A Little Love Story and the Winner of My Giveaway

Drum roll....the winner of my giveaway from last week is..... Jamie Jo from Lord, Make Me A Saint! Congratulations to Jamie and a hearty thank you to all who participated. I was more than a little hesitant to put my voice on that last post because we never sound like what we think we sound like, but you all were terrific. Thank you!

I have 16.5 days left until I am retired from the classroom and while excitement is growing in my heart, so also is the lump in my throat. I'm going through my older school posts. This is one from my first months of blogging.

Every day could use a little love story. 

Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His serious expression never loosened into a smile.

Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.

On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.

I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour group activities. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.

Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to toss a football and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.

They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.

He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to his attention to her.

"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.

"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.

His hands fluttered rapidly.

"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her. Although his syllables were truncated, his voice was steady.

"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.

"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.

No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.

Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.

"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.

"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.

"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.

His expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.

They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame relaxed into the seat and his hands rested calmly in his lap. 

As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and laughed shyly and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.

And love still conquers all.

L to the O to the V to the E

I was a freshman in high school when I first saw him. He leaned up against a wall, joking with his friends while waiting for the first bell to ring. I paused momentarily in my chatter with my friends because he was simply the best looking guy I'd ever seen. His hair was dark and just touching his shoulders. He was already over 6 ft tall, even though he was just a sophomore. His smile dazzled me as he laughed, full of white teeth, fun, and strength.

And even now, after all these years, he still floats my boat. Not extravagant by nature, he's just given me a Valentine's surprise in a new, candy apple red car that is smarter than I can ever hope to be. And because it's the way he is, he's also already given me several other presents meant for Valentine's, but like a kid, can't wait to spring them on me. I am a blessed woman, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't give thanks to God.

Now, if it's not too personal a question, how did you meet love, whether it be in your mate, your friends, your animal companions, or anything else? Or, what is your favorite experience with love? Include it in the comments, if you'd like. I'm convinced we can never have too much love.

Almost 28 years ago. Since I included the most unflattering picture of myself ever in my last post, I wanted to leave you with a nicer picture this time.

A Different Kind of Love Story

Earlier this year, the father of one of my 7th graders met with me for a regular conference. He shared his new situation: that he was a single father and after having been out of work for months, had finally landed a job in the unrelenting oilfield.

 "I'm so thankful to finally have a job, but it means I work sometimes seven days a week, twelve hours a day, " he said ruefully. "What concerns me the most is my boy. When my wife left, he had a big decision to make, and it was hard for him. He chose to live with me, and I don't take that lightly. I'm away, though, so much at work, that I don't want it to affect him in a bad way."

Then this stoic man with muscles forged on the oil rigs cleared his throat several times and his face reddened as he worked to keep his composure. "I don't want him to grow up hating me because of that. You know, ma'am, I am doing all I know how because I want him to know just how much I love him. He doesn't know it, but sometimes I go without lunch so I can give the money to him for his. He doesn't know that when he has games, I go without sleep just so I can see him play. Sometimes I drive an hour and a half to one of his games to just catch 15 minutes of it before I have to drive back the hour and a half to go to work... " his voice faded as he rubbed his finger on the desk.

 "I do it all gladly because he's my son. What a great kid he is to be a father to. He doesn't say much, he never has, and really doesn't tell me he loves me, although I tell him everyday. I hope with my whole heart that one day he understands how strongly I feel about about him; that I would literally give my life for him."

Yesterday, his son turned in an essay to me about making decisions. I was able to read it later last night. With permission, I'm sharing a portion of it here. He started with writing about the biggest decision of his life; choosing to live with his dad over his mom.

"...I love my mom, and I always will, and I know she loves me. I guess I didn't know my dad very well when I was younger, and I wanted to know him. Now I'm getting close to him. I'm so lucky for having the dad I have. He does anything for me. I've seen him give up his own lunch money for me, even though he doesn't know that I know about it. He always thinks about me first before he ever thinks about himself.

"He's raising me right. He's taught me to play basketball, to do well in school, and to always respect my elders. Most of all, though, he spends not just his money, but his time on me. I think I am pretty rich because my dad gives me all that he has of himself, and a lot of kids don't have that.

