Victor came down with polio two weeks before he received notification that he'd been drafted. By the time he recovered, much of the war had been fought, but still, the call came for him to join, and nothing--not even his bout with polio--could keep him safely out of Uncle Sam's reach.
His luck would improve, however.
Following basic training in Texas, Vic was shipped up to New Jersey, whereupon he received further training in mechanical repair. From there, he flew to San Diego, where he was to board a flight to Pearl Harbor. He was to report to the USS Hancock, a mighty aircraft carrier fresh in for repair from its mission in the Pacific theater.
Victor was boarding the flight to Hawaii when word came of V-E day.
"We thought we were done," Vic told me one night over beers. "All the boys were looking around at each other wondering if we'd just get to go home." The war in Japan wouldn't allow it yet.
Vic never talked much about his time on the Hancock, except for a few stories about strange things he'd seen at sea. V-J day came not too long after he arrived in the Pacific, and Vic transferred to a destroyer vessel that took patrol in north Africa. He told me one day they were sailing up a river, passing by a primitive village, when all of the children came wading out into ankle-deep water, removed their pants, and started shouting, "Piss on you, Joe!"
As best as I can intuit, Vic fixed airplanes and preserved freedom as he did it. I don't think he had to man a machine gun and tear the Japanese from the sky before they bombarded him, but I do not know for sure.
The person to ask would be Lazarus, though.
Lazarus Bontifore is a blind black man. He was on the Hancock in Vietnam when a steam piston exploded, shooting boiling vapor into his eyes and sending him into the dark forever. Vic knew him from the VA and made friends with him to trade stories about the carrier they both served upon.
These days, Lazarus mostly sits down at Mary's Cafe. He's pretty overweight now, thanks to Mary's blueberry pie. His teeth are stained as black as his skin. I found him a few days ago and started asking about Vic.
"Mr. Sally," as Lazarus called him," never saw nobody die."
"How can you be sure?" I asked. "Lots of men don't talk about the war."
"Lots of men ain't seen nothin' to talk about," Lazarus said. "Mr. Sally was like a lot of folk, goin' about they business and shinin' up the place and keeping things runnin'. Nawsuh. He never saw nobody die."
"He did meet a woman in the war, though."
This perked my attention. As far as I had known, the young man Victor had only known one young woman, and that was Marilyn. And as my cliffhanger ending telling Marilyn's story clearly illustrates, Vic and Marilyn met in New York.
"Who?"
"Naw I don't remember her name. But Mr. Sally married her sure as I sit here eatin' pie."
I couldn't deny the man was eating pie. "Now wait a minute, Lazarus," I said. "What about Marilyn?"
"This girl was French," he replied. "She was a missionary or somethin' like that workin' up in noth Africa. Mr. Sally said she was fine lookin'. Met her in a town somewhere."
Lazarus grinned his wide, black-toothed grin. "Nawsuh, I reckon' Mr. Sally ain't told nobody but me about that."
I could tell he was proud of his knowledge, an upper hand of sorts. "But he married Marilyn," I said. "Did he never tell her he was divorced? Or even married to begin with?"
Victor's old friend laughed. "He didn't get no divorce!"
"What do you mean?"
"Wasn't really married to begin with."
"You just told me that he married this girl, Lazarus. He couldn't have been married to two women at the same time."
"Lawsah," he sighed. "Ain't no man cut out for that. Naw, Mr. Sally's woman never had the law bless the marriage. It was her daddy married 'em, out in the sticks of Africa. They might not've had a piece of paper to write they's married on."
"What happened to her?"
"What happened to him, more like it," he said. "To put it in a way, his ship sailed. They was only together a couple weeks."
"Why on earth marry the woman in the first place?" I wondered out loud.
"'Cause her old man found 'em in the sack! The only holy thing to do was to make it right in the eyes of God." He paused to let a good belly laugh echo across the cafe. "The old man didn't know he done married her to a GI, though. I reckon they's still a solid load of buckshot someways on that destroyer when her daddy tried to chase it down the river with a shotgun."
This is why I love knowing Lazarus. He's named that way, I should point out, because he came out of his mother as blue and black as his teeth are now--still born by all apparent signs, and according to the preacher who delivered him, unresponsive to the sharp slaps on his buttocks the nurse tried. Who knows what's true and what's not, but the story is that they'd wrapped him up and laid his dead body in his mother's arms when suddenly a bolt of lightning struck outside, its thunder roaring through the tin shack they lived in, and waking Lazarus from his slumber. He belted out a shrill cry. "And that Praychuh," Lazarus loves to say, "he says, 'Missus, this boy done raised up!'"
