"Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys…," sang my father Antonio from his multi-green mixed with rust prized 1954 Chevrolet. Yes, he sang to, he did not listen to, Willie Nelson because his carcacha, his jalopy, had no radio, no reverse gear, and in some areas of the vehicle, it had no floor boards or window to protect you from the New Mexico summer or winter. We never parked in front of Allsups, we parked on the side. So that when we exited the mini-mart with a 36-ounce Tallsup and a fried burrito, Tata’s breakfast of champions, we could drive around the back and around the store to leave. Having no reverse gear meant having to be very strategic everywhere you went.
Several times a year he would pack some or all of his six children, depending on the mood or level of forgiveness the mothers had for him or quite honestly, how well his version of the story held up. The pack would ride highway 62/180 from our hometown of Carlsbad to either El Paso, Phoenix or Oxnard, California, depending on the time of year and the group of siblings.
Always, always he would roll down the plexi-glass replacement window, stick his arm out and wait until one of us dared to ask, “Tata, what are you doing?” He would laugh a mad man’s laugh and say that he was waiting for his eagle to come land. We would wait, albeit with a sideways ay, ay, ay looks, for that eagle to land.
When our patience wore thin, about five minutes into the ordeal, and we asked where in the world this aguila of his was, he would respond, “He only comes to me when I’m alone because he knows my children are afraid.”
My father was brave, he was full of faith and understanding, he taught his children well, but I am still stifled by my fear of so many things. Tata, one day the eagle will come to me, I promise.
His serious tone would fade away as fast as the New Mexico state line disappeared in the rear view mirror. He’d take a gulp of his Classic Coke or Bud Light, whichever one he felt like at the time, and he would proceed to make fun of each of his little prides and joy. One by one we would fall prey to his wit and charm.
“El dia que yo me muera, no voy a llevarme nada…. No mas un puño de tierra[1]." Oh no, here we go again, Dad’s gonna start his singing again.
[1] English Translation: The day that I die, I’m not taking anything with me…. Only a pinch of dirt.
I love hearing stories about ur dad and all of you kids growing up! I'm excited to see what else you post :) Christian does resemble Mateo.
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