"He says that when I grow up, I'm going to do some great things. He makes me believe that because I know he believes it. 

"I'm so lucky to have someone love me the way my dad does. I hope he knows how much I love him."

When I call his dad later today to share this essay, I hope he knows, too.

A Time of Love and War

This weekend I drove past the colony of ranch houses where the people in this story lived, and they have been on my mind ever since. This is an edited repost from a year ago.


Jose was born in the Tamaulipas state of Mexico. His mother died at his birth and his father turned his infant son over to neighbors to raise. Jose's green eyes set him apart from the other children. The family turned him into a little more than an indentured laborer, having him work long, hard days even before he started losing his baby teeth.


How he ended up in South Texas is a story that has been swallowed by time, but he did show up at a large ranch here looking for work. He was unsure of his age, but his scrawny frame and still growing legs must have made him about 15 or 16. 


What set Jose apart from the other workers was his cheery disposition and his keen mind. He was never cross, although his days were physically exhausting. He was intensely curious about all the world and even knew how to read and write, something most of the other hands had no knowledge of. The only thing he brought with him, other than the clothes on his back, was a small, gold crucifix that had been his mother's. He kept it close to his heart and never took it off.

The hard work and the steady, hearty meals served from the chuckwagon and the ranch kitchen soon filled him out into a muscular man.

In the evenings, after he'd put away the horses and cleaned up his small area in the bunkhouse, he'd take an old guitar someone had left behind, sit outside on the porch and strum while singing the corridos he remembered from Mexico.

He couldn't help but notice Carlota, a  shapely girl of 16 who was usually outside in the early evenings watching her younger siblings as they played near the bunkhouse area. Carlota was small in stature, but feisty in temperament. Her dark eyes simmered with a fire that burned just beneath the surface. He also caught her attention.

Jose had never had anyone to give his heart to, and now he gave it fully to Carlota. She loved him as he'd never had anyone love him before, with all the passion and flames she had inside her.

Soon, Jose and Carlota were betrothed. He dreamed of saving enough to buy land, small pieces at a time, and farming with some of the new, progressive methods he'd read of in the foreman's old Farm Journals. He and Carlota would marry and have many children with sparkling eyes.

In Europe, though, events rumbled that would forever change the destiny of not only Jose and Carlota, but of entire nations. The United States entered into World War I and Jose, a new U.S. citizen, was one of the first to enlist from the ranch. He explained to Carlota that he wanted the world to be safe for the family they would have after they married.

Carlota's heart felt like it would shred into a million pieces from the agony that gouged her inside, but on the surface, she kept her emotions in check, so as not to worry Jose.

The night before he shipped out, they spent one last evening together, and Carlota shed the restraint with which she usually conducted herself. Jose promised her he'd come back, and they'd marry and begin their lives together. He also pressed into her hand his mother's gold crucifix, telling her it would be a part of him she would have until he returned. She refused it, although she desperately wanted to cling to it, because she said it would help to keep him safe. She added to the chain two small gold beads she was saving to make earrings for their wedding.

Carlota soon realized their night of love before Jose shipped out left her expecting a child. Her family was aghast, but she knew Jose would come home, they would be married, and all would be right again.

He'd only been in Europe a month when a fierce fight against the retreating Germans left many casualties. Mangled and burned bodies marred the battlefield and identification was difficult.

When the messenger came to the ranch that horrible day with the news Jose had been killed in battle, Carlota thought she could never recover. But, she had a baby in her womb to think about who was all that she had left of Jose, and she channeled all her energy into preparing for this baby's birth.

An older man, hunch backed and never married, came to Carlota's father and told him he'd marry Carlota and take the baby as his own. Her father never consulted Carlota, just hustled her with her packed bag to the county office and to the priest for a quick marriage. Part of Carlota's heart died that day, but a small flame rekindled when her green eyed baby boy was born several months later. Her husband refused to let her name him Jose, so he went by his stepfather's name. More children were born to this couple, but only the eldest son had the striking green eyes that reminded Carlota of Jose every time she looked into them.

One afternoon, when Carlota's green eyed boy was seven, he and his half brothers and sisters played outside near the old bunkhouse where Jose used to strum his corridos.


