Remedios was short and stocky with Indian features and copper colored skin. Her black hair went down to her waist and she kept it in either a braid or a bun. Whether coming to Albuquerque on a visit or at her home in Belen, my grandmother’s appearance never changed. She wore dark colored dresses and away from home she added a shawl. Her stockings were of skin colored cotton. Since I was young and therefore close to the ground I noticed the shoes people had on. Grandma's were black, wide at the front and had short round heels. Round owl like eyeglasses accentuated her serious demeanor.
There was a distinct fragrance about Grandma Remedios of chile, corn tortillas and tobacco since in the evening she smoked Kools. There was also the pungent scent of mentholatum. This she rubbed on her arms and legs each night to alleviate a painful arthritic condition, the result of the hard work she had done her entire life and made worse when Remedios became the sole support of the family. She worked as a laundress, washing clothes in tubs of hot water, often out of doors and in very cold weather. She also made tamales which she and the children sold door to door. Remedios, who was an excellent cook, was known in Belen as the tamale lady.
Because of her skill in helping others with their ailments Remedios was considered by many in her neighborhood to be a curandera. However, this role as a healer was not her greatest interest. A devotee of Mexico's Lady of Guadalupe, her passion in life was the spiritual. Each day wherever she was, Remedios prayed and recited the rosary. Her altar, a small table in her bedroom, held a collection of essential old and new world icons and votive candles. At night with great care and deliberation she would light white candles in the expectation that each little flame would illuminate some goodness in the world.
I think back on my grandmother with awe and respect for what she accomplished. Remedios supported her family during the Depression in an English speaking world that was indifferent and often hostile to her. Her persistence and hard work got her family through terrible times. As a mother she must have suffered intense grief for the children who died but I never heard her speak of them. I only found out about her losses later while going over photographs and discussing family history with my mother, who revered her. I believe Mom loved her mother more than anyone else in her life.
The physical pain Remedios suffered and the sadness, poverty and hardship she endured as an immigrant from Mexico must have affected her personality. She was not openly affectionate like my grandmother Senaida from Grants. In fact, Grandma Remedios rarely held us when we were little. But she was caring and certainly well aware of all her grandchildren.
By the 1950s Remedios was receiving a small, monthly Social Security check. While she may have retired from doing laundry and making tamales fulltime she remained businesslike in her attention to her home’s upkeep and ongoing family responsibilities. When Flora married, Grandma divided the house into two apartments which were accessed through a door in the kitchen. Grandma lived on one side; Flora, her husband Pete and their five children lived on the other.
Pete, too was an immigrant from Mexico, however he described himself as 'un indio fino,' a pure Indian. He worked as a laborer for the railroad in Belen alongside Indians from nearby Isleta pueblo who treated him as a brother. None of them knew English; they spoke Spanish with Pete and Tiwa to each other. Many of the Indians of Pete's generation were bilingual in this way. One reason for this was the proximity of Hispanic and Indian pueblos throughout New Mexico. Intermarriage and commerce between the cultures were common occurrences.
After our move to Walter we began to visit Grandma Remedios regularly. One of our early visits to Belen was filled with adventure. As we drove into the yard she was standing in the doorway awaiting our visit. "Pasen, pasen," Grandma said, looking pleased to see us.
Balancing me on one hip Mom bent down to kiss her. "Como está, Mamá?” she asked her mother and to me she added, “Say hello to Grandma." When I put my fist to my face and frowned darkly Grandma's smile faded. She looked irritated, no doubt remembering my refusal to come out from under the kitchen table during her visits to Los Angeles.
Grandma expected her grandchildren to be courteous and show good behavior. "Put him down, Angelita," she said sharply, in Spanish. "He's too big and heavy to carry. You're spoiling him."
Mom dutifully put me down on one of the yellow vinyl and chrome chairs while Dad set a grocery bag on the table. Inside were gifts of food Mom knew Grandma liked such as avocados, tomatoes, ears of corn and calabasas-squash. Flora walked through the door from her side of the house, delighted to see us. She carried a large pan of Spanish rice and with one hand rearranged plates, pots and pans to make room for the rice and for Dad so he could sit down. There weren't many cupboards so everyday items were kept on the table, chairs and stove top and moved around as space was needed.
Phillip was the last to come in. "Hi, Grandma," he said politely and received an approving pat, pat on the head. He turned for a long last look at the chickens wandering around but it was the pig pen in a corner of the large yard that really caught his attention. Grunts and occasional loud squeals could be heard coming from it. Phillip and I had very little experience with farm animals but now he seemed to be drawn to them like a magnet. He followed us into the kitchen with great reluctance.
