The Dating Game

I think only two of my four kids have asked me why i married their mom, i guess it's a common question we get from our kiddos when they are little and just wonder about everything.

If you are able to put the answer to that question into words, i congratulate you, because i haven't been able to find the right words; it's more like feelings rather than reasons that come to mind; feelings that involve words like "hopes" and "dreams", and maybe if i could describe them i would be a professional writer. Going with that tired, old answer that "we fell in love" just doesn't cut it  in my book; even if you stretch out the "looooove" when you say it; people fall in loooove every day, sometimes twice in one day, not every couple go that extra step, and make it binding.

I may not have a logical answer for my kids, but when i think about that question
a story does comes to mind that may give them some insight into what went into that all-important choice, or it might confuse them even more.....

It was the early 80's, so i was in my early 20's and i hung out with a couple guys who frequented Mexican beer joints in Wichita Falls. These stinky, badly lit bars were not my thing, but at the time i had been reading Hemingway: The Sun Also Rises, A Moveable Feast, so i was curious about bars in general. I would never attempt to enter these establishments on my own, they were scary places for a sheltered kid like me, and it didn't take long to find out that you are highly unlikely to talk to an interesting person in these joints, like in the novels. My friends enjoyed a game of billiards while drinking beer and listening to loud Mexican music. Eventually, these guys found mates and one left town. Believe me, i can tell a longer version of this story, but i wont, i'll try to make it short and sweet.

After Miguel married i would often go to the Mexican dances in Wichita Falls and Lawton with them; the Valentine's Day dance, Mother's Day dance, Christmas, New Year, and countless weddings. On a few occasions they would fix me up with a Mexican gal who was usually here illegally, and that was ok; legal, illegal, ambiguous, didn't much matter to me.

Then one night i showed up at the rental house they stayed at, north of downtown W.F. and east of Lucy park. There were three girls there with them, two of which would meet their dates at the dance, so i was assigned to Yolanda, one of the other two girl's sister. Yolanda had a bit of a Minnie Mouse look about her, but a pretty girl nonetheless; she was skinny, light skinned, almost pale, and a big, dark curly mane, like that girl on Flashdance. I think she wore black slacks and a white blouse under a v-neck sweater. One thing that i can look back on as an odd thing was that the sister was unususally interested in me, but not in a romantic way; the other thing was that Yolanda didn't say much.

So off we went, and like i said before, i will spare the reader a long drawn out description of the next three hour in the dance hall. To say that Yolanda was a gal of few words would be putting it mildly, but somehow it worked for me. Quiet and shy was just not my experience when it came to Mexican women, so i found myself in the awkward but interesting situation of me doing all the talking; luckily, we were as far away from the band's speakers as one could get, but it was still difficult to talk over the music. We danced a few; i am no dancer, but she held me at arms length and it was like holding a maniquin. Don't get me wrong, i was intrigued, by the end of the night i was giddy with intrigue. I did manage to find out that she was about my age, from Chihuahau, and hadn't been in the U.S. very long; so, i mostly talked about what things were like here.

When we made it back to the house with Miguel and his wife, Lety, the other two girls had found their own way home, and they told me to walk Yolanda home just down the street. We walked half a block in the cool night air, and then we walked between two houses; in the back of this property there were three or four small, white clapboard rental units. There was a bare bulb turned on in the tiny porch of the house that she stopped at to face each other, but she would not look at me. All i could think about was the silliness of this whole night, and dangit if i wasn't going to put the finishing touches on it.

Not expecting anything but a laugh, i said, "you know, in this country, after a date, it is customary to kiss."

Of course, i hoped for her to say something like, "well... when in Rome...."  I was only looking for a laugh, even a "ha! in your dreams", that would have given the night some normalcy, but that was not to be.

Startled, she flew up the porch, flung the door open, jumped inside, and slammed the door shut.

By the time i got back to Miguel's, Lety noticed that i was trying to keep from laughing and she said: what did you do? I innocently told them what had happened
and i did feel bad that i found it amusing but.... that's when Miguel groaned and Lety threw a fit and between them they told me the story. Yolanda had been going to school in a convent, and she was thinking about becoming a nun. Her sister was against it and had brought her to live with her in Wichita Falls to get her away from all that and maybe if she met a nice guy.....so their friend Lety had thought of me.....the nice guy.

It would have helped if they had told me before, but i kinda understand that it was none of my beeswax. Many months later i learned that Yolanda had gone back to Mexico, joined the convent for good. To my utter shock, Yolanda's sister told Lety to tell me that Yolanda said hi, and thought of me fondly. Hmm.

Ladies and gentleman, in this fashion or some other, this was a typical outing of the dating kind for me.

Eventually, i met Trish, and without skipping a beat, she was the one that said: well.... when in Rome......

Poetic License 3

Because we had to keep up the pretense for the benefit of my in-law's neighbors in Durango, Mexico, Trish and i went on a honeymoon to the first beach we came to going west until we came to the Pacific Ocean; we just had to drive over the Sierra Madre Occidental, which is a gorgeous mountain range, to get to the beach.

Instead of waiting to find out when Trish's appointment at the U.S. consulate would be, to get married, we set a date and let the chips fall.... When we got back to Durango from the honeymoon, the letter with the appointment was waiting for her; the date was three weeks away, so we decided i would come back to Texas and in three weeks go back and meet her in Monterrey. I did not leave right away, so we just spent about 18 days apart. This may be starting to sound trivial, but i'm telling this story so i can talk about my in-law's neighbors, a really fun bunch. So, this is what would typically happen: the neighbor would show up at the house and be surprised to see Trish there; Pati, what are you doing here? they would ask, and she would explain. The neighbor would then give Trish a forlorn look, sit her down, take her hand, and tell her that things would turn out for the best.

This goes on a few days until finally Trish says: what is the matter with everbody?
She then finds out that just about everyone in the neighborhood had heard a story that someone had heard from a friend, who'd heard it from a friend, about
some guy from the U.S. who comes to Durango, woos and marries an unsuspecting virgin; after the honeymoon, he has to go back to the U.S., but promises to return... Of course, the story does not have a happy ending, the guy is never heard from again, the girl is ruined forever. Eventually, some did come out and say it to her face: they thought that that's what i was doing. Oh yee of little faith....

After 20 years, some of which have been horrible for us because of who we are, some because of life's crap, which is thrown upon everyone, i know very little about marrige. I have an opinion and some comments which i will share; they are not based on any faith, my faith is in my relationship with Trish because i have seen it evolve from nothing into something i know is not indistructable, but will not easily be toppled, either.

So, i think of marrige as being like flying machines, but before the Wright brothers. I think most of us strap on wings to our arms, stand on that cliff, say: I do, and jump together. It gets tiresome after a while; it's work, all that flapping. We do something wrong and then someone has to flap even harder, it get's even more tiring. Why is it so surprising that so many crash and burn? What we need is the Wright brothers of marrige; someone who'll get the aerodynamics and the physics right and give us the formula.

I'm still surprised when Trish tells me about talking and dealing with most Hispanic women that she meets. Anytime they ask her if she can do something with them, volunteer or go out to eat, anything that involves leaving the house, Trish will usually say yes without hesitation; and they will usually say: are you sure, don't you need to ask your husband's permission? And even when talking to her sisters in Mexico, when Trish talks about girls night out or lunches and banquets with hispanic groups that she has to attend without me, they inevitably ask if it doesn't make me angry or jealous; you'd think they'd know me by now. Even if it did make me angry or jealous, it wouldn't give me the right to stop her from doing the things she enjoys. And yes, she has to attend these functions without me because i refuse to go; i'm an introvert and i'm no good at small talk and i don't care about all these awards that Hispanics want to give each other. I know, it's about supporting her interests, but i don't ask her to support my interests, so we're even. I mean, if i can ever get enough people together to burn Glen Beck in effigy, i don't expect her to be there by my side, unless she really wants to. And it's not like i'm telling her not to go, on the contrary, i say you go girl! and if she wants to get all painted up, looking all fetching, i say you go girl! i'll be here when you get back. If we first cannot be our individual selves, how can we be happy as part of a couple?

And yes it has been a problem for us, we are very different people; we grew up in different countries, for heaven's sake; it's frustrating for Trish not to be able to make me into the social person she wants me to be; but, i think it makes our
relationship interesting. And let's face it people, we're talking about one of the most difficult challenges most of us will have in our lives, interesting is not bad.

