Our yard on Walter wasn’t fenced so Phillip was expected to watch me whenever we were outside. Sometimes though he'd take off in search of friends his own age. One day Dad stepped out of the house and saw me sitting under the elm tree. "Where’s Phillip?” he asked, concerned that I was by myself. At the age of three I still didn’t talk much so I pointed up the street.
“I thought I told your brother to stay and take care of you," Dad said, sounding irked. He held my hand we walked up the street. Searchng for Phillip may have been irritating to Dad but it was one way to meet our neighbors. Our block was composed mostly of Hispanic families but there were a few exceptions. A white family lived next to us, they had the telephone. Next to them was a black family by the name of Cook. Two doors up was a family with a boy Phillip’s age named Pat Chavez. Pat was being raised like we were, he only knew English. His parents didn’t want their son to be at a disadvantage educationally or socially, either.
Mom stayed at home with Phillip and me. Since we owned one car she had no transportation to go shopping until the weekend when Dad was off of work. Fortunately a small grocery, the 1950s version of today’s convenience store, was nearby. In those days practically every Hispanic barrio had at least one candy and grocery store, always owned by people who lived in the neighborhood.
To get to it we only had to cross our street and walk up a half block. The building was really just a house with a storefront and the owners lived in back. I remember its low ceiling and hardwood floors which I liked to creak when I walked on them. In addition to shelves with basic items for sale such as flour, lard and detergent there was a candy counter and a cooler filled with soda pop. Standing behind the counter was the store’s owner, Mr. Espinosa, a slender man with a thin moustache and big ears. His black hair was straight and combed flat to the side.
If Mom needed something but was busy Dad would go to the store for her. Phillip and I looked forward to these trips since he usually bought us a candy bar or a soda, something Mom would never do. Worrying about finances and our health seemed to be her province, not Dad’s. As soon as we walked inside Phillip and I would beeline directly to the candy counter. With our hands pressed to the glass we eyed the sweets on display. An unattainable dream of mine was to have a whole candy bar to myself, one I didn’t have to share with Phillip.
It was six o’clock Friday evening. Phillip and I were outside waiting for Dad to arrive and Mom to serve dinner. The summer air was warm and from open doors and windows up and down the street came the familiar dinnertime scents of tortillas, beans and chile. A car drove down the block and pulled into the yard. It was Dad, home from work. He detoured to the elm tree where Phillip and I were busy building roads in the dirt for our toy cars and trucks. Dad gave an exaggerated “How-dee!” in imitation of Minnie Pearl from the Grand Ole Opry, one of his favorite radio shows.
"Dad,” Phillip said, looking up briefly from his important work engineering hills and streets, "can we go to the store?”
“Not today, son” Dad replied. “I haven’t gotten paid.”
Phillip stopped moving cars about. “When do you get paid?” he asked.
“Any day now,” Dad replied. “Soon as I get the check.”
“The check? What's the check?" Phillip was fascinated by this new information.
"It's the money I make from work."
"Where's the check?"
“The check’s in the mail."
“When the mailman brings the check we can go to the store?”
“Yeup,” Dad said and went inside.
Although Phillip was young he was very inquisitive and like Mom he was alert to opportunity, so it wasn't difficult for him to connect the dots: Dad's paycheck comes in the mail; we get to go to Mr. Espinosa's store; candy!
The following day Phillip was ready to put the newly revealed formula to the test. We ate breakfast and then my brother tied my shoe laces, his constant job. I thought we were going outside to play but instead we went right to the mailbox, nailed to a splintery post at the curb. Phillip yanked the door open and on tiptoes we both peered inside. It was empty but Phil wasn't discouraged.
“We have to wait for the mailman, Lee” Phil explained, using the lifelong nickname he'd bestowed on me when I was born. “He's got Dad’s check.”
We sat down in the shade of the elm tree. While we waited my attention wandered from the abstract to the visual….the bed sheets billowing on the clothesline. White sheets against the blue sky were wonderful to look at but my eyes watered from the intensity of the brilliant New Mexico sun. Phillip stared intently toward the end of the block where the mailman would come. At last the truck rounded the corner and after stopping at each of the neighbors’ mailboxes the mailman finally arrived at ours and deposited mail. Phillip jumped up. He was ready to sprint for the curb when he noticed my eyes were full of tears. “Don’t cry, Lee," he said comfortingly. "The check’s in the mail.” I waved my arm futilely in the direction of the sheets as Phillip hurried me along.
