My mother-in-law passed from this life yesterday. Ida Otero B..., born February 22, 1944, died August 1, 2007.
If I had to come up with a theme of my MIL's life, I'd say she did the best she could with what she did. I think it's probably a trait of a dying generation but she just accepted her lot, accepted what life gave her, and lived it.
I know she grew up very, very poor in a Spanish-speaking family with at least five children in the family. She dropped out of school in the 8th grade to work. A heavy smoker her entire life, she told me once that she imagines she started the habit when she was 10 or 11.
The mental picture I have of Ida isn't a rosy one necessarily. Although not necessarily of a man of many words, my husband also doesn't spare words, doesn't bother to brighten up a difficult story. The story of his growing up involves largely his mother's alcoholism. He's grudgingly and briefly mentioned details like sitting on her lap in the car, her operating the peddles and he steering, to drive her to a bar or liquor store. He imagines that he was 7 or 8. He remembers being stopped by a cop when they were driving like this once. The cop merely told him to get his mom home safely. He remembers driving her to the bar like this and then falling asleep in the car waiting.
I don't mention this to denigrate Ida. How can I? -- Alcoholism is a beast that ravages many a family. I mention it instead because she beat the beast. Institutionalized at some point in my husband's childhood (he doesn't remember how old he was), she quit drinking. And never, ever drank another drop. Surrounded by alcoholics, social drinkers, you name it, she never succumbed again.
The last few years have been hard. Lenny's dad died about two and a half years ago. Again, in the tradition of a by-gone era, Ida seemed cast adrift without her husband. She lost her home, her car, lived in numerous rentals and temporary places. But again, I never saw her rail at life or her lack of "having." She just kept on. And certain things never changes. Fresh tortillas every morning, weak coffee, comforting and traditional foods (for this family) like chile con carne, beans, mashed potatoes, whatever, she always offered what she had.
I know, these details don't add up to much. They seem pitifully small. But in my mind, and I know the minds of her family, they paint a picture of a small, simple woman who kept on going, as long as she could.
Where ever your spirit has gone to rest, I wish you happiness and peace. Know that your grandchildren will be taught to appreciate your love and tradition.
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