Continuation...
No, I was not done with my last blog. I understand my ending didn't make sense. Honestly, I just got sleepy and ended the post rather abruptly. My apologies. I noticed it as I read over what I last wrote. This piece will probably end the same so be patient with me. I live a crazy life with three teenagers, all of whom are more mature than I. You think I'm kidding. Pretty funny stuff, huh. Well my 13-, 14- and 19-year-old would all agree that I am a teenager trapped in the body of an over-the-hill mother. It's not that I grew up thinking I wanted to be unconventional. It's just that no matter how many diets I tried to follow, I could never fit myself into a conventional mold. Believe me, I tried my best to be what my family expected me to be. A lawyer, a doctor, a scientist... All those pragmatic careers would have suited them fine. The only problem was, my parents being non-English speaking, were unable to steer me in the direction of a pragmatic career. None of my siblings ever thought it necessary to take me under their wing and nurture my future. Some crumbs to lead me in the right direction might of helped.
Let me take that back. When I was in first grade, I asked my sisters Ruth and Esther to help me with my homework. They helped me get a big fat zero on my assignment the following day. I realized then that I was a one woman show. I grabbed on to the work ethic of my parents and threw myself into the cruel real world. I made it through middle school, high school and University at the top of my class. Was I highly intelligent? No. However, what I didn't possess in IQ, I made up for in gusto. I simply jumped in to challenges hoping I would learn how to swim. I still don't know how to swim, but I learned how to drain the water from the tub before I drowned. To me it meant that I didn't have to learn how to swim, because I learned to shift things to suit my capabilities.
Why am I writing a story about my life? I'm not, really. Well, I am, but in no particular sequence or with no particular purpose. I just realized one day that I am not very good at fictional writing. It feels like I'm lying to my audience, my readers. So, I decided to jot down my view on life. My non-conventional, skewed, quirky view on life. So with that said, I'll be going through a journey in my writing. I'm not sure where it will take me. However, I'm sure it will be amusing.
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My mother Quirina Valladarez, was the daughter of Crescenciano Valladarez, my grandfather. He was a rancher and owned property with his brother in Michoacan. They were Mexican cowboys with horses, pistols and all the things movies portray.. I knew my grandfather as he was in my life for about 8 years. He traveled from Mexico to the United States as a brasero. He would come work in the agricultural fields and would return to Mexico at the end of the crop-picking season. Unfortunately, when I was about 8, my mother received word from Michoacan that my grandfather was found in a canal with an empty bottle of rubbing alcohol that he had ingested. This is how my grandfather died.
Now, the reason I bring him up is because my grandfather Crescensciano was once and maybe even died being one of Mexico's most wanted. You see, my grandfather wasn't always an alcoholic. He and his brother had a good life in Michoacan. They kept livestock and grew wheat. They were inseparable, my grandfather and his brother. The sherrif of their town had a son. My grandfather's brother and the sheriff's son had some unresolved issues. It turns out things ended tragically for my grandfather's brother. He was shot dead by the sheriff's son. My grandfather, by my mother's account, was a hard-working man who provided for his family. However, after his brother was killed, he took up drinking and some other unsavory habits. There was no stopping his misery. He spent days in a drunken state.
One day, in his anguish, he decided to take matters into his own hands and killed the Sherrif's son. They confiscated all my grandfather's property and set a bounty on his life. He was sought by Mexican authorities and was labeled one of Mexico's most wanted. He was forced to leave his family behind and fled to the United States. Eventually, my mother and father followed my grandfather to Sonora, Mexico close to the border and brought my grandmother with them. They settled in a little town called San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora. My grandfather would travel back to Michoacan, but never returned to live there for fear he would be killed. Ironically, he died there in his home town from alcohol poisoning. My mother says that after his brother died, my grandfather was never the same. She used to tell me that it was as if his heart had died with his brother. She described my grandfather as a killer for hire, a feared man and a womanizer with no morals.
By the time I met him, all I can remember is a gentle blue-eyed old man who would sit me on his lap and give me candy. Our surname for him was an endearing Papi Chencho. I never suspected my grandfather could have ever been a wanted man. I was there when my mother received word her father had been found dead. I never saw her cry and she never told me what it meant to her to lose her father. At night, while laying in bed with my mother, she would share stories of her childhood with me. Often times, stories revolved around my Papi Chencho's adventurous life.
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