Brisketexan
1,000+ Posts
Last weekend, we were in Southern California on our annual family vacation. Our itinerary brought us down I-5 towards San Diego, and my wife had suggested that we stop and visit Mission San Juan Capistrano (of "the annual return of the swallows" fame). I agreed, being a history buff and thinking it would be a nice way to spend a morning.
We arrived at the mission mid-morning on Saturday. We got a cup of coffee right across the street, and then my wife, my 7 yr old daughter, my 5 yr old son, and I all paid our admission and entered the Mission grounds. It is, quite simply, a breathtakingly beautiful place. Lush with green and blooming vegetation, including aged olive trees, small unripe olives hanging from their branches, as hard as pebbles but already heavy with the promise of the oil-rich fruit they would become. The central plaza was a bright, sunny, and vibrant space that I could see was obviously a center of life at the Mission even before I listened to the description on the audio tour.
We walked the general route of the tour, stopping periodically to peer into some of the rooms and displays that were set up along the way. Then, we got to one of the smaller rooms.
Before I tell the story of what happened in that room, I should perhaps explain some of my family history. I grew up Catholic -- I went to Catholic school from first grade through high school. My mother is an old-world south Louisiana Catholic, and my father's side of the family is Mexican Catholic. My father's family, particularly my grandparents, was very devout. I have vivid memories of my grandmother pacing the hall of our home, thumbing her rosary as she whispered her Hail Marys and Our Fathers in the golden light of morning before she headed to MD Anderson for cancer treatment. I remember my grandfather blessing me and kissing me on the head as I headed off to bed when they would visit them at their ranch in Mexico. And I remember that ranch -- the house was a large, but modest, white adobe building, in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert. No electricity. Dinner eaten by the last of the daylight, and then by hurricane lamps throwing off flickering light and the surprisingly delicate smell of burning kerosene. When I was there, I was happy. And lord, was I loved. The adoration of my grandparents was so profound that it was recognizable and palpable even to my 4 yr old self.
My grandmother Sara died of cancer in 1976. My grandfather Jose joined her in 1985. We sold the ranch shortly before his death, and I have not been back to that town since his funeral.
So, at the Mission . . . I was a bit ahead of my wife on the tour. My kids were mostly bouncing around the plaza, playing in the sunshine and mostly oblivous to the history and gravity of the place -- as kids probably should be at that age. So, I walked into one of the rooms by myself. As I approached the threshold, I could see that it was a modest room, with a desk, a chair, and a spartan bed with a wood frame, leather support straps, and a folded gray woolen blanket. I entered the room as I was exhaling, and then I took in my first breath in that room. And it hit me.
The smell of worn and creaking leather. Of weathered wood. Of dry and pure dust, gently puffed up towards the nose by footsteps. And the clean smell of sweat. Not the smell of sweat as body odor that some of us might think of, but rather the smell that sweat leaves in an arid environment, where it evaporates before any other odors can develop. The smell of occupancy, and life. It was a collection of smells that, together, I hadn't breathed in for over 20 years. It was the smell of my grandfather. And it hit me like a sledgehammer, all at once.
When my wife came into the room perhaps 20 seconds behind me, she saw me and immediately asked what was wrong. She asked because I wasn't just teared up -- I was weeping. I could barely get out the explanation . . . "it's my grandfather. I can smell him. I can feel him." I hadn't walked into that room expecting anything, and instead I was hit by something I had hardly thought of in recent years. I was overcome with memories -- his stubby hands (MY hands -- ours looked the same, even when I was a toddler) wrapped around me. His laugh as we sang together. His tears on those final visits we made down there, when he was confined to bed by a body that had no more left in it, with a mind as sharp as it ever was, and the soul of a poet.
I don't know if I believe in ghosts. I don't know if I believe in saints. Hell, I'm a lapsed Catholic, and a struggling Presbyterian with evolving theology on a stutter-stepped path that may or may not be leading me to some truth. I don't know if "he" was in that room. But when I was in that room, I damned well know that "he" was in me.
When I had gathered myself enough to leave the room, I finally looked at the sign that identified the room, and explained its use. The room belonged to the priest who occupied the Mission when it was returned to the church in 1866. A priest . . . named Father Jose.
When we left the area, we went by the front of the chapel, which is still in use (although it is presently undergoing restoration, and could not be entered). At the front of the chapel, there was an area set up where I did something that I hadn't done in many, many years. I lit a candle. I crossed myself as I snuffed out the taper I used to light it, and I said a prayer. My daughter and son stood next to me as I thanked God for my family, which I understand is present in my life whether they are standing beside me as my wife and children, or whether they visit me as a smell, and a memory, of a love so strong that it shaped the very foundation of who I am.