"Now Mr. Sally done told you about the lady he was lovin' on when he met Mrs. Sally, right?" Lazarus said to me. He didn't need to see to know my look of confusion.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Victor
Victor Salarino is and is not from Confluence.
Yes, it is indeed true that he was born in this town, but before he was even a year old, his mother and father, both Italian immigrants, and his three brothers fled their one room apartment below what is now Porter Park, and moved to New York City. There they reunited with Vic's mother's family. Mrs. Salarino, as Vic himself told me, was a strong woman. Mr. Salarino worked at a factory near the water, where he drove a lift truck for a dry goods company.
The family was poor, but they managed to survive. Vic's three older brothers helped around the house. Their mother often wished out loud that it was a shame her eldest wasn't a girl, because she could use the help.
Just before Vic started grade school, the family had saved enough money to try to strike out on their own again, so they moved back to Confluence. Our sleepy little town was in a bit of a boom at the time; lots of people were moving into the valley because there was plenty of work. Mr. Salarino went into business with another Italian who lived here (whose name I've never been able to discover), and together they imported grapes and made communion wine, which was one of the few kinds of alcohol still legal under prohibition.
Mrs. Salarino raised the boys, and when time allowed, she worked as a seamstress for the men's store downtown. The boys were always well dressed for mass.
In the summer of 1929, as Vic was finishing the first grade, Mr. Salarino announced he was taking a trip to Italy to visit family. He could not take the entire family, but he would take one son, the eldest, Michael.
The entire family went down to the train station to see them off. Vic told me he still remembers the steamer trunk his father took with him. More than anything, though, he remembers the jealousy of not being the one chosen to go with his father. "It's just two months," his mother told him. "He'll be back before you know it."
That October, the market crashed and the Depression began. A postcard came that fall from Italy, saying that they were waiting for things to get better before traveling overseas. Another card came at Christmas. Vic's father and brother were not coming back. With three boys and a disappeared market for tailoring, Mrs. Salarino packed up once more and went back to New York.
Life there wasn't much better. One of Vic's brothers was able to get a WPA job, which helped. They lived in a cramped apartment, which they shared with an aunt and uncle and their two children. Everyone contributed in one way or another, and when Vic turned twelve, his mother told him he needed to find a job and do his part.
Vic hadn't a clue what he ought to do as a school boy looking for work. Plenty of grown men, skilled workers, couldn't find a job. It was a terrible time.
His first job was delivering groceries from the store his uncle ran. It was the job that gave him the keys to explore one of the world's most incredible cities. Vic loved the trains, he loved exploring, and suddenly he had the license to indulge all of his curiosities.
One afternoon, he delivered groceries to the house of a well-to-do businessman who happened to be rushing out of the door just as Vic was knocking on it. "Where are you off to, sir?" he asked.
"Ebbets Field! I'm already late for the first pitch," the man said.
"What's Ebbets Field?"
Vic said the man looked at him incredulously. "Why, son, it's where the Dodgers play."
"Who are the Dodgers?"
The man grabbed his hand. "Come on. I'll show you."
Now, the humor in this story is that Vic knew the entire time who the Dodgers were and that they played at Ebbets Field. Still, the Salarino family didn't have the money to waste on baseball games, and although Vic had once seen the arched facade of the stadium from the street, he had never been inside to hear its roar.
The game was against Philadelphia, and the Dodgers won. It was like being in a gleaming palace, a place where regular life evaporated and all that was left was the beauty of baseball. The men wore ties; the cheers were guttural, the passion, real.
Vic noticed there were boys hustling peanuts and other concessions up and down the aisles. Suddenly it hit him: the boys' job was to go to the baseball park every day and sell peanuts--and, at the same time, they were able to see the greatest game played in the most amazing place. He snagged one of the boys walking up the aisle, and soon he was sitting in the office of Mr. Martin Jacobs, one of the Jacobs brothers who ran all of the food operations at the park. Vic negotiated his first job, which paid him ten cents for every game he worked.
He kept his job delivering groceries and arranged his schedule around baseball games. Still, he hid his new job from his mother, telling her that he was going off to play with some of the other boys in the neighborhood. He'd run down the street, three or four blocks down, and cut the corner to the train station, which he rode to the stadium.
