This carved wood humidor belonged to Papito (AKA Papo, Cuco, Louis Robaina) and once held finely made Cuban leaf cigars. The carving on the lid is of El Morro Castle, a beloved iconic symbol of Cuba. (Just ask any of your grandparents.) Papito worked in cigar factories in Tampa/Ybor City for a good portion of his life and achieved the distinguished rank of escogedor or color grader. According to Tobacco: Its History, Varieties, Culture, Manufacture and Commerce…with an account of its various modes of use, from its first discovery until now (that being 1875 when the book was published): “the general sorting of the tobacco is done by hands of great experience and judgment, who are in the highest consideration in the factories.” Pretty fancy. However this description kind of runs counter to his later reputation for doing “Cuco Robainas,” those blood chilling acts of expedience and innovation by which he sometimes “fixed” things.

You’ve all heard the stories—the clamping of a cigarette-lighter-powered fan onto the dashboard of my Mustang after the air conditioner broke…the staple-gunning of said Mustang’s interior roof lining when it started to sag…the mauve picnic table…the application of cement to a neighbor’s sore tooth…the list goes on and on. There’s no doubt that Papito was a fine craftsman who loved to keep his hands busy, thus the almost complete cementing of Grandma’s and Grandpa’s backyard—believe me when I tell you that this was achieved bit by bit, as if he’d stretched out his ultimate goal so he could enjoy the cement-laden wheelbarrow’s meandering journey across the backyard. That, or he was hoping Grandma wouldn’t notice. He was such a wonderful man and all is forgiven, but not forgotten, now. Thank you, Papito.

“Inez era del carajo.” Thus Mamita summarized her mother-in-law in one succinct sentence.

Inez Chavez, Papito’s mother and your great-great-grandmother, was one tough lady. Born in Key West, moved to Tampa, worked in a cigar factory, married, had two children and buried them, became a widow, remarried, had a son, widowed anew, tormented Mamita, doted on  your Grandma, died of a bad blood transfusion.

And then we have this pretty polly of a piece to remember Inez by. The top bowl broke long before I set my eyes on it, but it can still come in handy filled with kerosene if a hurricane blows through town.

Speaking of hot air, Inez was also a devout Catholic—which only confirmed Mamita’s complete disdain for any affectations of piety by people who weren’t very, well, Christian. Inez believed in a panoply of saints and bought orations that could pretty much cover any and all ailments or misfortune in a brimming catalogue of potential human calamity. And, indeed, when you think of the hardships Inez endured, one can hardly begrudge her a belief in something finer, full of mercy, a heaven beyond this world.

But if you asked Mamita, Inez came from the other place.

This Cuban mahogany rocker is one of a pair that belonged to your great-great-grandfather Angel Maria Cremata. He had them in the front parlor of his colonial-style home in Santiago de las Vegas, Cuba. This chair has witnessed a great deal of paternal decrees, fraternal kerfuffles, political intrigue, and even survived a bombing by the minion of a partisan rival. (Fortunately Papa, as Mamita would call him, was not in the room at the time.) There is speculation as to who “done it,” but I will refrain from including the likely culprit here as there is the delicate situation of the rascal’s descendants getting upset. Mother (Belica) had the rockers in her house in Tampa and then in Miami. She sat in these until she got too sick to get out of bed at the very, very, very end. She knew I loved them and bequeathed them to me. In a burst of filial amity I gave one to Tia Adele, and thus one of Angel Maria’s rockers now resides in Chicago.

It’s said that a person is not truly dead until the last person who knows his name is also dead. In that case, Angel Maria is still very much alive (as are Mamita, Papito, and Mother). When you see this rocker, think of Angel Maria, his handsome face, the white suit, his stentorian tones and official proclamations and know that he lives still in my memories of someone else’s memories and now yours.