It was late spring when we arrived at the mining camp. The nights were still quite cold and I remember Grandma tucking us in with heavy quilts. The two bedroom cabin was heated by the wood stove in the kitchen and a pot belly stove in the living room. Both threw a wonderful heat. The stove in particular fascinated me and I loved watching Grandma cook on it. Her expert adjustments of its flues and compartments kept the stove as hot or warm as she needed. The beans, red chile, meat and potatoes and flour tortillas Grandma served were delicious. All the ingredients were there for my interest as an artist to recreate an Hispanic family's most important room, la cocina, the kitchen.
Since our parents constantly warned us never to touch matches I was surprised that my aunts and uncles, still children themselves, were allowed to light fires. In such a large household however, everyone had chores to do. Grandpa Antonio's responsibility was to supply the firewood and he had a peculiar way of doing it. After spending long hours in the mine he didn't have the energy or patience on weekends to chop wood the traditional way. But as a miner Antonio had access to dynamite which he brought home in the glove compartment of his pickup. On weekends he would drive with his two older sons to the nearby hills in search of dead and fallen trees.
"Papá, here's a good one," one of the boys called upon finding a suitable tree. Antonio nodded his agreement and got to work scraping away the dirt around the tree's exposed roots. Pulling a stick of dynamite from a back pocket he placed it in the depression, and after igniting the fuse he and his sons ran for cover. The dynamite detonated with a tremendous boom. Pieces of tree and clods of dirt flew up in the air. When the wood returned to earth and the dust cleared the boys loaded the truck. Antonio's method was efficient and it certainly kept the wood pile well supplied but for some reason his neighbors stubbornly refused to try his technique. When a dynamite blast was heard on the weekend people knew it was Antonio harvesting firewood and they stayed home.
One Sunday afternoon Aunt Dideen took me with her to fetch wood for the kitchen stove. There were four rough plank steps leading from the back door to the yard and Dideen carefully helped me down each one. Bypassing the woodpile we began to climb the hill behind the cabin. Halfway up its steep ascent Dideen lifted me onto a large rock where we sat quietly, immersed in the spellbinding scenery before us. A family of ravens flew high overhead. In the stillness of the day we could hear their cawing as they passed the camp on their way to the nearby woods.
I watched Dideen take a deep breath and did the same. The clean mountain air held the pungent scent of piñon and juniper smoke drifting up from the cabins far below. From moments like these I began to internalize an important truth, that poverty did not close us off from an abiding love for nature's splendor. People in the mining camp had left their villages in search of work but still felt connected to the land and treasured its beauty. As we walked down the hill a sense of contentment replaced the ache I felt from missing my parents.
Back in the everyday world Dideen sorted through the wood pile for kindling while I sifted through a patch of dirt, a developing habit of mine as I grew to enjoy looking closely at things. At the other end of the long, narrow yard Uncle Johnny and Phillip, now constant playmates, threw rocks at a line of bottles and cans. Satisfied I would be watched over if she went inside, Dideen decided to let me stay where I was. Barely visible over an armload of wood she called, "Juan. Take care of Eddy. He's here by the firewood.”
Johnny pretended he didn’t hear her. As far as he was concerned, this was just his bossy sister with yet another order cutting into his playtime.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, continuing his target practice.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Phillip echoed, plinking a tin can with a rock.
Dideen refused to be ignored. "Cuidelo, oites!" (oiste is pronounced oites in New Mexico colloquial Spanish) Take care of him,' you hear!
"Okay, okay!" Johnny said. He threw an irritated nod in our direction and Dideen went inside, satisfied Johnny would keep an eye on me.
Something deep within the woodpile sparkled and beckoned, a syrup bottle in the shape of a train engine. I put my hand between the sticks of wood not realizing the little glass engine was broken, a casualty of Johnny's target practice. When I tried pulling it out I got cut. Uncle Johnny heard me crying and ran over. For a few seconds he stared at my bloody hand until it occurred to him this was a serious injury. Grabbing my other hand he yanked me up the plank stairs thump, thump. Aowww! thump into the kitchen where Grandma was preparing dinner and Dideen folded laundry.
Holding my bleeding hand up high Johnny jerked it back and forth, hurting me even more and making me cry harder.
“La Dideen le dejó Eduardo solo y mira lo que pasoooh!” he announced dramatically. Dideen left Eduardo alone and look what haappened!
“No estaba solo! Estaba contigo!" she shouted back, outraged at being blamed. He wasn't alone! He was with you!
Grandma rushed over. "Sueltelo!" she ordered Johnny. Let him go!
She bent down and gently examined my bloody hand. "Pobrecito,” she said as I cringed from the pain.
Grandma wiped away my tears with a towel. She washed my hand and put ointment on the cut to stop the bleeding. Still smoldering, Dideen ripped up a clean handkerchief for a bandage. After wrapping my hand in the cloth Grandma tied both ends in a small bow over my knuckles. She patted my cheek and added a few more words of comfort before returning to the stove.
Holding my bandaged hand up I went into the quiet living room and walked around looking at each object on display. A tall plaster saint was kept on a table next to the front window. Her hands were at her sides, palms up and rose colored robes fell in graceful folds about her. It was the first art I'd ever seen. Grandma had draped a glass rosary around her neck and hands. Sunlight streamed through the window and bits of rainbow color from the beads danced across the linoleum floor. I looked at the saint’s serene face for a long time, finally forgetting the pain I was in.
With my good hand I opened the front door and went outside where Grandpa sat on his bench resting from the five weekdays of grueling work he put in at the mine. As usual he was taking care of a grandchild. The baby sat contentedly in his lap, her little legs kicking from time to time. The two of them watched the road with quiet interest, oblivious to the events in the backyard and kitchen.
Grandpa turned to greet me. "Eduardo," he began before noticing my bandage. His smile changed to concern. “Pues, que pasó contigo?” he asked. What happened to you? Silently I raised my arm to show I'd survived an awful event. Deciding to join the group I sat down at the edge of the porch. The peaceful moment was interrupted when a man on a spirited buckskin rode up. I scrambled backward, afraid of the nervous, high stepping horse but also fascinated by its wild beauty and strange dun yellow coat.
The horse looked at me and somehow I sensed it was curious about my bandaged hand. Slowly I held it out and took a timid step forward and in response, the horse stretched its neck toward me. But the rider was deep in conversation with Grandpa and held the reins tight. The animal tossed its head again and again until at last the reins loosened, then brushed softly up and down my hand and arm with its velvety muzzle, finally nodding as if satisfied. As we gazed at each other I realized its deep brown eyes were the largest I’d ever seen. Off in the distance another horse and rider came into view. The buckskin turned away to watch them and our moment of communion was over.
The sunny, comfortable cabin, my grandmother cooking on the wood stove, the curious horse, these are some of my earliest memories of New Mexico.