Maria Isidra Jones

Maria Isidra Garcia Jones, 96, passed away peacefully on Oct 30, 2020 to be united with her Lord, Jesus Christ, and with loved ones who had gone before. Maria was born on May 15, 1924 to Cornelio Garcia and Ramona Delgado in Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico. She was a devoted wife, who was widowed three times, and a loving mother who adored her family with all of her heart and soul.

Maria was extremely intelligent and a brilliant student who loved to learn. She had a remarkable memory and, even at 96, she could recite poems she had read, even the ones she learned as early as the age of five. She loved poetry that impacted her emotionally and her favorite one was "El Brindis del Bohemio," The Bohemian Toast, written by Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro. Maria lost her father when she was only six years old and her mother when she was seventeen. She was tremendously close to her mother, and not a day went by in the last seventy-nine years that she did not think of her and want to be with her. In “El Brindis del Bohemio” Arturo’s toast is to his beloved mother. Just like Arturo, the pure bohemian of noble heart, Maria too, was pure and virtuous. She was not ostentatious and preferred to live her life simply and humbly. She appeared sad and melancholy at times and people would often ask, "why do you look so sad?" Her personal losses at an early age contributed to that, but thankfully, her third husband, George, who she met in an English class at Laredo Junior College in 1967 and married on November 7, 1969, brought so much laughter and joy to her life.

Besides her family, “Marie,” as her beloved husband of 49 years, George, affectionately called her, had two more passions: BINGO and travel. Coming from very humble beginnings, she was so very grateful to have had the opportunity to visit so many wonderful destinations throughout the world. In Mexico: Chiapas, Guanajuato, Guerrero, Jalisco, Michoacán, Morelos, Nuevo León, Oaxaca, Queretaro, San Luis Potosí, Tamaulipas, the island of Cozumel, the Federal District, Veracruz, and Yucatán). In Central America: Guatemala. In the United States: Alabama, California, Colorado, Florida, Hawaii, Idaho, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, New Mexico, Nevada, North Carolina, Oregon, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, and Wyoming. And in Europe: Austria, Belgium, Czech Republic, England, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Spain, Switzerland, and Wales. Her most memorable and favorite destinations included Mexico City, Guadalajara, Monterrey, and Guanajuato in Mexico; Las Vegas, Nevada (of course!!) and Idaho in the United States; and Prague, the Czech Republic; Santander, Spain; London, England; and the verdant countryside of Ireland in Europe.

She is preceded in death by her father (1930), mother (1941), first husband Ramiro Rogerio Sr. (1947), second husband Carl Robert Scruggs (1962), half-brother Pablo Garcia (1968), son Ramiro Rogerio Jr. (2015), and third husband George Bunyan Jones Jr. (2018). She is survived by son Carl Robert Scruggs Jr. (Esther) of Laredo, daughter Grace Ramona Rolph (Glen) of San Antonio, grandsons Ramiro Rogerio III (Sandra) of Pflugerville, Christopher Brenton Scruggs (Jessica) and Anthony Ryan Scruggs (Sophia) of Laredo, and five great grandchildren: Isaiah, Annavey, Savannah, and Amber Rogerio, and Aislin Edelweiss Scruggs.

The family wishes to express heartfelt thanks to Maria’s hospice team at VITAS Healthcare and to her AllCare Inc. caregivers: Teresa Cotilla-Relueas, Christina Espinosa, Bessie Humphreys, Maria Lechuga, and Angela Sachetta, for the loving and caring support they provided.

ROSARY

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2020

10:30 A.M.

MASS

11:00 A.M.

ST. PADRE PIO CATHOLIC CHURCH

3843 BULVERDE PARKWAY

A committal ceremony will follow at Ft. Sam Houston National Cemetery at 1:30 P.M.

Pallbearers: Carl Scruggs Jr., Glen Rolph Jr., Ramiro Rogerio III, Christopher Scruggs, Anthony Scruggs, Sergio Omar Gonzalez, Fernando Guerra, and Vittorio Ramirez.

