The Trio

The nurse pushes open the heavy doors and motions us through. My mom stuffs her book into her purse and stands even as I gather everything else to follow her back to my dad’s recovery area. The nurse leads us to his bedside and methodically reads aloud his post- surgical instructions. He smiles, awake but still faintly woozy as a doctor assures us all has gone well in this procedure needed for a larger surgery the following week.

It is just the three of us together this day, a rare configuration in our now large family. Then the feeling starts somewhere in between my shoulders and flutters shyly up each vertebrae, so softly and gently I first can’t identify it. But like a half remembered dream, it takes simple structure.

From my birth ( their firstborn) until the coming of my sister ( their second born) 15 months later, it had been just the three of us: my mom, my dad, and me. My earliest memories stretch back to this time of just the trio, and the feeling blooms into a warm satisfaction as I pin it down and recognize it; how it felt on the maidenhead voyage of the family. I roll it around and savor it as we load the car.

My mom does not like to drive in big city traffic and my dad is still under the effects of anesthesia, so I drive them through town to an IHOP where my dad looks forward to ending his surgical fast.

Although their hard work has given them a very comfortable lifestyle, they are both delighted this place offers a generous senior citizen discount. And no, the waitress tells my dad, although I am retired now, I cannot qualify for a senior citizen’s discount until I am 55.  I smile, mostly to myself, and watch them interact.

The joking back and forth and the wry give and take between them have been honed for over 53 years. I realize with a start that they are both older than my grandparents were when I first started thinking of them as elderly.

My mom hands me her tea glass, imploring me to take a sip, just to see if it tastes right, and I notice the crook in the first joint of her index finger is now also mine. My dad makes a play on words just as the same pun comes into my mind, chuckling at his own joke in a laugh that could be the blueprint of my own.

We stand to leave and  gather things again, but not before my mom has tried to get me to eat food from her plate because she doesn't think my salad was enough, while my dad checks the ticket carefully, ensuring the discount for the two of them has been correctly applied.

As I pull the keys from my purse, my mom pats my shoulder and thanks me again for the help I’ve given them today; tells me for the umpteenth time she doesn’t know what they’d do without me.

The reality, though, is that although our family is now grown large and I once fiercely fought for my independence from these two, I still don’t know what I’d do without them.

The Fortress

"What do you  notice? " my husband asked as he looked all around the colonial era town square in which we were now standing.

I thought for a moment. "Pretty much everything," I told him. "I just can't believe it all. It's like we've stepped back in time 200 years."

This tiny hamlet which was the object of our exploration was founded at the dawn of the 1800's when this part of Texas was still under Spanish rule. People, though, had lived there since long before, both settlers and Native Americans alike.

We'd come, with our two daughters and our son-in-law, in search of a small, historic fortress built by a Senor Uribe to shelter his family and others from vicious attacks by the Comanches and Apaches. We'd found it, integrated into the back streets with the other caramel colored sandstone and mortar homes, just a street width from the Rio Grande, with Mexico so close we could smell her flowers. The historic walls stood, intact and untouched, as they did when they provided a secure haven for refuge seekers. The sundial put into place by Senor Uribe in 1825 pointed its face heavenward, still shadowing the hours.

(You can still see the cut marks where these stones were chiseled for fit.)

(The sundial is at the top, with what resembles an arrow sticking through it.)

Chickens strutted their way through silent streets, poking their beaks into the dust.

"I've never heard a populated place so quiet, so serene, " he remarked as he snapped pictures of the multi-hued sky, colored by the lowering sun. He regaled the three younger ones with a story of how when he was 10, and in town with his family for a reunion, he had been plucked from playing with his cousins in this very town square by a priest in need of an altar boy for a wedding, despite his protestations he didn't know what to do. His grandparents were wedding guests and looked on with first surprise and then barely disguised amusement at the sudden appearance of their grandson in the wedding.

Amid our laughter, he and our son-in-law moved off to read a nearby historical marker while the girls climbed up into the gazebo in the middle of the square and danced a silly waltz together. Cicadas and crickets churred from the nearby river as I wandered off with the camera. I turned a corner and was taken with this structure.

