I Once Was Lost

By Maria Flores Lingo

This deeply moving story is about a young Spanish boy living in the 1500s. Until now, only his close Catholic family, and his mothers devotion to God have shaped him. He leaves Spain under strange circumstances, and is adopted by two suspicious sailors. Who or what will have the greatest hold on him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973615774

Maria Flores Lingo

Maria Flores Lingo is a first-generation Puerto Rican American. She was born and raised in New York City to uneducated parents. She surprised her family by going to college. She was told to major in bilingual education. Instead, she received a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature with a minor in Education at Queens College, City University of New York. While living in Southern California, she was asked to teach elementary school instead of high school. Elementary education introduced her to English Language Learners and childrens books. Her love of teaching young children, and reading to them helped her to receive the California Distinguished School Teacher Award. Another providential move took her to Naples, Florida. Mrs. Lingo continued working with elementary students. She had the opportunity of teaching children from many different countries; especially, Latin America. (At one time, almost 10 different Latin American Countries were represented by first generation American children in her class.) Although young, the students interests in each other sparked an investigation on Why Over 30 Countries Speak Spanish. It was then that Mrs. Lingo developed her interest in Colonial Spain, the Colombian Exchange and the Caribbean. To her surprise, in 2010 the Foundation for Excellence in Education and its chairman (Governor Jeb Bush) awarded Maria Lingo the Excel Award. She was one of the top 100 teachers in Florida, whose students made remarkable gains in the Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. In her fifties, she was moved to acquire her Masters in Reading Education. Then she was driven to write. Her first book (I Once Was Lost) is a culmination of her loves: Christianity, history, teaching and writing.

Book preview

I

ONCE

WAS

LOST

MARIA FLORES LINGO

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Copyright © 2018 Maria Flores Lingo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-1578-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-1579-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-1577-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900641

WestBow Press rev. date: 6/20/2018

Dedicated to the Story Teller.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

CHAPTER 1

J ose’s story starts around his tenth birthday. At that age, by our standards, Jose knew nothing about the world. Even if he had the means to hire a tutor, he would not know of the new ideas about the world in his day. Many still believed that the world was flat, and if one dared to sail to the west, the ship and all the lives on it would fall off like a boat going down a rapid. Jose knew nothing of astrolabes, compasses, maps, or Christopher Columbus. All he knew was his little patch of sixteenth-century Spain.

Jose had thick, black hair, brown eyes, and a lanky body. He spoke the Spanish of the poor, not the king’s Spanish. He wore hand-me-downs from the local church and was very glad to have them. He had grown a lot the past winter, but he was still small for his age. It was spring and his itchy wool socks were at the bottom of abuela’s (grandmother’s) knitting basket.

Can you imagine the world of a boy without television, radio, computers, iPads, or any digital technology? El niño (the boy) had no formal schooling. He had no books. He had no siblings or close friends. Yet he was friendly, happy, and inquisitive. Jose had the spring hills and the new green grass to slide on. He had the cold stream where he would sit and squish the cool mud between his toes. His best friend was the worn-out milking cow called Vaquita (Little Cow). If he could get her to stay, he would ride her bony, white body throughout the farm. Sometimes, after completing his chores, he would take one of his mother’s dish towels, and pretend it was a matador’s cape. Then he would pretend that the emaciated Vaquita was a bloodthirsty bull that weighed two thousand pounds. Jose would bow over and over again as he imagined the crowds calling his name. Jose! Jose! Jose! He was the greatest matador in all of Madrid. Finally, he would begin calling Vaquita. Toro! Toro! (Bull! Bull!) The old milk cow was not much of a bull. She would clunk toward Jose with her cowbell clanking along.

Mamá would smile when she heard the barely audible sound of the cowbell. Like most mothers working in the home, her ear was usually poised in the direction of her son. A day did not go by without her giving thanks to God for Joselito, although he often got into trouble for scaring the milk cow and chasing away the rabbits for stew. Mamá could not imagine life without him. She often said, Gracia, Papá Dios. (Thank You, Father God.)

