Asking about Uncle Fred would sometimes bring a smile and fond look on my Dad's face. They were close brothers in their youth, being about two years apart. He was younger and certainly made up for being the youngest by getting into things that were ill-advised. Like the time he kept poking a stick into a rock pile. Dad would tell my two brothers and I about our uncle's childhood when he wanted to make a parable about some potential mischief we could get into. He told us this story many years ago when my brother Joe was found playing with sticks.
Fred (aka Humberto) was around 9 years old, and like any boy who lived when there were no plastic toys or video games, he was very curious about things, such as nature. My dad, being older, would often check to see if Fred was up to some mischief because he worried about Fred's fearlessness and ability to find trouble. Dad told us many times that our uncle was outgoing, fun to be around, a loyal brother, but not cautious enough.
This was one of those occasions.
Picture this. Our grandfather, Luis Gonzales (b. 1868, Zacatecas) was standing by one of the outdoor, round adobe ovens, near the entrance to his limestone business, talking to some men, when he told my dad to go get Fred. He came back to tell him that Fred was poking a long stick at something. Papa Luis walked over and told him to get away and stop poking under the rubble as snakes lived under the rocky ledges. Mama Felipita was not too far away with the property being long, about the length of a block, but she was busy in the house. Fred obeyed, threw the stick down and joined them to turn his attention.
After a while of busy work helping Papa Luis, a couple hours had passed and Fred returned to poking the rocks. My dad heard a scream, and guessed exactly what was happening so he bolted to help Fred. He found his little brother, crouched down holding his forearm, surprised tears in his eyes, and the "culebra" several feet away, tightly coiled. Dad pulled his gun and shot it in half. The gun and his yells, "Papa, papa, le pico la vibora" brought his father's long and fast legs into motion. The pocket knife in hand made two small cuts and Papa Luis quickly sucked at the wound, spitting several times.
My grandfather was a soft-hearted and sentimental man, who gently picked up his son with tears streaming down his cheeks, and laid him on his lap as he rode back to the ranch house. The other men there accompanied them back to the ranch, while one offered to ride into Durango to find a doctor. My dad rode behind them, with a heavy heart and feelings of guilt. Then, there were no doctors to be found near the ranches, only in the closest town, or if by luck a doctor was attending someone at a nearby ranch. By evening, Fred's arm was turning black, very swollen and felt hard, as he laid on bed with a hot fever. Mama Felipita stayed and prayed at his bed most of the evening. My dad asked if Fred would live. She replied, "Si Dios quiere", which means "If God wishes". There were no theatrics, Mama Felipita did not shed a tear or fall on her knees. She said they should pray and that was all they could do.
No comments:
Post a Comment