And after 102 years of life, it begs the question, how do you summarize it all? How do you quantify all the little details that make up a whole woman who seemed like she would outlast us all?
I could tell you that Amelia was a mother, grandmother, great grandmother and great, great grandmother. I could tell you that she was born in Mercedes, Texas and was the oldest of 10 children. That she didn’t go to school until about fourth grade because she helped care for her younger siblings. That, as a teen, she would beg her great grandfather to take her and her sisters to los bailes on Mile 14, and that she would return home covered in dust from kicking up dirt with every dance.
But you’ll never be able to hear her fluttery little laugh.
I could tell you that Amelia married young, was widowed in her 50s and never remarried. That she worked in the migrant fields alongside her late husband Ismael. That she was a seamstress who liked to sew in front of the TV while watching her novelas. That she used to whisper her prayers in quick succession before she fell asleep.
But you wouldn’t know the softness of her skin when she hugged you.
I could talk about how she used to wake up her youngest daughter Delia by dancing with her on the bed to make mornings before school more bearable. How she taught her son Ismael Jr. to spell after seeing his report card grades, which later led to him winning a spelling bee. How in her 80s, she became a travel companion to her oldest daughter Ofelia because she didn’t want her taking work trips alone. And how even in her 90s, Amelia still traveled to Houston to visit her sisters.
But you’ll never know the sound of her “t’lingy lingy” lullaby.
I could recount her routine of walking to her sister-in-law’s house next door — Comadre Elvira — to share coffee and pan dulce, only for Elvira to stop by Amelia’s house later in the day for another round. And how she loved to garden and work in the yard, to the point that once she got older, her son-in-law Carlos had to rig the lawn mower so it wouldn’t turn on in case she decided to try cutting the grass when no one was around to stop her.
I could tell you that many people called her Wela even if she wasn’t their grandma, that she raised four generations of kids, that she always had food in the house, which always smelled faintly of homemade flour tortillas. "Quieres algo pa comer?” she would ask whenever someone came to visit.
Our memories of Amelia only make up bits and pieces of her life. Like her standing over the stove in her long narrow kitchen, flipping tortillas with her bare hand. Or those floral dresses she always wore that she probably made herself, paired with a little cardigan to keep her warm. Her short, white, wavy hair that she wore in the same style every day.
It’s difficult to summarize 102 years of life for a woman who was so many things to so many people. Amelia Hinojosa Saenz was the matriarch of several generations of family she helped raise and care for. She will be missed more than words could ever say.
Amelia is survived by her children Ofelia Juarez, Ismael (Maria) Saenz Jr., Delia (Carlos) Salas, grandchildren Fabian (Nora) Juarez, Javier (Liza) Juarez, Israel (Elisa) Saenz, Normalinda (Eduardo) De La Rosa, Isaac (Jobina) Saenz, Jennifer (Max) Rodriguez, Stephanie (Israel) Torres Loya, Alyssa (Adolfo) Aviles, her great grandchildren Lea, Erik, Nathan, Beto, Ashley, Matthew, Ashton, Dezi, Mia, Jared, Jyselle, Jaslene, Romeo, Marilyn, Kayleigh, Kayliana, Kaycee, Aaron, her great, great grandkids Kathryn, Carolyn and Evelyn, and her siblings Adalia Esparza, Alicia Teter, Adelina Arechiga, Armando (Kathy) Hinojosa and Arnaldo Hinojosa.
She is preceded in death by her husband Ismael Saenz, her daughter Maria, her parents Justo and Dominga Hinojosa, siblings Amalia Gonzalez, Audelia Garza, Alberto Hinojosa, Aurora Hernandez, her grandson Aaron Juarez and son-in-law Juan Juarez.
