Month: November 2020

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A Birthday in La Hacienda

The year was 2009.  I asked Neto how he would like to spend his birthday.

“I’d like to go to Hacienda del Tamarindo, and see Tio Gero and Tia Valvina. I would like to be there for my birthday and the Virgin’s novena.”

I had never been to Hacienda del Tamarindo, the small town near Rosario where Neto’s mother grew up. Neto’s great-grandfather was one of three men who founded the town in the early 1900’s. The family home, where Gero and Valvina raised thirteen children, is on the main street, directly across from the Catholic church. 

“Do we need to call and let them know we are coming?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Everyone is welcome. It’s the beginning of December. People will be coming from all over.”

“Where will we stay?”

“Tia will want us to stay with her in their big house.”

Neto was right. It was mid-afternoon when we walked in the front door and the living room was full of people. Most of Gero and Valvina’s children moved to the United States, but still came back every year for Christmas. Those who weren’t already there, were on their way. 

Valvina was in the kitchen, preparing food. Fruit and sweetbread was spread out on the big table, alongside pitchers of lemonade and jamaica. A grill was set up outside, coals already burning, for carne asada later in the day.

Uncle Gero met us at the door. A tall, distinguished man in his mid-90’s, he was almost totally blind as a result of diabetes. Neto introduced me to his uncle, and Gero’s charm came out in full Rodriguez style. He took my hand and led me around the living room, introducing me to everyone seated there. He insisted that I sit next to him and never let go of my hand.

Aunt Valvina, was equally charming. She hugged us both. Neto waited outside while she showed me around her home. I saw the laundry room in the back courtyard and her sewing room, where she sews linens for all the bedrooms and curtains for the windows.

Valvina proudly showed me the “barracho room,” a large dormitory on one side the patio, where the men sleep who are too drunk to come in the house. It was obvious the house had been enlarged many times to accommodate her big family. It was an old home with modern appliances, but no hot water.

Valvina called her neighbors to announce, “Neto is here with his friend, Lynda. Come for dinner.”

Soon the courtyard and the back patio were filled with people, most of whom looked like Neto with their thick black hair, flashing brown eyes and quick smiles

I was happy that Neto wanted to come to La Hacienda, but I noticed he didn’t mention his birthday. He told everyone he’d come for the Virgin’s novena. Only after most people had gone home after dinner, when he and I were left sitting around the table with Gero and Valvina, did he open up.

“There’s another reason I wanted to be here today,” he said shyly. “It’s my cumpleaños.”

Oh, my! Uncle Gero and Aunt Valvina both jumped up at once. Gero reached Neto first, and shook his hand. Valvina grabbed him and squeezed him tight. “Feliz Cumpleaños, Mijo.” They had tears in their eyes. So did I.

The next day, before sunrise, church bells rang. Portable cannons boomed in the streets. 

“What is that?” I wanted to know.

“It’s the beginning the novena.”

People came out of every home for a procession that happens every day for nine days leading up to the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Men in identical white cowboy hats joined the ceremony. Some came walking, some on horseback. 

A few men went inside the church to bring the statue of Mary outside and lift it onto the back of a truck. The procession began its slow walk through town. First the truck with the statue and then the parish priest. And then the townspeople, repeating the rosary together as they walked along the cobblestone streets, some carrying flashlights and some with candles to light their way. 

I stayed inside. It was still dark and cold outside. It didn’t feel right for me to join the procession. The prayers were in Spanish. It was a private moment for Neto, his family, his neighbors and his friends.

When Neto returned, he showed me how to take a shower, by rinsing myself with cold water from a bucket in the bathroom. It was so cold it took my breath away. I dressed quickly and joined Neto and his family in the kitchen for breakfast. 

That afternoon, when it was time to leave, Neto’s cousins came to say goodbye.

“We really like Lynda. How can we get you to bring her back again?”

“It would help if you had some hot water,” he answered.

They all laughed the same hearty Rodriguez laugh.

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Thanksgiving 2020 ~ A Day to Remember

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Today I’m remembering Thanksgivings past ~ in both Minnesota, when I was growing up, and later in Colorado. Thanksgiving for me, will always be a melancholy, bittersweet holiday. Although I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving, for me the holiday is as much about loss, as about celebration.

Minnesota Thanksgivings were always at my house. We had a very modest home, without a real dining room. Instead, we had a small, compact table that could extend to hold a lot of people. We set the table up on the porch with the heater going because, after all, this was late November in Minnesota. Grandparents were included until they were no longer with us. Aunts and Uncles were always invited, including my godmother, Aunt Margaret, and her husband, Uncle Pat, my mother’s sister, Aunt Fran, and my cousin Lori. 

