Remedios was short and stocky with Indian features and copper colored skin. Her black hair went down to her waist and was kept in 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 when she was 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. "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 and 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 carrying a large pan of Spanish rice. Before she could hug us she had to find a place on the kitchen table to put it down. With one hand she rearranged plates, pots and pans to make room for the rice and so Dad could sit down, too. 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 her approving pat, pat on the head. He looked over his shoulder longingly at the chickens wandering around but it was the pig pen in a far corner of the large yard which really caught his attention. Grunts and an occasional loud squeal were heard coming from it. Phillip and I had very little experience with farm animals but he was drawn to them like a magnet, so it was with great reluctance that he followed us into the kitchen.
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 the heated conversation in Spanish they'd had during the forty minute drive to Belen. Their arguing stopped as soon as we drove up to Grandma's house. That was the protocol our parents followed whenever we visited family: in front of their own parents their behavior was good. Around other relatives, they didn't try to hide their irritation with each other. In Grandma's kitchen the truce was in effect and I started to relax.
Grandma opened the oven and the fragrance of roasting chicken filled the room. While a pot of beans warmed, she roasted green chiles on the wood 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. My Gonzales grandparents, originally from northern New Mexico, favored red chile which comes from allowing the pods to remain on the plant until they turn color. Stems of the harvested chiles are tied together with string. These ristras, often several feet in length, are hung outside to dry and individual chiles are cut out as needed and ground into powder.
In our family everyone's chile tolerance was 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 está muy quemoso!" The chile's really hot! she would pant but continue 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 who ate his as he waited impatiently by the door for permission to leave. He 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 and Phillip turned to me. "Let's go, Lee," he said, but I stayed where I was. For some reason, despite Grandma's irritation with me her kitchen drew my attention. I heard Concie outside, warning Phillip. "Watch out for the rooster. Don't go near him or he'll bite you."
While the adults talked I slipped off the chair and wandered around the room. I walked first to the open doorway leading to Grandma's bedroom where the icons and flickering candles caught my eye. 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 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. Since Grandma was short they were easy for me to see. What caught my attention first was a large calendar hung by the stove. It had a picture of a man on horseback wearing armor and spearing a dragon. Its yellow eyes, long tail, claws and horns looked terrifying. The dramatic image gave me a feeling that a struggle between good and evil was taking place right in Grandma's kitchen.
I worked my way around the room to a framed picture. 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. 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, this was what I'd seen in my dream! Looking more closely at the picture I realized the winged figures were not the same. Mine was darker and more powerfully built, with such a forceful presence that I still remembered everything about it. The figure in Grandma's picture seemed wispy and sweet by comparison. Now I saw Grandma in a very different light. She was not merely the grumpy adult who expected us to be good but a person who owned pictures which 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 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 answered.
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 because of the rooster’s behavior it was off limits. He would tolerate Uncle Pete but if anyone else got near his chickens he went on the attack.
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 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 the old cottonwood stump which was his perch and went after 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 and gave a triumphant cock a doodle doo.
Phillip stared in disbelief at his bloody right hand and rubbed his behind with his left. "Owwwwww," he cried. Concie rushed him inside.
"I told him, 'Stay in the front yard,'" she explained but her mother and grandmother scolded her for not protecting Phillip.
Phillip wasn't getting much sympathy, either. "Malcriao!" Dad yelled at him. 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 always a considerate host. Outraged that a guest in his home, a child no less, had been harmed Pete decided the rooster needed to be taught a lesson. He made his way to the cottonwood stump where he kept his hatchet safely wedged into the dry wood. After struggling to pull it out he sat down to catch his breath. Pete dug out a can of Prince Albert tobacco from his shirt pocket. He tried rolling a cigarette but failed so 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 stuck his chest out. "Ahora, sí!" he shouted. Now I'm ready!
Sensing danger the rooster retreated farther down the yard with his chickens. Hatchet in hand Pete slowly followed. 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.
Odelia plucked the feathers, Pete gutted the chicken with his pocket knife. He threw what he didn't want into a 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 Concie as she came inside.
"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 softly, embarassed 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 argument.
After dinner that evening I asked Mom about the calendar in Grandma's house. "Grandma has a picture…." I stopped there, not knowing what to say next.
"Which one, mijo?" Mom asked as she washed dishes. Somehow she was always able to pull out of her arguments with Dad to answer our questions.
"It's a boy and girl and someone with wings."
Mom seemed to know what I was talking about. She smiled at me. "Oh, the guardian angel. 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 had 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.