May Day

There is nothing like a fine Sunday morning to celebrate your mother. Although I normally go to church here in town, on Mother's Day I will drive up through the hills to the old Baptist church my mother attended. It's only a thirty minute drive, but after you cross over Harold's Peak, it feels awfully different. The hills are taller, the views shorter, the trees thicker, darker, filled with secrets in their shadows.

My mother's church was founded two hundred years ago by a strange group of Anabaptists, but its culture now is less Amish and more of the "normal" Baptist faith. Still, simplicity's rule governs the tiny chapel, which is tucked in a small grove of trees at the bottom of a mountain. There are four narrow windows on each side and one large, panoramic window above the pulpit. There was once talk about building a baptistery at the back of the church, but no one wanted to lose the window. I do not think they have baptised anyone in a decade, anyway.

I parked my car on the grass near the cemetery, where the buried only seem to have had a choice of six or seven surnames, based on the tombstones. Generations of families are here. I recognize Zeke, our postmaster, and say hello. He is walking with an older man I do not know.

"Goot morning!" Zeke called. We shook hands, and I said I was glad to make it on time, given the long drive.

The other man nodded towards the cemetery. "Doesn't pay to get in a hurry."

Inside, the service began with The Broadman Hymnal. Mrs. Crotts, who must now be well over 80 years old, still plays the mellow-sounding piano. Her hands are turning with arthritis. When the mothers enter the chapel, they all receive a white carnation. Pastor Clark, before he preaches, will recognize the oldest and youngest mothers. It is always entertaining to watch as a few of the older ladies will look around and quietly, among themselves, decide who is the oldest mother. Then that lady will stand, and Pastor Clark will deliver a basket of flowers to her.

This year, the winner of the oldest living mother basket was Mrs. Glenna Lynn Creedmore, who stated she would donate the flowers to last year's winner, Mrs. Creola, who was too old to come to church anymore. And then, to the applause of the congregation, she sat down in the choir.

That Sunday was about our mothers, but I wanted to tell you how good it was to watch the others in that congregation, how their eyes cast on wives and mothers, how the children hushed when all the mothers stood, how the younger girls looked up in quiet fascination, every mother a pillar of steady strength beside their seated families.

The most touching moment, though, is when Pastor Clark asks all the mothers to sit back down except for those who have lost a child to death. This year there are four women left standing. The pastor will let pass a breathless moment as these four women stand in quiet dignity, the grief they bore so privately suddenly at the forefront of all our minds, and then Mrs. Crotts will play a few bars of a hymn, and instinctively we all rise, all of us, friends and strangers, families and friends, mothers and grandmothers and sisters and daughters, happy and grieving, women and men together, and sing:

We shall sing on that beautiful shore
the melodious songs of the blest,
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
not a sigh for the blessing of rest.

In the sweet by and by,
we shall meet on that beautiful shore,
in the sweet by and by,
we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

Beta

From the author:

Thanks again for your patience as Confluence moves into its new home. Although you should automatically be forwarded, please note that the new address for this blog is:

http://www.confluence.jamesdhogan.com

There's plenty to talk about that's happened over the past couple of weeks, including news from Mother's Day. Stay tuned.

--JH

Temporary Hiatus

From the author:

Please forgive a momentary lull in activity, as Confluence prepares to be incorporated with http://www.jamesdhogan.com . Site design and migration are taking quite a bit of creative time, but I look forward to catching you up on all that's going on in our lovely town.

--JH

Ole

It would be easy to think that in a town like Confluence, an event like Cinco de Mayo would be mostly overlooked. At the very least, it might have some touristy, Americanized interpretation. Mexicans, after all, don't fit neatly into waspy towns like this. They are often relegated to lesser corners, where they cook or clean or tend the yards of wealthier, whiter people. They do not live in the same neighborhoods "we" live in. They do not drive the same kinds of cars, listen to the same kinds of music, or wear the same kinds of clothes.

Yet the Gringos flock to Vaquero's every May 5th, load their chips with gallons of tame salsa, and drink cold Mexican beer served to them with little limes sticking out of their necks. They do this shamelessly, and I do not blame them. Who cannot appreciate a cold Mexican beer with a lime?

The real irony, of course, is that Cinco de Mayo isn't the revered holiday many Americans tend to think it is. Most people in Mexico neglect its passing. Imagine if millions of Mexicans flocked to McDonald's every June 14th to celebrate Flag Day. You get the picture.

It's tough these days to be a Mexican-American. I could talk more about this, but I think true gentlemen don't talk about politics. I'd much rather tell you about how I will celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

It's about the French, you know. How the Mexicans beat the French, who were invading to claim back a debt owed to their country--a military marvel at the time. The United States, which conveniently forgets it owes France very much for winning the Revolutionary War, might have helped our friends to the south get rid of the invaders.

None of this matters to Sergio, who has owned and operated Vaquero's since it opened eleven years ago one block away from the village square. Sergio waits tables, runs the till, and sings as he buses tables in the front. His uncle and mother work the kitchen. Occasionally his wife will stop by to help, but often she is absent from the picture. As best as I can tell, the restaurant is open 362 days a year--closing only for Christmas, New Year's, and July 4.

On a busy day, the three-person staff is easily overwhelmed, but no one seems to mind the wait. At least, no one who understands the value of the food they will sooner or later receive. I have been known to simply walk behind the counter in the back to help myself to another beer or basket of tortilla chips. It is easier, and Sergio does not mind.

But on Cinco de Mayo, I will meet Sergio at his house, a mile outside of town and down in the lowlands near the Tinton River. We will have a very late dinner. We will not eat until 10:30 or 11 at best.

Sergio's wife, Bonita, will have most things ready for Sergio to cook when he comes home after closing the restaurant. The meal is simple:

- Guacamole: diced Avocado, with some lime, diced tomato and onion, and chiles
- Corn tortillas: fresh mesa, pressed flat in an old cast iron press clamped to the counter
- Carne Asada: seasoned meat, onions, cilantro, lime

We will eat together, just Sergio and me. Every year, Sergio will say a prayer in Spanish. I do not know what he says, but in my mind I have a list of things I like to hope he is praying for. We have done this for three years, and it is easily my favorite tradition. He will laugh at how I hiccup impulsively whenever I bite into a grilled Serrano pepper. I will kid him about his shirt--he always wears Hawaiian shirts--and tell him his wife should leave him if he cannot find better clothes to wear. He will tell me to go to hell.

This is our friendship, and this is what we celebrate every year. There are plenty of folks who walk into Vaquero's too afraid to talk to this large, jovial man in a Hawaiian shirt. They simply want to eat their salsa and go home and have nothing to do with him. They cannot speak the language, they think, and they do not know his English is fine. They do not know Sergio was born in America, that his father was born in Texas and worked on a ranch, tending fields that belonged to the prison doctor. They do not know that the songs he sings talk about Old Mexico.

They will never find these things out, and that is fine. Instead, it is only Sergio and I, left to our table of steaming food, our laughter, and our celebration that, at the very least, we aren't speaking French.