A Bohemian Toast (in English)

Found at: https://heartbitzblog.wordpress.com/2010/12/31/a-bohemians-new-year-toast/

Around a cantina table

on a winter’s night

rejoicefully were sharing

six happy bohemians

The echos of their laughter were escaping

and, from that quiet town

they were going to interrupt the imposing

and profound silence

The smoke of aromatic cigarettes

in spirals was raising to the sky

symbolizing, as it dissipated into nothing

the life of dreams … the dreams of life

I neglected to tell you, in that evening

this bohemian group

among laughter and sorrow, were celebrating

the happy arrival of the new year

Suddenly, a manly voice said

It is Midnight, comrades

Let us all toast for the year

that has become part of the Dead

Let us toast to the year that starts

May it brings us sweet dreams

not sour grief

Let us toast this time to the hope

that Life throws at us and the pains alleviate

I toast that, in my existence

already riddled with violence and vengeance

if, in my heaven, from yours – clean and divine

would shine but

a star … my hope

I drink and toast to my past,

which was of light, of love, and happiness,

and in which the gorgeous foreheads

of seductive ladies

had joined mine

I toast to Yesterday that, with sorrow

today covers with darkness my poor heart

scatters its comfort

bringing into my mind the sweetness

of joy, of tenderness, of good fortune, and concerns

I toast that in my mind

sprout a torrent of divine inspiration,

that the chords of my lyre vibrate

the verse that yearns, sings, and fall in love

I toast that my verses

reach the center of the woman that I love

for that with interest my passion pays off

for that I get intoxicated with the nectar of her kisses

Continued the barrage of meaningless phrases

of those so human

and, after each phrase of ardent enthusiasm

applause would grow

They toasted to the Motherland, to the flowers,

to the chaste loves and to heated passions

that fill with roses the mud of pleasure

Only one toast was missing, Arturo’s

the pure bohemian of noble heart

he stated that he only wanted

to steal the inspiration from Sadness

And this way he spoke, with inspired intensity

I toast to the woman, yet not to the one

in which you find solace in sadness

not to the one that gives us her charms

when you kiss her soft and scented curls

I do not toast to her … No, comrades

Sorry that this time I don’t please you

I toast to the woman, but only to one

to the one that offered me delights

and engulfed me with her kisses

I toast to the woman that tucked me in the crib

I toast to the woman that taught me from childhood

the value of profound and truthful love

I toast to the woman who cuddled me in her arms

and that bit by bit gave me her entire heart

To that golden and blessed old lady

that with her blood she offered me life

to the one that was the light of my soul

today I toast to my Mother, to my darling Mother

To that sad old woman that lives and cries

and to Heavens implores that I return

to my Mother, bohemians, who is the sweetness

poured into my sorrow and, in this night, a star

who wishes that I soon be with her

The bohemian became silent

and not a word spoiled the sentiment

born from pain and tenderness

and it appeared that, over that atmosphere,

was immensely floating …

A Poem of Love and Sorrow

El Brindis Del Bohemio

[Poema - Texto completo.]

Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro

Found at: https://ciudadseva.com/texto/el-brindis-del-bohemio/

________________________________________

En torno de una mesa de cantina,

una noche de invierno,

regocijadamente departían

seis alegres bohemios.

Los ecos de sus risas escapaban

y de aquel barrio quieto

iban a interrumpir el imponente

y profundo silencio.

El humo de olorosos cigarrillos

en espirales se elevaba al cielo,

simbolizando al resolverse en nada,

la vida de los sueños.

Pero en todos los labios había risas,

inspiración en todos los cerebros,

y, repartidas en la mesa, copas

pletóricas de ron, whisky o ajenjo.

Era curioso ver aquel conjunto,

aquel grupo bohemio,

del que brotaba la palabra chusca,

la que vierte veneno,

lo mismo que, melosa y delicada,

la música de un verso.

A cada nueva libación, las penas

hallábanse más lejos

del grupo, y nueva inspiración llegaba

a todos los cerebros,

con el idilio roto que venía

en alas del recuerdo.

Olvidaba decir que aquella noche,

aquel grupo bohemio

celebraba entre risas, libaciones,

chascarrillos y versos,

la agonía de un año que amarguras

dejó en todos los pechos,

y la llegada, consecuencia lógica,

del “feliz año nuevo”…

Una voz varonil dijo de pronto:

-las doce, compañeros;

digamos el “requiescat” por el año

que ha pasado a formar entre los muertos.

¡Brindemos por el año que comienza!

porque nos traiga ensueños;

porque no sea su equipaje un cúmulo

de amargos desconsuelos…

– Brindo, dijo otra voz, por la esperanza

que la vida nos lanza,

de vencer los rigores del destino,

por la esperanza, nuestra dulce amiga,

que las penas mitiga

y convierte en vergel nuestro camino.

