The Marion daily mirror. (Marion, Ohio) 1892-1912, 1908-06-09
THE MEMORY
OF A PAST.
BY ADRIANA sPADONI


Maria Josefa. Bent and wrinkled, her
thin lips, stained at the corner with
tobacco. worked nervously over her
toothless gums. The thin hands that
hold the black shawl round her should
ers are knotted with rheumatism. When
the shawl slips back the skin beneath
shows dry and withered like yellow
paper Still Donna .Josefa claims to be
only fifty-iive, and like many other
claims she makes, who can contradict? :?
AS she herself would say--no have diff
erencia.
For thirty-seven years out OF the
fifty-five Donna Josefa has lived in San
Francisco, and in almost one spot at
that. For close on two score years her
different homes have been within few
blocks of each other, and never one be-
yond the limits of the Spanish quarter.
For Donna Josefa speaks no English.
Not one word can she say, not one can
she understand. When she first meets
you she will shrug her shoulders help
lessly and bewail her ignorance, till one
is almost tempted to begin and teach
her even now. But when you know
her better, you will realize that she
never really thought 1t worth while to
learn our language. When the good
God has given one the most beautiful
tongue in the world, why trouble to
learn another? Besides, "Que diferen-
cia hace?"
So Donna Josefa continues to live al
most in the shadow of the Spanish
church, in house as old and dilapi-
dated as herself. Thirty years ago it
was built, one of the few places scat
tered on the lower slopes of Russian
Hill. Now artistic, shingled homes look
down on 1t from above, and cheap.
modern flats crowd 1t close. STILL 1t
stands. weather-stained and lop-sided,
probably upheld by the good saints who
guard its inmates.
Outside Donna Josefa's door you will
stand and gasp. For several reasons:
Partly from the lack of air; mostly
from surprise. For long since Donna
Josefa discovered that the proper place
for everything is the floor, and accord
ingly everything is in it's place. Dirty
clothes. rags, empty lamps, pipes, sauc-
ers with tobacco. orange peel, chilis,
tomatoes and oil stove, dishes, sauce
pans, brown earthen ollas, heavy gray
stone mortar, half full of corn, bowls
with villainous mixtures into which
one is afraid to pry too closely. crumbs,
dirt, and in tho midst of It all, on a
cot propped up with cobble from tn g
street, sits Donna Josefa, old and
weak and helpless, guarding her one
earthly possession-the memory of a
past.
How she lives Is an economic mys-
terry. Some times. even yet, she sews.
But between times? There is always
some tobacco in the polished cocoanut
shell she uses as a box, u few chilis on
the tioor and an orange or bananr--
anywhere. Once she told me that they
dropped" Whether from wagon or
from heaven she did not explain, aid /
did not question,
When she gets tired of sitting on the
cot she walks out in the sun, along the
streets where she has lived for thi,ty-
seven years, and where today sh is
practically stranger. AT night she
turns her plate and the gray stone orr
tar upside down to keep the rats 1 ON
running over them. But the corn she
leaves in an open bag, and the rats
make the best of the situation.
F'ifty-five years ago Donna Jo5efa
was born in Guadalajara, Mexico, the
one and only city in the world worth
being born in. Her parents were not
rich. but they had enough. Josefa f, ent
to the convent and learned to sew and
pray like any other well-bred senorta.
Then, when she was fifteen, she left
and went home to sit in idleness till a
husband should appear. eager to let ner
continue that occupation in homo OF
her own.
In year he came, with youth, sood
looks, money and a heart for Jolefa
and Josefa only But he was a for ign
ey, an Italian. He might as well lave
been Hottentot. Josefa's moth>r, a
conservative of conservatives, swors
that no girl in her senses would mLrry
other than Mexican. Josefa swors
that she would marry her Italian No
one. Her mother promptly shut her up
and began novena to Mary of Guada-
loupe for a change In her daugh sra
heart. But Mary of Guadaloupe was
evidently busy elsewhere, for Josefs re-
NAMED true to her Italian. In Sdx
months the mother grew weary OF tN9
struggle and gave her consent few
weeks before she was seventeen Josefa
was married and came to San Fran
cisco, straight to quarters where she
now lives.
For the first few years everything
went well. Josefa had money and serv-
ants. She did nothing heavier than en-
broidery or the finest of Mexican
drawnwork. Even now, after more
than fifty years, she speaks of the
wealth of those days with bated breath
-"twenty-six thousand pesos, senorita.
twenty-six thousand"
But where Is 1t now? Gone! How
did 1t 60? Donna Josefa herself could
not tell you. All she knows is this 1t
was; 1t is not. Whether 1t went in
stocks or mines or real estate, or
whether they simply used ii up, she has
no absolute knowledge. She shrugs her
bent old shoulders, and lifts her knott