Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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Forgetful
Olvidadizo
I won’t say anything to Auralia now. Now is not the time but it was stupid to go to the church. I was like a hypocrite. The whole village saw me there
trying to look sad with the others. The whole thing was stupid. The service should have been held up in the mountains at San Angelica in the little
chapel there; up there with his people. These town people didn’t know the man, they couldn’t – they spend little time up in the mountains.
I’m glad the casket was closed. I didn’t want to see his face. There was a time when people had a reason to revere the man but that was very long ago.
I can hardly remember him when he was just a regular, hard working rancher with a big family.
Emiliano changed. He didn’t even try to hide his actions; the whole ranch family would watch him fondle the grandkids in ways that were more than
loving, natural, normal. The children only knew something was wrong from the looks in the eyes of the parents, from the sudden, frightening curses
spat out at the Don. The kids were hugged and coddled and sent to bed with sweet smiles and songs and care to erase any memory of the bad things that
happened that they did not understand.
I’m sure that the next morning everything would be back to normal, the whole clan laughing together over breakfast, the grandkids chasing the chickens
and goats, the smoke from the fire curling up through the big tamarindo, the peahens pecking away at unseen morsels around the big wreck of a table.
The problem was the money, the cows and the money. There were several good years in a row, good years for cows, good money from the buyers in Los
Planes. That meant there was money for tequila – I think the tequila was part of the devil’s work at the ranch. When the Don would have too much
tequila, the trouble with los nietos grew to serious proportions. Within one early summer the Don’s daughters, Lula and Yadira moved to Miraflores to
live with their aunt, taking the three grandkids with them. Less than a month later Doña Margarita left the old man to join them. In the end there was
only Ivana, his oldest daughter whose kids were grown, to stay and do the washing, cook his meals, keep the pila full and repair the corral.
Emiliano had always been a slow moving, easy going man who took his time about almost everything. When we would take our chairs down by the little
stream to sit and watch the birds it would take him all morning to drink one beer, eat one orange. We would talk about the future, the ranchos, the
government. He was very smart, very deliberate, cunning – slow but cunning. I looked up to him then – to me he was like a rich uncle who lived in
harmony with nature up in the mystical mountains.
It could have been worse I guess. There are many kids with special needs that come down from the mountains. Everybody knows about it but nobody talks.
As far as I know all the Alvarez kids and grandkids are normal and healthy. At fiesta in August, when the whole town and families from miles around
are on the beach, at play in the water, you might see some special kids from around here. You would have to be blind not to notice how they are
treated, by the parents, the other kids; their glaring differences are washed away by the splashing surf, the special loving played over them – I’ve
heard parents of such children count themselves blessed, not burdened, because they believe they were specially chosen to be the care-givers. I think,
for those parents of children made special but not by caprice of God or nature, forgiveness must be very long in coming.
Seems like I am surrounded by those who have an abundance of the virtue of forgiveness. Auralia probably thinks I am too strict, too rigid in my
thinking, that I lack forgiveness. I keep my own counsel. She will never know all the little things I have forgiven her for over the years. The list
gets shorter as I grow older, more forgetful. Maybe forgetfulness is my virtue.
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bajalera
Super Nomad
Posts: 1875
Registered: 10-15-2003
Location: Santa Maria CA
Member Is Offline
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Maybe. Or maybe writing good stuff is.
\"Very few things happen at the right time, and the rest never happen at all. The conscientious historian will correct these defects.\" -
Mark Twain
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