Vic was great at selling peanuts. He still had a child's voice, but he had a knack for working his section hard and remembering customers. He'd learn their names and what they liked, and if they brought their sons to the game, he'd sometimes give them free cotton candy. Soon Mr. Jacobs put him in charge of the other boys. He was thirteen years old and already a manager.
The attack on Pearl Harbor sent a shock wave across the country. Both of Vic's brothers enlisted immediately. Vic was too young to be drafted, but he was determined to join up and fight in Europe.
His mother was beside herself with grief. She suspected her husband and son had joined the Italian army, and the idea of brothers fighting brothers tore her apart. Vic and his mother shared the apartment for an entire year. Mrs. Salarino spent mornings at the breakfast table in tears. Vic counted down the days until his birthday. Then, about two months before he would be able to join the army, Vic came down with polio.
It turns out it saved his life.
Yes, it is indeed true that he was born in this town, but before he was even a year old, his mother and father, both Italian immigrants, and his three brothers fled their one room apartment below what is now Porter Park, and moved to New York City. There they reunited with Vic's mother's family. Mrs. Salarino, as Vic himself told me, was a strong woman. Mr. Salarino worked at a factory near the water, where he drove a lift truck for a dry goods company.
The family was poor, but they managed to survive. Vic's three older brothers helped around the house. Their mother often wished out loud that it was a shame her eldest wasn't a girl, because she could use the help.
Just before Vic started grade school, the family had saved enough money to try to strike out on their own again, so they moved back to Confluence. Our sleepy little town was in a bit of a boom at the time; lots of people were moving into the valley because there was plenty of work. Mr. Salarino went into business with another Italian who lived here (whose name I've never been able to discover), and together they imported grapes and made communion wine, which was one of the few kinds of alcohol still legal under prohibition.
Mrs. Salarino raised the boys, and when time allowed, she worked as a seamstress for the men's store downtown. The boys were always well dressed for mass.
In the summer of 1929, as Vic was finishing the first grade, Mr. Salarino announced he was taking a trip to Italy to visit family. He could not take the entire family, but he would take one son, the eldest, Michael.
The entire family went down to the train station to see them off. Vic told me he still remembers the steamer trunk his father took with him. More than anything, though, he remembers the jealousy of not being the one chosen to go with his father. "It's just two months," his mother told him. "He'll be back before you know it."
That October, the market crashed and the Depression began. A postcard came that fall from Italy, saying that they were waiting for things to get better before traveling overseas. Another card came at Christmas. Vic's father and brother were not coming back. With three boys and a disappeared market for tailoring, Mrs. Salarino packed up once more and went back to New York.
Life there wasn't much better. One of Vic's brothers was able to get a WPA job, which helped. They lived in a cramped apartment, which they shared with an aunt and uncle and their two children. Everyone contributed in one way or another, and when Vic turned twelve, his mother told him he needed to find a job and do his part.
Vic hadn't a clue what he ought to do as a school boy looking for work. Plenty of grown men, skilled workers, couldn't find a job. It was a terrible time.
His first job was delivering groceries from the store his uncle ran. It was the job that gave him the keys to explore one of the world's most incredible cities. Vic loved the trains, he loved exploring, and suddenly he had the license to indulge all of his curiosities.
One afternoon, he delivered groceries to the house of a well-to-do businessman who happened to be rushing out of the door just as Vic was knocking on it. "Where are you off to, sir?" he asked.
"Ebbets Field! I'm already late for the first pitch," the man said.
"What's Ebbets Field?"
Vic said the man looked at him incredulously. "Why, son, it's where the Dodgers play."
"Who are the Dodgers?"
The man grabbed his hand. "Come on. I'll show you."
Now, the humor in this story is that Vic knew the entire time who the Dodgers were and that they played at Ebbets Field. Still, the Salarino family didn't have the money to waste on baseball games, and although Vic had once seen the arched facade of the stadium from the street, he had never been inside to hear its roar.
The game was against Philadelphia, and the Dodgers won. It was like being in a gleaming palace, a place where regular life evaporated and all that was left was the beauty of baseball. The men wore ties; the cheers were guttural, the passion, real.
