"Did women who murdered back then have to face the same punishment as men?" Joshua asked. "It just seems like we read only about the men getting the death penalty, but nothing about women," he continued in our discussion of a story about a man who was put to death in the early days of Texas.
"Wait a minute," Ashley interjected with a hint of indignation. "There were women put to death then, and unjustly. One of them, Chipita, is part of my family."
Yes, Chipita Rodriguez. One of the storied legends in South Texas, Chipita lived her unassuming life not too far from our school.
Part of her truth has been blended with dramatic embellishment, but some things are known.
Born Josefa Rodriguez, Chipita lived with her father on the riverbanks in a small lean-to shack. They'd fled Mexican dictator Gen. Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. During the Civil War years after her father died, Chipita made her living providing meals and cot space for cowboys, gamblers, and horse traders. She had help from a younger man, Juan Silvero, who was rumored to be her illegitimate son.
John Savage was like other horse traders who'd passed that way. Having just made a big sale to the Confederate Army, his saddlebags were packed with $600 worth of gold. He couldn't help but brag about his prosperity to other travelers that night as they drank their whiskey in Chipita's front room .
When the sun arose, John Savage's cot was empty. His horse was gone, too. The other boarders assumed he'd made an early start and was already on the road headed north.
Those who were alive then say Chipita had no reaction when the news reached them that John Savage's hacked body had been found stuffed into several gunnysacks, a bloody axe nearby. They say she also showed no reaction when shown the axe. It was her own, one she used to chop kindling.
The sheriff came to question Chipita. She refused to speak anything in her own defense and gave neither alibi nor reason as to how her axe had ended up bloodied and near John Savage's body. The sheriff's limited Spanish and Chipita's limited English were never taken into account.
Chipita and Juan Silvero were both arrested for the murder of John Savage. Juan was charged with second degree murder and Chipita with first degree murder. The prosecution made the case that Savage was murdered for his gold, although the gold was found near the body, still in the saddlebags.
Chipita's hard life was shown in her face and stooped body. People mistook her to be in her eighties or nineties when she was actually in her early sixties. She had little to no legal defense, and the only words she spoke during the entire trial were, "“No soy culpable.” “I am not guilty.”
Both she and Juan were convicted, with Juan receiving five years in the penitentiary. The jury recommended leniency for Chipita, based on her age and only the circumstantial evidence against her. The judge, Benjamin F. Neal, declared he was making an example of Chipita and sentenced her to death.
Her indictment, trial, and sentencing happened in the span of four days. The foreman of the grand jury who indicted her was the same sheriff who arrested her.
She was kept in the home of a deputy until her date for hanging, three months later. Two lynch mobs, headed by area men, were thwarted. Area women befriended Chipita, understanding with mothers' hearts that she was probably protecting her son with her silence. One woman even drove the hangman away twice when he came to retrieve her.
Three months after John Savage was found murdered, Chipita was driven to the banks of the very river where she had lived for so many years. A thunderstorm unleashed heaven's fury as the wagon was backed under the hanging tree. Even as the noose was placed around her neck, she held her head as straight and high as her stooped back would allow her in the driving rain. She refused to look at the men around her and remained silent even as the horse hitched to the wagon was cracked with a whip and the wagon was jerked from beneath her.
Not given the opportunity for a Christian burial, she was cut down and hastily buried underneath the large hanging tree.
The arresting sheriff told his descendants she was given the death penalty in an effort to make her talk, to reveal the true killer. No one actually believed this small, shriveled, and stooped woman could overcome a large man, hack him to death, stuff his body into gunny sacks, and haul them away.
My student, Ashley, concluded, "She's why I want to become an attorney and fight for those who have no one else to fight for them. Justice should be just."
Somehow, I have to think Chipita would be pleased.
In 1985, the Texas legislature passed a resolution absolving Chipita RodrÃguez of murder.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Friday, April 20, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Hijacked
This post is hijacked today, by me. They call me Sweetie, but my cat name is Mayhem.
