No hay mejor experiencia como la que el tiempo da.
There is no better experience than that which time gives you.
It’s Easter Sunday, la Pascua. Gone are the throngs of pilgrims who made their way to the santuario two days ago, on Good Friday—a day when we generally avoid visiting Chimayó. The carnival atmosphere of the pilgrimage contrasts dramatically with the way it used to be, the way we liked it. The sheer volume of traffic, on foot and in cars, along with the noise and clamor, makes it nearly impossible to get through Chimayó, much less sink into feelings of reverence and introspection. So Mom and I waited until today to come visit.
Not that the Good Friday experience at the santuario doesn’t offer some sustenance. In fact, I “made the walk” this year, or almost made it. My sister Janice and I set out from Cundiyó, where she lives, intending to make the pilgrimage cross-country, completely away from the roads and crowds. I wanted to take her up over the summit of Tsi Mayoh, the hill whose Tewa-language name was the origin of the Hispanicized word Chimayó. We also planned to stop at the Cueva del Chivato, a small cave on the hill’s flank that Tewa cosmology describes as a place of contact with subterranean spiritual energies. Janice had not been to either place.
We started walking at the bridge in Cundiyó at 7 a.m. on Good Friday, and we were immediately enthralled by the morning light on the hills above us as we worked our way downstream. The rushing Santa Cruz River, as high as it would get this year from snowmelt, roared in the rocky gorge. Eventually the footpath ran out, and we were blocked by cliffs and the still water of Santa Cruz Lake, created by the dam of the same name. We scrambled up steep, rocky hillsides for an hour or more, stopping now and then to admire the dramatic views of the foothills, the snowy peaks, and the deep, green Santa Cruz Valley. In the end we were thwarted by the sheer scale of the landscape and turned back toward Cundiyó, but we made a vow to blaze the cross-country route next year.
On our way back to Janice’s home, we walked through Cundiyó, which clings to a hillside sloping down to the Río Frijoles. The fields below us, along the Río Frijoles, had greened fully and shone like emeralds in the narrow valley. We paused at the tiny Santo Domingo chapel to visit the gravestones of our ancestors in the courtyard: Longino Vigil, Gelacia Chávez Vigil, and Libradita Ortega Chávez. (Libradita’s name is misspelled on the gravestone as “Libodita.”) Libradita was great-grandpa Reyes’s sister; Gelacia was her daughter, and Longino, her son-in-law. They link us to kin in Cundiyó.
But that was Friday, and now it’s a much quieter Easter Sunday in Chimayó. The trash from the pilgrimage has been cleaned up and packed in tall plastic bags by prisoners on work release. As we pass the santuario, Mom describes the somber Easters of her childhood, when fully veiled women in black and men in black suits walked silently in procession, heads bowed, along the dirt road to the santuario. Then, there were only a few rough benches and a couple of chairs on the dirt floor of the church; most people carried small pisos, homemade rag rugs they knelt upon during the Easter Mass.
As we approach the turnoff to the santuario, Mom says, “Did I tell you about how Father Roca insulted Jamie the other day? He and Ruth went to talk to him, and Jamie said, ‘Father Roca, ¿cómo está? ¿Qué no me conoce?—Father Roca, how are you? Don’t you know me?’ And Father Roca jokingly replied, ‘O, sí, te conozco, ¡pero ya estás grande—y muy viejo y muy feo!—Oh, sure, I remember you, but now you’re grown up—and really old and ugly!’ Another time Father Roca said to Liliana, ‘¡Eee, cómo estás vieja!—Oh my, how you’ve aged!’ He’s really travieso [mischevious], Father Roca!”
It dawns on me we haven’t discussed what we’ll do in Chimayó today, so I ask Mom, “Where are we going, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “You were so anxious to come to Chimayó! There’s too many cars coming to the santuario. I was thinking of stopping to see Father Roca, but I’m afraid to stop now. Father Roca might insult me, too!”
After some discussion, we decide to bypass the crowded santuario and instead call on Grabielita, whom I haven’t seen for a couple of months and Mom hasn’t seen since last year. Last time I knocked at her door, she answered in her night clothes, nursing a terrible cold. Today there is a car in her driveway, so we assume she’s up and around and visiting with relatives. But my knock on the door goes unanswered, as does the ring of the doorbell. I try a few times, giving Grabielita a chance to make her way to the door, but to no avail. Just as we’re backing out of the driveway, though, the screen door opens and Grabielita’s granddaughter, Peggy Sue, beckons us in, explaining she and Grabielita were taking a nap together. I apologize for disturbing them and say we’ll come back, but she insists we come inside.