The best advice i ever heard about marrige was from Trish's uncle Miguel, at our wedding, who told us: never lose respect for one another, because without respect for each other, it's all over. That advice and the importance of keeping a sense of humor will be my advice to all my children, whether they decide to marry or live with someone without benfit of clergy. I just think that making things legal and putting on a big, expensive show for your family and neighbors is trivial compared to the relationship.

Poetic License 2

Here i am at my confirmation with my godparents in front of a Catholic church in Matamoros, Mexico. Apparently i was catholic the first seven years of my life, when we lived there. Except for dad, of course, by then he had taken up with what turned out to be a religion that is the opposite of Catholicism. A religion that hates Catholicism and refuses to celebrate Christmas and birthdays. We just didn't know it, yet.

If i was the romantic type, i might say that everything happens for a reason. Like having been confirmed Catholic before my father whisked us off to a world where Armagedon loomed nearer every day, or so it seemed to me. So when Trish called to tell me that i would have to become Catholic, i was able to say: oh, but i am! I was baptised and confirmed and i have my confirmation certificate to prove it; i just never did my first communion. She said: ok, mail it to me; that will get the ball rolling, we'll worry about the rest later.

The only thing we had to worry about was the premarital counceling that Catholic couples have go through together; but we were allowed to go through that individually. I called Our Lady of Guadalupe church in Wichita Falls and explained the situation; the father there was hesitant at first, but finally agreed. I was actually nervous to meet this man because i hadn't been around a priest since i was seven, but he turned out to be guy just a few years older than me from Ft. Worth. He talked to me about the sacraments and the usual stuff concerning marrige; i actually enjoyed our little talks. Trish went to her talks with a group where she was the only one without their future spouse. She said the deacon giving the talks told the grooms-to-be: (and this is most important) do not get drunk at the wedding because then you won't be able to determine if your bride was a virgin on your wedding night.

My advice would be the opposite, i would say: gentleman, ignorance is bliss, drink up. Bringing Catholicism to Mexico was just a bad idea.

There was to be no legal union by a justice of the peace for us because according to U.S. Immigration rules Trish had get her fiancee visa in Monterrey and once on U.S. soil, we could then marry legally. The problem: the Catholic church requires a couple to be legally married before it does a wedding mass.

The way things work in Durango, Mexico is all about appearences. Trish's parents could not have her just disappear without a good explination for distant family and espeacially neighbors. "She got a visa through her boyfriend, so she's going to Texas with him because he promised to marry her there," was not going to cut it.
Chaperon or no chaperon, their daughter was not going anywhere without at least the appearence of decorum. It's the european blood, the state of Durango was settled by people of the Basque region of Spain nearly 500 years ago. I believe the Aztec had a more relaxed constitution.

I have asked Trish how her parents were able to get us into that church for a wedding mass without the civil marrige certificate, but she has never given me a straight answer.

All my family drove down to Durango with me a couple of days before the wedding. The ceremony was at 8pm with the reception after in a private home; we spent most of the day together running all over town.

The time between arriving at the church and arriving at the reception is fuzzy, but this is my interpretation of the events. Upon entering the church i was told to go stand in front of the alter, which i did; but when i looked back at Trish, the priest was standing next to her and motioning me to join them, which i did. So, i join them in mid conversation, i don't know what's going on, but Trish had instructed me to say yes to anything the priest might ask, which we did. Now, at this point in the story, i have to speculate because, like i've said, Trish won't tell me what was going on; so, knowing that Mexicans will always go for the big lie when a little one or no lie at all will do, i think they told this priest that i was part of a drug cartel, because in all the telenovelas i've watched, the drug dealing groom is always marring some woman when he's already married to some other gal.

This would explain what happened next: the priest pulls me aside and asks me something which at the time i thought was one thing, but 20 years later, in which time, my spanish and understanding of Mexicans has improved, i now know that he was asking me, in his fancy priest talk, if i was already married. Well, whatever it was that i thought he was asking at the time and the answer to this question, luckily, was the same; and, luckily, i had decided to go with my gut on that question. This man was no fool, he knows something is going on, he doesn't want a mockery made out of this sacrament, he's afraid that the reason why we could not produce a marrige cetificate was that i was otherwise bound.

This was at the end of April. In June, we went to Judge Nancy here in Burk and she did the honors. I tell Trish that those few precious weeks between our fake wedding and our legal union were the happiest weeks of my life; a dream come true, thanks to the U.S. goverment.

That's why we have two anniversaries. We traditonally celebrate our fake wedding, but also aknowledge our legal union each year. This year everything conspired against us so we were not able to do anything on that day in April and we kept putting it off until i came up with the idea of changing our official anniversary to our June date from now on. It will go well with my birthday and Father's Day
that month.

I also tell Trish that i'm not 100% sure we're legally married because that day in June, Judge Nancy had me translate what she was saying into spanish, and you know, i'm a terrible translator; remember, at one point i said: she's saying that thing they always say in the movies, you know? You call that a translation? You didn't know what you were saying yes to, therefore not legal; we may still be living in sin. She just says that she's 100% sure that i'm an idiot... well, maybe she doesn't say it, but i know that look.

Poetic License

I've discovered that it is easy to sound (figuratively speaking) like a jerk or an idiot when you comment about marrige. When you're dealing with a sensitive subject like marrige, people will decide what tone they're going to hear based on the weight of their personal baggage; and, let's face it, marrige can be the very definition of the word: ambivalence.  So, i'm just going to throw my opinions out there, and not worry about what tone anyone thinks i'm taking. I'm not trying to change the world, for heaven's sake, i'm just talking about it.

"no one wants to get married,"

That quote was part of my stream of thought in my last post, and even though i cannot justify it, i decided to leave it in. It can be taken as humor, like most exaggeration, but i was also hoping to shake people up, plant a seed, make the reader wonder if maybe there is something to it.

Marrige does what it's supposed to do: provide a couple with legal union; it does nothing else, though. But, seems to me, in american society the word "marrrige" has become synonymous with "instant happiness and magic." That's why when people fall in love, right away, they think: i want to marry this person; it's what people in america have been fed since childhood. You go to school, go to church,
join the Republican Party, and marry your sweetheart. Maybe in India it is different, since marriges are an arranged affair.

I try to see through the propaganda. When i knew i had fallen for Trish, 21 years ago, my first thought was not: i want to marry this this girl; i did not see her in a wedding dress or feel a desire to be legally bound to her. I simply felt a desire to share my life with her. I suppose most people would say that a secular person like myself, with my family background, of course i'm going to have a distorted view of this institution. I don't think that has anything to do with it; i think it's my proclivity towards progressiveness.

The marrige license started showing up in the middle ages; before then, a couple would just have to stand in front of their friends and family or the god of their choice and declare their commitment. The purpose of the license is exclusion: underage people, of course, are excluded to keep them from making the biggest mistake of their lives; and at one time, a man and woman of different color need not apply, also. I'm all for governing the masses  but we've seen what people of one color can do to people of another color, or of another religion. Of course,
marrige should be regulated, it's a legal contract, but it should be as easy as filling out some forms and filing them to dissolve it for two consenting adults who own nothing and have no children. It is ridiculous to have to pay lawyers exorbitant
sums of money and have it drag on so long.

So, yes i have some problems with the system of legal union, but i did not ask Trish to "shack up" with me. There was no point in doing that for more than one reason. There are two things that Mexicans take very seriously, make that three: baptisms, weddings, and funerals; they're mandatory. I was too young to protest the first, couldn't get out of the second, but i'm sure as hell getting out of the third, i'm donating my body to science. I want them to see how well i've evolved, but i digress.

I did not have to ask Trish what her parents would have thought if i had voiced my desire to live in sin with their daughter, i had my own parents. The fact was: if i wanted Trish to share my life here, we would have to marry. I did not hesitate, i did not think: dang it, now i have to get married! It was the law of the land and it's not like i am against marrige, some of my best friends are married. (If Trish read my blog, she would laugh at that because she knows i have no friends.)

So, just as soon as she said yes, i went about investigating the proper way of doing this thing. My friends, the ones i used to have, told me to just pay a coyote to bring her across the river and then marry her and fix her papers, simple as that, and absolutely wrong. I petitioned for a fiancee visa on her behalf. Several months later she would receive an appointment at the U.S. consulate in Monterrey for an interview; there she would either be approved to enter the U.S. or not; she got it on the first try, i was so proud of her.