We were born in the bar-b-cue pit. Our mom is wild and she thought that would be a safe place for us. I don't hold that against her. It's made me the cat I am today- powerful, wily, and capable of provoking my siblings to subversive acts all designed for one purpose: my amusement.
Just the other day, I got my brother, Smudge (his cat name is Doofus) to do something really funny.
I told him he would see some really neat things if he put his head in a small crack between two pieces of wood in the barn. He did just what I said and it was a thing of great pleasure to see how those humans reacted when they heard his loud crying. Shelly, the one still slouched over there trying to remember her name, dropped her rake and came running so fast she almost fell when she got into the barn. She got my little brother loose (all he had to do was lift his head up and he would have been out), held him close and took him back to where our food pan is. She murmured to him while I chuckled at how easy that was.
Doofus, err, Smudge, pranced back over to me happily. Guess what. Just a little later, I got him to do it again. This time, the big man, who cutting some firewood, threw down his expensive chainsaw and dinged it on a tank while he rushed to get to Doofus. Behind him came running a teenage girl who had just gotten out of her grandma's car. She tripped in her heels and dropped several shopping bags, scattering makeup in the hay. Of course, I was in the background, watching the whole thing, and I laughed so loud at their antics I was afraid they would hear me.
The funniest, though, was just last night. A skunk family came over to visit. I don't like them, but they like our food. I told my brothers and sisters the skunk babies would be fun to play with and have special toys they only bring out for their best friends. My brothers and sisters naturally went over to play. I hung back, just to watch.
My sibs got to playing and jumping on the baby skunks. Those skunks can be poor sports. When they felt my brothers and sisters had too much of the upper hand, they unleashed the worst smell all over them. I, being the puppet master I am, had no part of that action. I did enjoy watching the aftermath.
Now, my mom doesn't want to be near them because they stink. The humans don't want to be near them because they stink. The only one that gets petted and loved? Me.
Hmmm. Wonder what my next trick will be...
You see, the lady who usually does this, Shelly, is on an ultra low carb diet right now that made her brain shut down. So while she's over there, slouched down, figuring out what year this is, I'm taking over the post for today.
My story is short and sweet because I've only been on this earth four weeks. I was born a leader. My brothers and sisters take their cues from me. They pretty much believe everything I tell them, which works to my favor.
Just the other day, I got my brother, Smudge (his cat name is Doofus) to do something really funny.
Doofus, err, Smudge, pranced back over to me happily. Guess what. Just a little later, I got him to do it again. This time, the big man, who cutting some firewood, threw down his expensive chainsaw and dinged it on a tank while he rushed to get to Doofus. Behind him came running a teenage girl who had just gotten out of her grandma's car. She tripped in her heels and dropped several shopping bags, scattering makeup in the hay. Of course, I was in the background, watching the whole thing, and I laughed so loud at their antics I was afraid they would hear me.
The funniest, though, was just last night. A skunk family came over to visit. I don't like them, but they like our food. I told my brothers and sisters the skunk babies would be fun to play with and have special toys they only bring out for their best friends. My brothers and sisters naturally went over to play. I hung back, just to watch.
My sibs got to playing and jumping on the baby skunks. Those skunks can be poor sports. When they felt my brothers and sisters had too much of the upper hand, they unleashed the worst smell all over them. I, being the puppet master I am, had no part of that action. I did enjoy watching the aftermath.
Now, my mom doesn't want to be near them because they stink. The humans don't want to be near them because they stink. The only one that gets petted and loved? Me.
Hmmm. Wonder what my next trick will be...
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Poop Happens
Warning: There is a gross element to this story. I hesitated to write this, but find it oddly fascinating the lengths some people will go to in order to achieve their misbegotten goals.
Holiday shoppers had already packed the Hobby Lobby, even though it was barely 8 AM on a Saturday morning. My usual plan was in force- get in and get out with everything I needed as quickly as I could.
As I rounded the corner near the floral arrangements, I noticed a woman dressed smartly in white capris and an expensive top. Her jacket was also quite chic. I squeezed past her and the others in the aisle to make my way to the check out area.
Long lines already clogged each register, so I settled in to wait and watch the folks around me.
