I often think of the month of May as belonging to my maternal grandmother, Helen Richardson Espy.  That’s because of two dates, May 5^th and May 28^th — datesthat more-or-less bracket the month.  The latter date was her birthday and the former, of course, is Cinco de Mayo.

Daniel Richardson

My grandmother was born in Mexico City on May 28, 1878.  Her father, Daniel Richardson, was attached to the American Legation there where he served from 1875 to 1879 in various assignments – as secretary, as consul general, and as chargé d’affaires.  Her mother, Annie Medora Taylor, was an American expatriate whose family had fled the war-ravaged South shortly after the end of the Civil War.

Dan and Annie met when he was 24 and she was just 18.  She had been raised in a household sympathetic to the ‘Southern Cause’ and had long since vowed that she would never marry a short man, a blond man, or a damnyankee.  Dan Richardson was all three.  Apparently, Dan had a lot of charisma; it took him less than a year to woo and marry the beautiful, auburn-haired Annie.

Family matters called Dan home to East Oakland, California in March 1879.  He returned, according to the account written by my Uncle Willard, with a bride, an infant, a nurse, four peons to carry the baby’s litter, and fifty cavalrymen to ward off bandits.  (Now that’s what I call travelling in style!)

Annie Medora Taylor Richardson

Although my great-grandmother lived in the United States for the rest of her life, her heart remained in Mexico.  Wrote Willard:  To her dying day, Grandma Richardson never felt at home in Yankee surroundings…Mexico remained her heart’s home.  When General Diaz fell ill at the time President Garfield was shot, grandma’s whole concern was for the sick Mexican;  Her Richardson in-laws explained to her, using charts, that our own President was her husband’s sixth cousin once remove, but she could not have cared less whether Garfield lived or died.

The small beaded glass salsa dishes in our china cupboard are reminders of my grandmothers Mexican ‘heritage,’ as is the memory of her soft r’s which we all knew were vestigial reminders that she had spoken only Spanish for her first six years – until she began school.  Her recipe book, too, contains notations regarding flan and Spanish rice and other dishes that were favorites because they reminded her of her mother.

I sometimes wonder if Cinco de Mayo would have meant anything to my grandmother or great-grandmother.  Or, did it become a popular holiday much, much later?  No matter, really.  For me, the date serves as a pleasant reminder of some of my favorite family stories and of the long-ago connection with Mexico that has always made it seem a place of color and romance to me.