But let's go back, back to before i sent the application in to what was then U.S. Immigration and Naturalization; it read very clearly on the application: the fiancee must stay a fiancee until she entered the U.S., she could then marry the fiance. I think this was when i started to think: this is getting interesting. When i called Trish to explain the situation, i tried to not giggle because i already thought i knew where this was going; she said she would talk to her parents.

Back then, hardly anyone in Trish's family or my Mexican family, for that matter, had passports, let alone U.S. visas, which are not easily obtained in Mexico. When the verdict came in, Trish called to tell me that her parents would agree to let her go with me if we had a church ceremony in Durango. I asked her how we would do that, because i knew that couples had to get married in a civil ceremony by a justice of the peace before going to the church ceremony. She said that in Mexico, if you know the right people, anything is possible. And that's when i started to get excited about this "wedding."

The only two pictures of Trish and me before we got married, 1989.

Que te quita

My 12 year old and i were shooting baskets at the park last night when the temperture had gone down to 100 degrees. He was telling me that earlier, on Twitter, all of the sudden there were like tons of people all excited and like celebrating that Proposition 8 had been repealed.

I asked him if he knew like, what that was all about? he said something about GL&B's wanting to get married. So, i explained, this is going on in California (or Californication, as RWR would call it) and it's not about wanting to get married, nobody wants to get married, people get married to provide and protect their spouses and to have a fun wedding. This is about giving people equal rights.

Right Wing Religion, the biggest opposers of gay marrige, does not like it for the same reason it won't accept evolution as the reason for our existence: it threatens their belief system. That belief system keeps their world in order, supposedly keeps everyone in line, and insures their reward in the afterlife. It is against anything that might undermine bible teaching. Fear seems to be the main ingredient for intolerance.

I tell my kids: do not make assumptions about people, you will often be wrong,
and it leads to discrimination.

Anyway, it's too early for California gays to celebrate, but any excuse for a party, just like Mexicans. They should remember, RWR are a tenacious bunch, they have God on their side.

What i would say to a RWR person about gay marrige is what my mom used to say to me when i refused to try something new, she would ask me: que te quita? Which means: what does it take from you? And she would make a circle with her thumb and forefinger, hold it in front of my face and say: this is how much it takes  from you!

It's 4 O'Clock Somewhere

So, i'm a tea drinker now, going on a fortnight; drank coffee for thirty years. I never really liked the bitter taste of coffee, actually; i liked what i put in it: milk, sugar, and vanilla flavoring; liquid ice cream with a kick.

I wonder if tea drinking will make me a different person, i AM using words like "fortnight", after all; so, obviously i'm reading Jane Austen.

Coffee is John Wayne, tea is Ricky Gervais; i'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I guess that expression came about when people started using wood floors in homes, there's nothing like a wood floor to resonate the sound of a dropped shoe or boot.

That thing about red meat being next to go is an inside joke that no one is in on. The thing is, i have a lot of customers in the cattle industry, i wonder if i should be writing stuff like that, it might upset them. But if i'm not going to write things that might upset people, i have nothing to write about. Anyway, beef, i can take it or leave it, but to me the only good steak is a piece of meat loaded with fat; it's the fat that i like, not the meat, just like my coffee. This year i've had lean beef on three occasions, when there's been nothing else to eat, i just don't see the point of lean beef and i'm not going to eat all that fat either, when i actually prefer chicken.

Don't pay any attention to me, it's the tea talking.

Life on a Rock

Who are we and what do we want? People, i mean.

For a short time there i thought we were creations of a deity and that our principal desire should be salvation--the fundamentals that my parents taught me. But it slowly dawned on me that we are just another one of the living creatures that evolved on this planet. I then realized that what i truely wanted was a reasonable amount of happiness during my time on this rock and to understand it and as many of its other inhabitants as i could; by inhabitants i mean other animals, fish, plants, trees, viruses, everything that i share Earth with.

This desire to know about all the creatures on this rock and the rock itself, i realize now stem from my connection to these things. A connection that modern life keeps hacking away at.

15,000 years ago i would have to risk life and limb to obtain material for making footwear; there was a closer connection then, between hunter and hunted. Today, unless i had to bring down the UPS truck that delivers my animal skins to produce footwear, the predetor-prey relationship is gone, the connection is less defined. My need to explore mother Earth, to become one with, is diminished.

Knowledge of life is understanding of it and to understand is to feel, which brings honor to the life being acknowledged. That is why Facebook is so popular: most people like being acknowledged.

"The only good is knowledge and the only evil is ignorance"
--Socrates

Signs of Age

I was watching the movie Charade (1963) the other night, and i kept asking myself: why don't filmaker make movies like this anymore? Is it because we no
longer have Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant? I miss that banter between two charming characters; i suppose, like everything else, if it doesn't sell, writers won't write it.

Maybe it's because you can't bring it back, like you can't bring back the cattle drive because of the fences. But in this case: characters like Hepburn and Grant, Myrna Loy and William Powell in the Thin Man movies, it's the fences that  have been taken down, anthropologically speaking, that keep that kind of charm from coming back to the movies.

And maybe it should not be tried again; let those movies stand alone as a product of it's time; like the romance of the passenger train.

And who says 21st century artists cannot charm us as well in that genre? I just haven't seen much of it. I do have my opinions about who has potential: i was just watching Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski; first of all, he pours powdered non-dairy creamer in his white Russian and it's driving me nuts because that stuff is so hard to dissolve in cold liquids, but i think he has potential.

I 've quit coffee, or rather, coffee has quit me after 30 years. It no longer has much kick, unless i up the dose to dangerous levels. I've switched to black tea to stave off withdrawl headaches and i'll drink that for awhile. Eventually, i want to see what i can do without stimulants; actually, i did some research on caffeine and it could be my cause for that awful achey feeling in the mornings when i'm getting out of bed; i've learned that caffeine doesn't just mess with your brain, it can mess with your body.

So it begins. Thank you coffee, for 30 years of friendship, a truer friend i did not have, you kept me going through good and bad. Next: red meat.

Epilogue

So, my half-siblings decided not to call any of their half-siblings from either of dad's two other families when he died; well, like Forest says in the TV version of Forest Gump, "it happens."

I heard from my friend Emmett in NJ; he said the same thing happened when his mother died in New Orleans, his half sister did not call and he did not find out for nearly two years; he said he was estranged from both of them and it also had to do with money. In my case, i'm sure money had a lot, if not everything, to do with the decisions they made.

Until i decided to write about my father's death, i had not thought about my half- siblings for years.  It was just another of life's unreasonableness visited upon me.
Compared to seeing what life did to my mother by way of cancer, i can almost say: what these kin did was merely a lack of courtesy.

Death be not Proud

Getting to this point in writing about my parent's lives felt like a journey to me, now that i'm near the end. I can't say that i know my parents all that well, i just know some of the things they did, the choices they made, but i can't say i understand all the whys. That's ok, though; it was theirs, i'm just one of the results.

Last night, at the Target snack bar, i'm sitting with Guillermo and Eva, my two youngest, and Eva asks me if i've always been the way i am. It would have to be Eva to ask that sort of question; the most introverted child next to me. On summer break, she spends most of her day figuring out video games; out of the house, she's trying to figure me out. I asked, what "way" are you refering to? and she gives me a vague analysis of her perception of my personality. And i see what she has done, she has compared me to an extrovert, namely, her mother. She will eventually learn to better analyse by not comparing apples to oranges. The point is, my kids will probably never know everything about their parents either; we had our lives as individuals, and as a couple, before them, and that is ours to share or to keep.

We all had no doubt that dad's other family meant business, they would call the police in Matamoros if we tried to move dad to an assisted living facility in Texas. What happened next, i will give few details about because i had little to do with; it is something my younger sister did, so it would be her story to tell or not tell. She went through her state representative's office and got the authorities involved; the authorities did meet with dad and the matter was resolved. Unfortunately, dad told them he would stay in Matamoros; surprising for me? yes, shocking? no. I witnessed dad's mental state of being, as well as his physical condition. The sharp mind i was used to was no longer there; in it's place, something a little more like modeling clay.

I disagreed with dad's religious convictions, but that is far from thinking that he didn't have a sharp mind. I disagree with my younger sister's religious convictions as well, and i could never acuse her of having a dull mind, no matter how i've tried. But then, her and dad's dogmas disagreed as well, so they didn't gang up on me like  my dear wife and Tania, my oldest daughter, do; but, i think keeping the dogmatic wolves at bay keeps my mind sharp.