As I idled in line, loud voices resonated from the back of the store. They seemed to be getting closer. Probably people getting irritated with each other in the shopping crush, I thought.
My line had just begun to inch forward when the cacophony spilled out of an aisle near me and escalated. To my surprise, it was the woman in the white capris arguing loudly with a tall man who had a store manager tag on his shirt. "Ma'am, you must come with me, now!" he said firmly.
"I will NOT go anywhere with you!" she screeched, pulling her arm away from him. She clutched her other arm across the front of her now zipped jacket.
"Ma'am, we saw what you took. You are not leaving this store. You must come with me to security now!" He put a firm hand on her elbow.
"Get your hands off me! I'll have you know my husband is an attorney and we will sue you!" As she yelled in his face, a glue gun dropped out of the bottom of her jacket.
He clasped her arm tighter and began pulling her with him. Another manager came to help. More craft items spilled from her jacket as she dug in her heels and refused to follow.
"Let go of me!" she demanded. "My husband is a very important person- I'll have you arrested!"
"Ma'am, please don't make this any more difficult on yourself. We have you on tape," he said evenly.
Several unpainted wooden reindeer toppled out of her jacket onto the floor.
His grasp on her arm momentarily slipped as a couple of fluffy snowmen fell out, too, and joined the reindeer on the floor.
She took this opportunity to make a dash for the front door. The taller manager was quick and grabbed her around the waist as she struggled. "I'm calling the police," she howled.
"We've already called them ma'am, and they're on their way," he said calmly as she worked to free herself from his grasp. Several crystal ornaments dropped from the bottom of her jacket and broke on the floor.
She was petite, but her physical strength in this wrestling match amazed all of us in the now quiet store. She made one last desperate heave to pull herself free, lost her balance, and took both of them to the floor. The manager still kept his hold on her as she flailed and kicked. The other manager stood like a deer in the headlights at the sight.
She pulled one last, toxic weapon out of her arsenal. Red faced and cursing, she stopped struggling for a moment. Onlookers stared in horror as a large brown stain appeared on the seat of her capris and leaked onto the floor. She wailed, "Look what you made me do!" She thrashed again, coating the front of the manager's shirt with it.
Despite the virulent attack, he maintained his clench with her until the police arrived. After they took her out in handcuffs, the manager straightened his glasses, took a deep breath, and looked down at his soiled shirt and the mess on the floor.
I don't know who started it, but first one customer, then a few more, and then most of us loudly applauded as he walked to the intercom and said, "Clean up to the front of the store."
Holiday shoppers had already packed the Hobby Lobby, even though it was barely 8 AM on a Saturday morning. My usual plan was in force- get in and get out with everything I needed as quickly as I could.
As I rounded the corner near the floral arrangements, I noticed a woman dressed smartly in white capris and an expensive top. Her jacket was also quite chic. I squeezed past her and the others in the aisle to make my way to the check out area.
Long lines already clogged each register, so I settled in to wait and watch the folks around me.
As I idled in line, loud voices resonated from the back of the store. They seemed to be getting closer. Probably people getting irritated with each other in the shopping crush, I thought.
My line had just begun to inch forward when the cacophony spilled out of an aisle near me and escalated. To my surprise, it was the woman in the white capris arguing loudly with a tall man who had a store manager tag on his shirt. "Ma'am, you must come with me, now!" he said firmly.
"I will NOT go anywhere with you!" she screeched, pulling her arm away from him. She clutched her other arm across the front of her now zipped jacket.
"Ma'am, we saw what you took. You are not leaving this store. You must come with me to security now!" He put a firm hand on her elbow.
"Get your hands off me! I'll have you know my husband is an attorney and we will sue you!" As she yelled in his face, a glue gun dropped out of the bottom of her jacket.
He clasped her arm tighter and began pulling her with him. Another manager came to help. More craft items spilled from her jacket as she dug in her heels and refused to follow.
"Let go of me!" she demanded. "My husband is a very important person- I'll have you arrested!"
"Ma'am, please don't make this any more difficult on yourself. We have you on tape," he said evenly.
