This is my humble tribute to Lusha, my maternal Granny, whose house became my second home throughout much of my childhood, especially during a brief period when my mother took a hiatus from her main role: SAHM. I was between 5 and 7 years old, and those years were pure gold. Lusha played a crucial role in shaping the person I am today, and I want to introduce her to you. So, stick with me. 

Lusha was no regular grandma; she was a captivating figure, a free-spirited rebel in her own right. She exuded authority and commanded respect, as a strong-willed woman who always did things her way. Her engagement in the community was as unwavering as her devotion to her church; she was a regular at the 6 a.m. mass and counted the local priests among her close acquaintances. She was legendary for her ‘give-it-all’ spirit, always ready to lend a helping hand. But here’s the kicker – no hubby in the picture, and she had four kids from different dads. Scandalous? You bet!

Her wisdom was unconventional, like a bizarre mixtape of old-school values and avant-garde insight. Her demeanour was steeped in old-fashioned values and principles reaching back to a long bygone epoch. Now, here’s where it gets weird. My granny had a unique approach to men, rooted in deep respect and even submission, and it kind of freaked me out! Her reverence for the masculine was only rivalled by her deep religious zeal. The lady favoured me over my sisters, and that made us all cringe. When I was a teenager, She’d volunteer advice to me: “Eat up, champ, you’re in your prime reproductive years!”.

Her house, a simple cube-shaped structure of brick walls and a tin roof, was the stage for countless memories of my childhood. The enticing scents and flavors that emanated from her pots and pans are etched into my memory. My grandma, it seemed, spent a lot of time in the kitchen, and whatever she cooked, I imagined it was a bit like watching a witch brewing a magic potion in her cauldron. I’d help her by picking herbs from the backyard, dashing to the corner store for ingredients; cilantro bunches, green peppers, a half-cabbage; or supervising the cooking symphony. My all-time fave was fried eggs on a tortilla, smothered in the most aromatic homemade tomato salsa I’ve ever tasted, sprinkled with fresh cheese, and served with her signature refried beans and plantain. As I watched attentively, drooling, she’d ask, “Do you want coffee and milk or chocolate milk?” I’ve never received such personalized service and attention anywhere else since. 

I’d flee to her house during the scorching summer days. Her garden was my Narnia; I’d become entranced by the world of flowers, insects, worms, and other critters. Time didn’t matter when I was there. She had this magical talent of hearing the rusty gate opening. “What’s the play today, little rascal?” she’d ask with a grin. “Nada abuela,” I’d reply, and we’d both crack up.

When I needed a break from childhood angst, my sanctuary was the ongoing construction site on the roof of an adjacent building in the back of her house – a project that would take nearly two decades to complete. To reach my ‘secret sanctuary’ at the far end of the roof, after leaping up the stairs, I had to navigate a maze of bricks, sand mounds, wheelbarrows, shovels, and other building materials. From there, I had a vantage point over the neighbour’s backyard with its inviting oval swimming pool; the water a mesmerizing blue. Lusha’s garden right beneath me, a wild tangle of overgrown herbs and shrubs. I daydreamed of shooting from there into the swimming pool. 

In those quiet rooftop moments, I’d groove to the sounds of nature – buzzing insects, chirping birds, the rustling of the tree leaves above me, and distant car engines, the faint hum of a radio’s mid-morning jams. Contemplative, soothing, serene. It was my private chill zone, pure zen during mini meltdowns. But if I felt cheeky, I’d toss pebbles into the neighbor’s pool, just to see ripples. It was all great fun, but I always suspected Lusha had a sixth or maybe even a seventh sense, because as soon as I started with the rocks, she’d holler, “Niño! Stay out of trouble! Quit messing with a cop’s pool!” I’d carry on, as children do. Reverse psychology – she never ventured up to my hideaway. 

My grandmother wasn’t just a side character in my life; she was a role model. I learned about hard work, perseverance, frugality, and contentment from her. She was all about being authentic, loving, generous, and embracing curiosity and an open heart. I miss her like crazy. She died after I moved to Canada. So, I didn’t get to see her often before her passing. 

My treasury of childhood stories from Lusha’s house includes nuggets I witnessed, like when her elderly friend came over for an injection -My grandma had a past life as a nurse. She asked her friend to enter the bedroom, lower her underwear, and lay face down on the bed. My grandma was preparing the injection, mixing the ingredients of the medicine. Meanwhile in the bedroom, her friend was getting impatient, which led to a comical remark. As Lusha began marching toward the open door of the bedroom, a voice came from inside, “Lusha what’s taking so long? Hurry up with that, the flies are already buzzing around my butt!” 

Here’s to my dear grandma! Long live Lusha! Until we meet up again abuela!