Dad sat comfortably at the crowded table with a cup of coffee Flora handed him. He opened up his newspaper and scanned the pages, sometimes reading, sometimes joining in the women's light hearted banter. He and Mom appeared calm and actually happy despite a heated conversation in Spanish during the forty minute drive to Belen. Their arguing stopped the moment we drove up to Grandma's house. This was their protocol when we visited family-in front of their parents their behavior was fine, around other relatives our parents didn't try to hide their irritation with each other. In Grandma's kitchen good food, conversation and the presence of a respected elder had a calming effect. With the truce in effect I started to relax.
Grandma pulled open the oven door and the fragrance of roasting chicken filled the room. Next to a warming pot of beans she roasted green chiles on the wood burning stove. One by one the chiles were scorched and turned until their outer skin was brown and papery. After that they were peeled and chopped up with some raw onion. It smelled wonderful but it made my eyes water.
The distinct differences between the cuisine of Mexico and New Mexico were apparent when we visited relatives. Remedios loved green chile while my Gonzales grandparents who were originally from northern New Mexico, favored red. The chiles' beautiful deep red color developes if the pods are allowed to remain on the plant longer. Stems of the harvested red chiles are tied together with string, creating ristras that are often several feet in length. They are hung outside to dry, conveniently available to the cook who cuts out individual chiles as needed and grinds them into powder.
In our family everyone's chile tolerance is different. Aunt Flora was renown for her ability to enjoy any chile. No matter how fiery it was she would happily eat it while Uncle Pete would have tears running down his cheeks, gasp for air and grab for whatever drink was at hand to cool off his inflamed mouth. Grandma was the same as Pete. "El chile stá muy quemoso!" The chile's really hot! she would pant but she too continued eating it. Since chile was always served separately I knew which bowl to avoid.
Mom went right to work rolling out tortillas, heating them on the griddle and stacking them on a plate to cool. She spread a bit of butter on two tortillas, handing one to me and one to Phillip. He ate his as he waited impatiently by the door for permission to go outside. Phillip wanted to play with Aunt Flora's two oldest children, Odelia who was six and Concie, eight. Most of all, he wanted to see the pig. Finally Dad gave him the nod. Phillip tilted his head toward the door. "Let's go, Lee," he said but I stayed where I was and he left. For some reason, despite Grandma's irritation with me her kitchen drew my attention.
Outside, I could hear Concie warning Phillip. "Watch out for the rooster. Don't go near him cause he'll bite you."
While the adults talked I slipped off the chair. I was drawn to the open doorway leading to Grandma's bedroom where the icons and flickering candles caught my attention. They reminded me of church but conscious of Grandma's sternness, I dared not enter this sacred space.
I turned back to the kitchen. It was built in the traditional manner of adobe homes found in Indian and Hispanic pueblos throughout the Rio Grande valley. As the gathering place for family and visitors this room was well used. Its gray-green and white linoleum was worn down in many places. Overhead there was a stamped tin ceiling painted white. The plastered adobe walls were slightly uneven and painted a pale enamel yellow.
Prints of religious scenes hung on the walls. They were easy for me to see since Grandma was short. What first caught my attention was a calendar with a large picture, hung by the stove. In it a man on horseback wearing armor had speared a dragon. Its yellow eyes, long tail, claws and horns looked terrifying. The dramatic image gave me the feeling that a struggle between good and evil was taking place right in Grandma's kitchen.
I worked my way around the room to another picture which had drawn my attention, a framed print of two fair haired children. A girl and boy held hands and walked through a green forest. A tall figure with blonde hair, pale skin and large white wings floated behind them a few feet off the ground. I looked at the picture a long time, wondering what the children were doing without their parents. The winged figure, it seemed, was taking care of them. Suddenly I felt a jolt of recognition-the figure with wings was the same one in my dream! Examining it more closely I realized the figures were not the same. The one in Grandma's picture seemed wispy and sweet while mine by comparison was darker and more powerfully built, with such a forceful presence that weeks later I still remembered everything about it.
My world was expanding and to regain my balance I turned to Grandma. She was still at the stove roasting chiles, doing the same everyday things as a moment ago. Now however, I saw her in a completely different light. She was no longer the grumpy adult who expected me to be good but a person who owned pictures that somehow had a great deal to do with me.
A voice interrupted my viewing. "What are you looking at, Grandma's pictures?"
I turned and saw a friendly face with a button nose. It was cousin Odelia.
"Come on, Lee," she said, taking my hand. "Let's go outside."
I pointed to the print but said nothing. Before walking outside I stored the images of Grandma's pictures in my head.
"Take good care of him," Aunt Flora cautioned in Spanish. "Don't let the kids play near that bad rooster."
"Sí, Mama," Odelia promised.
Outside by the front curb the sisters had chalked a hop scotch pattern. They happily jumped on it but Phillip was bored. The rest of the large yard surrounding the house looked inviting but the rooster’s behavior put it off limits. He would tolerate Uncle Pete but if anyone else got near his chickens he went on the attack. Still, losing the entire back and side yards because of a few chickens made no sense to Phillip.
