My Grandfather's Garden

On a clear summer night, with the stars brightly shining overhead and the call of the nightingale in my ears, I remember sitting at my grandfather's feet on our porch and listening as he recounted bits and pieces of his life. Papi was a marvelous storyteller; he had a way of pulling me into his memories so that I could see what he was describing and feel what he had felt. With the only other light coming from a single lamppole down the block, I was in my own little world, shut out from the poverty and frustrations that surrounded me, like the thorn forest in the story of Sleeping Beauty.

Thus, I rode proudly with Pancho Villa in my white pants and shirt, a bullet belt slung across my chest. Fearfully I hid in the smoldering cornfields with my grandmother as the soldiers rode through the fields around us, searching with their bayonettes for their victims. I danced gracefully with the man whose feet turned into a chicken's feet at the stroke of midnight as he began his transformation into the animal world because he had sold his soul to the devil. And I was terrified!

I ran wildly with my grandfather as his baby son was caught in a twister, carried through the fields and dropped over a mile away. I happily rode in the covered wagon with my grandparents as they made their way through Texas to Houston, their eutopia; away from the fears and deprivations of a meager existence to the high hopes of a new and better life in the big city.

After such a session, I would go to sleep in our cramped little room where I slept with my mother and brother, and I would myself become Sleeping Beauty. My side of our bed would become a large and beautiful bed, covered with silks and satins, in a large and beautiful house. I just knew that one day Prince Charming would come and awaken me and I - I would live happily ever after. Such is the life of innocence.

Most of our vegetables were home-grown and came from the little patch of a garden which my grandfather kept nestled on the lot beside our house. Like the needles of the cacti that grew abundantly in its outer fringes, my grandfather's garden stood out with its tall, green cornstalks amid the smaller tomato, green bean and radish bushes. Each year would find the corn planted in a different pattern - around the outside lanes of the square one year, smack in the middle in a tight ball the next, or even on two opposite ends like the fringes of a shawl. My grandfather cultivated his garden with great care.

Our three room house resembled a boxcar, was just about as big, and had no hot water. In the winter, the little space heaters were sparsely used and in the summer, the fans were turned on only at night. The rest of the time we had to 'do without.' We had our meals on the kitchen table, our cupboards had homemade curtains for doors, and a stove and refrigerator were the only appliances that fit in the kitchen. But it was home.

My grandfather enjoyed walking me to school each morning and he always had a story to tell about each of the neighbors we passed. I learned about the neighbor who found money buried in his backyard only to have the company next door lay claim to it because he didn't speak English well enough to defend his rights; He hadn't told anyone about it because he thought he might have to share and so no one could help him until it was too late. And He cautioned me to never let money come between me and my friends.

I found out about the woman who was turned down for welfare because the social worker said her house was too "clean"; And I was reminded that Jesus' mother lived in a clean house where Jesus could have eaten unleavened tortillas from the floor if he had wanted to. Jesus would be proud to eat off my floors, too, if I grew up to keep a clean house, he advised.

I heard about the headless horseman who abducted little girls who walked alone, never to be seen again. And he would stop, bow his head as if in prayer, and sigh. He would say never to walk by myself unless I first prayed and asked God to surround me with His angels. Then he would look at me and tell me that with God all things were possible.

I remember walking home alone once when I was a little older. I had to travel past some bars and a lonely stretch of road to get home. A car passed by and then stopped. The man wanted directions someplace that I had never heard of. My first instinct was to approach to hear better since he spoke softly. But my grandfather's voice came to me, reminding me of the headless horseman and I began walking instead. He continued to talk to me until I crossed the street to someone's house. He sped off; he must have thought I reached my home.

Every afternoon after walking me home from school, my grandfather would stop at his garden to make sure the squirrels hadn't visited it or the chickens had not found the need to go into it. He would ask me to help him pull the weeds or sometimes to water it. And he would wink at me and say that before too long it would bear fruit. And he would hug me and tell me to run inside and let them know we were home.