A stranger came walking near and the children noticed him immediately because of the burn scars on his face and his misshapen leg that made walking a laborious and painful endeavor. The little ones were afraid of him, but the green eyed boy stood his ground as the man drew closer.

The stranger approached the children and spoke to them. His shoulders slumped. He pressed something into the green eyed boy's hand and made his way back down the road.

Later that evening, when her green eyed son told Carlota of meeting the stranger, Carlota's heart raced as he told her the man had green eyes, just like his, although the man's face was hideously scarred. He told her of how the man asked about who he was, and who his mother was, and about his family situation. Almost as an afterthought, he showed Carlota the little crucifix with two gold beads the stranger had pressed into his hand.

He did not understand why his mother then sank to her knees and wailed, something he'd never seen her do. He also did not understand why men on horses rode out that night to try and find the stranger, although they never did.

The green eyed stranger was not heard from again, and when Carlota died of a stroke several years later, whispering the name Jose, people wondered why she would still have someone in her heart who'd been gone for so long.

Her eldest son once again took possession of the small gold crucifix that fell from his mother's hand on her deathbed, and in time, told his own green eyed children and grandchildren the story of love and of battlefields in Europe.

Copyright 2012

A Time of Love and War

This is another story told to me by my elderly friend Carolina, whom I first wrote about here: A Wild Story of Love and Betrayal. She was a wealth of information before she passed away. I treasure her still.


Jose was born in the Tamaulipas state of Mexico. His mother died at his birth and his father turned his infant son over to neighbors to raise. Jose's green eyes set him apart from the other children. The family turned him into a little more than an indentured laborer, having him work long, hard days even before he started losing his baby teeth.


How he ended up in South Texas is a story that has been swallowed by time, but he did show up at a large ranch here looking for work. He was unsure of his age, but his scrawny frame and still growing legs must have made him about 15 or 16. 


What set Jose apart from the other workers was his cheery disposition and his keen mind. He was never cross, although his days were physically exhausting. He was intensely curious about all the world and even knew how to read and write, something most of the other hands had no knowledge of. The only thing he brought with him, other than the clothes on his back, was a small, gold crucifix that had been his mother's. He kept it close to his heart and never took it off.

The hard work and the steady, hearty meals served from the chuckwagon and the ranch kitchen soon filled him out into a muscular man.

In the evenings, after he'd put away the horses and cleaned up his small area in the bunkhouse, he'd take an old guitar someone had left behind, sit outside on the porch and strum while singing the corridos he remembered from Mexico.

He couldn't help but notice Carlota, a  shapely girl of 16 who was usually outside in the early evenings watching her younger siblings as they played near the bunkhouse area. Carlota was small in stature, but feisty in temperament. Her dark eyes simmered with a fire that burned just beneath the surface. He also caught her attention.

Jose had never had anyone to give his heart to, and now he gave it fully to Carlota. She loved him as he'd never had anyone love him before, with all the passion and flames she had inside her.

Soon, Jose and Carlota were betrothed. He dreamed of saving enough to buy land, small pieces at a time, and farming with some of the new, progressive methods he'd read of in the foreman's old Farm Journals. He and Carlota would marry and have many children with sparkling eyes.

In Europe, though, events rumbled that would forever change the destiny of not only Jose and Carlota, but of entire nations. The United States entered into World War I and Jose was one of the first to enlist from the ranch. He explained to Carlota that he wanted the world to be safe for the family they would have after they married.

Carlota's heart felt like it would shred into a million pieces from the agony that gouged her inside, but on the surface, she kept her emotions in check, so as not to worry Jose about her.

The night before he shipped out, they spent one last evening together, and Carlota shed the restraint with which she usually conducted herself. Jose promised her he'd come back, and they'd marry and begin their lives together. He also pressed into her hand his mother's gold crucifix, telling her it would be a part of him she would have until he returned. She refused it, although she desperately wanted to cling to it, because she said it would help to keep him safe. She added to the chain two small gold beads she was saving to make herself some earrings with for their wedding.

Carlota soon realized their night of love before Jose shipped out left her expecting a child. Her family was aghast, but she knew Jose would come home, they would be married, and all would be right again.