"Why can't we play in the back?" he complained. "Why can't we go see the pig?"
"Because that rooster is mean," Concie explained again. "He'll bite you!"
Phillip didn't care. After all, what could a chicken do to him? He wanted to claim territory so he ran to one of the brushy salt cedar trees growing by the side of the house and picked up a long whip-like branch. Odelia stopped in mid hop. "Come back!" she yelled, but it was too late. Before anyone could stop him Phillip raced to the back yard where he suddenly found himself in the middle of the flock.
The rooster was big, with a prominent red cockscomb, a large pointed beak and looping tail feathers. Seeing Phillip invade his kingdom he flew off his perch on the old cottonwood stump and attacked his naïve challenger with an onslaught of vicious pecks. There was barely time for Phillip to make one ineffectual swipe with his stick before he had to throw up his hands to protect his face. When he did that he got a sharp, deep peck on his finger. He ran for the front of the house with the rooster in furious pursuit, pecking at whatever he could reach. The moment the rooster came to an invisible boundary he stopped and returned to his perch. He flapped his wings, threw out his chest and gave a triumphant cock a doodle doo.
Phillip stared in disbelief at his bloody right hand and rubbed his behind with his left. "Owwwww," he cried.
Concie rushed him inside trying to defend herself at the same time, "I told him, 'Stay in the front yard!' " But her mother and grandmother scolded her for not protecting Phillip.
Phillip wasn't getting much sympathy, either. "Malcriao!" Dad yelled. Trouble maker! "She told you not to get near that rooster."
"Owwwwww," Phillip cried as Aunt Flora washed and bandaged his index finger.
It was time to eat. Aunt Flora sent Concie for her dad which meant going into the Lone Star bar across the street, a chore she disliked. Pete had been at the cantina drinking since late morning and when Concie returned with him it was apparent he'd downed more than a couple of beers. Leading her dad by the arm she recounted how the rooster had pecked Phillip.
No matter what, Pete was a considerate host and he was outraged to learn that a guest in his home, a child no less, had been harmed. The rooster needed to be taught a lesson, Pete thought, so he made his way to the same cottonwood stump where he kept his hatchet safely wedged in the dry wood. After struggling to pull it out Pete sat down to catch his breath. He dug out a can of Prince Albert tobacco from his shirt pocket and tried rolling a cigarette but failed. Odelia took the tobacco filled paper from him, expertly rolled one, popped it in his mouth and lit it. After a few puffs Pete felt ready. He stood up and straightened his shoulders.
"Ahora, sí!" he shouted. Now I'm ready!
Sensing danger, the rooster retreated with his chickens. Hatchet in hand Pete slowly followed them down the yard. When he caught up with the flock he grabbed for the rooster but came up with a chicken. The flapping, squawking consolation prize was taken back to the tree stump and its head whacked off. Phillip and I watched in shocked fascination as the headless bird ran around and around the yard. To Pete's children this was old hat and when it finally collapsed in the dirt they knew what to do next. After Odelia plucked the feathers Pete gutted the chicken with his pocket knife. He threw what he didn't want in the trash can and kept the edible gizzards. Concie dragged the hose over and Pete washed out the carcass. He handed Concie the cleaned bird and gizzards.
"What do you have there?" Aunt Flora asked as Concie came in.
"Papa killed a chicken. He wants you to cook it."
"Papa killed a chicken?" Aunt Flora repeated. "But we already have one." She lowered her voice. "Did your father have a lot to drink?"
"Not that much," Concie answered. She spoke softly, embarrassed to be discussing this in front of relatives.
Flora was practical about the situation. "Go wash your father's face," she said, wetting a towel at the kitchen sink. She handed it to Concie along with a cup of black coffee.
A few minutes later Pete entered the house in a jovial mood. "Angelita, Bennie, como están?"
Dad let out a laugh. "What are you doing, Pete? Fighting with the chickens?"
Pete nodded, thinking of Phillip's injury. "Sí, Bennie. Ese gallo malo se lo merece." That no good rooster, he'll get his.
We left for home around four. As we pulled out of the driveway our parents revived their interrupted fight. After dinner that evening I asked Mom about the calendar in Grandma's house. She stood at the sink washing dishes, fuming about that day's argument.
"Grandma has a picture." I stopped, not knowing what to say.
Mom's face relaxed from its angry squint. "Which one, mijo?"
"It's a boy and girl ....and someone with wings."
Apparently Mom knew what I was talking about. "Oh, the guardian angel," she said, smiling at me. "All children have a guardian angel."
I had never mentioned my dream experience to her or anyone. There were no words to describe it so until that moment I'd never heard of angels. "I have one?"
"Yes son, you do."
"What do they do?"
"The guardian angel is with you all the time, protecting you."
Now my dream made sense. The spirit who visited me was my guardian angel.