Vic noticed there were boys hustling peanuts and other concessions up and down the aisles. Suddenly it hit him: the boys' job was to go to the baseball park every day and sell peanuts--and, at the same time, they were able to see the greatest game played in the most amazing place. He snagged one of the boys walking up the aisle, and soon he was sitting in the office of Mr. Martin Jacobs, one of the Jacobs brothers who ran all of the food operations at the park. Vic negotiated his first job, which paid him ten cents for every game he worked.
He kept his job delivering groceries and arranged his schedule around baseball games. Still, he hid his new job from his mother, telling her that he was going off to play with some of the other boys in the neighborhood. He'd run down the street, three or four blocks down, and cut the corner to the train station, which he rode to the stadium.
Vic was great at selling peanuts. He still had a child's voice, but he had a knack for working his section hard and remembering customers. He'd learn their names and what they liked, and if they brought their sons to the game, he'd sometimes give them free cotton candy. Soon Mr. Jacobs put him in charge of the other boys. He was thirteen years old and already a manager.
The attack on Pearl Harbor sent a shock wave across the country. Both of Vic's brothers enlisted immediately. Vic was too young to be drafted, but he was determined to join up and fight in Europe.
His mother was beside herself with grief. She suspected her husband and son had joined the Italian army, and the idea of brothers fighting brothers tore her apart. Vic and his mother shared the apartment for an entire year. Mrs. Salarino spent mornings at the breakfast table in tears. Vic counted down the days until his birthday. Then, about two months before he would be able to join the army, Vic came down with polio.
It turns out it saved his life.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, May 21, 2010
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
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
Saturday, May 15, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A Hill of Beans
Back in Confluence, it's time to start thinking about putting out vegetables.
It's embarrassing to admit it, but I do not come from a long line of gardeners, and as such, my knowledge of planting things is rather limited. Neither of my parents had much to do with growing things in our back yard; the three or four plants I can remember having in our house all fell victim to my mother, whose careful skill in nurturing children simply did not translate to horticulture. Our back porch became a graveyard for ceramic pots filled with departed Easter lilies, daisies, and ferns.
Most folks in town have a garden, or they subscribe to one of the community plots by the Episcopal church, so my life has until now easily avoided tilling my own ground. Every Sunday, three or four of the little old ladies in the church will pass me a plastic bag filled with squash and tomatoes, okra and corn, peppers and cabbage. My advice to the good people who troll farmer's markets every weekend: present yourself as a pitiful city-dweller who doesn't know a sprout from a hole in the ground at church. You will eat like a king.
One of my herbal suppliers--no seriously, she brings me rosemary--has fallen ill, though. Her name is Brenda May Elder, and she is suffering from cancer. I doubt I need to describe the trauma of chemotherapy on an octogenarian. Her husband, Eddie, died four years ago, but every spring she would plow the earth in her side yard, spinning the clumps until they became finer and finer, pulling the clay into something rich and hospitable, and then she would drop seeds and seedlings one by one, set things out as she called it.
From there, she mended the plot over the coming months, trudging through the rows in light colored slacks, a collared shirt, and a straw hat. She tugged at weeds and nicked off leaves that ought to be put aside. She knew just what to do. And every Sunday, her bounty would be so great that part of it would be set aside for me.
This spring, she's confined to her living room, tortured by the bay window that looks out onto her yard. The garden has grown over with weeds, but a few wild flowers poke up here and there. It might seem like a stupid thing to do, but I decided to grow a garden so I could give Brenda back all the vegetables she loaned me over the past decade or so.
Ambition being my only worthwhile quality in this endeavor, I knew enough to call on a certain oddball neighbor of mine, Johnny Rabbit. Johnny fought in Vietnam, married a girl there, renounced violence, became Buddhist, spent a decade in Cambodia "helping out," whatever that means, got stabbed in some kind of revolution rally in Asia, gave up religion altogether, and moved to Confluence by accident. Every year, the quiet man on the edge of town had three of the best looking rows of corn you'd ever seen.
I'd used this last compliment as a pickup line of sorts, enticement for the strange bird with the rose colored glasses to help me plant vegetables.
"Johnny," I said, "I'm pretty sure I can put the stuff in the ground. But your plants always look so great. I was just talking about your corn to somebody."
Seriously, this is how I feel like I have to talk to people like Johnny. He gave me an odd look.
"It's a pain in the ass."
"Gardening?"
"The corn. Deer gets to it." He paused. "They'll eat it all."