They had convinced him to stay with them, and though sad, we acquiesced. They wanted him that badly, all we could do is hope they would find the way to give him the care he needed. Dad lived for another 10 months after that unpleasantness; i would call and my younger sister would call. I can't remember when exactly they started telling us that dad was not around, he would supposedly be somewhere; it might have been right after my visit, actually. My older sister never called him, she said that she had said good-bye to him forever the day he went to live with those people, and she told us from the begining that when dad died, they would not pick up the phone to let us know. Trish, a veteran of Mexican family wars and conflict, told me the same thing the day dad left: prepare yourself for that outcome.

And i did, i could very well imagine that, but i also said that if they were reasonable people they would realize, in the end, what part i played in their lives. What exactly did i do, did i beg to be born to their father? I think they will do the the decent thing when the time comes.

It was mid September the following year, i got a call from Arturo, in New Orleans, where he spends a lot of time with his grown kids. He told me that his mother, dad's first wife, who gets a social security check because dad had applied for her years ago, had gotten a letter from S.S., telling her that she would be getting an increase because of the death, but it did not mention any names and that's all they understood at the time. So, he was pretty certain that dad had passed away and that he didn't need to go poking around and didn't want to have anything to do with those people. I told him that i believed him, but would poke around anyway.

I called the Matamoros number and asked to speak to dad; C. told me, with obvious strain in her voice, that he was unavailable at that time for some reason i can't recall. I then called my younger sister and asked her when was the last time she'd spoken to dad; it had been a while and she had spoken to C. also a couple of weeks before, and had been told he was napping. I then told her what Arturo had told me.

Fortuitously, Trish had become aquianted with the pastor of the Mexican baptist church in Wichita Falls where dad's other family attended services, when they were living with dad in Burkburnett. The pastor had told Trish that he had visited her father-in-law one time, at his house, and asked about them. So, she called the pastor and explained the whole situation and asked if he could give them a call to ask about my father. He was glad to do it, and the next day he came over to tell us that C. had told him that her father had died about six weeks before.

And that was it, i never called again, never felt the need to speak or yell at them. I understood then the level of unadulterated bitterness and resentment that was fostered in that family. Of course there was anger on my part, but there were also conflicting feelings from imagining what their life must have been that i could not concentrate on that anger i thought i should be fostering. Calling family to tell them what had happened reminded me that it was grieving that i should be doing, and after that was done, the anger was just resentment.

Call of the Wild

Mom with 2 of 11 grandkids, circa 1993

Mom was notorious for misdialing, dozens of people in Burkburnett must have said hello to her throughout those years of misdialing; most of those years were with a rotary phone. I replaced it with a push button for them, but i don't know if it made much difference; and when it came to dialing the 18 numbers to call Mexico, forget it.

In 1988, when dad had his heart troubles, and my half-siblings came to visit him, i knew there was some strain between mom and dad. As usual, mom was probably nagging dad; but as usual, she probably had a valid point. Her arguement was that he had just gotten out of the hospital and his daughter, C., and his younger son, H., were still hanging around in Wichita Falls; their older brother, E., made an appearence just before they all left. So, he's going back and forth from Burk to W.F. and yelling at mom to stay out of it instead of just staying home and taking it easy.

When the siblings had gone back to Matamoros, i dropped by the house to see mom; i lived in an apartment and would go visit mom often, like a good Latin son. I asked her if she had any Cinzano and she gave me a small glass and i sat with her in the living room sipping the wine. She always kept her Reader's Digest, religious literature, and her bible, all in Spanish, on a large footstool in front of the sofa. "Oh!" she says to me reaching for her bible, "last night, while he was taking his shower, I rummaged through your father's wallet, and I found this," and she took out a little piece of paper from the book, "it's the Matamoros number," she whispered, as if dad was in the next room--he was at the shop.

She handed me the paper and i looked at it, "yep, that's what it looks like," I said taking a sip of Cinzano. Holding up the Italian wine, i said, "what color would you say that is?" 

"It is convenient that I found it," she tells me, "because I want to talk to your half-sister, C.," and she placed the phone on the footstool in front of me. "Dial it for me and ask to speak to C. before you hand me the phone, I don't want to have to speak to the mother." Mom wore bifocals, so she's sitting across from me with her head tilted back some, looking at me through the bottom part of her lenses.

So, i make the call and pass her the phone when i determined that it was C. "Hello C.," she starts, "this is your father's wife. Look dear, I have something I want to say to you: it's very nice that want to visit your father, but you must know that these visits cause your father a great deal of stress, which is the last thing he needs with his heart problems. So, I don't think these visits are such a good idea."

C. has a high pitched voice to start with, and her response was immediate, venomous, and shrill; but, mom was also quick, she pulled the receiver away from her ear making a face, then she carefully put it back in its cradle.

"Wow! mother, what did you say to her?" i asked staring at the phone, in disbelief;
C. had totally lost it.

"You heard what I said.... I thought I was being quite reasonable."

"What is her problem?" i asked rhetorically.

Mom adjusted the apron over her lap, a gesture she shared with her sisters, "she needs to find a husband."

The Onion Trip

Visiting dad in Matamoros

Dad had a good friend in Burkburnett, Mr. B.; retired engineer, very smart, had a large vegetable garden; he died a few years after dad. He used to bring me shoes to mend, and after dad left, used to bring me vegetables from his garden, like he'd used to bring dad. When i told him that i would be going to visit dad, he brought me a bag full of big sweet onions, and asked me take some to dad and keep some for me.

When i got to Brownsville, i gave some to my aunt Carmen; in Matamoros i gave some to my half-brother, Arturo, and had a bunch left to give to dad.

I didn't make that trip just to take care of the business with dad's house; we did take care of it then, but it would have been done one way or another, sooner or later. So, this involves my younger sister, she graduated from Texas A&M as a biomedical engineer and worked for GE about 10 years; sometime after mom died she quit, went back to school, and became a physicians assistant--bla-bla-bla, yeah-yeah she got the brains in the family. Actually, our little, gay half-brother, H. has a doctorate in mathmatics, so they hogged all the brains in this tribe; but, i was given skills too like: nunchuck skills.... computer hacking skills.... and i can draw.

Anyway, it was fortuitous that at that time sis was working for a doctor who took care of the elderly in assisted living facilities; she did the routine check-ups for him. When dad first moved to Matamoros, she would call to see how he was doing and she would tell him about her job, taking care of people like him. So,  dad started telling her about all the different health problems he had and that he thought he might do better in one those assisted living homes that she talked about, and she wholeheartedly agreed. She talked to her boss and the people in the facilities, and figured it would take what little saving dad had left and his social security check, and there would still be some owed each month, but she said she would take care of that. That's when i said i would go talk to dad in person about the matter.

I really didn't have to ask if he was sure it was what he wanted, i saw it pretty much right away; and it was no one's fault--age was just doing it's thing, he was in bad shape. He didn't live in their small house, he had his own seperate room with a bath that had been built next to the house. When it was time for Arturo and i to leave, we planned to inform dad's other family about his wishes to move. When we stepped outside, dad's wife, the daughter, and older brother (not litttle H.) were waiting for us, and they were none too happy; i think (as they say in Mexico) they smelled something.

I do not do verbal confrontation in english, much less in spanish; i'm a clam, and so is Trish (we are both moonchildren); in the 20 years we've been married, we
have never finished a fight.

I could only stand there and watch Arturo go toe to toe with all three, but he had no problems taking them on. They were even pissed that we didn't call before showing up and claimed that they knew i was up to no good, but i never got any specifics on that. Bottom line, they would call the cops on us if we tried to take their father away from them.

Bridges were burned that day.

A House Divided

Father did not sell his house, like mother wanted. Instead, he gave it to me; he said it would come in handy with all those kids we have. I told him i would keep it available to him in case he changed his mind about living with his other family.

In time, i saw that dad was not going to be coming back to Burkburnett where he'd spent nearly 35 years. Thinking about it, i realized that i had not noticed how quickly he had been aging because i saw him every day; and whether he thought this or not, he probably did not have long on this earth, so spending time with his other family was now or never. And i was totally cool with that.

Then there was a slight complication with getting the deed to the house put in my name: mother had died intestate, so there would be some extra paperwork to do; half the house was hers. I called father and told him i would send a document for him to sign, he said to send it. It was sent and i heard nothing for weeks; i called my half sister C. and she said they'd gotten no such thing in the mail. I'd sent a few things to them, and they'd gotten them, so i knew she was lying. So, i decided to   call my little half-brother H., whom i'd had a brief conversation with in 1988 when he'd visited with his older sister. I knew he was in San Antonio going to school, and hoped to appeal to a sense of logic in getting this business taken care of. But before i tell you about that phone call i must say that my little half-brother H. is gay, but only because i'm about to repeat a story that dad told me about H.