My mother did all the cooking, which didn’t make her very happy, even though people always said she was the best cook in the family. Aunt Fran volunteered to bring a loaf of bread. Because most of the people at the table didn’t drink alcohol, it was a very sober meal, made extra quiet because most of the people were painfully shy and didn’t know how to make conversation. My strongest memories were of my Uncle Pat’s outlandishly horrible table manners and the mountain of dishes that needed to be washed, dried and put away after the meal. I missed the people who were no longer there.

My first Thanksgiving away from home was in 1965, as a student at the University of Denver. The small group of students who were not married (I don’t think there were more than ten of us) organized our own Thanksgiving. We ate off paper plates so we wouldn’t have to wash dishes. We had all the traditional foods ~ turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pie ~ and a lot of wine. We laughed a lot and later went to a nightclub for dancing and more drinking. We made the most of the holiday, knowing we would all scatter after graduation.

When I joined the Hein Famly in 1967, I learned what Thanksgiving was supposed to look like. My mother-in-law, Dorothy, loved Thanksgiving. She grew up very poor so having a big table full of food to share made her gleefully happy. The Heins had a big formal dining room and added extra tables, if necessary, to accommodate children, spouses, grandchildren and extra people who were told to “stop by in time for dinner.” Dorothy made it clear that Thanksgiving would always be at her house and we were all expected to be there.

Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, cooked the turkey and guests filled in the menu. The house smelled wonderful and there was a lot of wine, before, during and after dinner. Gradually the table became smaller, as people died and some moved away. We toasted the people who were no longer there until our last Thanksgiving in 2007. Dorothy died the following January, at the age of 97. 

But my strongest Thanksgiving memory was ten years earlier, in 1997. Jason and I had just come home from Dorothy’s, stuffed with turkey and pie. Garth was living in Winter Park. Just as I was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. My sister was on the other end of the line. 

“I need to let you know, Dad just died.” 

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“Mom made Thanksgiving dinner, like she always did. All the dishes were washed and put away. Dad pulled down the shades, sat in his chair, and died of a heart attack.

“That was a very nice Thanksgiving!” were my father’s last words. 

Dad was such a good man, full of gratitude, always able to do what was right. 

Thanksgiving will inevitably be the holiday when I remember Dad and all the other people who are gone from my life. It is a day for good memories, even more than good food. It is a day for sending blessings to those we love.

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Neto, The Peanut Vender

I love the beach sellers! The men and women who sell beautiful things on the beach ~ turtles carved out of wood, silver bracelets and earrings, lovely scarves and Mexican blankets. I know most tourists do not share my love. They think the beach sellers are a nuisance. They avoid eye contact, and wave them away.

But I admire the beach sellers’ determination. They have to pay a fee to the government to sell to the tourists. Every day they trudge through the sand, often carrying heavy objects and awkward sacks, hoping to make enough money to feed their families. I enjoy talking to them, looking at what they have to sell, and buying something if I can. Or, I tell them that what they have is “muy bonita, pero no hoy.” (Very beautiful but not today.) I smile and wish them good luck.

My favorite sellers, the ones I can never ignore, are the children who sell in the plazas and restaurants. The little boys and girls with tiny toys and Chiclets for sale. The beautiful girls, who go from table to table selling roses.

Ernesto was a beach seller when he was ten years old. One of my favorite chapters in his story tells of the summer he sold peanuts on the beach and learned to speak English. Here is part of that story:

The summer before sixth grade, I walked to the beach every day on my travels around the neighborhood. One day I saw a grown man selling salty peanuts and sweet bubble gum. He looked tired and sad. His back was stiff as he bent over his tray of peanuts that no one was buying. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You look tired. Do you need some help?”

The man looked up and saw a boy standing in front of him. “You are right. I am tired and I am old. I’m going to be here all day. Would you like to help me sell some peanuts?”

“I can do that” I smiled. “I am Ernesto. What should I do?”  

“Thank you, Ernesto. I will fill these little cups with warm peanuts and put them on a tray for you. Each bag is five pesos. When the tray is empty, come back for more. At the end of the day, I will pay you for being my helper.”

The vendor and I made a good team that summer. He toasted the peanuts on his grill and poured them into tiny paper cups. Twenty cups on my tray. He gave me a quick lesson on how to sell peanuts and how to speak English. I was happy to be a beach seller. It was my first paying job. It was a good job for a boy who was ten years old.

At first the only English phrase I knew was “Peanuts! Peanuts! I have peanuts for you!” Gradually I learned more words that I practiced until they became part of me. 