Mail! Phillip pulled out all three letters and ran to Mom. It was wash day and she was pinning laundry on the clothesline. Her long black hair had come loose and hung damply around her neck and shoulders. Phillip handed everything to her.
“Did Dad’s check come?” he asked breathlessly.
Mom took clothes pins out of her mouth and wiped her forehead with an arm. She looked exhausted. “Your dad’s check?” she asked. “Why do you want to know?”
“So we can go to the store,” Phillip answered promptly.
Mom took the mail from Phillip and gave a perfunctory glance at the envelopes. She shook her head. “No, son, it’s not in this mail.”
Phillip wasn’t giving up. “What color is it?” he persisted.
“It’s sort of greenish blue but the check won’t be in this mail.” Mom put the letters in an apron pocket and returned to hanging laundry. Unfortunately, neither of our parents bothered explaining to the natives that Dad’s paycheck was delivered to him in the VA mail at work, not to our house.
I believed unquestioningly that our parents were the final authority in all matters but Phillip didn’t and nothing was going to stop him from finding that check. He walked over to our elm tree and sat chin in hand, trying to unravel the mystery. Suddenly he sat up straight and looked at me…he'd figured it out.
“The mailman put Dad’s check in the wrong mailbox!” Phillip declared, smacking his fist into his other hand. “We gotta look in the other mail boxes.” His conclusion didn’t sound right to me but it was an order that had to be obeyed; my brother was the ringleader in all that we did and I was his faithful gang of one.
We ran to our neighbor’s mailbox. Phillip opened it and pulled out all the mail. He tore open the letters looking for the prized green blue check. He tossed each one on the ground in disgust. "Nope! Nah! Not in here!"
Phillip sped to the next house and did the same thing, ignoring the mess he was making. He pilfered mailboxes up one side of our block and down the other. My job was to put the letters back but I was too short to reach the boxes. Disliking messiness I gathered the letters and stacked them neatly on the ground. As we headed for home I looked back; the discarded mail was blowing about in the wind. Cars drove by, scattering the letters even more and running over them. Oh no. The only mail box Phillip didn’t check was the grocer’s. That was because the mailman came into the store each day to bring Mr. Espinosa his mail and chat.
We took our seat under the elm tree, unaware that a trail of evidence led right to us from our last stop, the house across the street. Phillip opened letters, handed me what was left and I made another neat stack. By now people were picking up loose mail on the street. Suddenly one of them spotted us. It was Mr. Cook.
“Hey, you!” he yelled, shaking a fistful of mail. We looked up, startled. Phillip grabbed my hand and we ran inside. In a home as small as ours the only place to hide was under the bed so of course we dove under it.
It was lunchtime. The Chevy lurched into the yard and came to a stop. Dad saw Mom standing in the doorway looking flustered. Why are all these people here, he wondered. Mr. Cook, normally so friendly, waved several ragged looking envelopes with tire marks on them in his direction. “Look what your boys did!" he said angrily. “This is a federal offense!'
A reasonable voice surfaced over the flood of indignant ones-it was Mr. Chavez, a friend of Dad's. "They’re just little boys,” he said although he, too had torn mail in hand. Irate neighbors glared at him. “Maybe what they need is a spanking?” he offered.
That’s what Dad thought too, but first something had to be done about the mob in his front yard. If Phillip just apologized and promised never to mess with people's mail again Dad felt sure everyone would leave. He might be able to eat lunch and still return to work on time.
"Feliiipe!” Dad called, addressing him by his Spanish name which meant he was in real trouble. Phillip came outside, but not to apologize. He told Dad we'd been looking for his paycheck in order to give it to Mom. Neighbors listened impatiently, in no mood to hear a rambling explanation. They weren't the only ones to feel wronged, however. Phillip felt the same way. All he wanted was a candy bar, and now this. It wasn't fair. Furthermore, while under the bed he decided the mailman had delivered Dad’s check. “I think they have your check, Dad,” Phillip said, looking accusingly at the crowd.
