riding bareback in alpha alpha fields, and croquet in the sun-warmed yard.  The fair was to me a sign of seasons changing, endings and renewals.  Something to lament, and yet something thrilling, a strange sort of paradox.

It was a rare moment when Aaron (usually more financially conservative than I) called me from work to remind me the fair was ending this weekend.  He and I have the same warm memories of the Yakima Fair.  Since we didn't go last year due to financial restraints we needed to make it happen this year, or else we allow another year to pass and the boys would miss this rich experience.  

So early Saturday morning I made chorizo burritos for a car ride breakfast and loaded up for  Ridgefield.  The fair here is smaller by far than the one we knew growing up, and I've always been disappointed for the lack of horses shown (they make up for horses in llamas, for some reason) but it was the fair.  And our boys are little yet, and the world is full of fairs of all kinds.  This was just the start.  A reference point.  A day of making memories with our little family.  A treasure for me and Aaron to see our little puppies relish the whole-body experience of the sights, sounds, smells, food, and fun the fair had to offer.  

Admiring the blue-ribbon baked goods...they are my boys, after all. 

As the only girl in the family, I demanded gently encouraged the guys to humor me and mosey through the prize winning flowers.  They were good sports about it.

The petting zoo was a hit, the boys loved feeding the llamas and goats.

Raphael was adorable with his little mouth open miming parents feeding babies oatmeal.  

Raph is our animal lover. 

I love how he's gently cradling the sheep's head here.  What a love!

Let me say that the jumping house was a hit.  The boys found it wildly fun, and Raph especially revelled in unrestricted jumping.  

BUT.  

When time was up and the Jumping House Regulator (guy in hat) instructed the jumpers to exit, Raph scurried to the farthest corner inside the house, refusing to come out as Aaron coaxed at first gently, then sternly, finally crawling in and grabbing the child by his foot to pull him out.  Then what followed could only be described Mom and Dad's Moment of Humiliation.  Let me break it down:

But it was a beautiful day.

Look at Raph's smile.  It was the ride of his life!  Aaron is praying to God that the roller coaster doesn't careen off the rails.  

Me and my handsome guy on the roller coaster.  

Aaron and I are not ride-goers.  We were absolutely terrified on this ride.  I had my eyes smashed shut the entire time and here Andres has his hands over his head...a real daredevil.

My handsome boy.

At first he didn't want to get on the merry go round, until he noticed there was a "maow" with a "wah-wah" in it's mouth.

He loved it!

They loved the motorcycle ride!

Look at those faces!  Raph just made this precious expression that was rather coy and contained.  Andres was just so elated to be "driving a real motorcycle." 

It may have been the highlight of their day...until it ended...and then...

...the insurgence cycle started again.

When we got home for the fair we were shocked to see our corner of the street completely barricaded by seven (7!!) squad cars.  We rushed the boys into the house for naps then slipped back outside to question our neighbor who was also standing out side to see what was going down in our otherwise very dull and peaceful little neighborhood.

Aaron bravely getting the mail. 

Then we saw THIS, cops with large weapons and shields and helmets rushing to the house down the street.  By this time a large crowd had gathered across the street to watch the drama.  Apparently it was a domestic violence issue and the police didn't know if it was a hostage situation, or not.  It turned out no one was even home, and the cops left about three hours later.  But it was enough for us to stay inside our house until the boys woke up.

When they woke up  from their naps they played in the pool because it was HOT outside.

All my boys hanging out in the yard on a hot summer day.

Then Papa BBQ'd hotdogs, and we sliced up some watermelon, and just savored the end of a wonderful day together.

I love how Raphael is so sporty.  He loves football and he knows instinctually that the helmet and ball go together if for no other reason then they coordinate, but he has his own special way to wear the head gear.

Before baths Papa got out the Otter Pops.  The essence of summertime when Aaron and I were little.

They are so creative with the way they combine toys to invent amazing new play things.  There it's a spaceship.

After baths we deferred the normal story and bedtimes for a special Stay Up Late To Watch The Last Night Of The Olympics.  We made them a little nest to snuggle into with popped corn Andres had won at the fair and some Reeses Pieces.  They were up two hours past normal bedtime to watch TV, something they never, ever get to do after Sesame Street in the morning.  It was such a special day!

As the night grew darker, and their eyes grew heavy from the day's loaded events, the nest relocated from the floor to my lap.  I wouldn't have had it end any other way.