Every morning I set up my tray on a stand under a palm tree and watched for people to flag me down from the beach. Then I would pick up my tray and run across the sand. Most days I earned fifty cents. Once in a while, Señor would give me an American silver dollar to take home to my mother. I was happy to help my family. But mostly, I was happy to work with my new friend, the peanut vendor.

I liked being around the tourists. They were kind and generous. Their happy, healthy faces were a reflection of the ocean to me. They liked to tease me and make me smile. They treated me with tenderness that I had never felt before. The women, especially the American women, said they liked my dark brown, curly hair and soft hazel eyes. They called me comico y lindo ~ funny and cute. Sometimes they called me Honey. They said they wanted to adopt me and take me back home with them. They loved my hustle and my sassy smile. 

If you are lucky enough to be on a beach in Mexico, remember Ernesto and smile at the sellers. You don’t have to buy anything, if you don’t want to. Kindness goes a long way.

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Murphy, The Wonder Dog

Six months before leaving for college, my son, Garth, decided to replace himself with a dog. He felt that Jason and I were going to need something to keep us company when he wasn’t around. 

We never discussed getting a dog. Instead, Garth told me that he had called the Basset Rescue Society to request a Basset Hound for our family. He also told them he was my husband because he was afraid they wouldn’t give a dog to a single parent family. And, furthermore, a staff member would be doing a “home visit” in a couple of days to make sure we were a suitable home.

I later learned:

1) The only reason for a home visit was to make sure we had a fenced-in yard. Bassets are notorious for running away.

2) Murphy had “failed” adoption efforts before. The Rescue Society was eager to make this work. They weren’t fussy about marital status.

Murphy arrived a few days later. He was a happy, gregarious adult. In many ways he was like Garth. They were both handsome, cheerful and eager for adventure. They were both kind souls, who made friends wherever they went.

But there were also obvious differences. While Garth was a thoughtful student, meticulously planning for what was coming next, Murphy was a terrible student. He was a clown. He was a stubborn. Every day was a new day. A day to escape, to roam around the neighborhood, to see how much food he could eat and how much trouble he could get into. 

I got used to the telephone ringing before I even knew Murphy was gone. 

“We’ve got your dog.”

“I’m sorry. He must have gotten out again. Where is he?”

“He’s standing here in my kitchen. My wife was cooking hamburger. Your dog pushed open the screen door with his nose and walked in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jason and I took Murphy to obedience school but it was a waste of time and money. While other dogs stood at attention next to their owners, Murphy strolled around the room, smiling at the other dogs, or else plopped at our feet, refusing to move. 

We took Murphy for walks around the neighborhood, determined to get him to walk like a proper dog. But Murphy had other ideas. He didn’t like walking on a leash and he plotted his revenge. He walked nicely as we walked away from home, strutting and wagging his tail at people passing by. But when it was time to return, Murphy sat down. In the middle of the sidewalk. He refused to budge. He wasn’t going anywhere. He definitely wasn’t going home. Jason had to pick him up and carry him. Murphy taught us not to walk very far. Forty pounds is a lot to carry.

Murphy’s most noticeable feature, was his enormous appetite and amazing flatulence. He had the ability to clear a room in an instant with his silent, deadly farts. 

Because of Murphy’s challenging behaviors, I was in frequent contact with the Rescue Society. Their response was always the same:

“It sounds like he’s lonely. We think you should adopt another Basset, so he has some company.”

“Oh, no… That’s not going to happen.”

One day, Murphy got into a kitchen cabinet that housed my baking supplies. I came home to learn he had eaten a whole canister of flour, a bag of sugar and a large can of lemonade powder. It was the equivalent of ten lemon bundt cakes. His stomach was distended and rumbling. I threw him outside and called the Rescue Society.

“This dog is too much! He needs constant supervision. You need to come and get him.”

I could hear the rescue worker clucking on the phone. “Lynda, I feel like we are friends. Let me tell you a story:

“One day my dog got in my purse where I had my false teeth wrapped in a napkin. I noticed right away that my teeth were missing and the dog was outside. I didn’t know who to call first ~ my dentist or the vet.

“I called the dentist to see if I could still use my teeth if I found them outside, buried under a pile of leaves. The dentist said, ‘Sure. Just soak them in peroxide. They’ll be fine.’

“Then I called the vet and asked him what I should do if the dog had swallowed  my teeth. The vet said, ‘Here’s how to find out if the dog ate your dentures. Get behind him and yank up his tail. If that dog’s grinning at you, he’s got your teeth.’” 

We kept the dog. Garth left for the Peace Corps right after college. Murphy died of cancer while he was away. I missed Murphy after he was gone but I never got another dog again.