Brindo porque ya hubiere a mi existencia

puesto fin con violencia

esgrimiendo en mi frente mi venganza;

si en mi cielo de tul limpio y divino

no alumbrara mi sino

una pálida estrella: Mi esperanza.

¡Bravo!, dijeron todos, inspirado

esta noche has estado

y hablaste bueno, breve y substancioso.

El turno es de Raúl; alce su copa

y brinde por… Europa,

ya que su extranjerismo es delicioso…

Bebo y brindo, clamó el interpelado;

brindo por mi pasado,

que fue de luz, de amor y de alegría,

y en el que hubo mujeres seductoras

y frentes soñadoras

que se juntaron con la frente mía…

Brindo por el ayer que en la amargura

que hoy cubre de negrura

mi corazón, esparce sus consuelos

trayendo hasta mi mente las dulzuras

de goces, de ternuras,

de dichas, de deliquios, de desvelos.

-Yo brindo, dijo Juan, porque en mi mente

brote un torrente

de inspiración divina y seductora,

porque vibre en las cuerdas de mi lira

el verso que suspira,

que sonríe, que canta y que enamora.

Brindo porque mis versos cual saetas

lleguen hasta las grietas

formadas de metal y de granito,

del corazón de la mujer ingrata

que a desdenes me mata…

¡pero que tiene un cuerpo muy bonito!

Porque a su corazón llegue mi canto,

porque enjuguen mi llanto

sus manos que me causan embelesos;

porque con creces mi pasión me pague…

¡vamos!, porque me embriague

con el divino néctar de sus besos.

Siguió la tempestad de frases vanas,

de aquellas tan humanas

que hallan en todas partes acomodo,

y en cada frase de entusiasmo ardiente,

hubo ovación creciente,

y libaciones, y reír, y todo.

Se brindó por la patria, por las flores,

por los castos amores

que hacen un valladar de una ventana,

y por esas pasiones voluptuosas

que el fango del placer llena de rosas

y hacen de la mujer la cortesana.

Solo faltaba un brindis, el de Arturo,

el del bohemio puro,

de noble corazón y gran cabeza;

aquel que sin ambages declaraba

que solo ambicionaba

robarle inspiración a la tristeza.

Por todos lados estrechado, alzó la copa

frente a la alegre tropa

desbordante de risa y de contento

los inundó en la luz de una mirada,

sacudió su melena alborotada

y dijo así, con inspirado acento:

-Brindo por la mujer, mas no por esa

en la que halláis consuelo en la tristeza,

rescoldo del placer ¡desventurados!;

no por esa que os brinda sus hechizos

cuando besáis sus rizos

artificiosamente perfumados.

Yo no brindo por ella, compañeros,

siento por esta vez no complaceros.

Brindo por la mujer, pero por una,

por la que me brindó sus embelesos

y me envolvió en sus besos;

por la mujer que me arrulló en la cuna.

Por la mujer que me enseñó de niño

lo que vale el cariño

exquisito, profundo y verdadero;

por la mujer que me arrulló en sus brazos

y que me dio en pedazos

uno por uno, el corazón entero.

¡Por mi madre!.. bohemios, por la anciana

que piensa en el mañana

como en algo muy dulce y muy deseado,

porque sueña tal vez que mi destino

me señala el camino

por el que volveré pronto a su lado.

Por la anciana adorada y bendecida,

por la que con su sangre me dio vida,

y ternura y cariño;

por la que fue la luz del alma mía;

y lloró de alegría

sintiendo mi cabeza en su corpiño.

Por esa brindo yo, dejad que llore,

que en lágrimas desflore

esta pena letal que me asesina;

dejad que brinde por mi madre ausente,

por la que llora y siente

que mi ausencia es un fuego que calcina.

Por la anciana infeliz que sufre y llora

y que del cielo implora

que vuelva yo muy pronto a estar con ella;

por mi madre, bohemios, que es dulzura

vertida en mi amargura

y en esta noche de mi vida, estrella…

El bohemio calló; ningún acento

profanó el sentimiento

nacido del dolor y la ternura,

y pareció que sobre aquel ambiente

flotaba inmensamente

un poema de amor y de amargura.