I moved in for these closeups when I heard a tap-tapping behind me.

(If you enlarge this picture, you can see the General Merchandise sign as well as the intricate stone work behind the plaster.)

An ancient, khaki-clad man using a cane, a small herd of cats following closely behind, smiled a greeting. "Lovely evening, isn't it?" he asked. He motioned to my family in the square. " You all are a happy bunch, aren't you?" I grinned and explained to him why we were there.

He tapped the walls of the fort behind us. "My great-great grandfather once fled here when he was a little boy. A neighboring family had been attacked  by the Comanche in the night, and his house was next on the trail. They made it here in time, " he chuckled a bit. "Obviously, or I wouldn't be here to tell you about it!"

I asked him if his family lived here with him. He shook head and pointed to the cats. "It's just me and them, " he explained as a tabby wrapped itself around his leg.  He steadied himself with the cane. "My only boy was killed in Vietnam and my wife passed away about five years ago. So it's just me and the cats." He bent and rubbed the head of one. "We've got a pretty good life, though, don't we?" he cooed as the cats purred so loudly I could hear them.

Fireflies now gleamed softly and randomly. Fairy lights ringing the gazebo warmly illuminated the girls who were still dancing light-hearted dances together.

With one arm on the fortress wall to steady himself, he gestured at my husband, daughters, and son-in-law across the street in the square. "You have a beautiful family. You know, families are like this fortress. Strong, and they keep everyone safe and sheltered. Weak, and they collapse and let all the attackers in. We've got to keep those walls strong, " he said as he tipped his cap and slowly tapped his way back down the street, the cats keeping careful pace after him.

(And it's taken me two years, but this is finally my 200th post!)

The Run of His Life

His heart beat so fast that moonless night that it threatened to explode from his chest. He buried his face into the dry ground, heaving bits of broken twigs and brittle leaves into his mouth and nose. Desperate as he was for air, his driving thought was only silence, not to make a sound.

He soon heard the fast canter of horses and the staccato commands in Spanish the horse men spoke to each other as they covered ground faster than he thought possible. Face down in a grove of mesquite trees, he pulled his ancient .22 rifle under him and willed himself to blend in with the ground, chameleon like.

It had seemed like a desperate idea, but good one at the time to his 13 year old mind. His family was hungry. Since his mom had kicked his abusive, alcoholic dad out of the house once and for all, food had been scarce. It ripped his heart to hear his little sisters whimper from hungry bellies as they slept. It made his soul ache to hear his mama weep softly at night when she thought they were all asleep.

He was old enough to help out and this big ranch that bordered his town was one of the most expansive in the world. He'd even heard President Woodrow Wilson had come hunting here once, and Teddy Roosevelt still came for adventures. This ranch had plenty of wild deer and hogs, more than enough to keep his family from starving, and all the other hungry ones.

But this ranch also had a reputation; maybe based in truth, but also maybe just to intimidate. Trespassers were not welcome, particularly not poaching trespassers. Even hungry ones. The ranch owners let it be known that  trespassers would be shot, no questions asked, and their bodies buried where they fell. There'd been too many tales of people who'd disappeared, last seen headed for the ranch lands, to discount any threat like that as idle.

And now, here he was, caught in the cross hairs of an armed, mounted search party. Judging by their clipped and purposeful commands to each other, they were on to him. His threadbare overalls didn't do much to protect his skin from the mesquite thorns that swaddled him in this low slung stand of trees. His bare feet, though leathery tough, were still nicked and cut from the harsh stones he couldn't see in the inky black during his stumbling run. Despite all, though, he kept still, even when a horse's hoof clomped so near that the dirt it kicked up spattered the back of his head.

He exhaled slowly as the rider moved on, sweeping the  range with the net of the other riders. He knew they'd be back; that was their way. They wouldn't quit until they found their prey.

He made his decision, and later, when others spoke of this night, they would brand his choice as foolish, but at this point, nothing mattered except getting off that godforsaken place and back to his home with mama and his little sisters.