He'd only been in Europe a month when a fierce fight against the retreating Germans left many casualties. Mangled and burned bodies marred the battlefield and identification was difficult.

When the messenger came to the ranch that horrible day with the news Jose had been killed in battle, Carlota thought she could never recover. But, she had a baby in her womb to think about who was all that she had left of Jose, and she channeled all her energy into preparing for this baby's birth.

An older man, hunch backed and never married, came to Carlota's father and told him he'd marry Carlota and take the baby as his own. Her father never even consulted Carlota, just hustled her with her packed bag to the county office and to the priest for a quick marriage. Part of Carlota's heart died that day, but a small flame rekindled when her green eyed baby boy was born several months later. Her husband refused to let her name him Jose, so he went by his stepfather's name. More children were born to this couple, but only the oldest son had the striking green eyes that reminded Carlota of Jose every time she looked into them.

One afternoon, after Carlota's oldest son had reached the age of eight, he and his half brothers and sisters played outside near the old bunkhouse where Jose used to strum his corridos.


A stranger came walking near and the children noticed him immediately because of the burn scars on his face and his mangled leg that made walking a laborious and painful endeavor. The little ones were afraid of him, but the green eyed boy stood his ground as the stranger drew closer.

The stranger approached the children and spoke to them. His shoulders slumped. He pressed something into the green eyed boy's hand and made his way back down the road.

Later that evening, when Carlota's oldest son told her of meeting the stranger, Carlota's heart raced as he told her the man had green eyes, just like his, although the man's face was hideously scarred. He told her of how the man asked about who he was, and who his mother was, and about his family situation. Almost as an afterthought, he showed Carlota the little crucifix with two gold beads the stranger had pressed into his hand.

He did not understand why his mother then sank to her knees and wailed, something he'd never seen her do, and which frightened him. He also didn't understand why men on horses rode out that night to try and find the stranger, although they never did.

The green eyed stranger was never heard from again, and when Carlota died of a stroke several years later, whispering the name Jose, people wondered why she would still have someone in her heart who'd been gone for so long.

Her oldest son once again took possession of the small gold crucifix that fell from his mother's hand on her deathbed, and in time, told his own green eyed children and grandchildren the story of love and of battlefields in Europe.

Romeo

We recently took a field trip to a museum in a nearby city. Our bus driver, Bob, has been with us many years and although over 80 years old, is quite active and sound in mind and body. He is a World War II vet and his stories of that time are fascinating. I secretly have always felt a little sorry for him since he lives alone and what must be a fairly solitary existence since his children all live out of state.

We arrived at the museum and were greeted by a well dressed woman who looked to be in her 70's. "I am Ms. J. (names have been changed) and this is my assistant docent, Ellie," she said. Ellie was another refined looking woman who was probably in her late 60's.

On our way in, we also met the retired woman who volunteered in the museum gift shop, Betty.  Betty greeted us warmly as we filed past.

The students enjoyed themselves as we toured the museum with Ms. J. and Ellie as our guides. We found out Ms. J. was a widow whose husband had served in the diplomatic corps overseas. They had many adventures in their duty posts which she cheerfully shared. Ellie was also a widow who'd moved south for the eternal warmth we enjoy.

It was so warm, in fact, that Bob left his vantage point by the harbor we'd parked next to and came inside as the the kids swarmed the gift store.

He stationed himself near the gift shop and looked to be enjoying his conversation with Betty, the lady in charge of the gift shop. My co-teacher and I lost ourselves in monitoring the students and looking through the gift shop ourselves.

I felt a tapping on my shoulder and turned around. It was Ms. J.

"I...I want to ask you something, " she said with a bit of hesitation.

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

"Well, I was wondering...your bus driver...is he..is he.. married? I didn't see a ring on his hand."

I was a bit surprised, but I answered, "No,  Bob's wife died several years ago and he's never remarried."

Her face brightened with a large smile as she nodded her thanks and made a direct line to where Bob was sitting, talking with Betty.

I saw my co-teacher and whispered to her, "You'll never believe what Ms. J. asked me!"

She laughed and said, "Wait till you hear what Ellie just asked me!"

