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| The tales our elders tell |
We were just talking, Tony and I. He was
in his sixties, an older “Chicano,” his word. He had that feel about him, a WWII
veteran from a barrio in Texas, before he came west to settle in L.A., where he
married and raised his family. He reminded me of Lalo Guerrero, without the
guitar, but a real storyteller, low voice, a little above bass, but clear and
evocative. He was also a listener, getting just as much pleasure from hearing stories as telling them.
I was in my twenties, trying to figure
things out, like where I was headed, where were my studies leading. I had no
idea. I was telling Tony how tough it was making decisions, to stay in college,
go on tour with a band, or just keep working as a gardener for the school district,
buy a house, and settle down. Tony had landed a job at the school district, after
his retirement from Boeing, to keep himself busy, but he’d done just about
everything, fieldwork, construction, oil rigs, from Texas to Montana, but his expertise
was mechanics. He could repair anything you put in front of him.
He
listened to me. He sympathized. I told him about the time my dad cracked me on the
head with his knuckles because he caught me riding a go-cart in the middle of
the street. I hadn’t thought it was fair, back then, when I was about twelve-years-old.
Tony said, “Well, that was dangerous.
A car could’a hit you.”
“Yeah, but it was embarrassing, too. He
did it in front of everybody.”
“Sometimes, we don’t choose the best time
to teach our kids lessons.”
Tony always seemed to have the right
answer. “You know,” he told me. “I was still living in Texas, just a kid, maybe
five or six years old, during the Depression, the 1930s, some time. It was
after school. I was walking home, right at the edge of the street. I looked
down and saw a Nickle, you know, five-cents. It don’t sound like much now, but
back then it was big deal. You could buy a sandwich and a soda at the drug
store.”
I said, “Like for us, when a quarter was
lot. We could go to the movies, buy popcorn and a soda.”
“Yes, exactly. A whole Nickle. I was
tickled pink. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my mom and dad, you know, hey!
I found a Nickle.”
He waited before continuing, like he was
thinking, maybe his mind going back to Texas, to that time and place. “I walked
home, excited. I thought they’d be happy. I walked into the house. My mom was
there, but I had to wait for my dad to come home from work. When he did, I
pulled it out of my pocket. I held out my hand and showed them the Nickel. 'Look,
Papa,' I said. My mother asked, 'Where did you get it?'
"I told them how I was walking home along
the street and found it. I could see right away my dad wasn’t happy. 'What do
you mean you found it?'
"I didn’t understand what he was asking me,
so I told him again. He looked at my mother and neither of them said anything.
I was really confused, you know. Then, they talked, whispering to each other.
My dad told me, finally, to go into the room where we slept and wait for him."
By that time I was confused, but Tony had a
calm look on his face, so I figured everything would turn out okay. “So," I
asked?
“A few minutes later, my dad came in. He
took off his belt. I tried to explain, but I couldn’t even talk, to get the
words right. I was so scared. He told me to turn around and bend over. In those
days, you didn’t question your parents. You just did what they told you. Man, he
hit me five times, one for each penny, I guess.”
I was outraged, and I was just the listener. “He spanked you because
you found a Nickle? That’s brutal.”
“It hurt, a lot, I remember. I cried, a long time. He left
the room, like he wanted me to think about it. Then, about ten minutes later,
he came back, my mom standing behind him. He said, 'Son, I don’t know if you
found that Nickel or you stole it.'
"I was still crying, 'No, Pa,' I said, 'I found
it, promise I did.'
"'Well,' he said, 'I don’t know the truth.
Son, if you did find the Nickle, I am sorry I punished you. Please forgive me,
but if you did steal that Nickle, I want to always know you didn’t get away
with it.'"
I said, “And that was it?”
“No,” he answered. “He let me keep the
Nickle."
