Tag: Ernesto Flores

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Zelmira Moves to California and Sees the Pope

Traveling back and forth, from Mazatlán to California, Zelmira got an itch to move to the U.S. full-time. She still wanted to collect clothing to sell in Mazatlán, but she decided that her main home would be California. At least for a while. 

In 1981, Zelmira left her husband, Jesús, in charge of their two youngest sons with strict orders that they needed to finish high school. Zelmira’s daughter Alma, age twenty, was already married and having babies. Zelmira didn’t want Norma to get in the same trouble at age eighteen, so she got her a visa and dragged her along.

Zelmira moved to Los Angeles, a city she already knew. There was a well-worn trail from Mazatlán to California, established long ago by her brothers and other braceros looking for work. Her brothers, Gero, Chendo, and Ramon all worked as braceros, picking grapes in California in the 1950’s.

Three of Gero’s children, Delia, Mercedes and Jesús, moved to Calfornia in the 1970’s. and Zelmira often stayed with them when she went on her clothes-buying missions. She knew almost enough English to get by. 

Zelmira quickly adapted to life in California. She liked working and sending money home to her family. She and Norma lived with her niece, Delia, in Inglewood near the L.A. airport. Norma went to work right away, working in the same airplane parts factory that Delia did, and later working in a ceramics factory.

According to Neto, “California felt like Mazatlán to Mamí and the other immigrants. People spoke Spanish on streets lined with palm trees. Smells of chiles, cooking in oil, and meat roasted on backyard grills, greeted people as they came home from work. Her neighbors stopped at local tortillarias or frutarias before walking up their sidewalks and opening their doors.”

Zelmira quickly found work, as a full-time maid and nanny in a big home in Echo Park, where she had her own live-in apartment. She moved to Echo Park and left Norma in Inglewood under Delia’s supervision.

Zelmira continued to come back to Mazatlan three or four times a year to sell clothes and check on Jesús and the two boys left at home.  Somehow she managed to get visas for the two youngest sons but not for Ernesto.

“I was always the black sheep. I think that’s why I was left behind,” Neto told me. By this time he, too, had discovered California and was able to jump the border easily, even without legal papers.

In 1984, Zelmira called Ernesto to tell him she was going to Italy to see the Pope. Padre Alvarez, pastor of  the Catholic church in Inglewood, sponsored the trip and Zelmira was the first person to sign on. She was fifty-seven years. She came back with stories of everything she had seen and done. For a working woman from tiny Hacienda del Tamarindo to go to Rome and see the Pope was a huge adventure.

“Neto, that airplane was more than a block long,” she reported. She slowly shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “We walked all day. Some people got tired but not me. I could have walked all day and still walked home at night.”

Two years later, Zelmira signed on for another trip to Europe with Padre Alvarez. This time to visit the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima, in Portugal. She also traveled to Mexico City, to the Basilica of  Our Lady of Guadalupe, when Pope John Paul II appeared there in 1999.

When the Pope visited Los Angeles in 1987, Zelmira was there in Dodger’s Stadium, cheering along with 6000 people as the Pope rounded the bases in his Popemobile.  Zelmira was ecstatic as she told Neto, “You should have come, M’hijo. He spoke in Spanish and English. He told the priests and the bishops they should work to help illegal immigrants become citizens.” 

A picture of Pope John Paul II hangs in Zelmira’s house to this day, along with pictures of John F. Kennedy and Our Lady of Guadalupe. The Pope is a reminder of all she has done in her lifetime. She considers him one of her good friends.

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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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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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Los Tres Amigos

It was the rainy season and the roof was leaking. Water poured into the bedrooms.

“When can we fix these leaks?” I asked, as we emptied buckets of water into the courtyard.

“When the rainy season is over,” Neto insisted.

“When will that be?’

“October 15th.” 

I’d never experienced rain like this before. Certainly not in Colorado. From June until October, rain flooded the streets. Palm trees bent in the wind until they were nearly horizontal. Dogs and cats hid under abandoned cars. The humidity was stifling. 