He moved, ever so slowly at first, drawing himself inch by inch to a crouched position. He couldn't hear the riders anymore, but he had no idea which way to run because he'd gotten hopelessly turned around in the first chase.

An instinct he'd never had before arose so quickly that it hit his legs before thought came and he was running, blindly, without even the rifle, running sightlessly into the opaque night through tangled brush groves that slapped and pierced his face, through a merciless gauntlet of needle-like yucca leaves, and through what else he didn't know, just that his legs kept driving him.

His breath came in little yips now, and at one point he realized the warmth on his bare feet was blood oozing from a dozen wounds, but he plowed on.

He felt the blinding agony when the front of his foot banged into a rock that launched him into what felt like tiny fires of hell. Stunned, he rolled and knew then he had plunged headfirst into a looming cactus. The adrenaline, though, that fueled his flight pulled him back onto his feet, made him forget the countless cactus spines that drove through him now, and pushed him on.

People later estimated he ran more than three hours that night, so turned around he was, until he was able to come to a clearing just as the sun broke the horizon and get his bearings.

He was incoherent when the railroad yard man found him, so swollen and bloody and bruised and with hardly a stitch of his overalls intact that he didn't look human.

It took several days for Mama and the other good ladies who came to care for him to piece together what had actually happened to him that night. They almost lost him from a fever that then came on him and damaged his heart. But he pulled through, once again.

And not once, not ever in his long life to come, even though he grew to live in a fine house so close to it that his back yard abutted one of its fences, did he ever set foot on that ranch again.  

My grandma was one of those little sisters in this story who had to go to bed hungry. She and all her siblings, as well as her mama, revered this eldest brother who continued to look after and care for them all.

Dish Washing

My mind clattered with the ideas of the home renovation we are planning. Our talks now centered on modernizing the kitchen, making it into a more efficient space. I couldn't quite settle on what I actually wanted. We have almost all of the latest amenities in this kitchen, except one.

We don't have an automatic dishwasher. It's all done by hand. We live in the house my grandfather built for my grandmother when they were newly married. To put a dishwasher in when we first moved would have required a major plumbing reroute and obliterated some of the hand hewn cabinets and tall counters he carpentered himself, especially to fit her height. My great grandmother (who lived with them) and my grandmother spent much time in this kitchen, flavoring it with themselves as much as they did with their foods.

This evening, a stack of dishes sat in the sink, as uncamoflauged as cellulite in string bikini, awaiting me to bathe and rinse, to burnish  and dry. I'd already waved off my family's help, preferring to settle into the silence of the kitchen as a peaceful denouement to a frenetic day.

I shot a glance out the window as I quickly gathered pots from the stove and added them to the pile in the sink. The hot water cascaded from the faucet, roiling billowy suds while soothing my hands and easing warmth and fluidity back into them.

The window directly above the sink, four paned on each of the two panels, provided a perfect frame for the swelling sunset.

Like a mother bringing her children in for the night, the rapidly descending sun pulled swathes of warm light from every reach of the sky. Delicate violets chased a vibrant array of pinks and oranges, soon touching noses with each other and melding into an ethereal pallet.

The moon, unused to sharing dominion, escalated a growing luminosity in the eastern heavens. The sun, unwilling to cede control just yet, readied her final salvo.

An old barn with open windows used back in the day when hay bales were passed through them stood to the west, glorying in the waning sun like a faded starlet in the spotlights of a stage. The far western window of the barn captured the fancy of the sun, able to hold for only a moment an exquisite assemblage of the deepest purples, scarlets, and blues, streaking outwards with a last vigorous push. Then quickly and without further fanfare, the sun pulled her children to her bosom and departed for the night.

The stars peeked out from their velvety black blanket in sparkling support of the now glorious moon. The planets, constellations, and meteors joined in to regale a quieted earth with ancient beauty.

I looked over at my daughter's unlined teenaged hands that had poked back into the sink help me. Hers were the fifth generation of hands that had washed dishes at this sink, the fifth generation of eyes that had soaked in the loveliness of a sunset framed by that barn window.

I smiled. We don't need to install a dishwasher. Not at all.  

