She was the best of what God intended. 

In 99 years of life, Consuelo Torres Hernandez outlived two husbands, both World War II veterans, one killed in action in Belgium, the other stationed in Iceland; two sons, two sons-in-law, and one daughter.

Consuelo gave life to 13 children, and gave light to 41 grandchildren, 61 great-grandchildren, and 12 great-great grandchildren — 127 direct descendants in all, not to mention so many in-laws, mixed families, and friends of the family who never hesitated to use her most-cherished honorific, Grandma Connie. 

In 99 years of life, this immigrant from Michoacan, Mexico (who was brought to California at the age of 4, and came to Santa Barbara at the age of 14) was recognized for her gifted penmanship in the second grade, played the piano and composed her own music, worked in the hat department at Robinsons (which opened its Santa Barbara store in 1967), and won an award for her lemon meringue pies at the Goleta Lemon Festival.

She had sewed satin-tipped blankets for newborns and all-satin pillowcases for the girls and ladies (telling us, “it’s better for your skin than cotton”); bought gloves, handkerchiefs, and pajama sets for the boys (“all men should have them”); drove a black Cadillac for a time; talked of hibiscus flowers and red roses; grew new geraniums from fresh cuts off an old one; and even noted how much she liked White Horse whiskey the first time she tried it.

She loved the old days on State Street, the feeling of “reunion” with other longtime Latinos every year on Fiesta weekend, and all the spots around town she where she would go to dress up and dance.

She was a classic woman, a classy lady, and she recognized the beauty in all of life. 

In 99 years of life, Grandma Connie (pronounced more like “Gramma”) never hesitated to offer her sense of humor to her family and friends. In fact, she once said she looked forward to reading the obituaries every day, just to see how those same family and friends were doing.

More often, though, she retold stories of her grandkids with such complete and thorough joy. There was the time she was nearly halfway to her job in Carpinteria before realizing she had one of her grandsons in the back seat, quietly trusting Gramma to take him to school, whether by the usual route or the more scenic route. She would tell that story, and then laugh, and laugh. . .

We also know the details of the time one of her granddaughters — maybe 5 years old, if that — walked into her house, irate as an adult, complaining that her teenage brothers refused to stop to “watch the mariachis.”

Gramma couldn’t help herself; that one of her granddaughters would take an almost moral stand (and curse her own brothers) about experiencing a mariachi performance during Fiesta weekend amused her down to her bones. She would tell that story, and then laugh, and laugh. . .

There was also the time one of her grandsons — one she cared for as her adopted own — looked around at the back seat of her Buick that he had decorated with markers, food, and the dirt and grass of the outdoors that he had brought inside, and said, “Gramma, I think you need a new car,” to which she retorted, “I think I need a new grandson.” 

Dozens of her grandchildren knew what it was to stay up well past bedtime, share a snack: some vanilla ice cream, or toast with cinnamon, sugar, and condensed milk, or a slice of her apple pie, or one of her scone-like sugar cookies, or some leftover pan dulce.

Sometimes it was a cup of hot coffee after 9 p.m. Together, we would learn to solve crimes by watching “Murder She Wrote,” “Matlock,” “Spencer for Hire,” “Father Dowling Mysteries,” “Walker Texas Ranger,” and so on

On these late nights we all learned about her pinhole glasses, the ones that looked like sunglasses with tiny holes all over the lenses, and how they were supposed to be for her eye health, but really just allowed her to “rest her eyes” when it became past her own bedtime. 

If you were gifted enough, you would have witnessed her smile, and full uninhibited laugh with the family and friends that knew her best.

She was as sharp as she was playful, and she nurtured both in her children, and in the many grandchildren she helped raise at a young age, that lived with her in adulthood, and learned to love the world because of her.

Woven into all of these stories in her 99 years of life was a deep connection to her culture, expressed in small notes and consistent habits that revealed the colors of her heart. This bond invited longing, as if that longing was an expression of respect and to honor where she came from.

If you knew her at any time in the last 20 years, you probably heard a repeat of Marco Antonio Solis singing in Spanish: “There’s nothing more difficult than living without you,” but in the same softness, cadence, and language she grew up with.

On any morning, daytime, or evening, she would meet with her sisters and comadres to share stories, share lessons, share meals, coffee and dessert. They would laugh, advise, comfort, and grow up and grow old together.

She taught this practice to her own daughters, nieces, granddaughters, and so on. It is a deeply rooted practice of care and love for many Mexicans, more so for so many Mexican women, even if they’d only tell you, “We just had coffee together.” 

Food was another way she brought her cultural wealth forward. She often had yerba buena, jalapenos, or cilantro growing in the yard, less what you might think of as a garden, but making good use of some empty corner of dirt in the yard, nonetheless.

Sometimes she would open the wild cucumbers native to Southern California that grew in the space behind the house, and remember that as a little girl, she would open a similar spiny fruit to see the large, colorful seeds inside. She wondered if they were the same plants, but she said she remembered the seeds differently. 

