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A Village Mother's Day Even in the poor families the loving expressions are rich and luxurious -whole washtubs of fragrant flowers, live music and singing- great and small family groups gathering to honor mother. Later in the morning the village is humming with reunions and in the Beleche home, the family has gathered to honor Doña Faustina, the vital and kindly force that inspires every one of them. Garden flowers adorn the house and the dirty yard is swept clean of leaves dropped by the huge mesquite tree that shades the ample yard. It’s long-reaching branches have held many a piñata in this beautiful place that has seen countless parties celebrating baptisms, birthdays, weddings, and now another Mother’s Day. Many years ago the family bought this land for one silver peso a square meter. They built the house of adobe and formed the roof tiles over their thighs. The land nurtured the family. Always on their table were milk and cheese and vegetables, products of their own toil. They identify with the land totally. Today Doña Faustina’s pride and happiness are apparent as she moves from one to another of her great progeny in gesture-punctuated talk. Her thinning grey hair is covered by a rebozo and her caramel-colored skin is still tight and shiny. Her walk is almost as smooth as the days of her youth when she carried large cántaros of water on her head. She is a real jewel with a quick wit and eager, open mind which I haven’t seen often in tight village society. The earthy rhythms of this independent, proud family lull one into a state of peace and contentment as their busy hands fashion equipales, the pigskin-covered furniture seen in many homes of the State of Jalisco. The grunting of pigs and clucking of hens is a pleasant background to their friendly talk as the sun filters through the old mesquite trees. Materials brought from the hills by horse lie strewn about and wet skins hang by the oleander-fringed well. Here there is a sense of continuity, survival, single pleasure and satisfaction of work well-done, far from the economic complaint of a consumer society. Today, however, work is laid aside and gaiety pervades the entire household, but especially the cooking room where daughters and granddaughters have formed an assembly line making tamales. Deft fingers pat dough into dry corn husks, then pork in a savory picadillo of meat and hot sauce is buried within the dough. Some are sweet with raisins instead of meat and sugar instead of chili. Lastly the husks are folded to form over two hundred neat little packages. Atole, the traditional drink with tamales, tasting like a very thin pudding, today flavored with fresh mashed plums, simmers on the fire. Soon the crowded courtyard fills with the centuries-old aroma of corn as the tamales cook on their bed of corn husks in the giant pot which is supported by three rocks over the fire. Don Ramon brings out his a jug of punch which is plugged with a corncob. Made of pomegranate juice, sugar and alcohol, incongruous peanuts float on top. He pours generously and smiles widen. The call goes out -the tamales are done! The atole is served in dozens of heavy pottery mugs that normally hang in a neat curved pattern on the wall of the cooking room. Eager hands quickly deplete heaped platters of the tamales. Soon all are replete and the mood mellows. Roberto strums a few chords on his guitar, thoughtfully seeking a melody he sings. The richness of his vibrant basso fills the air, followed by Angelina and Juana, harmonizing their resonant voices in a duet as they did in their childhood. Babies gurgle and chortle with all the attention and happy sounds. Little ones coaxed to perform, imi- tate the singular ranchero style of singing. The guitar is passed to Don Ramon. There is a respectful, expectant hush. His fingers, somewhat stiff with years, still recall obscure folk-songs. He settles himself more comfortably and, as the mood deepens, Doña Faustina’s sweet, high voice joins his, their voices now thin with age, still beautiful and on-key. They harmonize a song of their youth. Shadows deepen. Twilight is falling, chores beckon. Cattle are lowing to be milked and fed. Tranquility reigns. Slowly, with farewell embraces, visiting families disperse until there remains only a small knot of people around Doña Faustina to ponder the pleasure and glow of this Mother’s Day. |