I told her what Ms. J had asked about Bob, and she replied, "Ellie asked me if Bob was taken! I wasn't sure what she meant, so she asked again if he was seeing anyone- I couldn't believe it!"

Our gaze turned discretely to Bob, who was now surrounded by Ms. J., Ellie, and Betty. They all looked like high school girls, vying for the attention of the captain of the football team. Bob was in his element, laughing, joking, and obviously enjoying the company of these three women.

Betty, the gift shop volunteer, commented after she returned to the counter to ring up my purchases, "Your bus driver is so funny!" Her eyes cast shyly downward for a moment. "He is such a flirt!" Her cheeks flushed with color as she grinned.

Even as we were loading the kids back on the bus, the women were still chatting Bob up, although he was trying to get out the door.

Later, after we were on the road and the kids were happily connected to their Ipods, I teased Bob. "You really had those ladies' attention!"

"Not to be bragging, but they were after me, " he confided.

I was about to agree with him that some women are shameless in their pursuit of men when he continued.

"In fact, I have a date with one of them tonight- with the one who led your tour. Then, Ellie asked me to attend a church dinner with her on Saturday night and Betty invited me over to her house for a home cooked meal next week."

He added, "It's kind of hard to squeeze it all in right now as I'm sort of seeing two other ladies, but it will be fun."

I won't be feeling sorry for him anymore.

An 80 Year Old Mystery- Solved!

I bought an annual on Ebay a year or so ago. It was from my grandmother's college, during the time she was a student there.

This is the annual, from 1931.




I was intrigued right away because the annual belonged to the senior who was the editor of this yearbook. Her name was Dorothy. Here she is:

(I apologize for the post-it's- I did not have time to edit the pic properly.) It felt mildly invasive that I was reading all the personal notes people had inscribed to Dorothy throughout the annual. All were glowing tributes from students and professors alike.


I noticed a cryptic inscription on the back inside cover, from "El Toro". Here it is:

He signed it, "I love you" and called her Sally. In various spots throughout the annual, El Toro makes other appearances and pens little things like, "You are beautiful". "I'm so lucky you're my girl."  "You have my heart forever." All signed only, El Toro (The Bull).

I wanted to know who El Toro was. I began my search through the annual, trying to match up handwriting. Men of that era must have all taken the same handwriting course because so many signatures were remarkably similar. I narrowed it down to a few, but had no other leads.

I studied Dorothy's picture. Her eyes were a luminous puzzle. Who was this mystery man? She'd captured his heart, that's certain. Did they end up together? Did they celebrate their 50th anniversary with their children and grandchildren surrounding them? Did they end up marrying other people?

I even spoke to Dorothy, as if an almost 80 year old picture could talk back to me. "Come on, Dorothy, tell me about him! Who was he? What was he like?" Her silent picture only continued its tranquil stare.

The internet searches I did of Dorothy's name turned up nothing. The alumni association had no information on her. I had one other option. My grandmother had already passed away, but my great aunt Alice, my dad's aunt, was also pictured in the annual. She was of sound mind and doing well at the age of 97. Here she is:

One other thing in my favor about Aunt Alice- she was listed on the yearbook staff for that year, which means she would have known Dorothy.

We had a family reunion coming up, and I eagerly awaited the time I could show her the annual and hopefully find out who Dorothy's El Toro really was. I put the thought out of my mind that she wouldn't remember. The answer was too close.

Aunt Alice greeted us sweetly, her blue eyes even more vivid than the last time. After catching up on family news, I brought out the annual. "Aunt Alice," I explained, " I have this annual from when you were in college and on the yearbook staff."

Her fingers gently caressed the cover. "My goodness," she said. "I never thought I'd see one of these again. I lost mine in one of our moves. I spent many hours working on this."

"Aunt Alice, do you remember the editor?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Why of course I do. Her name was Dorothy, but we all called her Sally. She was such a hard worker. I lost track of her after college. In fact no one who was in our circle seems to really know what happened to her."

My breath caught in my mouth. "Aunt Alice, who was Dorothy's boyfriend? Who was El Toro?"

Her eyes widened a bit at the mention of the name. "How do you know about him?"

"Well, it's here in the book." I pointed out the places he'd inscribed in the annual.

