Early this Spring a Native American family from Mexico moved into an old farm house across from the entrance to my street. A developer had bought the farm several years ago with the idea of building apartments, but fortunately went bankrupt before tearing down all the farm buildings. The house appears to date from the 1830s or 1840s. While abandoned, it and the farm had deteriorated terribly.
Whenever Mexicans get into a REAL house here in the mountains, they immediately set about to fixing it up and beautifying the landscape with flowers and shrubbery. These people did a especially beautiful job of restoring the historic house and cleaning up the land. What I liked most, though, is that they started raising chickens. Like my dearly missed days of living on a farm, I now wake up again to the melody of a happy rooster. Lucky devil . . . he has a dozen hen friends to nurture him! No wonder he crows so much!
I noticed a week ago that their van was missing. Guess it was repossessed. Banks around here are using tractor trailers formally used by auto plants to pick up the endless volumes of repossessed cars. This morning I saw the whole family trudging along the main road, carrying enormous numbers of those silly little white plastic bags supermarkets give you now. It is at least two miles from their house to the Piggly Wiggly. That WAS shear drudgery.
In my own extreme poverty, however, there was something I could do. It came to me in a flash. What better way to thank the people of Mexico for all their kindnesses to me while I was a student there, than do something for these nice people. I went down to the basement and retreived the big backpack that I had used while going through the mountains and jungles of southern Mexico to study the archaeological sites. It was in absolutely perfect condition and BRIGHT ORANGE, which would help cars seen the person carrying the back pack. I have another camoflauged backpack now that I use. I don't want the Sikooya lurking in the Georgia Mountains TO SEE ME ... LOL
I took the backpack over to the farmhouse. I introduced myself: Se llame Ricardo. Soy un Indio Norte Americano, etc The lady understand all of my Spanish. I guess they had wondered why this Gringo, who didn't look like a Gringo always smiled and waved to them. Now she knew. The regalo (gift) was something that they obviously needed badly. She said "thank you" in English. I said "de nada" and "vaya con dios." She smiled and walked back into the house to excitedly tell her husband about the unexpected gift.
Well, my gift was no sacrifice on my part, but it was a little way of saying "gracias" to all the exceedinly kind Mexicans I met while I was in the process of becoming a man. Though my situation seems unjust now, there is always some one or some family, whom I can help in some way. It is the Native American thing to do!
I wonder if she has a single sister? THAT would be a good way of saying Thank You! 
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| The Rooster Crows at the Old Farm House Again |
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