I nodded. What do you do to prevent that, I wondered out loud.
"Shoot them."
***
So there we were, Johnny Rabbit and yours truly, running a tiller through my back yard, next to the slat fence. I liberated the soil. I have turned the earth, and I am proud of it. Now, from my window in the kitchen, I can look out on four tiny tomato plants, a row of beans, and a half dozen corn stalks. Tomorrow I'll pick up a cucumber vine from the hardware store and maybe some potatoes and cantaloupe. Johnny showed me how to arrange it and set up the garden hose for irrigation, told me which plants do well in our valley, and which ones only seem to invite misery and blight.
I haven't a clue if I will produce a single edible thing. But I know that after the day's work I spent in my yard to simply plant my garden, I will never once take for granted a bag of tomatoes given to me by someone four decades older than me out of pity.
It's embarrassing to admit it, but I do not come from a long line of gardeners, and as such, my knowledge of planting things is rather limited. Neither of my parents had much to do with growing things in our back yard; the three or four plants I can remember having in our house all fell victim to my mother, whose careful skill in nurturing children simply did not translate to horticulture. Our back porch became a graveyard for ceramic pots filled with departed Easter lilies, daisies, and ferns.
Most folks in town have a garden, or they subscribe to one of the community plots by the Episcopal church, so my life has until now easily avoided tilling my own ground. Every Sunday, three or four of the little old ladies in the church will pass me a plastic bag filled with squash and tomatoes, okra and corn, peppers and cabbage. My advice to the good people who troll farmer's markets every weekend: present yourself as a pitiful city-dweller who doesn't know a sprout from a hole in the ground at church. You will eat like a king.
One of my herbal suppliers--no seriously, she brings me rosemary--has fallen ill, though. Her name is Brenda May Elder, and she is suffering from cancer. I doubt I need to describe the trauma of chemotherapy on an octogenarian. Her husband, Eddie, died four years ago, but every spring she would plow the earth in her side yard, spinning the clumps until they became finer and finer, pulling the clay into something rich and hospitable, and then she would drop seeds and seedlings one by one, set things out as she called it.
From there, she mended the plot over the coming months, trudging through the rows in light colored slacks, a collared shirt, and a straw hat. She tugged at weeds and nicked off leaves that ought to be put aside. She knew just what to do. And every Sunday, her bounty would be so great that part of it would be set aside for me.
This spring, she's confined to her living room, tortured by the bay window that looks out onto her yard. The garden has grown over with weeds, but a few wild flowers poke up here and there. It might seem like a stupid thing to do, but I decided to grow a garden so I could give Brenda back all the vegetables she loaned me over the past decade or so.
Ambition being my only worthwhile quality in this endeavor, I knew enough to call on a certain oddball neighbor of mine, Johnny Rabbit. Johnny fought in Vietnam, married a girl there, renounced violence, became Buddhist, spent a decade in Cambodia "helping out," whatever that means, got stabbed in some kind of revolution rally in Asia, gave up religion altogether, and moved to Confluence by accident. Every year, the quiet man on the edge of town had three of the best looking rows of corn you'd ever seen.
I'd used this last compliment as a pickup line of sorts, enticement for the strange bird with the rose colored glasses to help me plant vegetables.
"Johnny," I said, "I'm pretty sure I can put the stuff in the ground. But your plants always look so great. I was just talking about your corn to somebody."
Seriously, this is how I feel like I have to talk to people like Johnny. He gave me an odd look.
"It's a pain in the ass."
"Gardening?"
"The corn. Deer gets to it." He paused. "They'll eat it all."
I nodded. What do you do to prevent that, I wondered out loud.
"Shoot them."
***
So there we were, Johnny Rabbit and yours truly, running a tiller through my back yard, next to the slat fence. I liberated the soil. I have turned the earth, and I am proud of it. Now, from my window in the kitchen, I can look out on four tiny tomato plants, a row of beans, and a half dozen corn stalks. Tomorrow I'll pick up a cucumber vine from the hardware store and maybe some potatoes and cantaloupe. Johnny showed me how to arrange it and set up the garden hose for irrigation, told me which plants do well in our valley, and which ones only seem to invite misery and blight.
I haven't a clue if I will produce a single edible thing. But I know that after the day's work I spent in my yard to simply plant my garden, I will never once take for granted a bag of tomatoes given to me by someone four decades older than me out of pity.
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