“They - don’t - have - my - check,” Dad said, shaking his head in exasperation with each word. "Go inside!"
Phillip retreated and just for safety’s sake he locked the screen door behind him and closed the door but Mr. Cook's angry voice could still be heard threatening to turn us in to the police.
Phillip stared wide eyed at Mom. “Are we going to jail?” he asked fearfully.
Hearing whimpering Mom looked under the bed. I was pressed against the wall. Jail! I knew all about them from watching Mexican movies with Mom and Dad. Jails were small, dark rooms with heavy bars and soldiers who escorted you outside to be shot. They’d have to drag me out.
“Come on out, mijo. Nobody’s going to put you in jail.” Mom spoke in a soft, sweet voice so I'd leave my hiding place. Once I did she gave me a reassuring smile to show that nothing bad was going to happen. After she picked me up I finally felt safe.
“Felipe, you be quiet," came Mom's sharp rebuke. "You’re scaring your little brother.”
Outside, Dad assured the neighbors his sons would never touch their mail again, he’d see to that. Still grumbling, everyone left. Dad took a deep breath. 'Time for lunch,' he told himself. After an unexpected struggle with the screen door Mom unlocked it and Dad stomped in. He stared hard at Phillip, momentarily at a loss for words.
I watched all this from my secure position on Mom's lap. Clearly Phillip would get a spanking, not me; from my parents’ perspective I was too young to know any better. I may have been with Phillip but I was innocent of the planning and criminal act of destroying the neighbors' mail so I was sent outside. I heard Phillip's loud “Owwwwww!” as Dad spanked him, then Mom, yelling at Dad. “Don’t hit him so hard!”
Actually, when we were little Dad never hit us hard but he always acted like he was. The three of us knew this but Mom didn’t. She'd yell at Dad, and of course then Phillip and I would cry harder.
“Fregadito!" Naughty kid! Dad was under orders to speak English to us but in times of stress Spanish words burst out. After spanking Phillip he solemnly wiped his hands together to show he'd completed a necessary but difficult task.
The next morning was Saturday. We were sitting under our tree playing quietly when Dad opened the door and walked outside. Phillip stood up slowly. He was still smarting, more from his public humiliation than from being whacked a few times on his bottom.
“Let’s go to the store,” Dad told us. “Your mama needs milk and bread.” Grocery store? Candy! For a brief moment Phillip felt hopeful and he gave an excited jump but Dad put a thick finger in front of his own nose and wagged it. “Don’t ask for any candy or soda pop because I'm not getting you any," he said, giving Phillip a stern look. My brother's skinny body deflated. He slumped over dramatically and stared down at the ground, arms flopping while I looked up at Dad and smiled hopefully. Surely Dad didn’t mean me, I was just an innocent bystander, I could get a candy bar. When Dad wagged the same warning finger at me I realized it was no use, we were both being punished. That’s when I learned my fate was permanently tied to Phillip’s.
The three of us walked up to the grocery's front door but Phillip and I were reluctant to go inside, uncertain how the grocer would treat us. We’d taken letters out of mailboxes up and down our block. Although Mr. Espinosa’s mailbox hadn’t been raided, being the grocer he’d already heard all about our crime wave. We managed to turn the normally tranquil street upside down.
The wooden floors creaked as we walked inside and stood timidly behind Dad but Mr. Espinosa paid no attention to us. The two of them began discussing life up north. The grocer came from the town of Las Vegas, the seat of San Miguel, the county where Dad’s village was located. That meant they were both from 'el pais.' Whatever the news they both knew the people and places involved.
The phrase el pais held a double meaning. To those from that part of New Mexico it meant the country up north, and it was an endearing name for their homeland. Dad wasn't only a good customer he was a paisano, making the grocer and Dad like family to each other. It was why Mr. Espinosa extended credit to my parents which was very helpful since it allowed them to purchase items as needed and pay up once Dad received his check from work.
Mr. Espinosa looked at us. “Hello, boys,” he said warmly. The grocer turned back to my father with a bemused smile and winked.
“Estos son los muchachos que robaron el correo? Que muchitos!” he said. These are the boys who robbed the mail? What little characters!