    

A Family Always

"Come on, David, you need to be a part of the group and not lag behind," I reminded the lanky, dark headed 8th grader in whispered tones as we moved through the Holocaust museum. Hands in his pockets, he averted his eyes and sniffed a little, but joined the back of the group.

He was a tough one. He had transferred into our school district, sent by an overwhelmed mom to live with his dad and stepmom. He resisted efforts from the other kids to include him in their groups and discussions and showed disdain for his parents and their rules. He had once written in a journal he had no family, although clearly both his mom and his dad were trying their very best to keep him on a safe path.

He showed little emotion when other students were visibly moved in our reading of Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl and the related study on the Holocaust. Mostly, he appeared disinterested.

Now that we were touring a renowned Holocaust museum, he looked away as the docents explained the exhibits. Even as we stood in an actual rail car that transported Jews to Auschwitz, he assumed the stance of the bored; hands in pockets, head back.

I matched my steps to his, to ensure he didn't slip away from the group. "What do you think so far, David?" I asked him as we moved into the next gallery.

He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

The docent led us to a group of pictures of Latvians about to be executed by Nazis and Latvian collaborators. This picture in particular has always pierced me deeply and we stopped in front of it.

 

 

Our docent explained, "These women from the Epstein family had been forced to strip and were about to face a firing squad. Their dead relatives and neighbors are all around them. The elderly woman in the middle was not a part of their family. The mother of the girls, Sorella (some sources call her Rosa) Epstein, second from left, saw her, pulled her over with her daughters, and they all linked arms together. They didn't want this elderly woman to die alone, so they included her in their family."

 

My students couldn't take their eyes off the picture as she continued. 

 

"You can see that even though everything else had been brutally stolen from them, down to their very lives, Sorella and her daughters valued family enough to hold on to it until the end. Even in their last moments they stretched their family to include this woman, so she could die with family next to her."

 

The docent moved to the next set of pictures and the students followed, again with David staying behind on a bench near the picture. I moved closer and around to the side, and although he still couldn't see me, I watched him.

 

He stared intently at the picture. I wondered what he was thinking although I didn't have to wonder very long what he was feeling. A lone tear streaked down his cheek. He pulled the collar of his shirt over his face and wiped it quickly. He raised his head, looked at the picture again, and then turned and joined me.

 

We walked a few steps and I patted his back and asked, "What do you think?"

 

He cleared his throat as we joined the rest of the group. "Family," he said as he nodded his head. "Family."

 



A Tumble in the Family Rankings

"It's in the old phone book in the far right drawer of the credenza, " my mom instructed. "You know, in the list."

I nodded, even though we were talking on the phone. "I remember- I'll get it and then call you."

My dad was recuperating in the hospital in a nearby city from a knee replacement surgery (and doing well) and my mom had asked me to find the phone number of their air conditioner repairman and call her with it before we headed to the hospital. She feared a leak was beginning somewhere in the ceiling with the new system they have.

As I drove to their house, I thought about the old phone book. Since my childhood, there has been some version of that book in that same drawer she described.  My parents are smart; my mom is a retired teacher and my dad is a retired school superintendent, and normally they are well organized in all they do. Except...except for the phone book.

Rather than get a PDA, or even a formal address book, they use one of their phone books to write in phone numbers; phone numbers of people in descending order of importance to contact in case of emergencies, phone numbers of out of town people belonging to various organizations they are in, phone numbers of various repairmen and tractor parts stores, etc. Thus, my trek down to find the number of their air conditioner man.

Although I hadn't seen the book in years, I went right to the drawer where I knew it would be and pulled out the latest incarnation of the book. I scanned the inside the front cover and saw the names and numbers of people from their church and from their 50th high school reunion. Other numbers were written in the margin, but not the one I was looking for.

I flipped to the back inside cover. There was the "Emergency Contacts" list. It was so long it was stapled on and consumed several sheets of paper. Before I even read it, I puffed up a bit, knowing that I would be at the top of that list. After all, I am the oldest child in my family, I gave them their first grandchildren, I am the executor of their will, I went to their alma mater...

