Love a Foot Above the Ground Read online

  Love,

  A Foot Above

  the Ground

  Anna Celeste Burke

  LOVE, A FOOT ABOVE THE GROUND

  Copyright © 2014 Anna Celeste Burke

  Published by Create Space

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher except brief quotations for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Anna Celeste Burke

  Photo © Mega11 | Dreamstime.com - Fantasy Landscape Photo

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1505400686

  ISBN-13: 978-1505400687

  DEDICATION

  To lovers everywhere, hanging on for dear life, a foot above the ground.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  i

  1

  A Life of Her Own

  1

  2

  Once Upon a Time

  Pg 10

  3

  A Surprising Young Man

  Pg 18

  4

  Everyday Miracles

  Pg 29

  5

  A Traveling Man

  Pg 35

  6

  A Woman of Fifteen

  Pg 41

  7

  Tug of the Earth Below

  Pg 48

  8

  News from California

  Pg 60

  9

  Hasta Luego is not Goodbye

  Pg 71

  10

  El Pinto and Three Witch Birds

  Pg 78

  11

  Leverage of a Different Kind

  Pg 82

  12

  Wedding Bells in San Felipe

  Pg 100

  13

  14

  15

  Life in California

  Then He was Gone

  Finding Guillermo Again

  Pg 114

  Pg 125

  Pg 135

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my husband for a lifetime of love a foot above the ground. What a guy, even willing to read a book about romance because he loves me.

  To my sister, for her continued support, reading and editing the books I write, as well as encouraging me to keep at it! Thanks, Sis.

  1 A life of her own

  “In those happy days we were so much in love we lived about a foot above the ground. We had one perfect Christmas then, I lost him. It took me a while to find him again—but this time it was forever.”

  As my dear Bernadette spoke those words I felt the ground shift, just a little. Not unlike one of the small tremors that move the earth for those of us who live along the San Andreas fault-line. I was only nine years old at the time, so I had no way of knowing how much the story that followed would truly move me—how much I would come to rely on the tale and the teller of the tale. Tears streamed down my face, as I struggled to make sense of the joy radiating from the woman who held me in her arms and gave me my first glimpse of something transcendent.

  Bernadette was there from the beginning. She stood alongside my parents, a constant in the small solar system that revolved around me. I called her St. Bernadette, on occasion, when I thought I could get away with it. Of course that was when we weren’t tangling about one thing or another. A trusted confidant, she was also my most formidable opponent growing up—an unyielding wall of opposition when I was up to no good. Even that made her an integral part of the cocoon of privilege that was my legacy as a Huntington, as in the Huntington Beach Huntingtons.

  I was born, not so much with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth, but enshrouded in a golden balm. Like the California sunshine, captured so often in Bernadette’s tender smile. Silky smooth, that smile was like the fine spun threads in the comforters that swaddled me when tucked in at night. Her smile was protective armor while I dashed about, like most any child, or flailed about, as an angry teen, and much later, as a wounded woman.

  It was at my instigation that she shared her story of love and loss and her search to find Guillermo, again. I sat, as I often did, on the floor in her room, legs crisscrossed, and elbows resting on my knees. I waited for a conversation or a story, typically the result of one of my endless questions. Thinking back on it now, as a grown woman, I marvel at Bernadette’s seemingly endless patience. She must have had a million things to do, but always found time for me. It never occurred to me that she had anything better to do than answer my questions. I took so much for granted then. I wanted for nothing and hadn’t yet experienced love, sorrow or loss, so her story was a revelation of sorts.

  I would begin to learn of those things soon enough. We all experience setbacks, lose things—jobs and family members, husbands and friends in unfortunate, even heartbreaking ways. Circumstances well beyond our control intrude to remake our self-centered universes, taking us step by step, or in a quantum leap, from one path to another. Privilege is no protection from the blows that go with being human, but love is.

  When I did feel the ‘tug of the earth below’ as Bernadette spoke of it, her story was already there as ballast against the pull of gravity. Not the kind of gravity that causes Newton’s apple to tumble to the ground. But gravity that tugs at the human spirit, pulling it toward darkness when wounded by betrayal, disappointment, personal failure, or loss.

  That day the world was still unspoiled; full of mystery and wonder. At age nine, my curiosity about love and romance had just begun to bloom. Books, stacks of them that filled the shelves in my room, spoke of such matters. Not just fairy tales, but classics of children’s literature and gothic romance all spun around stories of epic love.

  For the first time it dawned on me that Bernadette, my Bernadette, might have a life of her own. She certainly had a past that did not include me. Did it involve love and romance?

  “Bernadette, have you ever been in love?”

  “¡Claro que sì, Jessica!”

  “What was it like?” I pried, wide-eyed and serious.

  “Oh, it was wonderful, the happiest time of my life.”

  I could not contain myself and blurted out a string of impertinent questions.

  “So who was he? Where is he now? Why aren’t you married? Didn’t you want to have a child like me?” Bernadette made the sign of the cross and spoke again, nearly in a whisper.