Dad gave a thin chuckle, still annoyed by yesterday’s incident. His look, half grin, half frown showed clearly he was not pleased with the notoriety his sons had gained. Preferring to change the subject Dad started telling a story, something he loved to do. This one was about Ladron Peak, Thieves’ Mountain, southwest of Belen. In the old days it was where notorious robbers from New Mexico would hide out, including the infamous Silva gang from Las Vegas. But Mr. Espinosa wasn’t finished being funny. The boys would certainly need to escape to that hideout in the mountains if they continued their life of crime, he interjected, laughing heartily at his own joke.
Trying again to change the subject, Dad told the grocer about his father, Antonio Gonzales. When he was young Antonio had seen Billy the Kid on a street in Las Vegas creating a ruckus and making a fool of himself. My brother and I waited patiently as Dad related this story. He spoke in Spanish which we could understand some but not speak. Afterwards Dad did his shopping and brought the groceries to the counter.
"Es todo?" Mr. Espinosa asked.
“Yes, that's it,” Dad replied and added, “Charge it.”
Phillip and I both heard him say that but I didn’t know what the words meant and I didn’t try to understand, either. Phillip however, was at an age where he believed that adult business was his too, so he always listened carefully to those conversations. He watched with growing interest as the grocer scribbled something on a receipt pad, handed the yellow copy to Dad who then put it in his pocket. Although no cash changed hands Dad nodded to Mr. Espinosa and gave his customary goodbye, “Hay lo vemos.” See you later.
“Que le vaya bien.” Have a good day, came the grocer’s courteous and customary reply.
As far as we knew Dad’s check still hadn’t arrived in the mail, so how was he able to buy things at the grocery store and leave without paying for them? This new method of purchase was a revelation to Phillip. Trying to understand how it worked got his mind off the spanking and back to his original quest for candy. As we crossed the street Phillip whispered, “He said ‘charge it!’”
Those magic words, charge it. We didn’t have a clue as to the meaning of credit but the incident certainly defined the words. Phillip’s interpretation of charge it meant there was a another, better way to get candy when he wanted it, one which didn’t require the painful experience of looking for Dad’s paycheck in the mail or begging Dad for money since occasionally he gave Phillip a nickel or a dime to spend on what we wanted, actually what Phillip wanted. I never got hold of the money, I was too little.
Monday was another warm, sunny day. Phillip and I ate breakfast and went outside to play. My brother seemed deep in thought as he tied my shoe laces. When he stood up there was excitement and certainty in his voice.
“Let’s go to the store and get some candy,” he said. Then a thought occurred to him. “First we have to think about who the candy goes to. It’s one for me, one for you, one for Mom and one for Dad.” Phillip paused for a moment. “And one for Grandma,” he added generously. Grandma’s candy bar, he calculated, would be a clever way of increasing our take.
The bell on the door jingled loudly as Phillip strode confidently into the grocery store. I trotted after him. It was early and we were the only ones there. Mr. Espinosa greeted us.
“Hello, muchachos. What do you need today?”
“We need some candy bars,” Phillip stated.
Surprise showed on the grocer’s face. “You do?” he asked. “Who are they for?”
“One for my mom, one for my dad, one for me, one for my little brother and one for my grandma,” Phillip said, thankful he’d rehearsed it.
The grocer was taken aback. In his mind he began weighing the possibilities. On the one hand, children were often sent by their parents to make purchases in his store but rarely just for candy. However if the boys’ grandmother was visiting they might be buying a treat to celebrate a special occasion. Although not certain what was going on Mr. Espinosa decided to return to the business at hand. “All right," he said briskly, "Which ones do you want?”
Phillip pointed to the biggest candy bars inside the counter: a Hershey, a large round candy with pink coloring and peanuts which was Phillip’s favorite, a Snickers and a Butternut. And for 'Grandma,' a Mars bar, another favorite of Phillip’s.
Mr. Espinosa knew our family lived on pennies so this was a big sale. He placed the five nickel bars of candy in a paper bag and set it down on the counter.
“That will be 25 cents,” he said.
In a loud and confident voice Phillip answered, “Charge it!”
Mr. Espinosa stared at him. “Charge it?” he repeated.
Phillip looked the grocer in the eye. “Charge it!” he said, this time more forcefully.
“Your mama knows about this?”
