When Old and New Collide

My oldest woke me up this morning with "that" look on his face. I know it well. It means, "brace yourself, one or more of us did something stupid and since I'm the oldest, I've been elected spokesman for the group". I struggled to crack my other eye open and said, "what happened?". He winced and his eyes filled up with tears and he brought his hands up to show me my tortilla press. With the top part cracked in half. It's not just "a" tortilla press, it's my great-grandmother's tortilla press and one of my most treasured posessions. I shot up to a sitting-position and started stuttering. "How, what on earth, how, WHY?". He explained that they woke up early and were hungry but wanted to let me sleep a little longer ( this was about 7:30). They decided to each have a couple of slices of wheat bread to snack on- but not just any bread- SMASHED bread. I know my kids aren't the only ones who do this. I remember my sister and I doing it, but we used Wonder bread. You take a piece of bread and fold it and smoosh it up so that it's all chewy and dough-y. They set about making their SMASHED bread and then Crash got a great idea- let's take it up a notch and *really* smash it- using Mommy's tortilla-press. If we can smash it with our fingers, imagine how much BETTER the smashing would be using a piece of equipment with leverage!!! They dragged it out and took their turns, Crash and Princess standing up and putting all their weight on the lever for optimum smashability. When it got to Goober, he went to take his turn, brought the lever down, applied pressure and... CRACK. I can't help but wonder what the looks on their faces must have been when they all realized what happened... and how long they all debated about what to do and who was going to be the bearer of bad news.

I sat there staring at the broken tortilla press, I wanted to yell, "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!" but looking at Goober's stricken face, I knew he felt terrible. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. I just sat there. I asked them to all go to their rooms and give me some time. I lay back down and thought of my great-grandmother, of all the times I watched her make tortillas with that press, of how much it reminded me of her when I used it. Then I cried.
Though I loved all four of my grandmas intensely, I felt especially close to my great-grandmother. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because she was the one who baby-sat me almost from the time I was born through my early childhood years, maybe it was because she had an affinity for all the same things I did- growing plants in her tiny patio garden, showing her love through cooking for others, her fierce love for her family... I'm not sure, I just know what I felt for her and still do. She was very strict, but infinintely kind and loving. She carried herself regally, but was absolute salt-of-the-earth and was always doing something for someone. I can't count how many times I accompanied her while she took me through the halls of her apartment building to visit a lonely or ailing neighbor and left a little foil-wrapped package of something behind. Some of my fondest memories are of her happily and efficiently working in her kitchen, the Spanish music station crackling out of her old radio. Every now and then, she'd pass a piece of raw potato over for me to munch on, or peek over and wink. Sometimes, she'd begin humming along to the music, grab me and dance me around her tiny apartment.
She passed away shortly after I had Goober. My grandmother came over with a box of her things and offered them to us. I chose quite a few items. I felt having her things around me would help keep her memory alive and be good conversation starters when my kids were old enough for me to tell them about her. Over the years, several things have been broken in moves or by the kids. Every time, it's like a kick in the stomach and there's always a little mourning on my part. The tortilla press, however, takes it to a whole other level. I'm not mad. I can't be. They know how much it means to me and didn't mean to break it. They're just kids. It's just a THING and my children are more important than THINGS. I am sad. I'm sitting here writing with tears streaming down my face. Every now and then, my kids walk by and I see how wretched they feel.




"IM SRRE" from Princess






I told them I just need some time to "get it out" and I'll be okay. I almost want to laugh at my kids (my kids) tip-toeing around on eggshells. I'm going to retire the cracked tortilla press to a place of honor in my dining room hutch. I suppose in time, the story of how it came to be cracked will allow it to be relevant to my children when it passes to them and they share the stories with their children. I had wondered if they would value my great-grandmother's things the same way I do after I'm gone, if they would take care of them or if they'd be relegated to a box in an attic and forgotten. After all, they never knew and loved her like I did. They've only heard stories. Maybe by adding their own history to the it, it connects five generations in a way that wouldn't have otherwise. I don't know.
I do know I'm going to get another press eventually and I'm going to teach my children how to make tortillas like my grandmother taught me. Even though I treasure that press, it was just a vehicle for memories. I can still share my memories of her with them and we can make plenty of our own. Maybe some day the two presses will sit side-by-side and my kids will share stories of their grandmothers with their children.