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.

I’m not exactly sure the function of this piece – I suspect it is a sort of room divider or jardiniere made out of wood with burled wood finishes in an Art Deco style, probably from the late 30s to early 40s.

How this gorgeous piece got to me is a complicated tale of Dominicans, dictators, and me.

The Reader’s Digest version follows.

The piece originally belonged to the beauty queen mistress of a Dominican dictator (let’s call him RT), who was in power from 1930 until his assassination (allegedly by the CIA ) in 1961 (the year I was born…coincidence?) Being already married and like all good Latin machistas not inclined to divorce, RT did the next best thing by providing financial support and publicly recognizing their out-of-wedlock children – one boy and one girl.

The unofficial household were comfortably and conveniently established in a Miami Beach estate located on Collins Avenue and later sold and torn down to make way for a major resort hotel (the Conover?)

Moving right along, the daughter married Tio Joe circa 1960, and the whatever-it-is passed on to Mother (AKA Belica, Isabel Suarez nee Cremata) – an inveterate keeper of, well, everything. It was in her home, next door to mine, that I fell in love with “it”. Exiled in a storage room adjacent to the carport of Mother’s house, the two tops on either end became water damaged and the veneer warped.  Nonetheless, it was still a score when Mother passed it on to me.

Your father hated it from the beginning. Besotted and bewitched by its beauty and whiff of notoriety, I ignored his threats to throw it out of the moving van or into the backyard lake. Lucky for all of us, he decided to try his hand at restoring it a few years ago, using the greatest of care I might add.

Today, it is a singularly stunning and celebrated piece admired by all who see it…and its piquant provenance ain’t too shabby either!

These two champagne cups were wedding gifts Grandma and Grandpa received in 1949. There were probably more pieces to this set, but only these two remain intact, as does the marriage. Don’t these just scream “rumba” and “cha cha cha?” Babaloo anyone? The glass is incredibly thin and fragile, and yet these two pieces traveled from Tampa to Havana to Miami, and like the couple they were intended to toast, remain resilient mementos of a charmed life, full of love, devotion, and bubbly laughter.

As an aside adventure of these glasses, I had read the French claimed the perfect size for a woman’s breast would fit in a champagne glass. Being 12 and incredibly curious, I snuck out one of these cups from the china hutch in the dining room and absconded to the bathroom for the official judging of my own bosom—happily I could claim that my cup runneth over.