"Yes! Charge it.”
Country folk are like family. Mr. Espinosa and Dad were both paisanos and that connection played into Phillip’s plans without my brother even knowing it. We were the sons of people the grocer liked and trusted and who were also good customers. The grocer scribbled something on the receipt pad and with a small flourish, dropped the yellow copy into the paper bag.
I could hardly wait to leave but Phillip took the bag and moved with measured step to the door. There he turned and said with self assurance, “Hay lo vemos.”
Mr. Espinosa gave a slight nod but his “Que te vaya bien,” didn’t sound quite as warm as it usually did.
As I followed Phillip outside I heard the grocer call to his wife, “Juanita. Onde stá Alfonso?” Where's Alfonso?
Before going in the grocery store Phillip had given me a special assignment: I was supposed to be his lookout and backup but I had forgotten all about it watching his performance. A couple of houses from our yard we started unwrapping the candy bars. By the time we got to our elm tree we had taken our first bites of delicious chocolate.
At last! Candy! Phillip’s persistence and daring had paid off. My favorite was the Hershey. It was great having an entire bar of chocolate all to myself. Phillip decided to start with the Snickers and save his favorite candy, the round pink one with peanuts, for last.
Halfway through our first candy bars I looked up and noticed a tall, lanky teenage boy walking deliberately toward the house. He had the same dark hair and jug ears as Mr. Espinosa. We recognized him because he was often in the store sweeping and putting things on shelves. It was Mr. Espinosa’s son, Alfonso with his apron neatly folded over one arm. He strode up to where we sat cross legged, our mouths full of melting chocolate.
“Is your mother home?” he asked. I looked first at the shiny brown shoes in front of me, then upward to Alfonso’s clean white shirt and finally to his serious face. My mouth was too full of Hershey bar to speak so I stuck out my arm and with a chocolate covered finger pointed helpfully in the direction of our house. Phillip nodded and continued eating but his eyes followed the teenager as he walked to the door.
Alfonso had a short conversation with our mother. He pointed in our direction and I could see Mom’s eyes following his hand right back to us. Then he left. The grocer hadn’t wanted to alienate good customers but if Phillip had made his purchase without Mom’s knowledge she needed to be informed. There still might be time for her to return the candy and get money back.
From behind the screen door my mother yelled, “Feliipe!” She sounded furious.
Phillip cleared the candy from his throat, “Whaaat?”
“Come in here!”
Phillip stood up and handed me his half eaten Snickers. “Save it for me,” he ordered.
With a doomed step he walked to the house and went inside. I heard the muffled sound of my mother’s raised voice and definitely the sound of Phillip being spanked. In between bites of chocolate I started thinking about my brother and feeling sorry for him. When I was done with my candy bar I started in on Phillip’s. Yums! I thought as I bit into its chewy caramel center.
I had never eaten so much candy in my life. After I had my fill of chocolate there were still two and a half bars of candy left. Leaving the paper bag under the tree I walked to the house. I had chocolate on my cheeks, around my mouth, on my nose and some on my forehead where I had scratched. Mom took one look at me and shook her head. She picked me up and carried me to the kitchen sink.
“Oooh, look at you!” She turned to Phillip standing silently nearby. “You had no business going to the store without my permission!” she said angrily. Taking a dish towel, she wet it and carefully wiped my face, then put me down.
“Wait till your daddy gets home,” Mom told Phillip. “You'll get another spanking!”
Phillip flopped onto our parents' bed and stared up at the ceiling. Things had turned sour again only now they were worse since he had to wait for Dad’s return and a second spanking. I tiptoed over to Phillip. The big mattress came up to my chin. I leaned in close on my elbows and with chocolate scented breath I whispered in his ear, “I saved you some candy.” Phillip sobbed.
A child’s personality often foretells the adult’s but not always in a straight line. When we were children Phillip's penchant for testing the rules made our lives more exciting and adventurous. The curiosity and single minded determination that so often got him into trouble as a boy served him well in the adult world, once he made it there. Phillip earned a doctorate in sociology, becoming a respected university professor, scholar and administrator.
There were lessons for me, as well. From watching my older brother get in trouble and the resulting punishment he would always receive I learned to make more deliberate decisions as I grew older.