"They were deeply in love, but they just weren't meant to be. Her parents made her give him up as they felt she should marry someone with more to the family name that what he had. He was a tremendous football player. So courageous. Played hurt and wouldn't quit. I still remember how heartbroken they both were when she called it off for the last time. I think she cried a bucket of tears.We all tried to console her, but she just wouldn't have it."

"Who was he?" I asked, trying to keep my voice nonchalant.

'Well, let me show you here in the annual." She slowly turned each page until she got to the football section. She looked at each photo carefully until her fingers punctuated her find with a hard tap.

"There he is. Lawrence. His nickname was Chesty. They called him a bull on the football field because he was so powerful. He was a mighty fine man. "

I followed Aunt Alice's finger to a picture of a strong looking college football player. Here he is:

Now I wanted to know even more. "Aunt Alice, you said you'd lost track of Dorothy after college. What happened to Lawrence?"

She shook her head. "Oh, darlin', my memory isn't what it used to be. I know I knew at one time, but I can't think of it now."

At least most of my mystery was solved. I am one who doesn't like to let things go until they are done, so I did some more searching and finally found an article about Lawrence, Dorothy's El Toro. In 1934 he was learning to fly an airplane with the Army flyers at Kelly Field. This is what they wrote:

On the 24th of April, searchers found him in the wreckage of a plane whose wings failed him. There's something heroic about Chesty's falling that way, through the night. It was a brave man's death. Unconquerable, even in death.

A Wild Story of Love and Betrayal

The hearty tunes of Flaco Jimenez's accordion pounded out of the jukebox in the little Mexican restaurant where we sat waiting. My husband and I had already gone through half of the chips and salsa picante. "Do you think they forgot?" he wondered aloud.

"No, no, they wouldn't have forgotten. Juan talked with me about this several times and was very certain they'd be here," I replied.

Juan was a colleague of mine. He knew I was a history buff, that I loved to visit with the extreme elderly, and that I could remember a story forever. He told me about his grandmother, who was already 98.

"She's got some wonderful stories to tell, Shelly. If she's willing to talk to you, I don't think you'll regret it," he informed me.

Of course, I was intrigued, so we set up a time to meet at a local restaurant that was near a creek on the north side of town.

"It's one of Wuela's (Grandma's) favorite places," he explained.

He later reported that he'd spoken with her and she was willing, if I was willing to listen.

As we sat and waited I silently hoped that she hadn't decided against it. Soon enough, the door opened. We strained to look, and finally Juan came through the door,  a tiny, regal woman on his arm. Her hair, though white, was sleek and wound in a tight braid that formed a bun on the back of her head. Although less than 5 feet tall, she stood straight as a ramrod. She surveyed the diners with mild curiosity as she and Juan made their way to our table.

We rose to greet her and all were seated. After preliminary introductions, Wuela said, "My name is Carolina and I am 98 years old. My grandson tells me you are interested in my stories." (She communicated only in Spanish, but I am transcribing it here in English.)

We assured her we were and she settled back into her chair with a contented sigh.

"The story I am going to tell you now is one that has been dear to my heart since I first heard it when I was a little girl. Back in the early days of this town, close to the turn of the century, the Church (the Catholic church) saw fit to send a priest here to start a mission to minister to all the ranch workers." (A very large ranch is based in my town and in those days, most of the workers lived on the ranch with their families and rarely left it for any reason.)

"Father Diego was a handsome man, so charismatic and full of energy. In no time, the church here was thriving and the people did all they could to become involved. Father Diego was well loved, but he also had a little of the devil in his eye."

We hardly moved as she continued.

"One of the families was especially devoted to the church and to Father Diego. They did all they could to make his life easier and promote the work of the church. Their children were taught to revere the church and to obey what the priest told them. They had a lovely 18 year old daughter, Raquel. They saw that Father Diego had trouble attending to the needs of the parishioners and tending to his own needs. They offered Raquel to him as a housekeeper who could keep him supplied with good meals and a clean home."

I could already sense the direction this was going.

"Raquel was innocent of the ways of men, but the devil in Father Diego's eye sparked to life when he saw how beautiful Raquel was. He whispered things to her she believed, but all were lies. In time, Raquel knew she was pregnant with Father Diego's child."

