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Growing up in two places at once can be confusing to a child.  My Grandparent's houses were across the street from each other. 

My mother's parents were separated before I was born to my seventeen year old Mother.  Her Father left when he assumed that his three daughters were in fact not his, they were born with blonder than blond hair.  To a dark skinned Hispanic man, with dark brown hair and eyes, that is what made sense to him.  How could three little blond girls be his.  My Grandmother was Hispanic and Irish, or Scottish I can never remember which.  She was fair skinned, but had dark brown hair and hazel eyes.  My Mother and her sisters grew darker hair and skin as they aged.  Their features are uncanny to their Father's.  I ran into him and his new family at a restaurant last week.  His Granddaughter could be my sister.  I have no doubt that he is my Grandfather.  By the look on his face when he took a double look at her and myself, I knew he was thinking the same.  It took a generation and a random meeting to acknowledge this after some 40 years. 

My Father tried to be there for me.  It was hard for him to do more than work long hours and odd shifts to provide for me.  He and my Mother were too young to get on their feet together.  My Mother's priority was to her Mother, who was ill and needed her daughters to take care of her.  It would have been chaos to let a man in the house.  But, he didn't live far.  The home across the street housed the rest of my family.  My Dad, my Uncles and Aunts.  I would often retreat to my haven of constant attention.  I enjoyed this place more than any other.  Hand made curtains, chili peppers hanging in the kitchen, the green crocheted dressed doll on the TV, and other colorful nick knacks were inviting and warming to my soul.  The aroma of salsa brewing on the stove made my eyes water, but hunger took over as well.  The house has and always will feel like home to me.  

My Grandfather, Mi Papa, was important to everyone.  He had good advice to give, but more than that, he kept la familia together.  Since his passing in 2003, we have lost touch except for holidays.  Even then, only some of us show up to the house.  It was him who made the tamales at Christmas time, and the menudo on new years, and it was he who traveled to visit family in New Mexico for the chili's that made the salsa.  Without him we have lots touch with our traditions.  These days my brother tries to help with the masa to make the tamales and of course we all help to spread it on the hojas.  My Dad makes the menudo, but he is his own critic.  He will never get it right.  His Dad is the only one who would ever perfect any tradition.  The family is trying to keep together, but falling away.  Must traditions be kept to make a family whole?