What should have been the dining room was my grandparent's bedroom, right smack in the middle of the house. This was where we listened to the radio programs at night - the Shadow, the Green Hornet and, of course, where we prayed the rosary each evening. A big four poster bed dominated the room, along with a rocking chair, a mirrored dresser, a large steel trunk which they had brought with them from Mexico years before and - an altar.

The altar had traveled with them from the midst of Mexico through Texas, and to several homes in Houston. It was the first thing that my grandfather put up and the last to be taken down. Every year my grandmother would make new clothes for the baby Jesus 'for his birthday' and I would be allowed to help change the linens on the altar on Christmas eve. It was my privilege to rock the baby as my grandparents sang praise songs in Spanish. No matter the circumstances, whether good or bad, my grandparents seemed to be glued in front of that altar. As a child anxious to get on with life, I used to think they spent all day in front of it.

I used to have great curiosity about my grandfather's old trunk and the possible treasure it contained. One day while my grandparents were out, I opened it and discovered the contents that had been held under lock and key - two old and yellowed newspapers depicting the Texas City explosion and the death of President Kennedy. a brand new extra-large girdle and bra (my grandmother didn't wear such things), but apparently she valued them. I found several needlepoint items that someone had made at one time. They were very delicate and intricately made. I also discovered some photographs of strangers, and best of all, a 48 caliber revolver, left over from my grandfather's revolutionary days. No sign at all, though, of the fortune in gold which I had dreamt about. I was crushed.

My grandfather watered his garden only in the evening. He used to say that water and the sun didn't mix. He would carefully add water slowly so that the tender plants would not be bruised. Sometimes He would tie a light-weight, straight wooden rod next to a plant that was leaning. Papi would say that if he didn't do that, the plant would break and possibly die.

Times were slow and easy back then. People walked most places and spent time talking across the fence to their neighbors. Sometimes we would sit on the porch and play Loteria (Mexican bingo) or card games. Mostly , we would listen to fairy tales from my mother and family history from my grandmother. But I especially enjoyed walking with my grandfather in the moonlight up and down our block. He was an endless source of stories and information.

These were the times my grandfather would use to instruct me in the ways of the city. We could see the downtown skyline as we walked and he would point at it and warn me not to venture into it. Stretching his arms about him, Papi would say, "that belongs to the rich and their vices. This is ours - where we belong, in this barrio, among our raza. We understand each other. Be proud of who you are. What do the rich know about tortillas, or of being hungry, or of being proud no matter how poor you are? You are never poor when you know who you are. Leave them alone and they will leave you alone."

I remember once looking up at the stars and asking him, "Papi, who made God?" After a very long time, right when I thought he wasn't going to answer, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "God is, mi hija, God is."

By the time I reached puberty, however, we had added a black and white television set to our possessions. The family games gave way to modern progress - the opulence of hollywood. Unfortunately, Papi would only watch certain shows and when he tired of them, he would turn it off and go tend his garden.

The Cartwrights, Uncle Miltie and the Cisco Kid soon became welcomed friends. My Friend Flicka was my personal favorite. It was then I decided that I wanted to grow up and marry a horse. Its funny how childhood dreams can mirror real life - there were times when my husband and I would argue that I felt I had come pretty close!

During that time, we lived our lives in the back seat of the television family's car. No matter what happened, justice always prevailed at the end of the show. And for me, at least, it confirmed that all American dream I had envisioned at my grandfather's feet. Papi would encourage my dreaming and when my grandmother would chide him for it, he would just go out the door and tend to his garden.

My grandfather took great care of his garden. Each morning he would work the ground and pull weeds. Interposed between the vegetables would be strawberry, cantaloupe or watermelon plants. These did not always bear fruit. But Papi would continue to plant each season and to tend the plants, saying that every seed planted must bear fruit. Sooner or later, my grandfather believed, the fruit plants would bring a harvest.

That little garden never did get any bigger with the years. It never produced a very great amount of vegetables or fruits for the efforts Papi put into it. However, during all those years that I was growing up, I cannot recall ever seeing a greater example of hope than my grandfather's garden. For my grandfather, the success of his labors centered not on the end results but on his freedom to choose to continue to plant. And I suppose, if truth be told, if my grandfather is looking down at me from heaven, he would say that his garden did indeed bear fruit.