Carolina paused to take a sip of water.

"Raquel was scared to tell the Father, but she finally did. He was so angry that it frightened her. He quickly came up with a plan to send Raquel away to a convent in Mexico and once the baby was born, to send it to an orphanage far away.

'Raquel was devastated. She knew now she'd been betrayed, and all the things Father Diego whispered in her ear when they were together were lies. She finally had no choice but to tell her parents. They were even more upset. Her father wanted to disown her, to send her away forever, but her mother prevailed and they decided to take the matter to the Lord in prayer. They refused to allow Raquel to go into a convent. People would just have to form their own opinions about the baby's paternity because they would not discuss it with anyone.

"It came time for the baby to be born and Raquel's mother and an old midwife were the only two present with Raquel. Raquel's father was out on the range with the other cow hands and wouldn't be back at home for weeks.

"Raquel was immediately enchanted by her baby's beauty and knew she could  never allow her, with the tiny rosebud mouth and shiny black hair, to ever go into an orphanage.

"It wasn't long after the baby's birth that word got to Father Diego that his baby had been born. He saddled up his horse and set off at a gallop for Raquel's house, determined to take the baby away from her and save his reputation."

Carolina took a deep breath as if the next part was difficult. She hesitated a bit and continued.

"One of Raquel's little brothers came running in to tell his sister and his mother that Father Diego was on the way on a fast horse.

"Hurry, son, hitch the two horses up to the wagon!" his mother called to him. "We've got to get Raquel and the baby away from here before he comes!"

"She bundled up Raquel and baby and got them to the wagon. She slapped the horses sharply and they were off, driving that wagon much faster than was safe, but it was necessary.

"It was when they neared the creek that Raquel's mother saw how great an obstacle it would be. Raquel sat in the back, huddled with her baby, when her mother breathed a prayer and made a momentous decision. They would jump the creek in the wagon. By now, they could see the dust Father Diego's horse stirred as he drew closer.

"Raquel clutched the baby tightly to her chest as her mother slapped the horses harder than she ever had. The horses ran at breakneck speed toward the creek and the wagon tilted so wildly the three were in danger of being tipped out.

"He was so close now they could see even the angry expression on Father Diego's face. Raquel held her breath as the horses leapt over the small creek, pulling the wagon with them. Her mother's whispered prayer became loud with thanks as they landed miraculously in one piece on the far side, still in the wagon. The horses were stunned and slowed. Father Diego had reached the other side of the bank.

Carolina looked over at her grandson, as if to get reassurance. "Go ahead, Wuela, it's OK to tell it."

"That creek is the very one you see outside this window, just around that bend," she explained. We craned our heads around  to see it through the window.

"Father Diego laughed aloud with how easy his task was going to be with his powerful horse. He backed his horse up and then spurred him forward.

"Raquel knew in her heart of hearts they had no chance. She knew she was in the last few moments of ever cradling her precious one. Tears squeezed from her eyes at the sorrow of it.

"Father Diego jumped his horse over that little creek like it was nothing, but instead of landing securely on the other side, his horse's back foot slipped and they both toppled. The last sight Raquel had of the man who been her lover was his shocked expression as he arced through the air and landed squarely on his head.

"Raquel's mother later told that she believed the disgraced priest was dead the moment he hit the ground. He was certainly dead by the time they climbed out of the wagon and walked tentatively back to him.

My own mind reeled. "So they were safe? Both of them?" I had to know.

Carolina nodded her head, a small smile on her face.

"What ended up happening to the baby?" my husband asked.

Carolina looked at us both square in the eye.

"They named her Carolina. She grew to live a long and fruitful life. She has told her story to very few people outside of her family, but now she has just told the two of you the story of her beginnings."

A Little Love Story

Every day could use a little love story.

Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His expression was always serious, never loosening into a smile.

Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.

On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.

I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour groups we had. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.

Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to play and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.

They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.

He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to Carlos' attention to her.

"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.

"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.

His hands fluttered even faster.

"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her.

"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.

"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.

No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.

Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.

"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.

"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.

"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.

Carlos' expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.

They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame loosened and his hands rested calmly in his lap.

As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and giggled and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.