Peggy Sue leads us to the bedroom, where Grabielita is seated on a couch. She’s happy to see us and takes my mother’s face in her hands, while uttering her most common expression, a term she can inflect with many meanings: “¡Linda!” She says it with the e’s drawn out—“Leeeenda”—and an intonation conveying much cariño (affection or tenderness). She takes my hand and repeats the word, in the masculine: “¡Lindo!”
Peggy Sue scrambles to get a brush and starts combing Grabielita’s hair, all the while explaining why they were napping in the middle of the day. They had risen early to get ready for Mass and grew tired by midafternoon. Grabielita apologizes for her appearance.
“O, todavía estás muy pretty pretty, Grandma.—Oh, you’re still very pretty pretty, Grandma,” Peggy Sue says.
“¡¿Qué pretty ni pretty?!—What’s this ‘pretty pretty’?!” Grabielita responds.
“Ésta es una nieta fina. Es puro oro.—This is a really fine granddaughter. She’s pure gold,” Grabielita says of Peggy Sue, who fusses over her.
“¡Ella es el oro!—She’s the gold!” Peggy insists, pointing to Grabielita.
“¿Pues, del oro sale el oro, no?—Well, gold comes from gold, right?” I add, and Grabielita agrees—“¡Sí!”—and lets out a cackling giggle.
Then Grabielita turns to my mother, continuing the conversation in Spanish.
“¿Cuántos años tienes?—How old are you?”
“Ochenta y ocho.—Eighty-eight,” Mom replies.
“¡Parece mucho a mi prima Benigna! Linda, linda . . . bien, bien parecida . . . el mismo retrato de tu mamá.—You look so much like my cousin Benigna! Pretty, pretty, you look so much like her. You’re the picture of your mother,” Grabielita comments, smiling wistfully at Mom.
“O, y el primo Abedón y mi viejo se querían como hermanitos. Esos sí se querían bien.—Oh, and cousin Abedón and my husband loved each other like brothers. They sure cared for each other,” Grabielita continues, referring to my grandfather. Then she asks, as she did on our last visit, how many grandchildren Mom has, and they go over the list of names.
“¡O, sí, soy tatara-tatarabuela!—Yes, I’m a great-great-grandmother!” Grabielita reminds us, laughing enthusiastically. “¡Ayy! Esta mujer sí está vieja, linda.—Ahh! That woman is old, my darling,” she says, speaking of herself and making a mock grimace. “Y mis nietos, ya grandotes viejos.—And my grandchildren, they’re good and old,” she adds, giggling some more.
“Ayy, linda. Pero no me duele nada, más de la vista ’hora. Esta semana pasada fui al doctor y me operaron. Y quedó bien, mira.—Oh, but nothing hurts me, except for my vision now. Just this week I went to the doctor, and they operated on me. And everything came out fine, look,” she says, gesturing to her left eye and removing her glasses.
“Pero me dolió, linda.—But it really hurt me, darling,” she continues, modulating her voice up high and then down, expressively. “De esto he pasado mal. ’Hora está bien, ¡pero muy reaguado!—From this eye I’ve suffered a lot. It’s OK now, but very watery!”
Then Grabielita turns to me and again says of my mom, “¡O, mi prima Benigna! Eso le digo porque parece mucha la Estela a ella.—Oh, my cousin Benigna! I tell this you because Stella looks so much like her.”
Mom and I remind Grabielita that she’s fortunate to be able to see, and she nods, but then makes a grieving sound and says, “La única cosa es que leía tanto. Me gustaba mucho. Y ’hora no. Nomás que las letras grandes puedo ver. Ya no, lindo. Y era mi consuelo. Mis rezos y todo. Y ’hora . . . ¡Todo se acaba!—It’s just that I used to read so much. I liked it a lot. And now I can’t. I can read only big letters. No longer, darling. It was my consolation. My prayers and everything. But everything passes!” she says as she makes a sweeping motion with one hand against the other.
“La vejez es muy trabajoso, ¿no? Es muy feo. Muy feo llegar al viejito. Pero yo doy gracias a Dios. ¡Pero cómo se pasan los años!—Old age is really difficult, isn’t it?” she continues. “It’s really terrible to become an old person. But I give thanks to God! But how quickly the years pass!”
Changing the subject, I tell Grabielita about my walk from Cundiyó on Good Friday and about seeing the gravestones of my relatives at the Santo Domingo church.
