Of my grandparents, I only knew my maternal grandmother, Trina. I remember her vaguely, because I was a little girl when she died. I remember her as a loving grandmother, but at the same time with the fortitude of country women, who have a life of work, a hard life. When my maternal grandfather, León Naranjo, died of tuberculosis, he was not yet 60 years old, and my grandmother Trina, who was still a young woman, was left a widow with eight children to care for and feed. She gave one of them, my uncle Alberto, who was very young, to the wife of a wealthy cousin in the capital. Great-grandmother María, my mother's grandmother, was a great support to her widowed daughter and her children.

When I see the photo of Grandmother Adelina surrounded by her children, it awakens feelings of tenderness in me. The mother surrounded by her young children. But she was a single mother, even though she was married to my grandfather Luis Martín. My grandfather, who was a lawyer, was secretary to the then president of Venezuela, Juan Vicente Gómez, and that president, who was from the provinces, from Táchira, did not like Caracas, the capital, where my grandparents lived. That is why, from Monday to Friday, my grandfather was in Maracay, where his boss lived, and he was only with my grandmother and his children on weekends. This went on for several years.

I never met Grandmother Adelina, my father's mother. She died several years before I was born. From the photos I've seen, she was a beautiful woman in her youth, but she also had a very difficult personality. A few years ago, my aunt Clemencia, my father's sister, told me that when my grandfather went to ask for her hand in marriage, my grandmother's father said to him: "Are you sure you want to marry her? After my grandfather fell in love with a young nurse in Switzerland, where he was consul, my grandmother, in the midst of World War II, managed to get the family to return to Venezuela and shortly thereafter divorced my grandfather, at a time when women did not divorce, leaving her alone with her children. My father was already 18, but his younger siblings were still children.

When I was born, my paternal grandfather had already been dead for thirteen years; he died of cancer. Of my four grandparents, he was the one I felt closest to, for two reasons: because he liked to write, just like me, and because he was the grandfather I heard the most stories about. As a teenager, while on vacation at my paternal uncle's house, I found a text written by my grandfather Luis Martín. I was just starting to write at that time. The text was a reflection on a philosophical theme, quoting figures from different religions, Christ, but also Krishna and Buddha. I couldn't put it down until I had finished it, even though there were experiences and concepts that I didn't fully understand at my age at the time. The text was typewritten and bound in leather. After reading this text, my uncle Martín, my father's older brother, and my aunt Clemencia lent me other texts written by my grandfather, which I also enjoyed reading. In a way, reading his texts strengthened my vocation for writing and encouraged the writer I later became.

My paternal grandfather evokes conflicting feelings in me. I feel a deep spiritual connection to him. During the time I lived with my aunt Clemencia, my father's only sister, we talked about my grandfather on several occasions. Grandfather Luis Martín was a handsome, sensitive, and deeply spiritual man. He was a Rosicrucian. But he was also a man who abandoned his wife and four children for a much younger woman, a young Swiss nurse named Magdalena Tissott, whom he married after World War II. Magdalena traveled to Venezuela, where they were reunited, and he honored his promise to marry her. I met her when I was a child.

Between the time my paternal grandfather divorced my grandmother Adelina and married Magdalena, he had two children with another young woman, whom he never married and whom he abandoned to marry Magdalena. He was involved in politics for many years, as I mentioned, serving as secretary to the dictator Juan Vicente Gómez. I am told that he was very cordial and a very good conversationalist, which is probably why he held political and diplomatic positions. Although at my age I know that human beings are complex and can harbor contradictory aspects within ourselves, I find it difficult to understand why a person with such good qualities and deep spiritual pursuits acted in a way that I consider reprehensible, causing so much harm to the women he loved and the children he had with them.

I know the least about my maternal grandfather, perhaps because he died young. But unlike my paternal grandfather, only death separated him from his wife, my grandmother Trina, and his children. He was a good man, devoted to his family. From the photo I have in the family album, I can see that he was also a handsome man. He was a man from the provinces who lived his entire life in the countryside between the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He died of tuberculosis. The medicines and medical advances that could have saved him had not yet reached his village. Mom was very young when he died. His younger siblings were still children. But her maternal grandmother, Trina, raised her children with the support of her family, and they all grew up to be good men and women. Of her eight children, only two aunts are still alive today, my aunts Mercedes and Aída. Mom died in March of this year. She was 95 years old.

The legacy of my ancestors has always been important to me. There were many photo albums at home, and I loved looking at them. Whenever I could, I talked to my parents about their lives and those of their parents, my grandparents. That's why I wanted to share their stories in this post. As descendants, we are the result of our ancestors' stories, their encounters and disagreements, their joys and sorrows, the events that shaped them, in addition to obviously having their genes, which gave us our physical appearance and certain character traits. Whether we knew them or not, their love made it possible for us to be here.

Original content written by me for The Silver Bloggers Chronicles

De mis abuelos sólo conocí a la abuela materna Trina. La recuerdo vagamente, porque yo era una niña pequeña cuando ella murió. La recuerdo como una abuela amorosa, pero al mismo tiempo con el temple de las mujeres de campo, que tienen una vida de trabajo, una vida dura. Cuando el abuelo León Naranjo, el padre de mi madre, murió de tuberculosis, no había cumplido los 60 años y mi abuela Trina, que era una mujer joven aún, quedó viuda con ocho hijos, a quienes cuidar y alimentar. Entregó a uno de ellos, que era muy pequeño, mi tío Alberto, a la esposa de un primo adinerado de la capital. La bisabuela María, la abuela de mamá, fue un gran apoyo para su hija viuda y sus hijos.

Cuando veo la foto de la abuela Adelina, rodeada de sus hijos, es una foto que me despierta sentimientos de ternura. La madre rodeada de sus hijos pequeños. Pero era una madre sola, aunque estaba casada con mi abuelo Luis Martín. Mi abuelo, que era abogado, era secretario del que entonces era presidente de Venezuela, Juan Vicente Gómez, y a ese presidente, que era de provincias, de Táchira, no le gustaba Caracas, la capital, donde mis abuelos vivían. Por eso, de lunes a viernes el abuelo estaba en Maracay, donde vivía su patrón, y sólo estaba los fines de semana con la abuela y sus hijjos. Esto ocurrió durante varios años.

No conocí a la abuela Adelina, la madre de mi padre, murió varios años antes de que yo naciera. Como pude ver en fotos, era una mujer bella en su juventud, pero también era una mujer de un carácter muy difícil. Me contó hace algunos años mi tía Clemencia, hermana de mi padre, que cuando mi abuelo fue a pedir su mano para casarse con ella, el padre de mi abuela le dijo a mi abuelo: -¿Está usted seguro que quiere casarse con ella? Luego de que mi abuelo se enamoró en Suiza de una joven enfermera, donde mi abuelo era cónsul, mi abuela en plena Guerra Mundial, logró que la familia regresara a Venezuela y poco tiempo después se divorció de mi abuelo, en una época en que las mujeres no se divorciaban, quedándose sola con sus hijos. Mi padre ya tenía 18 años, pero sus hermanos menores eran niños aún.

LOS ABUELOS: FAROS EN EL CAMINO

Luis Martín García Arragas, el abuelo escritor

El abuelo paterno Luis Martín García Arragas

León Escobar Lara, el abuelo materno

Mi abuelo materno, León Escobar Lara

📸 Todas las fotos de este artículo pertenecen a mi álbum de fotos personal

Traducción al inglés Deepl.com