Several unpainted wooden reindeer toppled out of her jacket onto the floor.
His grasp on her arm momentarily slipped as a couple of fluffy snowmen fell out, too, and joined the reindeer on the floor.
She took this opportunity to make a dash for the front door. The taller manager was quick and grabbed her around the waist as she struggled. "I'm calling the police," she howled.
"We've already called them ma'am, and they're on their way," he said calmly as she worked to free herself from his grasp. Several crystal ornaments dropped from the bottom of her jacket and broke on the floor.
She was petite, but her physical strength in this wrestling match amazed all of us in the now quiet store. She made one last desperate heave to pull herself free, lost her balance, and took both of them to the floor. The manager still kept his hold on her as she flailed and kicked. The other manager stood like a deer in the headlights at the sight.
She pulled one last, toxic weapon out of her arsenal. Red faced and cursing, she stopped struggling for a moment. Onlookers stared in horror as a large brown stain appeared on the seat of her capris and leaked onto the floor. She wailed, "Look what you made me do!" She thrashed again, coating the front of the manager's shirt with it.
Despite the virulent attack, he maintained his clench with her until the police arrived. After they took her out in handcuffs, the manager straightened his glasses, took a deep breath, and looked down at his soiled shirt and the mess on the floor.
I don't know who started it, but first one customer, then a few more, and then most of us loudly applauded as he walked to the intercom and said, "Clean up to the front of the store."
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Secrets of the Women's Restroom
"Oh my gosh! I can't BELIEVE you are making me come in here!" the little boy wailed at his mom as she pulled him by the hand into the restroom of the restaurant.
My husband and I had met some of our friends for lunch at a nice Greek restaurant and when the women excused ourselves to go to the bathroom this is the scene that unfolded before us.
The boy looked to be about seven. He carried on a running lament to his mother as she hurried into the stall and he froze into place outside near the sinks where I was waiting for my friends.
"I will just be a minute," she told him. "I can't leave you all alone at the table in such a busy restaurant. Do not move, be patient, and I will be right out," she finished.
I didn't face him directly, but I could see him behind me in the mirror. He had his hands clasped over his eyes as he leaned uncomfortably against the wall.
"Mom, I am a man! Why did you make me come into the ladies' bathroom! It's not right!" he complained loudly. His mother made no answer from inside the stall.
One of my friends exited and joined me at the mirror. I reached into my bag to apply some lipstick.
"I'm dying in here, mom! How could you do this to me?" he continued. My friend smiled covertly at me at his antics and reached in to her purse for a spritz of perfume. As she sprayed her wrist, he yelped. "Torture, mom, torture!" I noticed his hands had slipped down from his face, and although he wouldn't make eye contact with us via the mirror, he was looking around at his surroundings.
This was a nicely outfitted restroom with a plush sofa, a matching chaise lounge, a table in front of them, and lush decorative touches all around. The table held lotion, mints, and magazines.The owners had obviously taken care to make sure this would be a welcoming place for women. It even had small tv screens in each stall, with news programs running on them.
Our third friend joined us at the mirror and raised her eyebrows at us at the sight of our little visitor. By now he had plopped himself down on the sofa and raided the bowl of mints on the table. As my friend washed her hands, the boy's mom made her way out and over to the sinks. He wandered over and peeked into a stall when he thought no one was looking.
"Mom, Mom, did you know there's a tv in here?" he asked excitedly.
"Yes," she laughed.
"I've never seen a boy's bathroom that has all this stuff. Why do girls get the good stuff and we get just regular things in ours?"
"I don't know," she answered with a smile. "Maybe that's something you can ask your dad when he gets here in a little bit."
He walked over and put more mints into his pocket. He pumped out some lotion onto his hands and smelled it, wiped it off and ran his fingers over the soft fabric of the sofa. He played with the handles on a vending machine near the door. "T-A-M... Mom, can you give me a quarter for this? I want to see what comes out."
"No," she answered. "You don't need what's in that machine."
