My mother fighting off my father to defend her children from the great war in our family only to disappear beyond the thoughts of this nation/man.
I will remember all mothers who fight off the drunken rebel and the tyranny of their broken lives.
I will remember all the women and men who fought and died in the struggle to stay sane in our world gone mad.
I will remember Memorial Day as the nation of men and women who died fighting off the tyranny to make our country free from the evils of mankind.
Our Generations of Love comes streaming through the Valley to our Hearts.
I wrote this piece below the other day to try explaining to everyone that we are here no matter what happens to the earth.
I realize that the earth could explode and dust/and or vapor would be all that is left. Whatever.
Some particle of life will be there. Some substance of our presence will be there.
Saying that I thought about my mother and her presence on earth.
Her physical presence has not been found or I am not aware of whoever knows of her presence on
this planet but I realize this.
She is here.
She loved, lived and became a mother of three children that I am aware of.
She was a sister in a family who say that are not aware of her present existence today.
All that is left to me is speculation about her whereabouts.
So I now I know that in a photo taken from space of this planet that my mothers dust or presence will be there.
Her marble marker in life is here in these words and every photo of earth.
Her life is in my substance and in my families.
Life should have been better for her.
We are the dust as we are the body.
I am going through a phase where I understand words. This should have happened
when I was sixteen years old. Well whatever if by some chance I'll be reincarnated
as some minute particle on this planet of ours I want to be completely aware
of my standing in life.
When they take a photo of the earth from space to give us our weather and
show us a nice snapshot of earth. We are there with all the animals and
trees and rocks and sand. The water moves about in waves and our long lost
and departed are there. Nothing has changed but time as it passes. We are
there on earth, we exist, and we occupy our space in time. We can't seem
to see our bodies or the soil beneath our feet but we know we are there.
We are the dust as we are the body.
Do we as humans blunder into places where our mind has no business being?
You know the place that keeps us up all night with worry and a chocolate high.
The place where the heart races to undo the damage of lost sleep.
How do we get back to the place where whatever we see is there?
Do we have to count on our fingers about this little piggy?
Are we getting closer to the point in time that sees the word before you and as you look away you see whatever you eyes see?
Can we clearly see the puzzle?
Are we there? Are we here?
Are we at the place our scholars talk about?
The answer is always yes at this time and no we are not in 1945 but we
do understand that they were as aware as we are now.
We read poetry and sometimes a great novel.
History and biographies pass along our paths.
Sometimes we meet a human that is a novel, a human story, a biography, and a person with a life that is a story.
Could it be that each one of us is indeed that great novel?
We as individuals are cloaked in suspense and drama, veiled in insecurities and peaceful oblivion.
We share what all great writers write about, we carry our novels in our souls as
we walk into that great storeroom of good words.
This is a nice thought.
Things you hate to write down but somehow you must.
Berea, Ky. in the late 1980's.
My sister Sandy told me that my father had said to her that a good place to hide a body is under a tree.
Deep down in her heart my sister was not impressed with that statement.
Marion, Ky. in the year 2002.
On our recent trip to California my stepsister Diane told me that my father had threatened my stepmother Gladys by saying that she could be buried under a tree. She left him in the late 1970's or 80's. I do not know if that particular event opened the gate but it was probably close to the end for them being together.
I have come to the conclusion that my mother is buried in some beautiful garden in California.
My grandfather and his sons including my father worked at a prominent garden in the San Gabriel Valley.
My grandfather worked all the years that I remember at this garden.
My mother the mystery.
Is she still alive?
In July 1945, My mother brought my sister and I to the Aurelia home, her parents home.
She said she was going to look at furniture at a store in San Gabriel, she then disappeared and never came back.
Rafael Arellanes hired a detective to look for her, but there was no trace.
Dennis Diaz was almost 4 years old and Sandy Diaz was less than 1 year old.
Per Betty and Daniel Arellanes. Dianiel was my mother's brother.
This is 1998 and she is still missing.
Laurel is looking for her, obsessed by the idea that my mother can't hide from her either dead or alive..
My skin is tanned, keeping the rain, sun, sand and emotions at bay for the last forty years.
The Trekkies would be proud of my defensive shield.
It is a sad state of affairs when I'll neither care or cry When/if she is found.
I get the feeling that the less I ask the better.
I can't ask any of my family about my mother without bringing back pain and tears.
The best minds are at work looking for her.
Hair, long corn tassels, my grandmothers gray-orange-white-gray hair.
She had long hair down to her waste, hair that she braided and rolled up
into a bun on her head. Hair that you would see in her photo, hair that
reminded me of an Indian Maiden. Hair that reminds me of love, comfort
I am reminded of my mother, while taking a shower this afternoon, thoughts of my mother
came to the forefront. I wonder why no one has come forward to explain where she went. My mother has not come forward. My father while he was alive did not come forward to explain. My aunts and uncles only know that she left, they did not come forward. The government has not come forward. Not even a vague sense has come forward.
No one has come forward with an explanation. Here I am a man of nearly sixty with no explanation about my mother. No clue. Every time I broach the subject I bring tears into the eyes of my aunts and uncles, I am forever lost, an island, a constant reminder of something sweet in their past that has gone, forever lost.
Out of sight out of mind, how sad.
I sit and write wondering what I did as a child to have to endure such emptiness.
I sympathize with everyone that has some sort of problem; I defend his or her existence. So when everyone in the sixties defended every ones right to the pursuit of happiness I was very pleased to take my place on this earth, to be accepted as a being on earth.
Where do I turn to find my mother. Laurel has exhausted all the legal tools at hand.
S.S. can not mail a letter to her until they find an address. No one has ever reported her dead.
She has disappeared from visible site, I do not know what she looked like, thought my dad showed me a picture of her in 1951. That photo is lost.
She was a beauty with a singing voice. She was not meant to be a mother. She loved the night life, my dad and her partied across Southern California.
What do I think?
Was she moved into hiding by the government for some knowledge she possessed?
Did my dad do away with her?
These two above thoughts are in the direction I lean toward. The first thought can be traced in two directions, from her end and from this end. Nothing!
The second thought. My dad is not capable of hiding a body without help? So I look into where he worked or his family worked? My dads parents were devote Catholics, my mother was christian, I assume her mother was a seventh day Adventist. Her sisters were Methodist? I spent many hours in tents in downtown L.A.
If my dad had help covering up a body, who would get him out a jam?
Where were people working at that time.
What did everyone have in common. Three places come to mind. My fathers home, where he grew up. (Where everyone danced at Gilberts baptism party.)
The San Gabriel Mission, the Pablo family is quite prominent in this community and helped mold the structure with mortar.
And last but not least, The Huntington Library.
This is where Pablo was a prominent gardener. His cactus garden is famous.
All the sons worked there with their dad Pablo in the forties, fifties and sixties.
My dad told my sister that under a tree would be a good place to hide someone.
Henry Huntington and his Botanical Gardens
I know that where my grandfather Pablo worked they kept meticulous records so maybe they could look up the date July 1945 and see what was planted that month.
This is spring and there could be a beautiful flower in bloom there.