A Tribute to Family

A Letter and a Tribute to My Great-grandparents

Dear Avo Ze and Avo Rita,

“Saudade” is a Portuguese word for which I have yet to find an accurate English translation. They say this word only exists in the Portuguese language. It describes a deep seated longing for a place or family. It is beyond missing someone. There must exist a deep visceral connection to whatever is longed for—a soulful bond. I feel this for the place I was born and for the ancestors that were a part of creating that environment. It is not easily put into words, it is something to be experienced. When I walk into your home I feel as though my thirst has been finally quenched. From time to time, I might feel out of place in the world, but in your home I just AM. I belong to a place and to a people that have lived here from generation to generation. It is an anchor, a type of umbilical cord that reminds me; no matter where I am in the world, I am grounded in you and those that came before you. Even though you and I never met, I feel as if I know you.

Throughout my life my mother Violeta, your granddaughter, shared many family stories. The ancestors are so many that at times it’s difficult to keep up with her. Today she was telling us under what circumstances, you and Avo Rita were married. In her own animated way she vividly recounts how you and Rita fell in love, and that your own family disapproved of the relationship. They were so disappointed in the girl you were courting that they threatened to disinherit you completely, if you married Rita. They considered themselves high-class members of society; land owners and businessmen. The Almeidas were successful in their own right, they also owned businesses; but in the Amaral’s eyes they didn’t compare. Your parents wanted more for you. They wanted you to follow in the family tradition of pursuing higher education, but you chose to stay in Penalva and follow your heart--in more ways than one.
You had always been good with your hands; and you wanted to have a career in which you could use them and develop your own talents. Being sure of yourself and your love for Vovo Rita, you married her knowing full well you could lose everything. Not long after you were married, your parents changed their minds. You inherited the house I was to be born in, the one your granddaughter, Virita now owns, and several parcels of land; each with its own distinct name. To this day my mother speaks of them with nostalgia (as Borrocas, as Belgas, a Vinha das Canas). She reminisces about the lush vineyards, the fragrant orchards, and various abundant fields of vegetables. The house itself had an interesting history. In the eighteen hundreds it was used as a local “chapel”. The priests used it as their home and a place to say mass. The confessional window still exists today.

Your first year of marriage started off with a bang! No sooner did you get your business up and running (today we would call it a taxi service/UPS couriers/mechanic shop), another challenge was laid at your door. Avo Rita had a cousin whose husband left her with three children to raise and one on the way. She later died while giving birth. The children were placed in a type of orphanage. Shortly after you were married, you and Vovo decided to raise those children as your own. Knowing that the baby would die without someone to nurse her, you took the baby to a woman in a nearby town; who you knew had had a stillbirth and would be able to breastfeed the baby girl. In that one action you did two wonderful things. First, you gave the baby a chance for life and secondly you filled the heart of a woman who was mourning her own child. The little girl was lovingly raised by her with your financial assistance; and on the weekends she would come and stay with you. This little girl was Celeste’s mother.

Not long after that, you and Avo started a family of your own. There were nine children in all: Pedro, Rosalia, Antonia, Afonso, Albano, Armanda, Joao, Maria (Tia Miquitas). One of the children died very young. Add that to your adopted children, you had thirteen children all together to support. Perhaps the home had been blessed after so many years of prayers being said inside its walls or perhaps it was your love and commitment to each other that created a safe haven for all those that were to pass through those doors. Your spirit, your compassion and your sense of perseverance are still palpable to this day. You have left behind a legacy of compassion and kindness.

Although, Vovo (Rita), I hear that when one of your kids misbehaved, you would slap them so fast their heads would spin and if they were beyond your reach, the tools near the fireplace would do just fine. Later you would tenderly call them back upstairs and offer them comfort. You led a strict household with a firm hand and a kind heart. Your children and grandchildren respected you, cared for you deeply and lovingly spoke of you. There is one particular story my mother tells and I never tire of hearing it. My grandmother Rosalia, one of your daughters, moved into your home after you passed away. Now and again she would get strangers knocking at the door looking for “the house of the poor”. Individuals they had come across along their travels, told them of some folks that lived in a town called Castendo. They will feed you and clothe you and give you a place to rest. It was known as a safe haven for the poor.
You touched the lives of many in need; you had them bathe, gave them clean clothes, warmed them by the fire, offered them a meal and allowed them to stay until they could get back on their feet. Often they would beg you for a job and although you didn’t need help, you hired them anyway. You knew that aside from feeding them, they needed to feel a sense of worth; you gave them back their pride and dignity. You fed their stomachs and as well as their souls.

My mother describes you as an “open hand” (uma mao aberta), you always had something to offer someone in need. Times were tough for everyone, luxuries were not to be found, but you did your very best to feed your family, and somehow always had some to spare. You kept them safe and secure in your love and commitment. Your love for your wife only grew stronger over the years, as did your respect for her. You saved the best of what you had and offered it to her first. If she were sick, you made sure she was cared for and that no one was to disturb her. “Your mother needs her rest”, you would say.

Although we never met, stories like these keep you alive in our hearts. Each one of your children and their children have given us, in this generation, a direct connection to you. There are many in this world who don’t have extended family ties; the stories are never told; their heritage has been lost. In light of this, I feel blessed that I am your descendent, your great granddaughter; because your perseverance, loyalty, compassion, and devotion to the human spirit now runs through my veins and in those of this generation of Amarals and Almeidas; and so I am humbled to say that I am the great-granddaughter of Ze Pina Amaral and Rita Almeida. In a world where positive role models are hard to find, you are both exemplary; and a tough act to follow.