Believe me, i have absolutely nothing against gayness; i know there is rampant homophobia among Hispanics, it's that machismo thing, and on top of that is religion piling it on--like pious straight people don't do some questionable stuff in private. Anyway, dad went to visit little H., who is actually the baby of the families, now that i think about it; he told me that H. took him on the riverwalk and dad had experienced the Peruvians playing their musica folklorica and he brought back one of the tapes they sold to tourists. So, visit over, dad had his things packed, ready to hit the road, and as a by-the-way, dad says to little H.: so when are you getting married? Well, that was a mistake, litttle H. threw a fit; told dad to get the f--- out of his house.

Probably, what H. didn't understand about dad was that he wasn't an ignorant fool; he just came from a different time, and was determined to stay there. Dad knew quite well that his little H. was homosexual, but in his world, gay or straight, you married the opposite sex and hid your "tendencies" from the world and even your spouse, if possible; you learned to live your miserable life as long as it all looked "normal."

So, over the phone, i explained to H. the situation i had with his delighful sister in Matamoros, and implored to him that i only wished to take care of this business with the house like father had asked me to. He then becomes belligerent, and he accuses me of having let father physically deteriorate to a shadow of his former self. Furthermore, he accuses me of wanting to strip father of all his worldly possesions, and that that was my only objective in life. So, i got my answer fairly quick, but it wasn't a short conversation; he became quite emotional and threw in the f-word occasionally, for good measure. He actually wanted me to believe that he was crying because of what i had done and was doing to our father. I could only think of the story that dad had told me about H., and try not to laugh, which was difficult because he got melodramatic; he said things like: i told my partner that my heart just broke when i saw father....

I expected him to just hang up on me pretty soon into it, the way he was carrying on, but he just kept at it. I didn't hang up because i wanted to hear this crap; this kind of crap fascinated me. I grew up with two sisters, this was a new experience for me, i never had this level of emotional turmoil dealing with them. After a while, i just said: listen, forget it, i know where you all stand, fine; and he said: ok.... bye.

I then called Arturo, my half-brother from dad's first marrige, he lives in Matamoros, and had gone to visit dad on one occasion. Told him the situation and that i would be going to visit dad, would he come with me? He said he would be glad to. So, in July 2003 i went down to Brownsville, and stayed with my aunt Carmen; i walked across the border, and then Arturo and i went to visit dad.

Retirement

To begin a pair of cowboy boots, we start with a pair of lasts that have been fitted to the customer's measurements and toe style. When i started constructing boots, start to finish, without help from my dad, about 15 years ago, dad would still find and fit the lasts for me. I thought that was very cool of him, i could get right to building the boot and not have that anxiety about how they would fit the customer; i figured eventually he would say: here are the customers measurements, go find some lasts and fit them. Later on, i figured he would say: there's the customer, measure his feet and go from there; and he would be around to check my  work.
Of course, it didn't happen that way, or i wouldn't be telling this story. The day before he got on the plane to go live with his other family, he sat me down and explained last fitting to me; took about an hour and a half, then i was on my own. I'd seen him work lasts since i was a kid, i knew what he did, that day i started to learn why. I thought it was an odd way to teach me this task, but now i think that it's not an exact science; some of it is experience and intuition, so actually he did all he could.

The last pair of boots that dad made were in December 2001, he was 81 years old. He didn't make many pair that year, there were many aches and pains, the knee, the shoulder, the neck, the back....Early in 2002 he said he would not make another pair of boots and it was time for him to go live with his other family. Trish and i tried to talk him out of it and he would give us different reasons for wanting to leave; what was odd to me was that he never mentioned the wife that was waiting for him in Matamoros. He waited until September and then left to start his retirement.

Todos mis Children

I understand now how the choices i made for myself, starting about the time i graduated high school, would create a life that my children would have to share in, at least until their time to create their own life.

On occasion i have regreted not finishing college in order to go into a good paying career; for them, not for me, but that's as far as i go with regrets.

It surprises me that my father's choices in life did not cause me and my sisters more grief growing up. It may have been the distance between Burkburnett and Matamoros that saved us.

Eventually, though, father's children from the woman he chose not to marry showed up. It was 1988, dad wound up in the hospital with a clogged artery; that year he had two medical procedures done to unclog it, that's when they showed up. It was the woman my age, or older, and her younger brother. They did not come to the house, of course, they mostly stayed in Wichita Falls. The details of that visit are unimportant to me, so i'll skip them; i'll just say that i met them, i was civil, they were civil, i mostly ignored them when they were around, and they left.

One of the last things that my mother said to me, literally on her deathbed, was that she thought it would be best for everyone that, when she was gone, dad should sell the house and go live with his other family in Matamoros; she knew they wanted him. I'm a little surprised they didn't hate him, after all, he chose my mother to marry and bring to the U.S. I guess it didn't hurt that he came with a Social Security check.

Mom left us in 1995. Father did not sell the house, but 4 or 5 years later he went down to Matamoros and married the mother of his illigitimate children. He came back by himself, and he never told me he'd done that; he told my wife, Trish. I can only theorize that if he'd had a legtimate reason for this marrige, he would have no trouble telling me himself; he would expect that telling me would have provoked  questions from me with difficult answers. When Trish told me, i could only laugh;
i never brought it up with dad, it was his life. He was 78 or 79 years old, for heaven's sake; i say live and let live.

A year or so later the new wife and daughter showed up, at the house this time. Dad said very little about it, they were there, thats all. They attended the Mexican baptist church in Wichita Falls, not dads church. They stayed a few months and then went back to Matamoros; dad didn't say much about it, they'd left, that's all.

Last Trip to Leon

Dad made several trips to Leon, Guanajuato, the footwear manufacturing capital of Mexico. He bought his lasts there, for the shop and to sell to other boot makers; they are made of mesquite wood. Lasts are also made of plastic, but i've never tried them. 

In April of 1985 mom accompanied dad on one of those trips; the proceedure was to give Santos, the last maker, a deposit, and he would make the run, which is 36 pairs, he would take about a month to complete the order. So they drove down to Leon, paid, and for four weeks they traveled Mexico. I don't remember where they went and who they saw, but dad might have dropped mom off in Durango and gone on his own adventure.

That year i was actually working in a shop in Wichita Falls, owned by a friend, but i took time off to keep dads shop working. When they came back from mexico with the lasts, i went back to work with my friend. In October, i left for good because dad gave me the shoe repair business, so he could concentrate on boot making.

Two years later, dad had placed an order of lasts and had a daughter from his first marrige to get the money to Santos in Leon, so all he had to do was pick them up. Mom must have enjoyed their last trip, because she decided to tag along again and, somehow, i got roped into going with them. It may have been that mom talked me into it because those long hours of driving were weighing heavy on dad. So, we closed up shop for over a week, and off we went. It doesn't take a week to get to Leon and back; what happened was that we first went to the state of Puebla, which is just east of Mexico City, to visit a family friend. From Puebla we made our way north to the colonial style city of Leon; we spent the night there in a fancy old hotel downtown, i think it was the Rex. In the morning, Mr. Santos met us out front in his little pickup truck and we transferred the   three large bean sacks from his truck to dad's Ford f150 with a camper shell on it.

My objective here was not to reminisce about that trip, so i wont go into all the details; i will say that it was an enjoyable trip for me. It did surprise me back then that i had enjoyed it like i did; it would be the last time i would travel with both of them, i was 26 years old. My point in all this is that mom and dad were different people in Mexico.

Mom never really learned much english, she understood a little and spoke less. Dad never got involved with anything besides some church activities.
They never got involved in our school or had any kind of parties, and we didn't go to many places; dad was against getting involved in what he called "worldly things". In Mexico, though, they stayed in nice hotels and ate in cool restaurants; they knew where to shop and how to deal with merchants. I remember following mom around in a downtown area, can't remember what city, we went down this side street with rows of shops until she found the one she wanted. The door was open and it  was a small room full of herbs, small plants, dried flowers, and different colored powders in open sacks; the old gentleman there was a yerbero, someone that deals in herbs and teas. Mom was doing some shopping and the man turns to me and says: can i interest you in anything?, i said i was good, thanks. He reaches out with his hand, bends my right ear painfully forward with his thumb, pushes down on my nose with his middle finger, and tells me that i suffered from chest pains and a dark outlook on life; i was tempted to say yes just to see what he would sell me for that, but i just stared at him and said: not really, no. I should have asked if he had anything for a bruised ear.

