AnnaMaria
I’m not entirely sure where to begin. They asked me to speak, to tell my story, so I will let the memories choose the order. I am 89 years old, and it’s strange how I remember events from sixty years ago more clearly than what I ate last night. That is how age works, I suppose.
At this stage of life, memory matters more than plans. Memory becomes a place to rest.
Growing Up with Cold and Hunger
I was born in 1936 in a small town in Jaén, one of those places that barely exists anymore. My father was a day laborer. My mother washed clothes for other families. There were five children. I was the middle one.
I don’t remember toys. I don’t remember gifts.
What I remember is cold and hunger. They were always there.
I was very young during the war, but I lived the postwar years fully. I left school around nine or ten, attending only when I wasn’t needed in the fields. I learned to read a little, write poorly, and do basic math. That was all life allowed.
Losing My Father and Being Sent Away
When I was eleven, my father left. He said he was going to find work in another city. He never came back.
My mother held on as long as she could, but with so many mouths to feed, it became impossible. One day she sent me to live with an aunt in another town, hoping I would have a better chance.
When I arrived, I learned she had died months earlier.
I was fourteen. Alone, broke, and without a home.
Sleeping in an Abandoned Car
I slept in an old car without wheels or windows for many nights. That winter was brutal. I ate whatever I could find. I knocked on doors asking for work—cutting wood, carrying stones, anything.
Often there was nothing.
Yes, I stole bread once. I am not proud of it. But hunger like that doesn’t ask permission. That kind of hunger never leaves you.
The Workshop and Endless Labor
Eventually, I found work in a small workshop. The owner let me sleep there and gave me food. I worked from sunrise to sunset, every single day.
He was strict, but fair. He never hit me. In those times, that meant more than kindness—it meant dignity.
The Moment I Knew Something Had to Change
Years passed like that. Just surviving. Never thinking beyond the next day.
Then one day, something became very clear: if I continued like this, this would be my entire life.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply true. I realized how little I knew, and how those who could read and write well always had more options.
Discovering Reading
I began to read, slowly and painfully. Many words made no sense. But there was a small library in a nearby town run by an elderly woman named Doña Carmen.
She taught me how to use a dictionary. She explained words patiently. One day she gave me a small pocket dictionary. I carried it for years.
Reading didn’t make me rich. But it opened my mind.
Military Service and Learning the Basics
Then came military service. For me, it was not terrible. I ate three meals a day. I slept in a real bed. I learned more—writing, math, history, geography.
I left with a basic certificate. It wasn’t much. But it mattered.
Work, Family, and a Modest Life
After that, I worked wherever I could—factories, warehouses, shops. Some lasted. Others didn’t. That was life.
I met my wife at a village festival. We were together for 62 years. She is gone now, but the memory remains. We had three children. They never went hungry, and they all went to school.
That alone makes me proud.
I opened a small repair shop. It never became big, but it kept us afloat. Some years were very hard. We nearly lost everything more than once.
What others might call little, I considered a lot.
We eventually owned our own apartment—with heating. For someone who once slept in a windowless car, that felt enormous.
I was never wealthy. I never expected to be. But we survived.
Watching the Next Generation
Now I look at my grandchildren. They struggle too, but in different ways. They study, they work hard, and still everything feels uncertain.
We were never promised anything. We knew life meant work. Today, promises are made more easily—and broken just as easily.
The One Thing I Am Certain Of
I am not here to lecture anyone. I only know this:
Learning—slowly, imperfectly, little by little—saved me.
Reading showed me paths I didn’t know existed. It doesn’t guarantee money, but it teaches you how to think. And no one can take that away from you.
Time, Memory, and Still Being Here
At 89, you remember more than you plan. I sit by the window and think of my wife, my children when they were small, and the old car where I once slept in the cold.
I don’t know why I told all this. They asked me to.
And here I am—still here.
Final Thought
Not every life is filled with great achievements. Many are built from endurance, small progress, and quiet love. Sometimes, reaching the end with your memories intact and your dignity preserved is a victory.
As you were.