Our final friend was drying her hands. "Mom, you won't tell anyone you brought me in here, will you? Not even your friends, not even Grandma?" he directed.
"Cross my heart, " she promised.
He pulled her down a little closer to him, and although we were already on our way out the door, we heard him whisper loudly to her. "Mom, it's OK if you bring me in here again. Hey, mom, I think I WILL come back in here with you again, you know, just to be sure you're OK and everything. Alright?"
Her soft chuckle was the last thing we heard as the door closed behind us.
My husband and I had met some of our friends for lunch at a nice Greek restaurant and when the women excused ourselves to go to the bathroom this is the scene that unfolded before us.
The boy looked to be about seven. He carried on a running lament to his mother as she hurried into the stall and he froze into place outside near the sinks where I was waiting for my friends.
"I will just be a minute," she told him. "I can't leave you all alone at the table in such a busy restaurant. Do not move, be patient, and I will be right out," she finished.
I didn't face him directly, but I could see him behind me in the mirror. He had his hands clasped over his eyes as he leaned uncomfortably against the wall.
"Mom, I am a man! Why did you make me come into the ladies' bathroom! It's not right!" he complained loudly. His mother made no answer from inside the stall.
One of my friends exited and joined me at the mirror. I reached into my bag to apply some lipstick.
"I'm dying in here, mom! How could you do this to me?" he continued. My friend smiled covertly at me at his antics and reached in to her purse for a spritz of perfume. As she sprayed her wrist, he yelped. "Torture, mom, torture!" I noticed his hands had slipped down from his face, and although he wouldn't make eye contact with us via the mirror, he was looking around at his surroundings.
This was a nicely outfitted restroom with a plush sofa, a matching chaise lounge, a table in front of them, and lush decorative touches all around. The table held lotion, mints, and magazines.The owners had obviously taken care to make sure this would be a welcoming place for women. It even had small tv screens in each stall, with news programs running on them.
Our third friend joined us at the mirror and raised her eyebrows at us at the sight of our little visitor. By now he had plopped himself down on the sofa and raided the bowl of mints on the table. As my friend washed her hands, the boy's mom made her way out and over to the sinks. He wandered over and peeked into a stall when he thought no one was looking.
"Mom, Mom, did you know there's a tv in here?" he asked excitedly.
"Yes," she laughed.
"I've never seen a boy's bathroom that has all this stuff. Why do girls get the good stuff and we get just regular things in ours?"
"I don't know," she answered with a smile. "Maybe that's something you can ask your dad when he gets here in a little bit."
He walked over and put more mints into his pocket. He pumped out some lotion onto his hands and smelled it, wiped it off and ran his fingers over the soft fabric of the sofa. He played with the handles on a vending machine near the door. "T-A-M... Mom, can you give me a quarter for this? I want to see what comes out."
"No," she answered. "You don't need what's in that machine."
Our final friend was drying her hands. "Mom, you won't tell anyone you brought me in here, will you? Not even your friends, not even Grandma?" he directed.
"Cross my heart, " she promised.
He pulled her down a little closer to him, and although we were already on our way out the door, we heard him whisper loudly to her. "Mom, it's OK if you bring me in here again. Hey, mom, I think I WILL come back in here with you again, you know, just to be sure you're OK and everything. Alright?"
Her soft chuckle was the last thing we heard as the door closed behind us.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Breaking a Neck
When I was three years old, I fell in love for the first time. It was with a horse. I fully remember how fascinated I was with their form, power, and grace. From that moment on, horses consumed many of my waking moments.
I had a succession of horses, each needing a little more training than the last, until finally I was breaking and training my own horses by the time I was a teenager.
When I was 17, I got a palomino from a relative. He couldn't break the gelding and didn't want to spend any more time with him. He said the horse was crazy and called him Diablo. I loved challenges and set to work right away. I also changed his name to Nick.
He was skittish and prone to multiple neuroses, it seemed. He was full of contradictions. He didn't like the other farm animals, but bonded with a small fawn I was raising at the time. Nick was exquisitely beautiful. His powerful muscles rippled even when he simply tapped his front leg. I loved watching him run through the pasture. I still don't think I've ever seen anything quite as graceful as that horse running at full speed.