Mexico was just a better experience with people who knew how to deal with it. And it was great to see them in their own element and striking up conversations with people everywhere we went.

A Celebration of life

Before i continue with the life and times of mom and dad, i suppose i should write something about dealing personally with their Aristotlean bifurcation. I'm not sure what that means, but i got the term "Aristotlean bifurcation" from a friend who likes it and wants to popularize its use, so i thought i'd help him out. I think it might actually be apt because it sounds like the culling of a philosophy by one person in order to throw at another person to argue a point, much like monkeys throw their poop.

I'm getting near the end of my parents saga, or at least, what i dare to tell, and the fact that i have yet to inject any personal feelings regarding their shenanigans, should be a clue in itself.

I don't blame my parents for anything, except maybe for sheltering us a little too much. I don't remember even resenting not having birthdays or Christmas celebrations growing up; but when Trish and i started popping out those babies, and she coming from a Catholic family, i started experiencing my first real celebrations of those things. I realized then that it would have been nice to have those memories with my family growing up. But then it got to a point where Trish and i were celebrating 6 birthdays, 4 major holidays, 4 minor holidays, and 2 anniversaries a year; i think that's just too much celebration. You think that's just 16 days out of the year, but if you factor in the planning, preparation, and execution, well.... 

Trish thinks i suck at celebrating and i think she blames my parents for that.

I think that when you grow up without traditional celebrations, you learn to appreciate that every time you are able to jump, roll, crawl, or just fall out of bed, it is the ultimate celebration that is life.

My parents gave me a gift: the meager, but happy, childhood that i had. Is my happy childhood null and void because i find out mom and dad had a wacked out disfunctional side?

I was not apathetic, but i didn't start drinking, or feeling ashamed as i learned of their past. I took it in stride; this was my parents past, and they were not asking me to do or feel anything concerning that life.

This being Mother's Day, i should say something about Evangelina Santillano Soto from San Juan del Rio: she baked really good cookies from scratch without using measuring utinsils, and she would stop me from eating too many of them.

When the doctors finally found the cancer that was making my mom sick for all those years, she held on for another two years, and it was dad that was there for her during those two years. He took her to all her appointments and did what had to be done to make her comfortable.

The Letter

I have lost count of the people who have told me that they thought of my father as "such a nice man", and not just after he died; when he would be away from the shop, they would ask about him and tell me he was a nice man, because he was.

According to mom, it wasn't always so; he could be quick to anger and lash out. But in the mid 60's, when he stopped painting houses and went back to shoe repairing, he headed to New Orleans with his two sons from his first marrige, who were still in construction, and he worked in shoe repair shops there, for some time. In New Orleans he found religion, or, rather, religion found him; one day a nice couple knocked on his door and got him interested in the bible, which dad said had never interested him before, but they sat with him once a week and helped him study this enigmatic book. The irony did not escape me: an alcoholic going to live in New Orleans and getting to know Jesus.

When the time came that dad decided to move to Texas, the nice couple only insisted that he send them his new address. Which he did, when he was settled in Texas; one day some nice gentlemen showed up at his door and they continued his bible study.

So, father became a nice person, whether it was religion or the mellowing of old age, is debatable. It didn't happen all at once, mom and dad still fought, but now dad was full of self-rightous vim; she knew how to take care of that, though.

Mom told me this story over a glass of vermouth on ice; i had told her that i went to El Mejicano's restaurant with friends and had a sangria on ice and had liked it. She said: if you liked that, you should try some of this....and she brought out a bottle of dry vermouth from the kitchen and we had a glass, she had her's neat. 

So, i was still little, it was shortly after we moved out of the shop, into the house on Holly street; she said dad was going on and on about the misconduct of a certain family member and how the bible clearly spoke against such behavior. I guess she thought he was being judgemental without all the facts or he was just getting on her nerves; so, she takes out this card with a huge scarlet letter on it and waves it in front of his face. 

Well, not literally, that's just how i picture it, and i thought it would give the story dramatic effect. But mom made it clear that she thought that it looked pretty ridiculous for HIM to be pontificating. So, that put a stop to it....for a little while.

I suppose dad could not have this card looming over his head every time he wanted to pontificate, so he went about getting absolution. So, he decided to go to the man who conducted our home bible study, an elder in the congregation, to confess and ask what he could do. What the elder came up with, and he was actually elderly, was that father had to write a letter to Miss Tress renouncing her forever, and he should swear an oath that he would have no more contact with her. I asked my mother: what happened after he sent the letter? and she said that dad went back to being his pontificating self because he'd recieved absolution by his letter writing. But, what happened with you-know-who, after he sent the letter? i insisted; mom claims that nothing changed, as far as she knew, he kept visiting his other children, and we have to assume that she's there, where else would she be?

So, mom went on: sometimes your father would become insufferable,
and now i had the scarlet-letter card and the you-broke-your-oath-to- an-elder card. This ate at his soul.

An interesting asterisk to this story: that elder left the congragation after a disagreement over some issues concerning dogma, nothing to do with my father; he was going to go start his own congregation somewhere and wanted us to join him, but other elders convinced dad not to. 

The Produce Business

To say that my dad's mistress and my mom knew about each other would be an understatement.

That produce store in Matamoros that my mother owned in the indoor market was actually my father's idea; she had money put away, and that was used for start up. Dad just set her up and made deals with suppliers. I really don't think dad was a big advocate of women in the workforce, but he was a practical man, and he had two families to feed.

I have to assume that he was having some financial issues, even with the dollars he was making across the border. He would go to mom's store and pick up some staples: rice, beans, tomato, onion, an estropajo on occasion; mom knew where that stuff was going, but she just looked the other way. Well, there came the time when dad started looking further and further away for work, and he wasn't around much; so, what he does is tell my mom that Miss Tress would be coming by the store and mom would have to give her the items he had listed for her, free of charge. Of course, she didn't like giving that woman anything but dirty looks, but she did as dad asked.

It was about that time that aunt Carmen showed up to help mom with the business; i asked her why mom did it but she didn't know. What aunt did tell me was that when she saw mom putting together the list for Miss Tress, she was appalled and yelled at mom: why are you giving her the good stuff? Mom said she didn't know, but from then on they put together that list with the stuff from the bottom of the barrel, the stuff that was a little crushed, or the not so fresh. So, this one time, dad shows up, aunt tells me, it turns out that Miss Tress was complaining about the freshness of the food! Well, the gall! if she doesn't like it, she can shop elsewhere. 

Dad had nine children altogether; he had three with his first wife, divorced, had three children with Miss Tress, married mom, had three children with her at the same time he's having children with her, and
after mom died he married Miss Tress. He was about 80 years old then.
Why did he married Miss Tress? i can only guess it was because they were both very religious.

I include my older sister as one of my father's kid's because he is the only father she has ever known. After she got married in her early 20's, she inadvertantly found out that dad was not her biological father; mom and dad had never told her.

The Conquistador's Legacy

Four hundred and ninety one years ago this month, history tells us that a Mayan leader, in a misguided attempt to befriend the Spanish conquerors that had landed on their shores, gave a gift to that scoundrel Hernan Cortez; the gift was a group of women slaves. Among them was the native woman that the Spanish called Malinche, her real name being much to long to write. According to history, Malinche wasn't bad looking--that's by european standards, so don't get too excited--and she was smart and ambitious; she learned Spanish and became Cortez's interpreter. In 1521, when Cortez arrived in Tenoctitlan, the Aztec capital, with his army of conquistadors and native warrior allies from a coastal tribe, Malinche betrays her people. She tells Cortez of an impending attack on his army by the Aztecs and then leads the Aztec warriors into a trap.

Oh, and guess what? she then hooks up with Cortez and has his love child; this child is considered to be the first mestizo in Mexico, the offspring of a european and an "indian". But that's just a story for the history books, the fact is that Catholic priests had been living among the idigenous people in Mexico before Cortez showed up. I know, you're thinking: what about Columbus and his crew? No, no, he didn't land in Mexico. Besides, that story about Malinche betraying her people and then giving birth to the first Mexican, sounds very familiar; i think there are hints of the biblical story of Adam and Eve  in there.

