again.
My uncle Pedro loaded the bags on his truck while my mother ran around counting a hundred things that she was sure my father would forget to do while we were away. Of course, it never happened that way, but that is how she was.
“¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!” my uncle called and we clamored aboard. It was the first time Ultima would go with us. We sat quietly in the back of the truck with the bags and did not speak. I was too excited to talk.
The truck lurched down the goat path, over the bridge and swung south towards El Puerto. I watched carefully all that we left behind. We passed Rosie’s house and at the clothesline right at the edge of the cliff there was a young girl hanging out brightly colored garments. She was soon lost in the furrow of dust the truck raised. We passed the church and crossed our foreheads, then we passed the El Rito bridge and far towards the river’s side I could see the green water of the dam.
The air was fresh and the sun bright. The road wound along the edge of the river. At times the road cut into the cliffs made by the mesas that rose from the river valley, then the river was far below. There was much to see on such a trip, and almost before we had started it was over. I could hear my mother’s joyful cry from the cab of the truck.
“There! There is El Puerto de los Lunas!” The road dropped into the flat valley and revealed the adobe houses of the peaceful village. “There!” she cried. “There is the church of my baptism!”
The dusty road passed in front of the church, then past Tenorio’s Bar and into the cluster of mud houses with rusted tin roofs. Each house had a small flower garden in front and a corral for animals at the back. A few dogs gave chase to the truck and in front of one house two small girls played, but for the most part the village was quiet—the men were in the fields working.
At the end of the dusty road was my grandfather’s house. Beyond that the road dipped towards the bridge that crossed the river. My grandfather’s house was the biggest one in the village, and it was rightly so, because after all the village had been largely settled by the Lunas. The first stop we made was at his house. It was unthinkable that we stop anywhere else before seeing him. Later we would go and stay with my uncle Juan because it was his turn that my mother’s family visit with his and it would slight his honor if she didn’t, but for now we had to greet our grandfather.
“Mind your manners,” my mother cautioned us as we got down. My uncle led the way and we followed. In the cool, dark room which was the heart of the house my grandfather sat and waited. His name was Prudencio. He was old and bearded, but when he spoke or walked I felt the dignity of his many years and wisdom.
“Ay, papá,” my mother cried when she saw him. She rushed into his arms and cried her joy out on his shoulders. This was expected and we waited quietly until she finished telling him how happy she was to see him. Then came our greetings. In turn we walked up, took his ancient, calloused hand and wished him a good day. Finally, Ultima greeted him.
“Prudencio,” she said simply and they embraced.
“It is good to have you with us again, Ultima. We welcome you, our house is your house.” He said our house because a couple of my uncles had built their houses against his until the original house spread into a long house with many of my cousins living in it.
“And Gabriel?” he asked.
“He is fine, and he sends you greetings,” my mother said.
“And your sons, León, Andrés, Eugenio?”
“The letters say they are fine,” and her eyes were full of tears, “but almost every day there is a tolling of the bells for a son that is lost to the war—”
“Take faith in God, my child,” my grandfather said and he held her close, “He will return them safely. The war is terrible, the wars have always been terrible. They take the boys away from the fields and orchards where they should be, they give them guns and tell them to kill each other. It is against the will of