October 15th, Neto showed up with heavy-duty metal spatulas to scrape decades of tar and styrofoam off the roof. Publio and Pepé, his best friends, were with him. They assembled a scaffold and built a makeshift ladder from 2×4’s

Laborers in Mexico earn very little money. A skilled tile-layer or carpenter earns 200 pesos for a ten hour day. When I first moved to Mexico, that amounted to $20/day (U.S.). Now, under the current exchange rate, that amounts to $10/day. It is a shockingly stingy amount of money. Food costs roughly the same in Mexico and the U.S.. Clothing actually costs more. Housing is the only commodity that costs less.    

I rewarded my workers by providing lunch for them every day. As a special treat for showing up on Mondays, I ordered tortas from Tortas Kuwait, the sandwich shop down the street. The rest of the week I cooked. I bought a Mexican cookbook and worked my way through the pages: Tortilla soup, flautas, tacos, quesadillas, rice and beans, macaroni and cheese with marlin, whatever sounded good as I flipped through the pages. The only worker who was fussy was Christina. She told me during the first week that people in Mazatlan never eat black beans. “That’s for the poor people from the South.”

The roof project took more than three weeks.

Day 1. No rain. Neto set up the ladder. It consisted of a scaffold with a long board attached diagonally to one side. Small sections of 2×4’s  were hammered onto the board, to create footholds up the slope. Neto, Publio, and Pepé ran up the ladder and started working at 9:00. By 10:00 the sun was beating down on them and sweat was pouring off their faces. They drank gallons of water and kept working.

Day 2. Still no rain. Neto hauled a big bucket of sand up the ladder, along with a beach umbrella that looked like a giant watermelon. He plopped the umbrella in the bucket of sand and now they had shade. 

Day 3. Still no rain. I was beginning to believe the rainy season was over. Neto asked if he could borrow my boom box to take to the roof, along with the watermelon umbrella and the bucket of sand. Now the guys had shade and music. They sang and laughed as they continued to scrape layers of mold and crud from the old roof. 

Day 4. Neto brought a new worker, a young guy from Vera Cruz, to help load the old, stinky roof into buckets to take to the dump. Everyone called him “Vera Cruz.” I never knew his real name. Halfway through the morning, Vera Cruz fell off the ladder and needed to be rushed to the local Red Cross. He fell on his skinny hip and was hurt badly when he bounced hard on the cement. By afternoon, Vera Cruz was back on the job.

“How can he keep working? Isn’t he in a lot of pain?” I asked Neto.

“The doctor gave him a shot of Ibuprofen in his hip. He’s feeling better now. He wants to keep working.”

And that’s the way it went for the next three weeks. After the roof was scraped clean, the men laid a fresh coat of cement before spreading buckets of waterproofing across the roof. 

My house would never have been ready for guests without Los Tres Amigos. They arrived every day with a smile. They tried to understand my English and struggled to teach me Spanish. They thanked me every day for allowing them to work and for giving them lunch. They became my good friends, as well as Neto’s.

Publio is still one of Neto’s best friends. His family became my family, too. Sadly, Pepe died two years ago, from complications of a motorcycle accident and horrible medical care. Seeing Publio again last winter was a joy. But I will always have a hole in my heart, where Pepé used to live.

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Zapatista

Zapatista is one of the most memorable, charismatic women I’ve ever met. A tiny woman, she was strong and beautiful with a straw cowboy hat on her head and a rosary around her neck. I’m guessing she was at least eighty years old. Her skin glowed copper. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her smile was captivating. Ernesto and I met her one day in the town of Ayala in the state of Morelos, Mexico.

Neto and I went to Cuernavaca, near Mexico City, in late August, 2013. We stayed in a truly horrible Airbnb rental. The apartment was small and dirty with grotesque art on the walls. It didn’t even have a pot for boiling water.  After going to Walmart for basic supplies, we decided we needed to spend as little time in the apartment as possible and explore the surrounding area, instead. We ate at local food stands. We spent a day in the history museum. We climbed pyramids and visited the most beautiful botanical gardens I’ve ever seen. We took taxis to nearby towns. Because of that tiny, dirty apartment, we had one of our best vacations ever.