However, at the top of the list was my husband's name and number, followed by that of my children. Then, my siblings' numbers as well as those of their families. Then, my aunts and uncles and some cousins. Hmmm.

I kept reading. Their doctors' numbers were next, then their pastor's number, then the neighbor five miles down the road. Then came the tractor salesman, the number of the neighbor of the Amish enclave where they buy chickens, and the number of a man who does custom hay baling. Now, we were bleeding over onto another page.

There was the vet's number, the feed store number, the Dell hotline number, and then the one I was looking for; the air conditioner repairman's number.

But where was mine??? I reminded myself this didn't matter. My parents make it obvious they love us all equally. This was nothing in the grand scheme of things. I continued.

There was the number to the Help Desk at Walmart, the customer service number at NetFlix, and the garden supply store. A number for a scrap metal place and one for the local cotton gin followed.

I continued scanning until I eventually spotted mine, wedged between the number for Subway takeout and the automated line for movie listings.

And. my. name. was. misspelled.

Instead of Shelly it was "Selly".

I am puffed up no more! Prideful of my first born position no longer! But I did leave one change in the book. When they open it again, they will find SHELLY written in one inch block letters at the very top of the list. In red. And underlined. Not that it matters or anything...

The Art of Sleep

There are nights when I have difficulty getting enough sleep. I'm not feeling unduly stressed about anything in particular, but my mind is so revved from the day's activities and what I want to accomplish the next day and the next... that sleep becomes the bashful child who can't be coaxed out of her hiding place.

During summers or on long weekends when I was a kid, my intrepid grandmother would gather as many of her grandchildren as she could fit into her car and trek us to her family's uninhabited heritage ranch, short on modern amenities but teeming with the spacious peace born of sheer isolation.

After a full day riding horses, exploring far flung pastures, fishing, and poking around in old barns, my cousins, siblings, and I scouted for a place to bunk down for the night.

My favorite was the sleeping porch, set off to the east side of the house and adjacent to a large white cistern, full of the rainwater funneled in from the tin roof. If I was quick, I got dibs on the porch swing and would carefully spread my blanket and pillow on it.

My cousins and siblings might take one of the hammocks that used to languidly swing there, not even needing a blanket in the cocoon of the form fitting fabric. The ones slower to stake out their claim ended up on a quilt on the floor, still comfortable in the way they are before age demands the comfort of a supportive mattress.

The littlest one or two slept with my grandma in her designated bed, the one that had belonged to her grandparents.

The lack of air conditioning did not bother anyone, even in the blazing evenings of summer. The window at the foot of her bed stayed open, cajoling a sweet coolness from the delicate night breeze.

Once settled in, the ballad of the night owls began in a velvety chorus as they set off on their nocturnal search for food. The cicadas and crickets chirred their way deep into the night, singing their hymn of thanks at the disappearance of the sun.

The horses, pastured just 20 feet from the porch, nickered their throaty refrains. The coyotes' howl picked up the tempo but was not frightening. On the contrary, it was a reassuring underlay to the symphony that surrounded us.

The jasmine and the honeysuckle intertwined and released their gifts into the night, caressing away any lingering nettles from the day.

The body slowly relaxed and stretched out, muscle fiber by muscle fiber, nerve by nerve; lengthening, loosening, and unkinking. The mind followed the lead of the body, until sleep sang her grand aria behind closed eyelids.

I don't need an Ambien. Just give me a pillow and an old porch swing.

Getting Dirty

The hum of the tiller harmonized with the birds singing their gossip from the tops of the trees. Several stray bees danced a dizzy pattern near my head and I ducked to avoid them. The muscles in my husband's back knotted and twisted through his sweat soaked t shirt as he forced the swirling tines deeper into the ground, causing a pinwheel of black loam to churn outwards.

I used the rake to claw loose the detached strands of grass, pulling them into a heap at the corner of the large patch we were preparing for a new planting of featherweight flower seeds. The green aroma stored in the now mangled blades of grass saturated the air with fragrant liberation.

I knelt to dislodge a few rocks from the loose soil and the velvety softness of the fine earth captivated me. I plunged my hand further downwards until it was covered to my wrist with the rich blackness. Deep stillness and peace infused me.

