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Chapter 4: Faith takes rootNala barely rescued from house in flames
When they heard Nala had been trapped in a fire, Nana Leonarda and Tata Florentino left Virden by buggy, driving the horse hard. ``My abuelita was crying and moaning like an injured cow as they traveled the road to Duncan. The news she received was that I was burned,'' says Nala, my Mama's nickname. ``They arrived around mid-morning, and I ran barefoot to greet the buggy. Nana saw me and began climbing off the buggy before Tata brought it to a stop. I ran into the arms of my Nana. I loved her and missed her so much.''
Nala, her mother, Dolores, and the other children left with the abuelos for Virden, where they remained for two days. Don Juanito remained, and neighboring men helped him clean out and restore a nearby wooden shack that would become the family's new home. They had to start over, collecting furnishings, dishes and clothes. Dolores cooked under a tent, and the family slept in the shack until Don Juanito built a two-room adobe house, one of four that would eventually be built on the five acres the family acquired through years of laboring in the fields. All returned to Duncan, except Nala, who remained with the abuelos. Nana Leonarda had insisted on taking care of her, and Dolores gave in, bringing Nala home only on weekends. Nala grew up carefree and was the light of her abuelos' eyes. She followed her Nana and helped with chores, picking up wood for the heater and cooking fires. Their daily routine included praying the rosary in the evening. Nana Leonarda gathered all the area children in her home, including Nala's childhood friend, cousin Tita. All knelt on the packed-dirt floor to pray the rosary beads. Some children didn't like it, but they didn't dare complain. They learned to pronounce the words and pray in reverence or get pinched. It is a habit that stuck with Mama, a ritual unchanged for 80 years.
Tonight, as she does every night, Mama will kneel at the foot of her bed. Dressed in her favorite blue nightgown, she will whisper her prayers in a soft cadence. A lighted candle will cast her shadow on the wall. She is a small woman, her black-and-gray hair done up in a beehive. Her shadow looks as if she wears a bishop's miter. While growing up, we kids would call Mama the archbishop, knowing we had to say it in a low voice or risk getting a shoe tossed at us. The 4-foot-8-inch woman deserved and demanded our respect. She taught us to fear God as well. On Sundays, she'd wake us long before daylight for 6 a.m. Mass. I close my eyes and hear her voice: ``Carmen, levántate.'' I smell her aroma - always a mix of Avon's Cotillion and the cinnamon scent of Lavoris mouthwash. Tonight, Mama will sleep in what still seems vast luxury to her - a room of her own with a queen-size bed. The bed is flanked by night tables filled with dozens of santos - saints and images of Jesus and the Virgin Mary in various apparitions. Tonight, as every night, Mama will pray to God and the santos to protect us from all harm and help us during our trials and tribulations. Tomorrow morning, as every morning, she will sit for two hours in the living room with her rosary, prayer book and prayer cards. We say she prays for the world. In reality, it is for the extended familia - relatives, friends, friends of friends. She'll pray on behalf of anyone who asks and for many who never would. Every picture, every prayer card, every santo tells a story. The print of Nuestra Señora del Cármen, my patron saint, was bought before I was born. It depicts the Virgin with the Christ child sitting on her knee. Below them, souls languish in purgatory. Two angels rescue the soul of one man. Mama prayed to the Virgin while she was pregnant with me. She promised that if I were born healthy she would name me after her. My name was to be María del Cármen, but the nurses at Tucson Medical Center wrote down ``Carmen Mary.'' ``That's life,'' says Mama. There is no anger in her voice. Her hazel eyes twinkle like a child's, but her wrinkled face and hands display the effect of years of backbreaking work in the cotton fields and pecan groves. Gallons of Corn Husker's lotion saved Mama's hands when they were chapped and bleeding from cuts. The santos preserved us all. Next: Chapter 5: Childhood tales
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Ch. 1: Field of death
Ch. 18: The New Deal
Ch. 24: Cotton pickers and copper miners Ch. 27: The family doubles its size
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