Throwback Thursday: Poemas

Throwback in the sense that I wrote these almost seventeen years ago. Copyright of the poemas (poems), of course, belongs to me. Do not reproduce in *any* fashion without my express, written approval.


The Mariachi
Ay, ay, ay,
I sing every night.
"Mr. Mary-achee," says a little voice.
Señor Mariachi, I respond, fixing her español.
"Seenyor Maree-achee," (trying to sound like me--her papí)
"Can you play me a song?"
Sí, senorita. ¿What canción?
"America the Beautiful."
Chiquita, that's not a song for me. Tell me one that a mariachi sings.
"But I don't know any, Mr. Mary-achee."
Sí, yo sé hija. . . . I turned away, tears in my eyes, I know daughter. Yo sé.


The Mariachi, También: Hija
My papí--he's the mary-achee
He plays guitar and sings
He wears a big sombrero and pants--both black with pretty red and yellow
"Play me a song," everyone says.
So I did, too.
¿What canción?
A song--I thought and thought. Then I remembered the one from school, "America the Beautiful."
He cried and told me it's not a canción for him--a mary-achee.
I don't know why he cries. . . . I don't know a song for a mary-achee.


The Mariachi, Tercero
He plays me every night
Strumming his fingers over my strings
Plucking and picking, making the right sounds.
He sings, too.
A mariachi always does.
The beautiful music we make together, his hija does not know.
She sits and listens to the canciones, but still she does not know.
"America the Beautiful!"--he's never played that on my strings
Canciones--Celito Lindo, Alla en el Rancho Grande y El Rey . . . these are the songs of a mariachi
These canciones his hija does not know 
And with her proper English and poor español, she never will.

¡Hasta la proxíma vez! 

Throwback Thursday: Wind Chimes

I feel like I hit the ground running this morning and have just now been able to sit down for a minute and put thoughts to paper (well Web paper).

It's Halloween and although it's not one of my favorite holidays it is on the eve of Día de los Muertos, which is a time that I do look forward to. I spent my morning cleaning house and finding things to put the finishing touches on the altar.

I was thinking of something to write about, which is hard to do when you're cleaning and putting things together--my mind raced in all kinds of directions trying to not forget anything. And because it was a cool morning, I decided to open the house up and let some of the fresh air in. I've said before I just love fall days for this very reason--wind, cool, but still warm enough in the day to wear shorts and flip-flops.

After I opened the house up, the wind rustled the leaves on the trees and for some reason that sound always reminds me of my grandmother's house. Maybe it's because unless it was bitterly cold, she usually had her whole house opened up all the time--no air conditioning. So when I heard the leaves rustle, I just stopped for a minute and waited.

What I was waiting for, I wasn't entirely sure. And then there was silence after the leaves stopped rustling and it came to me, there were no wind chimes. My grandmother LOVED wind chimes and always had them around--in the front, in the back . . .  EVERY WHERE.

So I went looking for wind chime sounds because I don't have one, and this came as close as anything to the sound I remember. We'd take naps with the windows open and the leaves would rustle and if it was windy enough, the wind chimes would sound.

Such a weird thing I'm finding that so many of my senses--smell, sound, and taste--have memories of their own. It's a magical thing on some levels.

¡Hasta la proxíma vez! 

Throwback Thursday: A Nighttime Ritual

Wordless Wednesday: Jarritos, a brand of Mexican soft drinks that I remember asking for as a child, usually when I was at my grandparents' house. I've introduced the kiddos to them, but they prefer Tutti Fruiti (Fruit Punch) to the Strawberry.
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The last few days have been hotter than normal. I have been going most of the day without turning on the air conditioner, but before the children get out of school I crank it on. Yes, I do it to avoid their cries of, "it's so hot!"

And most of the time when I turn on the air conditioner, I actually think about my grandmother and how she went all of her life, except for part of her last year, with no air conditioning. And yes, she lived in Texas, south Texas. Some times I think I couldn't survive like that (and so I am obviously "fitted" for this time in history and not before). But then I am reminded of the summer days I spent at her house and how I did "survive."

My grandparents' house sat about a block from the neighborhood Catholic Church and a mere three houses down from railroad tracks that trains used ALL the time, day and night. If you hit the street at the wrong time, you could be waiting a long time to get to the other side because of a train crossing.

But it was those summer nights that I recall most vividly. All the windows would be open to let in the slightest breeze that might be stirring and cicadas chirped out their love song to each other in what seemed to be a defeaning roar as I struggled to get cool enough to fall asleep. And as I laid there, a train would thunder past, shaking the windows and the house itself. I would lay there for what seemed hours, waiting for a gentle breeze to cool me down. Eventually, I would hear the leaves start to rustle, drowning out the cicadas, and making the curtains dance in the moonlight before my eyes. If I focused on the sound of the leaves long enough, I would soon realize that the one sheet I covered up with at night wasn't as oppressive as it had been only a few moments before. And then within what seemed only a few moments, I was cold enough to need the sheet to keep me warm.

Every summer we visited I looked forward to that nightly ritual, amazed at how I fell asleep and slept so soundly.

Now when the house is open and the breeze makes the curtains dance, and there's even a train, although not as close as at my grandparents' house, I am reminded of those summer nights. I long to sleep by the window, feel the breeze, and find the peace I found all those years ago on those hot summer days.
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¡Hasta la proxima vez!

Throwback Thursday

Years ago, when I went away to college, some 600 miles from home, I was one of the first ones to do so among a certain group of friends and family. Not only was it so far away, but it was also in a part of Texas largely foreign to any of us. To say it was a new experience is an understatement.

Although I went to my parents' house for Thanksgiving break that first year, there wasn't really time to see anyone else. That was not the case over Christmas break, which was almost a month long. So, one day my mother and I went to visit my padrinos (godparents). My madrina (godmother) has been my mother's best friend since their freshmen year in high school, and my mother met my padrino (godfather) during high school because of who he dated and married.

These two people have always been a part of my life in various ways. It was them who stood up and agreed to take me in should something ever happen to my parents, their daughters who are my oldest friends, and their extended family that always warmly welcome me to family birthdays, quinceañeras, and anything in between.

After visiting awhile, my madrina offered me something to eat; never one to turn down homemade Mexican food, I said yes. I don't recall what it was, but it did come with tortillas. After a few bites, I put down my fork, ripped off a piece of tortilla, and proceeded to scoop up my food with it. (This is how some Mexican foods are eaten best.)

My padrino teased me, "Oh thank goodness! I thought you forgot how to eat!"

I laughed; we all laughed. But underneath the laughter was a certain seriousness, how much of my culture and habits would I lose by being so far from home?

I guess that's truly the question for anyone. How much of our past, our culture, do we let fall away because we think it will always be there or there will be time to master the recipes or habits of our parents and grandparents? Admittedly, I think I've let too much slip away, and it's only been in the last few years that I've tried to make efforts to reclaim what I let go or what I didn't treasure enough to keep up with. And that's what this blog is . . . pieces of me, of my family, of recipes and times forgotten that I will try to recollect, share, and make record of, for me, for my kids, and for you.
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About yesterday's Wordless Wednesday picture, that is my favorite galleta (cookie), which for many years I could only get when I visited my patents' house or by traveling to Fort Worth.
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Another lost piece of me, I think of today especially, and every time I hear this Kenny Chesney song:

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Let me know if you have any thoughts on losing, or finding, pieces of you.

¡Hasta la proxima vez!