Jose loved his family very much. He knew he was poor. After all, every Sunday at church he could see that his clothes, although clean, were not like the clothes of the other boys. He did not care. He had his abuelito (grandfather) who would tell him stories about his father. He loved those stories the best. He loved them more than catching fish for Sunday dinner.

He had his abuelita (grandmother). She seemed frail, but she was strong. Every night before bedtime, she pretended to snatch Jose as he walked past her rocking chair. Jose would stand by her. First, she would squeeze him with her long, bony arms. Then she would lay as many kisses as she could on his head, ears, neck, and shoulders. Finally, she would stretch one of Jose’s ears, look into it, and say, Madre de Dios (Mother of God), why does this boy always have hay in his ears? Everyone would laugh, and Jose would walk away embarrassed. But happy.

Without hesitation, the person Jose loved the most was his mother. All boys love their mothers, but the love of a sixteenth-century mother looked very different. In Jose’s Catholic Spain, the mother was the most important person in the world, no matter her faults. There were no petty complaints, blame, or anger for her imperfections like today. It was considered rude to mention her name in casual conversation. Men would fight, and even duel to the death, if their saintly mother’s name was used in an offensive way. Sons would say, She gave me life. Adult children knew that no matter where God took them, they could count on la madre (the mother) to pray for them with all her body, mind, and spirit.

The Spanish like to compare their mothers to the Virgin Mary. Mary, the Mother of Jesus, is known by other names. She is the Blessed Mary, Holy Mary, Holy Mother, and the Virgin Mary. Some argue that Mary is very important to the Catholic Church because she was chosen to carry the sinless baby Jesus. She was without sin before baby Jesus was born. Some say that she still is sinless.

Whichever the case, the Catholic Church honors her. The church sees her as a saint, and her sainthood should be honored through prayer. Some Catholics pray to Jesus for help, but most have concluded that Mary is the logical one to pray to because she is Jesus’s mother. If Mary interceded on behalf of a sinner, her prayers would probably be answered by her Son. Whether the Blessed Virgin or Blessed Mother was responsible for Spain’s devotion to mothers or not, motherhood was sacred. Spanish mothers of the 1500s were treated like saints, whether they deserved the reverence or not. It wasn’t an accident that the queen of Spain was more powerful than her husband or that early Spain was a matriarchal society. Many Spanish and Latin Americans still include their mother’s surname in their last name after marriage. Sometimes modern folks think that the long Spanish names are a little too much, but it is a reminder of a long-ago respect for mothers.

Jose’s closeness to his mother was more than tradition. She had an unconditional love. She loved Jose in countless ways. Also, she had a peace about her that would quiet him when he was scared. She rocked him and held him long after he was asleep. Never did Jose hear a caustic word. He could not remember gossip coming from her lips. All was affirmation, even when the winds had ruined her vegetable garden, and she wore a stained dress to church. If the day was hot, the wind was cold, or if she fell and skinned her knee, it was all good. Even when her beloved husband left to find hope for his family, she thanked God. Her sacrifices were many. It was not only love and tradition that bonded them together. It was the love and peace of the Holy Father.

Her papasito (father) was somewhat of a farmer. He grew grapes and had two olive trees. Some of his grapes from his small vineyard would be turned into a red wine. It was a sour red wine, but it would be a fine wine for communion. Sometimes, Mariana would help crush grapes with her feet. When grape season was over, she helped her neighbors with their olives.

Olives were the heart of Spain. Olive oil was prized and liked throughout Europe. Mariana and her father would talk and walk to a neighbor’s farm. Papasito was too old to climb a tree or jump up and down on the olive tree branches. He would make the olives fall by slapping the limb of a tree with a stick. Mariana was a catcher. She would open her wide skirt like the other wives and daughters, and catch the olives as they fell. Then she would pour the olives into a basket.

According to stories from long ago, olive oil was the secret to long life. In Spain, olives were eaten alone, with wine, with crusty bread, or in soups and stews. Some people loved pouring the oil over tomatoes, cheese, or leafy, green vegetables. Papasito would frequently say, "If Vaquita could produce milk for butter, it would never be as tasty as the best olive oil in