A wiry grass snake, disturbed from his resting place, did not even fluster me as he undulated past my arm in pursuit of more settled surroundings.

A few more swipes with the rake and then the temptation overrode everything else. I slipped off my shoes and let my toes sink into the supple cushion of sod, more lush than the finest fabric. The rake fell away and I dug my feet all the way in. The warm top layer of dirt gave way to the cooler, moist layers. If I had paid for a spa treatment,  I couldn't have been more luxuriously cosseted.

I knelt all the way down and inhaled deeply. The dirt, something I fight so heartily indoors, whispered gently to me. Old as the planet itself, it spoke of stability, of constancy, of the life that used to be and of the new life yet to come.

I plunged my hands in once more and felt something small and smooth. I pulled it up. It was a winsome brown button. I smiled. This was also a plot where my grandmother and my great grandmother before her tilled their gardens.

And that great continuum of what they put into the land and what it gave back to them, and what I was putting into the land and what it would give back to me, moved onward through its steady course.

A Bean in the Pot

These are two of my great- great grandmother's ollas, (cooking pots) she mainly used to prepare frijoles, (beans) in.

When she, her husband and their children first came to Texas, times were more than difficult. They sunk all their money into farm land and a long drought hit their part of the state soon after. They lost one child to whooping cough because there was no doctor nearby, and even if there had been one, there wouldn't have been money to pay him.

Most of their cattle died and the crops couldn't grow in the rocky soil that had mostly turned to dust in the absence of rain. My great- great grandfather found work where he could, but they were hanging on by their toenails. What kept them from starving was the lowly regarded pinto bean. Cheap to buy and easy to store, but most of all nutritious and filling, sometimes beans and tortillas were all they had to eat for weeks at a time.

In later years when their perseverance and hard work brought them a measure of affluence, she never discarded her ollas, and in fact never discarded frijoles from their diet, so thankful was she for how they had sustained her family in the lean times. She always said as long as she had a bean in the pot, she considered herself a wealthy woman. Since she was my grandmother's grandmother, she died long before I was born, but I've heard many stories of her strength and determination. I have her ollas in a prominent place in our family room, to remind us of where true wealth is found.

Frijole Recipe

1 pound dry pinto beans (Some folks use black beans)
12 cups water, divided
6 ounces salt pork, sliced
2 cups chopped fresh tomatoes
1 cup chopped onion
4 to 6 whole fresh serrano peppers or 2 to 3 jalapeño peppers
2 cloves garlic, sliced
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup chopped cilantro (loosely packed)

Makes 8 to 10 Servings

Sort and rinse beans. Place in a large pot; add 6 cups water. Soak overnight or for at least 6 hours in the refrigerator.

Drain beans. Add 6 cups fresh water and the salt pork. Bring to a boil; reduce heat and simmer for 1 hour. Then add tomatoes, onion, peppers, garlic and salt. Cook until tender, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Add water occasionally to keep the beans soupy.

Adjust salt if needed. Add cilantro at serving time. Hold on low heat. Remove whole peppers and use as a garnish, or break one in two and leave in the pot if you want spice.

*Note- Some people prefer to use a quick boil method instead of soaking the beans overnight. That will also render beans to be soft, but the overnight soaking also helps negate one of the more potent side effects of beans; namely gas.






If you want a heartier dish, these are Frijoles Charros, or Cowboy Beans, that were often eaten by  the cowboys when they worked the open range.

Frijoles Charros

Serves 8

Ingredients

• 1 pound of beans
• 2 cloves of peeled garlic
• 1 white onion (1/2 whole, 1/2 chopped)
• 2 chopped tomatoes
• 3 tablespoons of chopped fresh cilantro
• Salt
• Water
• 1 teaspoon of powdered chicken broth
• 1 sliced serrano or jalapeno pepper
• 5 ounces of bacon cut into small pieces
• 5 ounces of chorizo sausage (Mexican sausage) (If you can't get chorizo, any Italian sausage will do)
• 5 ounces of pork rinds in small pieces (optional)