It was a familiar sight to observe an apron, a deep cast-iron pan, and a resting comal ready for use in her kitchen; you might find yours at Williams-Sonoma, but she often procured hers from any thrift store she would frequently browse around town.

Besides baking pies, cookies, and her own style of buñuelos, she almost always had a bowl of masa and flour ready to go in case fresh tortillas were needed, should she or any unannounced guest be hungry. 

Flour tortillas were a staple, and the dishes she cooked and kept on the stove — from fideo to albondigas to simple beans and rice — asked for tortillas to be used as another utensil along with a fork or spoon; her best dishes were a two-handed affair.

Of course, her secret salsa recipe would be waiting in the fridge, made from memory, stored in any reused jar or plastic container she had in the kitchen, no two versions of the recipe exactly alike. Sharing food, like having coffee, was a necessary component of her love and affection. 

That attachment to culture wasn’t without challenges. With 13 children born in the U.S., she lamented that they were detached from where she came from and that, amid pressures to assimilate to American culture, they had steered themselves away from many of the cultural markers that she held onto.

She loved her six sons and seven daughters, and caring for them asked much of her; she did her best with what little she had, and prayed that God’s patience would help with the rest. 

She once told a story that when she sent her kids to schools amid so much anti-Mexican sentiment in the 1940s and ’50s, she was given a warning about speaking Spanish to her kids at home.

“You are not a citizen,” was the phrase she held onto.

This was at the same time as the Truman and Eisenhower administrations pushed brutal deportation actions and pressure to “become” American (like Operation Wetback that removed 300,000 people, including many U.S. citizens, to Mexico).

Language was a significant anchor to her culture, but when local officials in Santa Barbara threatened her with consequences, she complied, and halted speaking Spanish at home to her kids. It changed the family trajectory for the remainder of her life.  

If you asked her to tell the story of her arrival from Michoacan, she would tell you about her older brother Florencio. Florencio, she said, was responsible for bringing the family to California when she was a child, and their eventual destination in Santa Barbara.

She would speak of him with adoration; he was a kind, caring and handsome man. But when World War II broke out, and the military draft was implemented, the only news her parents heard from the war was of suffering and death.

Even while her own husband prepared to serve the country, her parents told Florencio not to go. He went back to Mexico out of duty to his parents and their wishes.

When the war ended, and Florencio desired to return to be with his family, he was told he would have to serve jail time for dodging the draft. So he stayed in Mexico, and the brother she admired most passed away in his 40s, years before he should have. He died of a heart attack; she said she believed he died of a broken heart. 

For much of her 99 years, she remained steadfast in her desire to be a source of warmth, of comfort, of refuge and a safe harbor to anyone she met.

If you said something she disagreed with, she would nod with a “Mmm,” and then change the subject.

It was more important to her to maintain good relations — to meet each other where we do good and find wonder — than to maintain or win a debate.

Her front door was usually unlocked, not as an invitation to enter, but as a reminder that you were entering a place of God’s own love; Catholic churches traditionally left their doors unlocked, too.

She often had a spare couch, or a spare room, if you needed a place for the night, or had nowhere else to go for the long term.

These were just the finer touches on her tendency to have hot coffee, hot food, a gentle hug, and a listening ear to all of her guests. It was this same tendency that prompted so many of her grandkids to think they were her favorite, owing to her ability to make everyone feel special, loved, and listened to.

You see, as a devoted Catholic, she knew that good works and care for others was how each person is asked to model God’s own image. It wasn’t that she often told the parable of “the man and the flood” who refused God’s help through other people three times, being too proud to see and accept it amid uncertainty and danger.

It wasn’t just how she told the lesson of the poor woman who was in God’s grace because she offered the pennies she had to the church while wealthy men gave hundreds and thousands of dollars — the woman gave all she had to the church to do good, and they gave very little compared to their overall wealth. 

It wasn’t just that she regularly donated to Catholic Charities, or went to mass regularly, or prayed in a church on some weekday morning if she felt she needed a quiet moment to reflect on the nature of grace. It wasn’t just that she would push back on casual racism and accept all of her grandchildren with unconditional love, either. 

In her 99 years on this earth, every highlight and story about her speaks of a devotion to what is good, a faith full of grace. Even amid the tensions that she lived in and a world that tested her, she lived without regret.

She was a gift, a light, and an example we could only hope to mirror. When we are generous with our time, when we repeat her lessons and habits, when we do good in the world, when we offer care and patience, we are simply mirroring that love she practiced with us; we become echoes of her life, evidence of a legacy, riding in her gentle wake.

She was the best of what God intended. She lived in that tension between the world as it is, and the love she could offer it. She made the best of life. She met it with class, with humor, with the heritage she carried forward, with genuine grace and kindness. 

And we got to see the best of her. We got to see what God intended — to love, no matter what.

A rosary and funeral mass will be held at Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish, 227 N. Nopal St., in Santa Barbara.

The rosary will be at 7 p.m. Monday, June 16; a funeral mass is scheduled for 11 a.m. Tuesday, June 17. A celebration of life will welcome all at Manning Park following the mass, with a private interment at Calvary Cemetery to be held at a later date.