  “His name was Guillermo and we were married, but for only a short time. He was very handsome and a very kind husband. He was so handsome and so kind, in fact, that God called him to heaven when he was just barely a man.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, Bernadette.” A shadow passed across her face. I was so sorry for what I had done. That shadow was already gone by the time I hurled myself into her arms. For the first time that day, my tears fell.

  “Jessica, it’s okay. I was sad and angry, but then, God brought me to you and your mother. So you see? I do have a child, not like you, but exactly and actually you.”

  I loved her, yes. But no, I did not see.

  “But Guillermo, what happened to Guillermo? How could God take him from you? I don’t like God.” I wailed, shouting one of my earliest laments. Bernadette gave me a mighty hug, and patted me on my back.

  “Shush, shush, esta bien! God is love, Chica. He sent Guillermo to me in the first place, so I could know that. I could not stay angry for long. The joy of being with Guillermo overtook the sadness of my loss. Guillermo’s spirit was so strong, his love so fierce, that I learned, earlier than mos
t, about endings that aren’t really endings at all. I found out what happily ever after really means.” She gripped me firmly, one hand on either arm, and looked directly into my eyes.

  “Like in a fairy tale?” I asked.

  “Yes, in a way, Jessica. I will tell you the story of my Guillermo, but you must listen carefully to hear the whole story. To many people it’s a sad one, but that’s because they hear the words only. Listen with your heart so you can hear the joy that reaches beyond the sadness. Will you try to do that, mi dulce princesa?” The petite woman with jet black hair and dark, sparkling eyes, smiled sweetly, my arms still held firmly in her grasp.

  I thought for a moment before answering. Speaking solemnly, I stepped back and took a seat, once again, on the floor at her feet.

  “Yes, Bernadette, I’m not sure I know how to do that, but I’ll try.” I crossed my heart then put a hand over it like we did when we pledged allegiance to the flag at school. “Promise,” I said with a child’s resolve.

  “To have loved Guillermo, and to have him love me back, is the lasting gift of that one perfect Christmas. The promise of love is the gift that every Christmas brings in one way or another. That’s why we celebrate advent before Christmas. To remind us that love is always arriving. That Christmas I held the gift of love in my hands and in my heart where it still rests today. This is a real once upon a time story.” The decorations were already up, so I understood immediately, what she meant about advent and the anticipation that went with Christmas. Not to mention the idea of a once upon a time story. I was wired with excitement.

  “Oh, Bernadette, all of the best stories start with once upon a time.”

  “Yes, I think so, too.” She sat back in her chair, smiling sublimely, and pulled a rosary from her pocket. “This is my favorite, Jessica. It’s the one Guillermo gave me at my quinceañera, when I turned fifteen.”

  “When was that, Bernadette?”

  “It was more than twenty years ago, pero recuerdo como sì fuera ayer, Jessica. Comprende?” I silently mouthed the Spanish words then spoke.

  “...but I remember...like, like yesterday...but I remember like it was yesterday, sì?”

  “Si, niña, I remember it like it was yesterday. But that is not the beginning of the story. It all began where I was born, in a beautiful village on the Sea of Cortez, Jessica. In another California called Baja California.”

  “Another California, I never thought of it that way. We’ve studied Baja California in school—it’s a peninsula. But it’s over the border, Mexico, not really California.”

  “That’s exactly right, Jessica.”

  “On the map it looks like a long skinny finger pointing south. At the end is Cabo where we all went for vacation. Why didn’t we visit your home town, Bernadette?”

  “San Felipe is up north, closer to the border with the U.S., Jessica. Hank only had a week so we didn’t have time to visit other places. It’s not glamorous, either, like Cabo San Lucas. More built up now than when I left there in the sixties, but nothing like Cabo.”

  “So, if it was beautiful there, Bernadette, why wasn’t it glamorous?”

  “Well I haven’t been back there in a long time, but back then San Felipe was a quiet, peaceful little town. There still are no big hotels or fancy resorts, no classy restaurants and shops or spas like in Cabo where your mother finds so many things to enjoy. San Felipe was an unimaginably beautiful place, with a curve of beach on the Sea of Cortez, along the harbor filled with boats. Most, like the one on which my father was in charge of the crew, were fishing boats.”

  “Your father was a sea-faring man! How exciting, Bernadette!” Bernadette laughed a little.

  “Thankfully, it wasn’t too exciting most of the time. But you are right that a life at sea is tough and even dangerous. I went with my mother and other women in the town, often, to place candles at La Madrecita del Pescadore. The small shrine sits at a high point overlooking the sea where we could pray for the safe return of the fleet if we saw a storm coming, or if a returning trawler brought news of trouble at sea.” Her hands moved to another crystal bead on the rosary.

  “My father had very rough hands—hardened from sun and water and from years of tugging on heavy fishing nets that filled his shrimp trawler and the little boats, too. He also had strong arms that could lift me up. I would laugh when he held my up above his head.” It was my turn to laugh.