Procedure

1. Leave a pot of beans covered in water overnight.
2. The following day replace the water - adding a sufficient amount to begin cooking.
3. As the water reaches its boiling point, add the ½ onion and garlic cloves.
4. Cook until done and tender, about an hour and a half to two and a half hours, then add salt according to taste.
5. In a frying pan with a small amount of cooking oil, fry the bacon and chorizo for about 4 minutes.
6. Add the chopped onion, the chili pepper, and tomato and continue to fry.
7. Add the fried ingredients to the pot of beans.
8. Once the mixture is brought to boil, add the cilantro, pork rinds and sausages. Season with salt and powdered chicken broth.
9. Serve.

That Last, Sweet Dance

He first noticed her bouncing a ball with one of her friends. Her long, lovely braids danced as she moved. She was 10 and he was 11. By the time she was 16, he'd exacted a promise from her that she'd wait for him to get out of the service when he'd come home to marry her. And he did.

They lived a very traditional life, with her keeping the home and children and he working hard to make a living for their growing family. They adhered to their upbringing and culture that dictated the man was in charge of the family. It didn't seem to bother her. She awoke early every morning and rolled out dozens of tortillas each day. Her children's alarm in the morning was the comforting aroma of the tortillas toasting on the comal on the stove in the kitchen.

They never had extra money in those days, but they always had enough. He never showed much affection, and the macho code restrained him from ever sharing much of his feelings with anyone, but his way of showing his love to his family was by providing for them. She brought liveliness and much affection and joy to him and their children.

As the two aged, the children speculated their mom wouldn't last long if their dad went first, so dependent was she upon him, but figured their dad was the Rock of Gibraltar, and would stoically weather any storm, including his wife passing away before him.

A massive heart attack and then Alzheimer's, despite her family's best efforts, sent her into a nursing home. Everyone's concern centered on her. Their dad was so self sufficient they didn't fret about him.

He was again silent about his feelings, but faithfully went to the nursing home every day to visit and spent the entire day, every day. Their new home built on the lake sat empty and he moved their travel trailer into town to be closer to her.

It was when his family noticed he had lost an alarming amount of weight that they realized the heavy toll this new battle was taking on him. At 84 years old, he had no health problems, but he was failing.

Finally one day he cried in front of his son, the first time the son had ever seen his dad weep. He poured out his love and concern for his lifelong sweetheart, and his son was amazed that behind that rock like exterior beat such a heart of intense love and devotion. He seemed to find strength in unburdening himself and began to regain weight.

His novia, as he calls her, is hazy on the some the details of their early life, but loves to talk about them. He patiently listens and gently supplies the missing pieces to her, day after day.

He bought a brush and although in his whole life he'd only ever combed his own hair, he began brushing her hair, as best he can, every day. He bought bows and combs and now affixes them daily to her hair, as he remembers she used to do.

The nurses would do it, but he insists on rubbing her hands each morning and makes them soft and supple with lotion, thinking back to all the times those hands had generously patted out bread loaves and tortillas, and washed and folded his clothes and soothed their children.

He looks into her eyes and gives her that little wink he first started giving her when they were teenagers. When some of the old school Spanish polka music comes on the radio in her room, he clasps her hands in the same way he used to when they'd hit the dance floor at the countless weddings and quincieneras they'd attended. He sways with her just as if they are gliding around the dance floor once again, although she is bedbound. She laughs and tilts her head back, knowing with full confidence she still has this man's heart captured.

And in this last, sweet, slow dance they share together as more of her disappears each day, their children marvel at the man the press of life has produced in their father.

There are some who feel that when a person's mind has been robbed from them, the marital union no longer exists. Don't tell that to this couple. It took the crucible of the nursing home to demonstrate just how strong it is to everyone, but my mother in law and father in law meant it when they said, "For better or for worse." Nothing short of death is going to break their bond.

Tio Pedro Rides Again

Since we were in high school, my husband has regaled me with stories of his family, particularly his colorful assortment of uncles. One uncle, Tio Pedro, stole most of the spotlight in the storytelling.

