My Grandmother from Atlantis

There is a place in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean where the Earth is always being born. Massive volcanoes between the moving continental plates thrust up new rock, pushing Europe and America further apart. At the bottom of the sea weird lifeforms have evolved along vents that send heat and gasses up through the seawater. Only the tops of these mountains form a chain of small, volcanically active islands. One volcano on an island called Fayal erupted for a good part of 1957. But when the island settles down, the rich volcanic soil and the moist, subtropical climate make it a beautiful blooming paradise, a place where most any kind of fruit or flower can grow. Like all the Azores, Fayal is part of Portugal. But a large population of Belgians settled there at one time, and sailors from around the world probably stopped there throughout history. Some blood of Great Britain, Scandinavia, and northern Africa may be mixed into these often blue-eyed Mediterraneans. Their exact ancestry is a mystery.

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Paulina stood on one of Fayal’s tall hills, focusing her attention gradually downward toward the Atlantic. At her feet was the basket of figs she had been gathering, the produce of old fruit trees gone wild. She knew a place where there were any number of such trees, and she could always find sweet fruit free for the taking. Down the slope, escaped garden flowers and a few native plants fought for space and sunlight with masses of blue hydrangea bushes. Colorful birds and insects hopping in and out of the flowers gave the whole scene a kaleidoscope effect. Past that, the sea, free for now of fog and mist, stretched blue to a horizon that appeared very far away indeed. Well before that horizon a few whales spouted, and she could just make out tiny, colorful whale boats giving chase. Even up close the boats seemed almost impossibly small to battle the huge sea creatures, but she knew that the men and boys who hunted were often successful. Sale of whale oil, as well as produce from farms like her parents’, made life on the island reasonably prosperous.

It was early in the twentieth century, and 15-year-old Paulina was unspeakably depressed at the thought of being stuck here for the rest of her life. She knew somewhere past that horizon was an entirely different world, the real world, where interesting things happened and interesting people lived. It seemed anything important must be a long, long way from Fayal.

Oh, soon one of the many Catholic festivals would arrive, providing some excitement. The priests would carry a statue of the Virgin through the streets, bringing the Lady’s blessing to farms and boats. Everyone would join in, from toddlers with lava-dark eyes to crones in black lace, and afterward all would join together in a feast. Or sooner, maybe this evening Mama would let her go down to the port to buy some fish, and she would see how many of the young fishermen’s heads she could turn. For she was small, dark and lovely, and just starting to enjoy the way the boys looked at her.

Paulina knew she was too old for childish games, but she was in no hurry and there was no one to see. So she picked a bit of every flower she could find, and laid them down in patterns on a large flat rock. All these little hydrangea blossoms, they were the boring Portuguese. But the rose petals and tiger lilies and other more exotic flowers, they became all the different kinds of people who would live in some big city across the sea, maybe New York. In this city of her dreams all the people moved and danced together, and conversed in some foreign language she made up as she went along.

At last the drama came to a happy ending, and many marriages and lasting friendships were formed. Paulina brushed the flowers off the rock, picked up the basket of figs and went home.

Galart, her older sister, sat in front of the house, crocheting in the sun. She smiled at Paulina’s approach.

“Figs? You must have had to look hard to find a few the birds left behind.”

“Would you like one?” Paulina offered the basket to Galart, who placed her crocheting to one side and picked out a fig. “It’s good to see you up and outside again, Galart. We were quite worried about you, you know, and I am so glad to see you wanting to eat again.”

“I’m sure it was your prayers and attention that brought me through. I wish I could have done something to spare you all the worry, though. But now I’m sure I will be well again. Some day.” She peeled the fig slowly, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “Paulina, there is something I need to talk to you about. I have already spoken with Mama and Papa, and it is time for me to ask you…a favor.”

Paulina leaned toward her sister, full of concern. “What is it Galart? You know if there is anything you want, anything I can get for you, all you need to do is ask.”

At first Galart’s words were slow and careful. “Why, yes, that’s what I do need, is to ask you for some help. You see how my health is improving. But the fever has left me still weak. I don’t know how long it will take me to be as strong again as I was, but… You know, Little Sister, that I saved to buy myself passage to America on a ship, a ship that will be stopping in Fayal in just a week’s time.”

Galart paused, and Paulina remembered how much sadness this prospect had caused her at first. She had struggled to get used to the idea of being left behind.

“But I am not strong enough to go now, and a week… a week won’t be enough. But the ticket, you see… I wondered if you would like to go to America now, and stay in Boston with our cousin. You’re young, but you are clever, and…” Galart brought these last few sentences out in a rush, and now stopped so that her sister would not hear her voice crack.

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A week later Paulina left for America, with no money and no knowledge of English. She lived in Boston with her cousin and worked as a house servant, learning to cook exotic fare like baked beans, corned beef and cabbage. Later she took a train to California and married a Portuguese farmer. They had three children together before her husband died in the flu epidemic of 1918.

There in California, halfway around the world from her home, the young widow met a man from Fayal. They had never met before but had much in common. Flijbert was a quiet man who ran an apricot orchard. He had an almost uncanny knack for growing things. On his passage to America he had brought cuttings from trees and shrubs from Fayal, which he skillfully grafted onto American rootstock, bringing to life a fascinating variety of flowers and fruits. It was as if he had brought some enchanted soil and air with him from another world.

They married and had a daughter who was as bright and beautiful as her mother. She was the pet of the older half-sisters and half-brother, who would give her a piece of chalk and show her how to write words when she was only a few years old. One time she wrote “GOD” on the barn door and everyone thought she had been possessed by the Holy Ghost, only to find out later that she had accidentally spelled “dog” backward. Even so, there was always something a little mysterious about this youngest child. In time she went to college and worked for a ship designer during World War II. Still later, she married and had four sons and a daughter of her own.

Pauline and Filbert, as they called themselves now, retired from farming and moved to a little house. When their daughter’s family came to visit, the little granddaughter liked to walk around the stone path Filbert had built, through the forests of fuchsias and other plants, no two alike. She would go where the adults couldn’t see, and the flowers would become fairies who danced and played.

When the little girl went indoors, Pauline always watched her out of the corner of her eye. She did not believe in spoiling children. She would never have kept a bucket of toys for visiting grandchildren; chores were better for children than toys. Yet over the years this thrifty farm wife had saved the buttons and snaps from old garments, and kept them in a big glass jar. Because the little girl was always careful to put the buttons away when asked, Pauline allowed her to play with them. Besides, Pauline liked to watch as the child spread them out, making cities and societies of buttons of all different colors and shapes, who conversed in a language she made up as she went along.