During the 16th century, historians think that 240,000 Spanierds immigrated to the Mexico and during the next century, the number
rose to 450,000. But it was not like the Mayflower that contained mostly families, men and women; these are mostly single men, Spanish men. By marrying native women, keeping concubines and mistresses, and just plain taking native women, the Spanish diluted the native blood. What's more, Queen Isabella encouraged this behavior; she probably figured it was easier than genecide.

That is the history of mexico, the legacy of the conquest, men taking advantage of percieved superiority. I would never try to explain my father's conduct, or find excuses for him. What i can say is that: in the
past, keeping a mistress on the side has been so prevalent in Mexico, that it has been tolerated; and from personal observation, i think it is still very common and much tolerated. I know this goes along with machismo, but it is not a Hispanic thing. It is astonishing to me that in the 21st century, males still find this sense of sexual entitlement and that not all women have been taught not to put up with it.

What my mother was up to when she met dad and whether or not he planned to have a wife and a mistress, i cannot say. In genral, the whole situation has made me laugh since my late teens when i first began to get the story bit by bit; some of the details of their lives was not funny, though; those things i keep to myself. My parents had the right to make their mistakes without me telling the world every detail. Why tell any of this in the first place? Simply put, i cannot begin to expain who my parents were without this information. 

Folk Tales 3

Mom and dad in our living room, circa 1970-- i've always wanted to use the word "circa", sounds festive.

April 15th is my dad's birthday, he would have been 90 today.

I love that black and off- white sofa; it is the first sofa i can remember as a child. I think it was left in the house when mom and dad bought the place.

When mom could not get back across the border legally, she was back to where she started from. Somehow, dad found out that she was back in town and goes to see her. In Mexico there is a saying: otra vez, el
burro al maiz! It has something to do with the donkey who wont stay out of the corn field. He offers to help her again!

Maybe father opened up and said he wanted to be with the woman he was married to, not the woman he was having children with at the time. That sweet talker. In any case, i suppose dad told her if she really wanted to live in the U.S., he would do all he could to get her papers back and they would go live there, but only if they were together.

Maybe it was a case of "the devil you know", as mom used to say; and dad was devilish at times, from what i heard. Maybe she was tired and beaten, but i'm speculating again; once you open one door, you want to open others. He got back her legal resident status, it wasn't easy; he actually petitioned for a pardon on her behalf; there were bus trips to the U.S. consulate in Monterrey-- well, it was a whole thing.

There is still the issue of dad's relationship with this other woman; well, it's at this point, when mom becomes dad's wife, that she becomes his mistress, because he does not end that relationship.
That woman's youngest son is younger than my little sister.

Marrige is the glue that bonds society, which is essencial for the formation of culture. Without culture you have Fox News, Nicholas Sparks, and chicken McNuggets.

Folk Tales 2

Every day deals are made, agreements signed, hands are shook; we make deals with ourselves, with God, with strangers, and we take our chances. This thing, this romantic notion of meeting someone, getting to know each other, falling in love whereby Hallmark and the chocolate industry gain two new consumers, is a relatively new thing.
Marrige plays a vital role in human civilization; it is the bonding agent that keeps society from falling apart which is vital for culture, and without culture, you have MTV. The fact that it only works half the time is inconsequencial, because those two miserable people go make two more marriges.

My mother may have known about this other woman from the start, but it would not have made any difference to her, she did not want my father. He offered to help, they married, but did not live together, and he maintained his relationship with this other woman, as evidenced by the children he will have with her. What did dad get out of this deal? I have no idea.

Mom has her baby, dad get them legal residence in the U.S., and then
mom moves to California to live with her uncle Ignacio in San Juan Capistrano. From all accounts she is happy there and she is working; my sister is growing up with Ignacio's children and learning english.

That was when my gradfather, Jose de la Luz, fell ill and mom decided to go back to San Juan to help take care of him. If you have been
reading my blog you would know that mom was in San Juan over a year and this would come back to haunt her. When she crossed the border into Mexico, because of her legal status which, i guess, in the first years, is in a probational period, she needed to have filed paper work stating her intent, a sort of permit that she would have an extended stay outside the U.S. Mom probably did not know this, and if she did, had no idea how long she would be in San Juan. But all is not lost, there is no way to prove she was out of the country for as long as she was. But here is where it gets complicated, dad actually reports her immigration, tells them what she's done; says: she done gone.

Why did he do that? Well, mom had whispered in the past that he did it out of spite. Well, that doesn't make sense, they had a deal, and it was his idea in the first place. So, what happens when she tries to go back to California? First of all, for some reason, she travels to Matamoros to cross which is the opposite way to get to California, but i guess it's the only border town she knows. (Ay, madre) The officials can't let her cross: it says here on our records that you bla-bla-bla.

So, why did dad report her? I did not really want to speculate, but we're here, let's have some fun.... Father may have had a plan from the begining, when he saw that mom was not really interested in him, and when she was ready to go off to California, he may have tried to talk her out of it. She may have said: let me just see what its like in California, i want to see my uncle Ignacio, anyway; if i don't like i will come back, i promise. Guys, we know that promise, right?  He must have been in love with her, but after a couple of years he saw that his his plan was a bust. There was probably some resentment. 

Folk Tales

I'm going to try to tell the story of how my parents got together, if you are expecting Nicholas Sparks, forget it, i'm not him and i don't do Nicholas Sparks. 

They are both gone, but i still see privacy issues, and common
courtesy dictates some measure of respect. So what's left? Probably something similar to what you would hear in court.

In 1954 my father is 34, divorced, but sober, and he is painting houses in the valley: McAllen, Harlingen, San Benito; for whatever reason he did not get back into shoe repair when he left rehab. He is earning dollars but he is living in Matamoros; back then, i'm guessing you got 12 pesos for a dollar. My mother has just moved there from San Juan del Rio; she is single, working in a restaurant, and she is pregnant with my older sister, but she hasn't met my father, yet.

I think we need to go back to Durango (that same year), for just a minute. Remember uncle Manuel, my mom's younger brother, who in about 10 years will refuse to let aunt Carmen go live in Matamoros to help mom in the store? Well, he's a college student in Durango, the capital, he will eventually hold management positions in the Mexican postal system; but, now he is a boarder with a family, and one of the sons is Manuel's classmate. I don't know if mom was just there visiting little brother, or she was there working for this family. And what kind of relationship she had with this young man, i can only speculate; i know she goes back talk to him, but by that time he has gone to live in Mexico City to either work or finish his schooling; of course, she had a relationship with the man's parents, but i don't know what that conversation was like. I do not know why mom never, as far as i know, succeeded in contacting this man to at least inform him of the situation; but we know his family did tell him and he denied any involvement.

Apparently, mom gives up on that young man, and maybe for good reason; what could one expect from a man who refuses to take responsibility for his actions. What is surprising to me is that mom is 29 years old at this time. I once overheard a conversation between her and her sister Socorro in San Juan, my aunt was talking about all the men who had courted mom way back when she never missed a dance or any kind of party. It sounded like mom had a few offers back in her day, but was having too much fun to settle down.

Sixty-six years ago when a Catholic girl in Mexico got pregnant out of wedlock, it was a different deal than it is today, it was a common thing to leave town. Even though she was 29 years old, i'm asuming that was her reason not to stay in San Juan with her father, sisters, and at least one brother in the house, to raise her child. So, there was a friend of the family who had gone to live in Matamoros, and mom headed that way.

I think there was another reason she picked Matamoros, it's on the border. Mom had an uncle in California, Ignacio, her mother's brother; we know she wanted to go live with him and his family there, i believe she had an invitation.

Mom and dad met in the restaurant where she worked, they became aquainted, dad found out where she lived, he would look her up. He found out her story and offered to give her baby a name and give them both "papers", the kind used to get into the U.S.

Sounds simple enough, kind of romantic; until we find out that, at that time, he had a relationship with a woman that had produced a child, the first of three he would have with this woman during the next 12 years.

I read a Nicholas Sparks novel by accident once, had a bad reaction, paramedics were called; i had to have an insulin shot. All i remember is a paramedic shining a light in my eyes and asking: sir! sir! have you been reading Nicholas Sparks? It was all very embarrassing.

Self-Employed Alcoholic

When i would hear my father talk about his life or alcoholism, i got a sense of how he felt about what he'd gone through and how he'd come out on the other side, especially as an observer of his conversations
with his friends. Dad never said things like: that's something i'm proud of or i'm proud of the fact that i....so you had listen for it.