“O, sí, era mi tío Longino.—Oh, sure, that was my Uncle Longino,” she comments, nodding. “Y mi tía Gelacia.—And my Aunt Gelacia.”
Peggy Sue interrupts us, offering me a cup of coffee, which I accept.
“I have to warn you, this is pretty potent coffee,” she says, gesturing toward Grabielita. “Grandma drinks it like this every day.”
I sip the brew, as thick as motor oil.
“¡Trailes cookies!—Bring them cookies!” Grabielita directs Peggy Sue. Then she turns to Mom and shakes here head, marveling again. “¡Lindo! ¡Mira cómo se mira a mi prima Benigna . . . ¡Prima Benigna le digo yo! Mucho, mucho se parecen. ¡O, la misma cosa!—My goodness! Look how you look like my cousin Benigna! Cousin Benigna, I tell you! You look so, so much like her. The same person!”
Peggy Sue brings the cookies and looks at my cup of black coffee. “You sure you don’t want sugar? That’s gonna kick you pretty strong and keep you awake tonight.”
“¿Entonces Longino era tío a usted?—So Longino was your uncle?” I ask, getting back to the topic at hand.
“Sí. Era hermanito a mi papá.—Yes, he was my father’s brother,” Grabielita responds.
“O, allí es de donde viene la parentela.—Oh, that’s how we’re related,” Mom adds.
Grabielita counts her uncle’s siblings on her fingers: “Mi tío Longino, y mi tío Luis, y papá, y luego tío Félix . . . eran seis hermanos por decirle. Y mi padrino Isidro de Córdova. Se llamaba eso porque se casó con una de Córdova y ella se lo llevó para Córdova.—Uncle Longino, Uncle Luis, my father, Uncle Félix . . . there were six brothers, to name them. Another was my godfather, Isidro of Córdova. They called him that because he married a woman from Córdova and she took him there,” she recalls, letting out another giggle. “Leeenda . . . Y de mujeres quizás nomás una tuvieron. Estaba como yo. Seis hombres y mujeres no tuvo más que a la Grace.—Oh, my. And girls, they only had one, just like me. Six boys and no girls—except for Grace.”
“Sí, y mi tía Gelacia tuvo mucha familia también.—Yes, and my Aunt Gelacia had a big family, too,” Mom offers.
“Sí, mi tía Gelacia tenía muchos . . . eran mi primo Lorenzo, primo Noberto, primo Pulas, primo Manuel Vigil, primas Rosarito, Demesia y Trinidad.—Yes, my aunt Gelacia had a lot of kids . . . cousin Lorenzo, cousin Noberto, cousin Pulas, cousin Manuel Vigil, and female cousins Rosarito, Demesia, and Trinidad,” Grabielita recites as she munches on a cookie.
“¡Y ya no leo, y era tan leydora! ¡Y también huevona soy! ¡Huevona, huevona!—And now I don’t read, but I was such a reader! And I’m lazy, too! Lazy, lazy!” she exclaims, smiling at Peggy Sue.
“I got her up and dressed and she said, ‘You know, I just feel tired. I don’t want to go.’ And I said, ‘You’re the boss, so you get to decide. And it’s OK . . . Está bien, Grandma. Hicimos mucho ayer. Es bueno que descansas hoy.—It’s OK, Grandma. We did a lot yesterday. It’s good that you rest today.”
“¡Huevona, huevona!” Grabielita interjects, repeating her self-castigation, only half in jest, as she munches down another cookie.
Cría uno cuervos pa’ que le saquen los ojos.
You raise crows so they can pluck out your eyes. (Said when one’s children are ungrateful or disrespectful.)
Él que tenga hijos en la cuna que no hable de mujer ninguna.
He who has children in the cradle shouldn’t go around talking about any woman. (A new father shouldn’t be thinking about other women.)
En casa de gaitero todos son danzantes.
In the house of the piper all are dancers. (Children follow their parents’ example.)
En casa de herrero, cuchillo de palo.
In the home of the blacksmith, a wooden knife. (The blacksmith can’t afford his own products.)
Hijos crecidos, penas dobladas.
Grown children, double worries. (Parents never finish raising their children.)
No es madre la que pare, sino la que cría.
A mother is she who rears a child, not the one who bears him. (Nurture is more important than nature.)
Salió con una pata más larga que la otra.
She ended up with one foot longer than the other. (Usually said when a woman has a baby out of wedlock.)
Sean como fueren, los hijos de uno duelen.
You hurt for your children no matter how they turn out. (Children bring heartache as well as joy.)