This week’s blog post is by Ernesto
My mother arrived back on our doorstep last weekend. For the past six months she’s lived with my sister, Norma, in San Ignacio Cerro Gordo, where winters are cold in the hills outside of Guadalajara. It was time for Mamí to come back to Mazatlán to spend time in the sunshine with me and my brothers.
My mother is 92 years old. That’s a long life for a Mexican woman but my mother has always been a person in charge of her own destiny. She was born in La Hacienda del Tamarindo, the only girl in a family with five brothers. She was a warrior woman ~ tiny, weighing less than 100 pounds, with fierce black eyes and a head full of wild curly hair. Her voice, low and growly like a pissed-off dog, commands attention.
One time, I took Mamí on a seven-hour bus ride to Guadalajara. It was a terrible trip. The bus was cold, the toilet wouldn’t flush and the smell was horrible. People complained but the driver said there was nothing he could do about it, so he just kept driving. My mother got the idea that the woman in the seat in front of her was the person who stopped up the toilet. Of course Mamí didn’t have any proof but she didn’t care. She harassed the poor woman all the way to Guadalajara.
“You know you are the one who did it. We all know it. You gave us a terrible smelly ride and it’s all your fault.”
Mamí wouldn’t stop until the end of the ride, when I walked up from where I was sitting two rows back, took her by the arm, and quietly led her off the bus.
Another time, not long ago, I looked out the window and saw Padre Lalo walking my mother home. The priest liked to stop at our house after Mass for coffee and sweet bread but I could see by the look on his face, this wasn’t a social call. I went outside to meet him.
“Neto, I’m afraid you need to keep your mother home from now on.”
“Why, Padre Lalo? You know she loves going to Mass.”
“I know, Neto. I’m happy to bring communion to Zelmira here at home but she causes too much trouble when she comes to church.
“What does she do?”
“She watches people going to communion and judges them. Today she stood up in her pew, pointed at Rosita Morales, who was getting ready to take communion, wagged her finger and shouted, ‘You shouldn’t be taking communion, you (bad word). We all know where you were last night and who you were with.’
“Rosita left Mass in tears. Neto, your mother is a good woman. But so is Rosita. I can’t have scenes like this in my church. You have to keep her home.”
Now that Mamí is back with us, I notice a big change. She’s still stubborn but she doesn’t talk much and she doesn’t cause trouble. Because she’s lost most of her teeth, we bring her cereal and soup to eat. She’s quiet and mellow, content to sit in her chair and sleep a lot. I know this makes her easier to deal with, but I miss the feisty mother that I used to know.