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 was fascinating to me and I loved to watch 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 impressed that my aunts and uncles, still children themselves, were allowed to light fires. It was Grandpa Antonio's responsibility 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. As a miner Grandpa had access to dynamite which he brought home in the glove compartment of his pickup.
With two older sons he would drive into the nearby hills in search of dead and fallen trees. "Papá, here's a good one," one of the boys exclaimed 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 kept the wood pile well supplied but for some reason his neighbors stubbornly refused to try his technique. When they heard a dynamite blast on the weekend they knew it was only Antonio harvesting firewood.
One Sunday afternoon Aunt Dideen took me along with her to fetch wood for the kitchen stove. Four rough plank steps led from the back door to the yard and Dideen carefully helped me down each one. We walked to the woodpile but instead of stopping we began climbing the hill behind the cabin. Halfway up its steep ascent Dideen lifted me onto a large rock and for several minutes we sat quietly, immersed in the spellbinding scenery which lay before us. A family of ravens flew high overhead. In the stillness of the day we could clearly hear their cawing as they passed the camp on their way to the nearby woods.
Dideen took a deep breath so I did the same. The clean mountain air held the pungent scent of piñon and juniper smoke coming 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. Uncle Johnny and Phillip, now constant playmates, threw rocks at a line of bottles and cans at the other end of the narrow yard.
Finally Dideen had an armload of wood. She started to tell me to come inside but seeing how absorbed I was, she didn't. Still Dideen wasn't about to leave me on my own.
"Juan," she called. "Take care of Eddy. He's here, by the firewood.”
Johnny pretended not to hear her. As far as he was concerned, this was just his bossy older 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. She warned him again.
"Cuidelo, oites?" (oiste is pronounced oites in New Mexico colloquial Spanish) Take care of him, you hear?
"Okay, okay," he said, giving an irritated nod in our direction.
Satisfied Johnny would keep an eye on me Dideen went inside.
Something deep within the woodpile caught my eye. A syrup bottle in the shape of a train engine sparkled and beckoned. 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 picked it up I got cut. I cried out in pain and Uncle Johnny ran over. For a few seconds he stared at my bloody hand until it occurred to him this was a serious injury. He grabbed my other hand and yanked me up the plank stairs, thump, thump, Aowww! thump, to the kitchen where Grandma was preparing dinner while Dideen folded laundry. Holding my bleeding hand high Johnny jerked it back and forth which hurt me even more and made me cry harder.
“La Dideen le dejó Eduardo solo y mira lo que pasoooh!” he announced dramatically. Dideen left Eduardo alone and look what haaappened!
Dideen refused to be blamed. “No estaba solo! Estaba contigo!" she shouted angrily. 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. After washing my hand she 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 up my bandaged hand I moved from the kitchen to the living room. It was a relief to be where it was quieter. I walked slowly around the room looking at each object on display. A tall plaster saint was kept on a table next to the front window. The saint's hands were at her sides, palms up. Her plaster robes were painted a soft rose color and fell in graceful folds. It was the first art I'd ever seen. Draped around her neck and hands was Grandma's glass rosary. 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.
I 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 started, then he saw my hand. “Pues, que pasó contigo?” he asked with concern. 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. I don't know how but I sensed it was curious about my bandaged hand. Slowly I held my hand out and took a timid step forward. The horse stretched its neck trying to reach me but the rider, deep in conversation with Grandpa, held the reins tight. The horse tossed its head again and again until they loosened. Then it brushed softly up and down my hand and arm with its velvety nose, finally nodding as if satisfied. We gazed at each other and I realized its deep brown eyes were the largest I’d ever seen. In the distance another horse and rider came into view and the buckskin turned away to watch them.
The sunny, comfortable cabin, my grandmother cooking on the wood stove, the curious horse….these are some of my earliest memories of New Mexico.