  “Yes, I know what you mean. It always makes me laugh when Dad does that. Of course, I’m too old for that now...almost. Did you have brothers and sisters, Bernadette?”

  “Si, Jessica, many—three brothers and four sisters. Two older brothers and one older sister, so you see when I was born I already had lots of family to look out for me. Later, when the younger children came, I had a chance to be a big sister and watch out for them.”

  “Wow, you were so lucky. I wish I had sisters. I just finished reading Little Women. The sisters are so close, and they have so much fun. I’m not so sure about brothers, though.”

  “Sisters are fun, yes, like built-in friends. We laughed a lot and helped each other out. Oh, but Jessica, brothers are wonderful, too. They watch out for you, if they are older than you, and look up to you if they are younger. Older brothers help you reach things on high shelves, lift heavy things for you, and carry you on their backs to play. They teach you things that boys know and make sure that their friends treat you well. An older brother is almost like having an extra father around...that’s good, sì? Como su padre, Hank, comprende?”

  “Of course, Bernadette, I had no idea. That does sound wonderful.”

  “Yes, I had good brothers and a good father. When I was young, in the fifties and sixties, San Felipe was already famous for its fishing. My father was hard-working, just like Hank. He was a well-respected member of the fishing co-op, and in charge of the fishing that went on in one of the big trawlers that caught shrimp in season, Octubre a Marzo.” I counted off the months on my fingers.

  “October, November, December, January, February, March...shrimp season lasts six months.”

  “Sì, Jessica, but my father and my brothers owned their own pangas, too.”

  “What’s a panga?

  “It’s a small, sturdy little boat used by fishermen on the Sea of Cortez. They could set out from the shore year round. We owned three of them! The boats are small, with one motor, but good at sea with skilled fisherman to guide them. Since we owned the small boats, we did not have to share the catch, like when they went out on the trawler. That way we always had fresh fish to eat and some to sell.”

  “So did you have a big house or a humble house? Was it made of adobe like the mission houses, with clay tile roofs?”

  “No, we had a more modern cement block house that seemed huge to me—like this house that your father built for you and your mother. Now I know that in truth, it was a humble house, Jessica. Then it seemed like a palace, and compared to the ones around us, it was. There was a kitchen and a large sitting room and three bedrooms. Tile floors, too, that my father laid, Jessica, made of fired clay. That was unheard of when mi abuelo y abuela...” I interrupted.

  “Your grandpa and grandma, right?”

  “Sì, Jessica, the one room adobe house my grandparents lived in sat right next to our house. That house had dirt floors and a thatched roof. That’s where they stayed until they died when I was five or six, not yet your age, Jessica.”

  “Oh that must have been sad to have someone you loved, die. Even before Guillermo...” I suddenly remembered how this whole conversation had started and blushed. “I’m sorry, I’m supposed to listen.”

  “No te preocupes, Jessica. I was so young when they died it’s hard to remember now, much about them or my sadness. Yes, there was an empty place left behind, like the shell of their house where we used to play. Even in that emptiness we found joy. We swept the dirt floors and pretended it was a hotel, a shop or a school. In the 1960s all of those types of places had come to San Felipe, along with tourists, Jessi
ca. It was quite an exciting time, even if it wasn’t lavish like Cabo. We had water from the well pumped into the house, and a real toilet hooked up to septic. We even had a refrigerator my father bought, for almost nothing, when the owner of the local restaurant we called a cantina, bought a grander one. It was almost unheard of at the time to have so many modern conveniences.” Bernadette leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment.

  I remember trying to imagine a life without the things she had called “modern conveniences.” In my house with six bedrooms and eight bathrooms, it was inconceivable that people lived without amenities like toilets and running water, electricity and refrigeration. I had read stories, like Little House on the Prairie, and watched episodes on TV where the characters hauled water, heated it and cooked on a big wood stove or over an open fire. None of that hit home the way Bernadette’s words did that day. How did they do it? I still wonder about that now. I mean, Bernadette had grown up in the fifties and sixties, not in an era of pilgrims or pioneers.

  “One wall of my grandparents’ empty house shaded a small courtyard and a garden near where our well was located. My mother once told me that the shadow cast by that house was a constant reminder of their place in our lives. I remember running my hand over the adobe bricks as she did, touching what they had left behind. By then there was no roof of any kind on that house, but we didn’t care. It was a safe and enchanted place for us as children. On our family house we had a roof with shingles, just like the schoolhouse.”

  “A house that’s a school, with only one room, right? Is that where you went to school?”

  “Yes, but only until the ninth grade. At that point, in San Felipe, you went to work or got married. A few children left to finish school in Mexicali, but they never came back so I didn’t know what they did after that. The year I met Guillermo I had just finished ninth grade. I was about to turn fifteen and my quinceañera was to take place in November, just before advent began.”