I will never forget that smell.
We arrived at the mission mid-morning on Saturday. We got a cup of coffee right across the street, and then my wife, my 7 yr old daughter, my 5 yr old son, and I all paid our admission and entered the Mission grounds. It is, quite simply, a breathtakingly beautiful place. Lush with green and blooming vegetation, including aged olive trees, small unripe olives hanging from their branches, as hard as pebbles but already heavy with the promise of the oil-rich fruit they would become. The central plaza was a bright, sunny, and vibrant space that I could see was obviously a center of life at the Mission even before I listened to the description on the audio tour.
We walked the general route of the tour, stopping periodically to peer into some of the rooms and displays that were set up along the way. Then, we got to one of the smaller rooms.
Before I tell the story of what happened in that room, I should perhaps explain some of my family history. I grew up Catholic -- I went to Catholic school from first grade through high school. My mother is an old-world south Louisiana Catholic, and my father's side of the family is Mexican Catholic. My father's family, particularly my grandparents, was very devout. I have vivid memories of my grandmother pacing the hall of our home, thumbing her rosary as she whispered her Hail Marys and Our Fathers in the golden light of morning before she headed to MD Anderson for cancer treatment. I remember my grandfather blessing me and kissing me on the head as I headed off to bed when they would visit them at their ranch in Mexico. And I remember that ranch -- the house was a large, but modest, white adobe building, in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert. No electricity. Dinner eaten by the last of the daylight, and then by hurricane lamps throwing off flickering light and the surprisingly delicate smell of burning kerosene. When I was there, I was happy. And lord, was I loved. The adoration of my grandparents was so profound that it was recognizable and palpable even to my 4 yr old self.
My grandmother Sara died of cancer in 1976. My grandfather Jose joined her in 1985. We sold the ranch shortly before his death, and I have not been back to that town since his funeral.
So, at the Mission . . . I was a bit ahead of my wife on the tour. My kids were mostly bouncing around the plaza, playing in the sunshine and mostly oblivous to the history and gravity of the place -- as kids probably should be at that age. So, I walked into one of the rooms by myself. As I approached the threshold, I could see that it was a modest room, with a desk, a chair, and a spartan bed with a wood frame, leather support straps, and a folded gray woolen blanket. I entered the room as I was exhaling, and then I took in my first breath in that room. And it hit me.
The smell of worn and creaking leather. Of weathered wood. Of dry and pure dust, gently puffed up towards the nose by footsteps. And the clean smell of sweat. Not the smell of sweat as body odor that some of us might think of, but rather the smell that sweat leaves in an arid environment, where it evaporates before any other odors can develop. The smell of occupancy, and life. It was a collection of smells that, together, I hadn't breathed in for over 20 years. It was the smell of my grandfather. And it hit me like a sledgehammer, all at once.
When my wife came into the room perhaps 20 seconds behind me, she saw me and immediately asked what was wrong. She asked because I wasn't just teared up -- I was weeping. I could barely get out the explanation . . . "it's my grandfather. I can smell him. I can feel him." I hadn't walked into that room expecting anything, and instead I was hit by something I had hardly thought of in recent years. I was overcome with memories -- his stubby hands (MY hands -- ours looked the same, even when I was a toddler) wrapped around me. His laugh as we sang together. His tears on those final visits we made down there, when he was confined to bed by a body that had no more left in it, with a mind as sharp as it ever was, and the soul of a poet.
I don't know if I believe in ghosts. I don't know if I believe in saints. Hell, I'm a lapsed Catholic, and a struggling Presbyterian with evolving theology on a stutter-stepped path that may or may not be leading me to some truth. I don't know if "he" was in that room. But when I was in that room, I damned well know that "he" was in me.
When I had gathered myself enough to leave the room, I finally looked at the sign that identified the room, and explained its use. The room belonged to the priest who occupied the Mission when it was returned to the church in 1866. A priest . . . named Father Jose.
When we left the area, we went by the front of the chapel, which is still in use (although it is presently undergoing restoration, and could not be entered). At the front of the chapel, there was an area set up where I did something that I hadn't done in many, many years. I lit a candle. I crossed myself as I snuffed out the taper I used to light it, and I said a prayer. My daughter and son stood next to me as I thanked God for my family, which I understand is present in my life whether they are standing beside me as my wife and children, or whether they visit me as a smell, and a memory, of a love so strong that it shaped the very foundation of who I am.
I will never forget that smell.
