Exercise 6

The Bridge

To get to my grandparent’s ranch, you must cross a tiny bridge. My brother tells me if zombies ever attack, he will come here because the bridge is the only way in and the only way out. The river underneath it is almost completely dried out, but I guess that’s water underneath the bridge since you have to cross it regardless. Every time we cross the narrow concrete structure, we comment on how old it is and how one day it won’t support cars anymore. We are waiting for that day.

Black

Since the ranch is far out from the closest small town, the nights were darker than what we are normally used to. During the cold holidays, we built bonfires in the backyard and sat on barrels of hay.
As the years went by and others left the ranch too soon because of cancer or alcoholism or old age, my grandmother wore more black. It is tradition that the women wear black for a whole year, but black is too hot to wear in the heat. Only holidays, the times we got together, did she wear the black. She cooked and ate in the black. She prayed in the black. We acted as if she wore the same as the rest of us.

Where the Cows are Branded

It is a tunnel of metal. To get there, we have to walk through piles of shit, past clusters of goats, and those would be the worst smells except the fume of burning flesh is more intoxicating. The only job I’m allowed is to hold the camera for my grandmother while she takes notes and numbers; when she is ready to take the picture, we switch. With the cow in position, the men brand it with the longhorn symbol and name, Rancho Falcon. The men cut the horns of those who have them and because they are in a tunnel, they can only turn their heads, spraying the blood with each turn. For once I am glad I am a woman in this family. When we finish we are covered in their blood and their shit, but they are ours.

Where My Grandfather Naps

Turning off the rocky road through the Rancho Falcon gate, you come to the house. It is humble, except on Christmas when various Disney characters, reindeer, and a light up nativity scene fill the fenced in yard. The cow dogs lounge in the grass, always ready to follow and fulfill my grandfather’s needs. Sometimes they kill snakes that wander from the creek to the house, and most of the time the dogs win but sometimes they don’t. It becomes hard to keep track of the names because I do not know who is who. Next to the house my grandfather has set up a trampoline. When I asked my father why, he said, so your grandfather has a place to nap during the day. I asked, why not take the few extra steps to sleep in the house? My father replied, so he can get away from your grandma. During family visits, my little cousins spend the day jumping with my grandfather, who propels his almost eighty-year old body into the air.

The Kitchen

Here my aunts learn to make: tamales, tortillas, tortillas, tortillas, menudo, beans, rice, cookies, caldo de carne or caldo de pollo, carne guisada, goat, cow, turkey, chicken, corn, flour, tomatoes, cabbage, spices, and sugar. And after my grandmother shows them, they do it again and again. The rest of us are disappointed when they cook but don’t say anything because we don’t bother to learn. It does not stop us from eating more than we should, partly out of the nostalgia the food gives us and partly out of fear that one day, the food will won’t be here anymore. They must get it right before my grandmother is gone.

Christmas

Once a year, my grandmother does what almost every other household does. Her tree is green. I do not know what the ornaments look like because I can never look away from the fifty plus nativity scenes she sets up underneath the tree. The number of wise men and farm animals are too great to count. Somebody, years ago, gave my grandmother a toucan, which has made it’s way under the tree. My cousins and I play a game: whoever finds the toucan first, wins. At the top of the tree rests an angel, black because my grandmother didn’t want a white one since those do not look like us. There are no Mexican angels.

The Other Holidays

For many years, almost my entire family, gathered at the ranch for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, weddings, nights before a Quinceañera, and my grandparents’ birthdays. Many second or third cousins came; we called them cousins regardless if they were are own or not. The small three-bedroom house would quickly fill fifty or more relatives. While my aunts cooked, the uncles drank beer outside or watched various football games. My siblings and I would spend parts of our summers here, when my grandmother taught us how to bottle feed baby goats, when she showed us how to avoid the chickens when taking their eggs, and before they had inside plumbing.
After the death of my Aunt Mary, we stopped going. Two of my other aunts refuse to speak to each other and most of my cousins spend their time with their own children, though most of my cousins were still children when they had their kids. At most, I go there once a year now. And when I do, there’s maybe ten or so of us there. We eat and joke the same as if everybody were there but instead of staying a few days or even one full day, we stay around two hours. Two hours to last us the whole year.

Spanish

Mis abuelos no hablan el inglés y yo no comprendo el español. Muchas veces, nostotros comunicamos por cabezada de la cabezas y sonrisas. Los tiempos que hablamos con uno al ortro, yo hablo vergonzosamente y inconscientemente con ellos como si ellos sean niños incapaces de comprender palabras más allá de un primer nivel de grado. Para evitar mi culpa, nosotros hablamos en su mayor parte por otras personas, y somos así como aprendo la historia de mi familia. Nosotros nos abrazamos cuando salgo, y en sus brazos ellos dicen, "I love you," sus palabras muy claro u siempre entendible.

The Killer Bees

They live in a tree. It’s far from us, so there’s no worry when we walk outside. I have only the tree once, a drive-by. It’s like any other tree, tall, aging bark, and weakening limbs. But there is a presence to this tree, not one of evil as I imagined there would be as the truck slowly rolled by, but one of life. With my forehead pressed against the window and my breath fogging it, I thought this is where they live. This is their home.