Tio Pedro loved things fast, his horses, his cars; anything with four legs or four wheels. His relentless passion was to go faster than anyone else and to be at the front of the pack.

My husband still recalls the pride mixed with fear he felt when he was deemed old enough to go with Tio Pedro and some other cousins to round up cows. This meant riding in the back of a pickup with Tio Pedro driving as if his tailgate was on fire. There was nothing to hang onto in the back of the truck and it had to be ridden much like a rodeo bull, with flawless instincts and superb balance. Being hurtled around at 90 miles an hour through unimproved pastures with rocks, small hills, bumps, and holes will get your prayer life going.

Tio Pedro could break any horse, anytime, anywhere. He didn't concern himself with gentling them and teaching them gaits like walking, trotting, or loping. A full out gallop was his preferred speed, and that was the trademark of his horses. My mother in law still recalls unwittingly getting on a Tio Pedro trained horse and nearly ending up in the next county before she could get off safely.

Now, Tio Pedro is 103 years old and a resident in a nursing home. His body is amazingly intact and responsive, but his mind...well, not so much anymore.

While visiting the town where he lives, we made a trip to the nursing home to visit him and another relative there, although Tio Pedro doesn't even recognize his own sons anymore. We spent time with the other relative first, her door open to the hallway.

As we chatted, other nursing home residents moved up and down the hall, some even stopping in to say hello. A small commotion in the hall seemed to be gaining steam near us, and we peered out the door. A little man, pumping the wheels of his wheelchair so rapidly we couldn't see his face, flew by with a couple of chubby, wheezing nurses in pursuit. My husband raised his eyebrows at me, and we heard a nurse calling out in Spanish, "Pedro, Pedro, come back! Stop, Pedro!"

By now, he had turned back around and was headed in the opposite direction. As he passed the room the second time, he was going even faster, but we could see the huge grin on his face.

Tio Pedro rides again!

Family

My extended family has a tradition. We gather several times a year at the family ranch. No one lives full time at the ranch anymore; it was home to my great great grandparents and my great grandparents. It is rich in solitude and peace as the nearest human neighbor is over seven miles away. It is kept in excellent repair, but there is no running water and no indoor bathroom. Rain water is collected in a cistern and makes the best tasting drink on ice on a sweltering day. The outhouse freaks out the younger generations, but they become used to it. It is kept that way so they will know what life was like before modern amenities became available.

We have great fun and spend hours laughing, cooking, and eating.

These are two of my aunts, picking up where they left off the last time.

Did I mention it is hot? This is not a good picture of me, but you can see the price my hair pays for the humidity and that I've sweated off all of my mascara.

Nevertheless, family is important and it's vital the children understand the stuff that makes up a family so they can in turn teach their children one day.

One of the last things we do before we all depart is to visit the cemetery where so many of our ancestors are buried. It saddens me to see this cemetery, as our family's plot and only a few others are kept up. Brush has grown over many of the others, obliterating these memorials to someone's loved ones. Rattlesnakes keep at bay those who might like to fix up the neglected areas. We leave flowers on the graves of our family members and listen to stories from the older generations who knew them.

I've noticed graves there that are marked only by a wooden cross, a large rock with now unintelligible letters scratched in it, and other such nontraditional memorials to people long gone and not remembered now by anyone in the land of the living.

This little grave touched my heart.

It was one of three small ones laid out together, each marked by only a little iron cross. I asked the oldest member of my family if he knew anything about them and he said, " I believe it was three brothers, all under 10. They had a terrible fire one night and they all three died in it. The parents survived the fire, but the mother died not too long after. The father packed up and moved off after that, and no one ever heard from him anymore. That was back in the 20's. I remember my dad talking about it."

I stood thinking of those little boys, and how they must have been loved and cherished; how they must have enjoyed running and playing with each other. Probably they weren't in the living memory of anyone in their family anymore, but I did take some comfort that at least they were buried close together.

That's another great thing about families. Even though you're gone from this earth and now in the presence of God, you remain alive in their hearts and memories for as long as family gathers. I think of those little boys now as a part of my family and I've told their story to my kids. Although we don't know their names, they're playing together again, this time in our hearts.