Donde trataré a escribir en español (or: A story about my grandmother, in very poor Spanish).

El primer memoria que tengo sobre mi abuelita: Cuando tuve cinco años, un poco tiempo después de mi familia regresamos a los EE. UU. de la Inglaterra, visitamos a mi abuelita en su casa en Los Angeles. No recuerdo nada sobre ella; solamente recuerdo que perdé mi osito allá.

Durante todo mi juventud, hasta tuve 16 años, pasé los veranos en su casa. Cada junio, cuando llegué, mi abuelita me escoltaba al baño. Es como así, ella me dijo. Todas veces, cuando tomas una ducha, al fin tienes que squeegee a los paredes. Es una buena niña, me dijo. Si quieres un bueno esposo, tienes que saber como cocinar. Tienes que saber como limpiar. Tienes que saber como coser. Sin esos cualidades, no puedes casarte bien.

No me gustaba mucho a mi abuelita cuando estaba joven.

Siempre trabajó ella. Todos estaba sobre hiciendo todos perfectos. Cuando me levanté en todas las mañanas, ella ya hubo limpió al patio, cocinó el desayuno, fue al mercado, y más. Y solo hizo el ocho.

En muchos de los días, me obligó ir a su iglesia mejicano católico, y yo no me entendí con nada, la lengua, los costumbres, los instrucciones.

No me gustaba a mi abuelita porque yo estaba desagradecida. Nunca pensé en las cosas que me hizo para mi. Ella me dé a conocer a mis parientes de mi familia de mi madre, cuando mi madre no me enseñó nada sobre su vida antes de se casó a mi padre. Mi abuelita me enseño como apreciar recompensando al trabajo con relajando, y como apreciar los dos en mi vida.

Aprendé bailar en los casamientos atendemos en todos fines de semana con mi abuelita. Ella hecho los tamales más sabrosos en el mundo, y me mostró como tirar todo en sartén para el almuerzo.

Lamento que no la aprecié bastante durante la mayoría de nuestra relación, antes de murió ella en 1998. Cerca del tiempo que nació mi chiquita, empezé a reconocer a mi abuelita como una mujer muy fuerte, agraciable, y hermosa, pero, como todas cosas, nunca hay suficiente tiempo. Me encuentro terriblemente abatido por la muerte de mi abuelita y la echo a menos todos los días.

Dí de los Muertos is a mixture of Catholic and native traditions, a holiday celebrating the lives of dead loved ones. Ofrendas are altars built in honor of these people. Click here or here for sites with more information about Día de los Muertos and ofrendas.

The first memory I have of my grandmother: When I was five, a little after we returned to the U.S. from England, we visited her at her home in Los Angeles. I don't remember anything about her then; I only remember that I lost my teddy bear there.

Throughout my youth, until I was 16, I spent every summer at her house. Each June, as soon as I got there, my grandmother took me into the bathroom. It's like this, she'd say. Every time you take a shower, be sure to squeegee the walls when you're done. You're a good girl, she said. If you want a good husband, you have to know how to cook. You have to know how to clean. You have to know how to sew. If you can't do these things, no one will marry you.

I didn't like my grandmother much when I was growing up.

She was always working. Everything was about making everything perfect. Every morning, when I got up, she'd already hosed down the patio, cooked breakfast, gone to the market, and more. And it was only eight.

Most days, she dragged me along to her Mexican Catholic church, where I didn't understand anything that was going on, didn't speak the language, didn't know the customs, couldn't follow the directions in Spanish to sit, kneel, stand, kneel, sit.

I didn't like my grandmother because I was a little ingrate. I never thought about all the things she did for me. She brought me into and made me part of my mother's side of the family, when my mother hadn't bothered to teach us anything about her life before she'd married my father. My grandmother taught me to kick back as a reward for working hard, and to appreciate both work and play.

I learned to dance at the weddings she took me to almost every weekend. She made the best tamales on earth, and showed me how to make a great meal by throwing together everything on hand into a frypan.

I'm sorry I didn't appreciate her enough during the years I had her. It wasn't until around the time that I gave birth to my own child that I realized what a strong, gracious, and beautiful woman she was, and, as in most things, there wasn't nearly enough time to spend with her before she died in 1998. I still miss her terribly and think of her every day.