He loved to nuzzle J. C, the little fawn, and J.C. wasn't a bit afraid. However, let any other animal make a noise around Nick and he'd rear up, a frantic, wild look in his eye. It seemed he trusted no one, and it was a crowning moment for me when he eventually gifted me with his trust.
We worked through all the preliminary stages of training and he became accustomed to the saddle. I was thrilled the first time I sat on his back and he cantered as if he'd been born to do it.
Because he'd come so far so quickly, I lulled myself into thinking he had detached himself from his troubled past.
One afternoon after school, I took him out for a long ride. He was wearing a heavy western saddle and showed no distress at having it on his back. We had already moved out to a far pasture where I wanted to let him go through his faster paces.
I remember thinking how bright the sun was when in the distance I heard a hog squeal loudly. Nick immediately reverted back to his old form and lost his cool. He bucked, twisted and jumped, each moment becoming more frenzied.
I worked on keeping calm and hanging on. It felt like he was beginning to settle down a just bit when something I hadn't counted on happened. The girth, the wide strap that goes under the horse's belly and straps the saddle on, broke. The big saddle, carried by the momentum of one of his jumps, sailed off at the apex and took me with it.
I don't have any idea what my position was in the air, but I'll never forget the walloping thump that reverberated through me when my head hit the ground and my body accordioned into it. I lost all sense for a bit.
When I came to, I was on the ground and Nick was about 100 yards away, nibbling at some grass. I really couldn't figure out exactly what happened and my body was strangely tingling all over, but I found the saddle, carried it back to the barn, and went back out and caught Nick and took him to his stall.
It was then my body went numb and I didn't feel even the strange tingling anymore. I could still move and walk, but the hit to the head made my thinking a little foggy.
In the hospital and after many x-rays, they determined I broke my neck at the C- 4 vertebrae. In a true blue miracle of God, the vertebrae had stayed in line despite the fracture and did not impede on my spinal column despite me carrying a heavy saddle and doing so much walking after the accident.
After a hospital stay and some immobilization, I had to wear a succession of cumbersome braces and then neck collars for many, many months. The only lingering reminder I have now after all these years is a stiff neck and limited range of motion in turning it.
A tidy ending to this story would have been that I continued to train horses, but Nick was the last horse I owned. He went back to the relative and lived out his life as a good horse. I'm no dummy. There's also wisdom in knowing when to quit.
I had a succession of horses, each needing a little more training than the last, until finally I was breaking and training my own horses by the time I was a teenager.
When I was 17, I got a palomino from a relative. He couldn't break the gelding and didn't want to spend any more time with him. He said the horse was crazy and called him Diablo. I loved challenges and set to work right away. I also changed his name to Nick.
He was skittish and prone to multiple neuroses, it seemed. He was full of contradictions. He didn't like the other farm animals, but bonded with a small fawn I was raising at the time. Nick was exquisitely beautiful. His powerful muscles rippled even when he simply tapped his front leg. I loved watching him run through the pasture. I still don't think I've ever seen anything quite as graceful as that horse running at full speed.
He loved to nuzzle J. C, the little fawn, and J.C. wasn't a bit afraid. However, let any other animal make a noise around Nick and he'd rear up, a frantic, wild look in his eye. It seemed he trusted no one, and it was a crowning moment for me when he eventually gifted me with his trust.
We worked through all the preliminary stages of training and he became accustomed to the saddle. I was thrilled the first time I sat on his back and he cantered as if he'd been born to do it.
Because he'd come so far so quickly, I lulled myself into thinking he had detached himself from his troubled past.
One afternoon after school, I took him out for a long ride. He was wearing a heavy western saddle and showed no distress at having it on his back. We had already moved out to a far pasture where I wanted to let him go through his faster paces.
I remember thinking how bright the sun was when in the distance I heard a hog squeal loudly. Nick immediately reverted back to his old form and lost his cool. He bucked, twisted and jumped, each moment becoming more frenzied.