Based on what i heard, i believe dad felt he'd kicked the crap out of alcoholism despite having relapsed twice in the 70's, or maybe because of having gone through that.

The first time i saw him drunk he had been sleeping in the shop, so i don't know how long he'd been drinking. I was about 14, and mom just said to me: you'd better go to work because your father has decided to opened up the shop and he hasn't stopped drinking yet. I got there and his good friend, Mario, was there, i found out later that mom had also asked him to go keep an eye on dad. I was at the point then where i didn't need to be given instructions to do repair work, i just got to work. Dad stood at his work table looking like he was working, i have no idea what he was doing, and he never said a word to me.  I still remember the wierd smile he gave me when i came in, and then i seemed to become invisible to him.

Someone did report dad to the police, i believe it was officer Brumolow who showed up to investigate; dad just gave him the same goofy smile. Both dad and Mario knew him well, and Mario spoke to the officer; i don't know what was said, but Mario assured him that he would take care of the situation and the officer left. I don't remember how much longer they stayed, but Mario eventually took him home after promising to drive dad on a beer run; i think he drank beer to bring himself down slowly.

The second time, as i've said, he drank, at least, three days; during that time, the police picked him up, but not driving. Early one morning, the phone rang, it was father; mom spoke to him for a minute and then said to me: i need you to drive me to Wichita Falls to bail out your dad, mom never drove. So, we get there and ask for Elias Dominguez and there is no one by that name; are you sure he got picked up here, where do y'all live? I translated for mom and she shrugs, i'm not sure. So, the officer makes a call and tells us: yeah, they got 'em over in Burk.

When we got back to the car she laughs and says: yeah, that makes more sense. I didn't ask. When we got back to Burk she told me to just drop her off in front of the police station, we lived two blocks away,
they walked home.  

Give Me More Strength Father

After some research, i've discovered that grandma Concepcion and stepgrandpa Manuel did not separate in Laredo, Texas, in 1930, when dad met his biological father through a chance encounter. After that meeting, they cross the border and continue their journey south all the way to Romita, Guanajuato where Concepcion was from. They are traveling in two Model T Ford's because grandma's niece and her husband are traveling with them and so is my uncle Rafa, the oldest, who is not at the meeting with grandpa Lupe, for reasons unknown.

In Romita, in 1930, people are wearing those white pijama-looking outfits made of sackcloth and huaraches, like you see in some John Wayne westerns. Dad shows up in shoes and knickers, speaking spanish
with an American accent; of course, the other children laughed at him.
They spent two years in Romita; dad went to school, lost the accent, got himself one of those cool white outfits and started hanging out in shoe shops and carpentry shops, watching and learning. And it's during those two years that Manuel disappears from the picture. They have sold the Model T, the money is gone, and grandma decides it wasn't such a good idea to come to Mexico, and decides that they would go back to the U.S. So, they take as much of their belongings as they they can carry and start walking north; from sun up to sun down they walk and camp out under the stars. It must be a good 900 miles to Laredo from Romita; how long they walked? dad never told me, but they only got far as Zacatecas, maybe 200 miles.

Eventually, grandma concepcion gets discouraged about getting back to Texas, and by 1946 we know she is living in El Control, Tamaulipas, not far from Valle Hermoso, where her ex, Lupe, is living. That year, 14 years after dad leaves Romita on foot, headed to the U.S., he 
makes it back to Texas to try to make a better living there. He is 26 years old, has been married 10 years, has three children, and in the throes of a  full blown case of alcoholism.

I have heard the story of how dad ran off with Simona when they were both 15 and how they were married on his 16th birthday countless times from him while we worked in the shop, because so much happened just before that and just after that, he used it as a milestone. On their way to Zacatecas, and life there, when they arrived, was difficult; it was difficult for everyone in the mid 30's, but especially for an uneducated single mother of four. There were days when there was no food to be had, and all he could do was try to keep busy all day, waiting to see what his mom and older brother could come up with. When he got bigger and stronger, he was able to join them in the struggle to make a living. 

So, he's 15, jobless, pennyless, and he convinces his girlfriend to run away with him? Dangit, that Dominguez charm! Grandma actually reported him to the authorities and they were caught somewhere by a constable and the judge, when he saw that dad didn't have money, sent him to a local farm to work for a week and he got 10 pesos, enough to pay for the marrige licence and ceremony; Simona had spent that week working in the judge's home. Back then, you took a young girl out of her home over night, you paid the piper. The newlyweds were forced to go back to dad's home where grandma was waiting, and she was none too happy; dad said that she just took one look at Simona and turned to him and said: you're going to feed her, 'cuss i aint feedin' 'er!

Nice, grandma, real nice; not even a happy birthday. But dad stepped up, he went to work, and in 1938, when the war started, there was an abundance of work for everyone. Finally, there was some disposable income, that's where the guitar comes in, and according to dad, led to the drinking.

Dad lived the first 10 years of his life as an American. He arrived in Mexico in a motor car, wearing shoes, and speaking english and spanish. But because of their poverty, for about the next 10 years, they lived in adobe huts with no electricity or running water, scratching out a meager living from this beautiful, but hard, land. The way my father told it, being poor in 1930's Mexico, it might as well have been the 1830's. This life is what i think made dad Mexican through and through.

Dad drank all through his 20's, but so did i, but from my calculations, i did not drink even one eighth of what he consumed. In 1946, when he got back to Texas, he was in and out of jails in the valley, i assume for public intoxication, he was never that specific about it.

10 or 12 years ago, my half brother, Arturo came to visit dad a few times; it took a little getting use to seeing this 60 year old man hugging dad and calling him papa. Arturo told me that dad basicly abandoned them, but he understood it was the alcoholism; his brother, Max, though, had a more difficult time forgiving dad.

Eventually, dad was brought before a judge who cared enough to try to set dad on the path to sobriety; instead of going to jail again, he gave him the option of going to a facility where he might get some help. Dad said that something inside his head clicked that day, in that courtroom, he saw someone who was trying to help him. He accepted and was taken to the mental ward at a San Antonio hospital, that was where they treated alcoholics. There he was dried out, brought back to health, given some therapy, and got set up with AA. That was the early 50's, in decade of the 70's, on two occasions i saw him fall off the wagon two times, a few years apart; the last time, the worst of the two, he stayed drunk about three days and then he asked me to drive him to clinic that i'd never heard of, in Wichita Falls, where they dried you out and gave you vitamin shots to get you back on your feet. I guess i was about 17, and that was the last time. 

Grandfathered In

I did more research on grandpa Guadalupe because we lose track of him in 1922 somewhere between Missouri and Illinois when he and grandma divorce, or just go their separate ways. I've posted his agricultural land owner's I.D. card because it's the only good picture i have of the man; there is another picture where his face is in shadow, he is wearing a guayavera and looks tallish and very thin.

Apparently, he winds up in Hamlin, Tx., which i'd never heard of, even though i've driven within 15 miles of the place. And, lo and behold! he gets his minister's license there from the Church of God, for heaven's sake. 

That's a nice turn of events, right? well, this story takes a hard left somewhere. I heard this from my mom, and she may have told me this in confidence, but it turns out grandpa Lupe had an eye for the ladies.
The story goes, he and a married woman from his congragation run off together, and i wish i had more details, but really, what more do we need?

That was the late 1920's and my 10 year old father meets him in 1930, and we don't know what he's up to for about 25 years. In the mid to late 50's he's single again and a small land owner in Valle Hermoso, Tamaulipas, just south of Matamoros, Mexico. He's around 60 now, and he's walking along a road in this farm land and he sees this girl working in the field, and sees that she's working hard, and is impressed by that. He finds out who she, goes to visit her parents, apparently he introduces himself and tells them he own a certain amount of land and that he's looking for a bride. It turns out this young woman is 17 years old, but the parents don't call the authorities or kick him out; what's more, they allow him to come visit their daughter so they could meet. Of course, she's thinking: everyone has lost their minds! a reasonable asumption. I've seen a picture of this woman, there's nothing wrong with her, as far as i can see. I have a 17 year old daughter now, but i can't put myself in those parent's shoes, a different place and time;  and i try not to dwell to much on this story because, by now, i think we all know where this is going.

It took a year or two of wooing for the Dominguez charm to work it's magic. They were married and had a  good 30 years together,  producing five or six children, it's difficult to keep everyone straight. I heard this story from my father's half sister, who is younger than me, i could see that she dearly loved her father. They all came here with their mother to visit my father, 10-12 years ago, a good, close knit family.