Ernesto’s mother, Zelmira Rodriguez, grew up in Hacienda del Tamarindo, as the only girl in a family of five brothers. Her mother, Maria Aguillar, died in childbirth when Zelmira was seven, and her younger brother, Ramón, was three years old.
The doctor told Neto’s grandfather, Ignacio Rodriguez, “I can save your wife or your son. I can’t save both. What should I do?”
“Save the boy,” was Ignacio’s answer. Zelmira’s youngest brother, Antonio, lived but all the children were left without a mother.
Ignacio was banished from the house by Gero, the oldest brother. He was furious when his father showed up with a new, pregnant wife, soon after Maria died. The youngest children were raised by their older brothers and their Aunt Petra. Zelmira turned out to be feisty and self-reliant. Ramón is one of the kindest, most-gentle men I’ve ever met.
I met Ramón in Hacienda Del Tamarindo in December, 2009, when Ernesto and I were there to celebrate his birthday. The night we arrived, Ramón rode to the party on his bicycle. A quiet, small-built man with light skin, he looks a lot like Neto with the same easy smile and deep brown eyes. But while Neto is exuberant and outgoing, Ramón is reserved and shy. He pulled Neto aside and told him, “Come to my house tomorrow. I have something to show you.”
The next day, we walked to Ramón’s house right after breakfast. His modest home is typical of the other small cinder-block homes in La Hacienda. His beautiful brown horse was roaming, untethered, in the front yard. Laundry hung on the clothesline to dry. A donkey, fenced in the spacious corral, watched us as we knocked on the door.
Ramón answered the door, wearing the tall white cowboy hat that is the trademark of all the Rodriguez men.
“I want you to see what I have in the bodega. I found her when I was riding through the forest.”
Ramón led us to his shed, where he keeps his tools. There in the corner was the tiniest baby deer I’ve ever seen.
“I call her Bambi. She’s an orphan. I’m raising her until I can take her back to the forest.”
Ramón took off his hat, pulled a baby bottle of milk out of his pocket, and sat down quietly on the steps. Bambi walked over to him and nuzzled his shirt. We watched as the fawn guzzled the whole bottle of milk.
Ramón told us how he found Bambi, lost and alone, when he was out riding the trail behind his house.
“Something must have happened to her mother, because I couldn’t find a trace of her. Maybe someone shot her. Or maybe a wild cat got her.”
“How did you get her home?” I wanted to know.
“I got down from my horse. Bambi had a wound on her leg and I knew I had to save her. I put her in my arms, and climbed back up on my horse. I could feel her heart beating fast against my chest.”
“Wasn’t she scared, riding on top of a horse?”
“I just kept holding her, and talking to her. I clicked my tongue and told the horse to walk slow and take us home.”
Ramón was raised to be a butcher, a job that certainly didn’t suit his sweet, compassionate personality.
“I was born to be on a horse,” he told me. “I quit butchering and became a vaquero ( a Mexican cowboy) instead.
“Ramon is also a jockey.” Neto told me. “People pay him to race their horses because he almost always wins.”
If Ramon lived in the U.S., he would surely be a veterinarian. He’s known throughout La Hacienda as an animal whisperer and healer. He rescues animals from the forest and tames even the wildest horses.
Two years ago, at the age of 85, Tio Ramón was still riding as a charro in the local rodeo. Neto and I saw him on You Tube. We knew it was Ramón right away. He was sitting on his big brown horse, wearing the Rodriguez tall white cowboys hat.