Ayala is an agricultural town, forty-five minutes from Cuernavaca. We wanted to visit a museum, have lunch and be home before dark. Our taxi driver warned us to be careful. “There are a lot of bad people living in Morelos.” 

We didn’t see any bad people. Instead, we met Zapatista, a charming woman selling homemade pulque ~ an alcoholic beverage with a taste as smooth as honey. Pulque is tough to describe. Here is the best description I could find, taken from Wikipedia: 

Pulque is one of Mexico’s oldest, iconic alcoholic beverages made from fermented agave. It looks like semen and has the texture of boogers, but it tastes like pure magic.

 

Neto and I were having lunch at a busy restaurant across from an old railroad station when Zapatista arrived at our table, carrying a large, leather-wrapped jug of homemade pulque. We invited her to sit down at our table and talk to us. She was tired. Her feet were sore. She was happy to spend some time sitting at our table. But first we bought a glass of  pulque.

We called her Zapatista because we never knew her real name. When we asked her who she was, she told us that she was the granddaughter of  Emiliano Zapata Salazar, hero in the Mexican Revolution. She started telling us stories of the Mexican Revolution. The more she told us, the more I knew her stories were true. 

Emiliano Zapata was a handsome man, with dark penetrating eyes and a bushy black mustache. A man of the people and a natural leader, he led the peasant revolution in the state of Morelos. He believed in taking land from wealthy landowners and returning it to the peasants. He later became the leader of the Liberation Army of the South and remained an important fighter of the Mexican Revolution until he was assassinated in an ambush in 1919.

We were captivated by Zapatista. I was in awe of  her wonderful sense of humor and her fascinating personal stories of her grandfather and the Mexican Revolution. We asked her to join us for lunch. She agreed to let us buy her lunch but declined to stay and sit with us. Instead she put her lunch in a plastic box, packed it in her knapsack and continued on her way.

After our day in Ayala, Neto and I left Cuernavaca two days early and checked into a beautiful, ultra-modern hotel in downtown Mexico City. That gave us time to spend a day visiting the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe and climb even higher pyramids. 

Our trip to Cuernavaca and Mexico City was an unforgettable experience. We agreed that spending time with Zapatista was the highlight of our trip, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. She is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Talking to her, we felt that we were in the presence of greatness. 

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Christina

Soon after I moved to Mexico in 2005, Christina knocked on my door and asked if she could be my housekeeper. That was a lucky day for me. Christina was the hardest-working woman I’ve ever met.

My house, a huge five-bedroom, six-bathroom historic hacienda, took up half a block. The large kitchen was designed for servants to prepare meals for the famous family who lived next door. A small woman with onyx black eyes, Christina wouldn’t go home until she cleaned every inch of my house, top to bottom, wall to wall, including the courtyard. 

Christina worked only on Tuesdays and Fridays. Neto was my handyman and worked every day. They got along like a cat and a dog.

“Buenos Dias,” Neto would sing to Christina as he came through the door in the morning. Christina wouldn’t answer. She glared at him. If she’d been a real cat, she would have hissed and swatted. Instead, she turned her back and kept sweeping the courtyard. 

And then, because Christina spoke only Spanish and my Spanish was even worse than it is now, I asked Neto to translate for me.

“Christina, I need you to be nice to Ernesto. You are very important to me. I couldn’t take care of this house without you. In fact, I would be lost without you. Please answer Ernesto when he talks to you.”

“Buenos Dias,” she would mumble and then go back to sweeping the massive amount of leaves that had fallen from the mango trees overnight.

My favorite time of day in Mexico has always been early morning. The weather is cool and the sun is low in the sky. Birds swoop and sing as the day is just getting started. Christina liked that time of the day, too. Our fountain bubbled with fresh, cold water inviting birds to come, to drink and to splash.