I worked on keeping calm and hanging on. It felt like he was beginning to settle down a just bit when something I hadn't counted on happened. The girth, the wide strap that goes under the horse's belly and straps the saddle on, broke. The big saddle, carried by the momentum of one of his jumps, sailed off at the apex and took me with it.
I don't have any idea what my position was in the air, but I'll never forget the walloping thump that reverberated through me when my head hit the ground and my body accordioned into it. I lost all sense for a bit.
When I came to, I was on the ground and Nick was about 100 yards away, nibbling at some grass. I really couldn't figure out exactly what happened and my body was strangely tingling all over, but I found the saddle, carried it back to the barn, and went back out and caught Nick and took him to his stall.
It was then my body went numb and I didn't feel even the strange tingling anymore. I could still move and walk, but the hit to the head made my thinking a little foggy.
In the hospital and after many x-rays, they determined I broke my neck at the C- 4 vertebrae. In a true blue miracle of God, the vertebrae had stayed in line despite the fracture and did not impede on my spinal column despite me carrying a heavy saddle and doing so much walking after the accident.
After a hospital stay and some immobilization, I had to wear a succession of cumbersome braces and then neck collars for many, many months. The only lingering reminder I have now after all these years is a stiff neck and limited range of motion in turning it.
A tidy ending to this story would have been that I continued to train horses, but Nick was the last horse I owned. He went back to the relative and lived out his life as a good horse. I'm no dummy. There's also wisdom in knowing when to quit.
Monday, August 29, 2011
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!
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!
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Day Pancho Villa Came to Town
(This is a re-post from one of the first posts I did. Only one person read it then, so I figure it's safe to put it up! I also found a picture of the people in this story and added it.)
Carlos and his little sister Meli loved playing on the dusty streets of Rosita, San Luis Potosi, Mexico, in front of the hotel their parents owned. There were many games active 4 and 5 year olds could imagine and bring to life.
One evening, Carlos saw his father packing a small bag. "Papa, where are you going?"
His father looked at him seriously. "Son, I've got to go away for a few days, but then I'll be back. I need you to take care of Mama and Meli while I'm gone."
Carlos answered, "Ok, Papa, but you promise you'll be back?"
Papa leaned down and tousled Carlos' hair.
"You have my word on it, Buddy!"
That night, Carlos overheard his mom and dad talking. "Liza, they'll never come after women and children, but I want you to stay safe, anyway."
"Sam, we will be fine. I want YOU to be safe. This revolution is costing many good people their lives."
"I'll be OK, honey. You take care of yourself and the kids and Diego and I will be back once Villa has left town. You know how to get word to me if you need to, " he said, referring to a message relay system involving neighbors that stretched into the nearby mountains where he and his friend Diego would be staying.
Carlos pensively considered things in bed that night. What was his mom talking about when she said, "...costing people their lives?"
He finally drifted into sleep and awoke in the morning to find Papa gone and Mama already rolling out his favorite tortillas. He asked if he and Meli could play outside for a bit. Mama thought carefully and looked him in the eye. "Alright, but Carlitos, you must promise me you will only stay on the porch and if you hear any horses coming through you will come immediately back inside."
" I promise, Mama," Carlos repeated.
As he and Meli played, they saw the usual sights of early morning Rosita; the fruit peddler walking by with his cart, the firewood vendor riding in a wagon piled so high with mesquite that the little burro strained in his traces, and the woman who sold thread and needles from a large bag.
He and Meli played with little pieces of wood they imagined to be pistols, having a fine time shooting each other up. They were so engrossed in their game that they did not notice the men on horseback who had walked their mounts up to the hotel until it was too late to dash inside.
One man who was in front of the others was holding a real rifle, longer than Carlos was tall. Carlos and Meli stood transfixed on the porch as the man moved his horse closer to them and looked at Carlos carefully.
Carlos felt his heart beating faster as he reached for Meli's hand. He refused, though, to show any fear. The man leveled his rifle until it was pointed right at Carlos. The other horsemen watched.
