Okay, back to Baja. This short one shouldn't bother anyone.
The Thing at Christmas
I never went to the Christmas things at the Concha but last year Marva insisted I go for a little while, brave the cold, have some chicken and punch,
shake some hands. So she dragged me along for gift giving at the annual DIF thing – that’s Desarrollo Familias y Infantiles, Mexico’s social
services agency. At this one you bring gifts and put them under a humongous tree for all the poor kids in the village.
The place was packed and the usual speeches were underway on the dais as we found seats among the many long tables around the big plaza. Almost
everyone knows us because the village is small and we are one of the few couples who live here year round; I knew the faces and some of the first
names, all the commerciantes.
There was a lot of family spillover at the tables and we were thrown in close to my neighbor Horacio the farmer, who looked about as happy as me to be
there. We don’t talk because of the blow up years ago when he left his truck radio on all night at full blast. After I had some words with him about
it I found out he had passed out, it was his 60th birthday and he got peey drunk. Sometimes when I’m out watering and he goes by on his little green
tractor he waves, I wave back.
One of his daughters, Rachel, was at our table and she had with her a child in a car seat thing right next to my place at the table. Rachel, Marva and
some others went up to talk to friends at the big tree and she left the child on her chair next to mine so I could watch the little boy. He was big,
too big for the seat thing – fat, like grampa (and the mother). His eyes glistened like black obsidian while he struggled with the bottle of
formula. It rolled away from him and he looked like he was gonna cry so I replaced it for him. He was busy sucking and trying to focus on my face,
figure out just what was so close but scary.
The fat little guy lifted his free hand away from the layers of bunting as though reaching out to me so I let him grasp my finger. It was a poor
substitute for the umbilical but it seemed to calm him, sooth him and before I could even be amazed the big black eyes closed and he fell fast asleep.
I was thinking “Damn, I wish I could do that – drop off in the middle of a glass of milk. Takes me hours to fall asleep.”
When the band finished their break and the music once again shattered every ear in the plaza, the little guy woke again and before the gals came back
we had a chance to chat and play a little. Rachel took advantage of the situation to visit friends around the tables, the big plaza, so after my
chicken and beans and some more punch I pretty much spent the shank of the evening with my new chubby buddy.
Later, at home in the dark of my room I lay in bed and wondered what it might be like to have a kid like that around the house. There would be some
downsides; I mean, where would he sleep? Not with me – couldn’t just leave him outside. And the dog – would the kid survive while our dog Joya
learned he wasn’t another chew toy? Also we’d have to buy new food and I don’t even know what to call food for babies, where to buy it, how
much to give him.
Well, I finally fell asleep and had a good night all and all. In the morning, over coffee, Marva said “Well, you seemed to get along pretty well
with Rachel’s baby. She’s a doll, those big eyes….”
“She, she? I thought it was boy.”
“No, her name is Jasmina.”
“Well, you shoulda said something…”
“Why? You two seemed to be getting along just fine. Look at these pictures of you and the baby Carmen Emailed me this morning. You’ll be famous,
old man, cause she puts them up all over the building at the DIF office and on the big bulletin board at the Delegación.”
“That’s not fair. Here I was showin’ him how to make a fist. Makes me look like I was givin’ the baby my best Spanish coochi coos. This one
shows up on Facebook, we’re sellin’ out and movin’ to Belize.”
woody with a view - 6-10-2017 at 09:18 AM
My grandparents raised me during my early years. Once I stopped biting ankles and became a booger eater Gramps would walk me around the block - Cape
May Ave and Saratoga St between Sunset Cliffs Blvd and Ebers St in OB during the late 60's. I can still remember holding onto his little finger like
it was yesterday! We'd always take a break so I could climb the front stairs at Sacred Heart Church for a minute or 10. Sure do miss that guy and that
place in time! BajaBlanca - 6-10-2017 at 07:37 PM
great stories guys! Going to the DIF and OB all in the same day's reading!pauldavidmena - 6-11-2017 at 09:27 AM
I found that my grandchildren couldn't get enough of touching my white hair. I would put them on my shoulders and they would run their little fingers
through it like a puffy cloud. Thanks for the memories, Jorge.Osprey - 6-11-2017 at 12:05 PM
Pablo, hate to burst your bubble but It might just be that they were merely admiring their work.
[Edited on 6-11-2017 by Osprey]pauldavidmena - 6-11-2017 at 05:29 PM
No, Amigo, "Their work" was turning your hair grey (white).
Their parents and grandmother did that. And yes, those skinny genes - I noticed my first gray hair at 19, and had visible streaks of gray in my 20s.
My two brothers - both younger - dye their hair, but they live in California, where I believe it's against the law to go gray.Martyman - 6-12-2017 at 10:56 AM
It seems like the only hair dye color for dudes is jet black or red.
Hey hair dye dudes! Everybody knows and it looks like crap. BornFisher - 6-12-2017 at 11:10 AM