Evenings were meant for the mourning doves, with their beautiful Coo-oo-oo song. Such sweet, gentle birds! They perched on the rim of the fountain before bravely stepping into the water to shower. 

But Christina’s favorite birds were the shiny black cuervos, the crows who arrived like loud drunken guests early in the morning. She talked to them while she swept the courtyard. She swore that they talked back to her.

I asked her, “Christina, why do you talk to the cuervos and you won’t talk to Ernesto?”

“Because I like the cuervos better, “ she answered. “And besides, they are better looking  than he is.”

One day, I heard Christina having a loud, long conversation with one especially bold crow, sitting high in a tree.

“What is she saying?” I asked Neto.

“She’s asking the crow why he never brings her anything. She is telling the crow that if he wants to shower and drink from the fountain, he needs to bring her a present.”

“Does she believe he understands her?”

“I think she does.” Neto and I shook our heads. “She believes the cuervos are as smart as people.”

The next time Christina came to work, she started her day sweeping the courtyard and talking to the crows, as usual. I looked up as I heard her cry, “Ay! Carumba!” I walked over and saw her rubbing her head. Christina opened her hand to show me a ten peso coin that the crow had dropped on top of her. I never again doubted her ability to talk to birds.

I recently learned that my dear friend, Christina, died three weeks ago of kidney failure. Vaya con Dios, mi amiga. Go in peace. May all the birds in the sky watch over you and sing you home.

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Publio Donates Blood

It’s been a quiet week in Mazatlán. So while we wait for the next holiday which is, predictably, right around the corner, I’m going to tell you a story about one of Ernesto’s friends

Publio is Neto’s friend and his best surfing buddy. Fifteen years younger than Neto, Publio is from a very musical family and plays a variety of instruments. He is currently a drummer in a band with his older brother, a flute player, when he isn’t at his job delivering furniture.

Publio’s mother, a hard-working woman from Mexico, recently retired as a gardener at the Holiday Inn. His father, from Ecuador, used to work for Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas. He was the strong man at the bottom of  the human pyramid until he fell and broke his back, never able to work again.

Publio grew up in Mazatlán and did well in school. Due to generous support from his father, he graduated from high school and followed his brother to Mexico City to attend the university. Publio and Neto returned to Mazatlán about the same year. Neto was evicted from the U.S. by a Tucson judge who believed it was time for Neto to go back to surfing. Publio dropped out of college, left Mexico City to join a Reggae band, and eventually found his way back in Mazatlán. They met one day at the corner grocery store. Neto loved the music of Bob Marley and was fascinated by this young guy from the neighborhood with long deadlocks, a quick smile and a quiet voice.

Publio’s mother never forgave Neto for encouraging Publio’s interest in surfing and, in her mind, leading him astray. Alicia wouldn’t allow Neto into her house, so Publio spent a lot of time at our place. He was Neto’s right-hand man whenever a job needed a right-hand man. Lots of time he stayed for lunch. I’ve always liked Publio. He’s a quiet, gentle giant ~ a nice contrast to Neto’s sometimes exhausting exuberance and impulsivity. 

One day Publio came to our house to let us know that he needed to donate blood for his diabetic uncle, a local Mariachi musician. Why a seemingly healthy man with diabetes needed fresh blood was one of a long list of Mexican customs I never understood and learned not to question. Before he could donate blood, however, Publio had to have his blood tested to make sure it was “strong enough.” At the time, Publio was only thirty years old, practically a virgin, and one of the strongest men in Mexico. His blood, however, was found to be too weak to donate.

Not to be deterred, Publio drank a concoction that the blood center mixed up. Since Neto was with him and thought that maybe his blood needed a pick-me-up, he asked if he could have one, too. It took them about thirty minutes to swallow their highballs of celery, garlic, tomatoes, vinegar, olive oil and liver powder. Publio gagged every time he took another sip. Neto just asked for a little Tabasco to make it taste better.

The next day Publio donated blood but then felt too shaky to come to work. Neto felt fine but he didn’t come to work either, out of sympathy for his friend who didn’t feel well.