Carlos thought at that moment how sorry he was that he hadn't paid enough attention to what Mama and Papa had asked him to do. He wondered if he would close his eyes when the rifle went off.
Out of nowhere, he sensed someone behind him.
It was Mama, moving faster than he'd ever seen her.
In one swoop, she covered the distance on the porch to where they were, pulled the children behind her, and wordlessly met the gaze of the rifleman. Her outstretched arms ensured not one iota of her children would be visible to this evil looking man.
The rifleman looked down the barrel of his rifle at her for a moment, then lowered it and laughed heartily.
"Senora, you tell your friends and family Pancho Villa does not shoot women or children."
And without another word, he and the other horsemen wheeled around and rode off.
Carlos would remember that day all his life and live to tell his descendants about it. I heard about it from him, as one of the many stories my grandfather Carlos told me of his life in Mexico.
Carlos and his little sister Meli loved playing on the dusty streets of Rosita, San Luis Potosi, Mexico, in front of the hotel their parents owned. There were many games active 4 and 5 year olds could imagine and bring to life.
One evening, Carlos saw his father packing a small bag. "Papa, where are you going?"
His father looked at him seriously. "Son, I've got to go away for a few days, but then I'll be back. I need you to take care of Mama and Meli while I'm gone."
Carlos answered, "Ok, Papa, but you promise you'll be back?"
Papa leaned down and tousled Carlos' hair.
"You have my word on it, Buddy!"
That night, Carlos overheard his mom and dad talking. "Liza, they'll never come after women and children, but I want you to stay safe, anyway."
"Sam, we will be fine. I want YOU to be safe. This revolution is costing many good people their lives."
"I'll be OK, honey. You take care of yourself and the kids and Diego and I will be back once Villa has left town. You know how to get word to me if you need to, " he said, referring to a message relay system involving neighbors that stretched into the nearby mountains where he and his friend Diego would be staying.
Carlos pensively considered things in bed that night. What was his mom talking about when she said, "...costing people their lives?"
He finally drifted into sleep and awoke in the morning to find Papa gone and Mama already rolling out his favorite tortillas. He asked if he and Meli could play outside for a bit. Mama thought carefully and looked him in the eye. "Alright, but Carlitos, you must promise me you will only stay on the porch and if you hear any horses coming through you will come immediately back inside."
" I promise, Mama," Carlos repeated.
As he and Meli played, they saw the usual sights of early morning Rosita; the fruit peddler walking by with his cart, the firewood vendor riding in a wagon piled so high with mesquite that the little burro strained in his traces, and the woman who sold thread and needles from a large bag.
He and Meli played with little pieces of wood they imagined to be pistols, having a fine time shooting each other up. They were so engrossed in their game that they did not notice the men on horseback who had walked their mounts up to the hotel until it was too late to dash inside.
One man who was in front of the others was holding a real rifle, longer than Carlos was tall. Carlos and Meli stood transfixed on the porch as the man moved his horse closer to them and looked at Carlos carefully.
Carlos felt his heart beating faster as he reached for Meli's hand. He refused, though, to show any fear. The man leveled his rifle until it was pointed right at Carlos. The other horsemen watched.
Carlos thought at that moment how sorry he was that he hadn't paid enough attention to what Mama and Papa had asked him to do. He wondered if he would close his eyes when the rifle went off.
Out of nowhere, he sensed someone behind him.
It was Mama, moving faster than he'd ever seen her.
In one swoop, she covered the distance on the porch to where they were, pulled the children behind her, and wordlessly met the gaze of the rifleman. Her outstretched arms ensured not one iota of her children would be visible to this evil looking man.
The rifleman looked down the barrel of his rifle at her for a moment, then lowered it and laughed heartily.
"Senora, you tell your friends and family Pancho Villa does not shoot women or children."
And without another word, he and the other horsemen wheeled around and rode off.
Carlos would remember that day all his life and live to tell his descendants about it. I heard about it from him, as one of the many stories my grandfather Carlos told me of his life in Mexico.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
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.
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 noticed a cryptic inscription on the back inside cover, from "El Toro". Here it is:
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:
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:
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.
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