Here is a little nostalgic tale about my youth. “Summer Days - TopicsExpress

Here is a little nostalgic tale about my youth. “Summer Days at Buelitos’ House” By Roel Adrian Garcia I lo oked forward to summer days in Benavides at Buelitos’ house. Those days were hot, with the sun beating down with intensity that comes only in South Texas. But being a kid, that mattered little and those hot days meant we took full advantage of Buelitos’ backyard and that included the remains of defunct cars, trucks and even an old tractor standing on flat tires. This old tractor served as a space ship and we’d often sit on the metal seat, push or pull buttons and move the worn-out steering wheel. And when not mounted atop that tractor or using the cars are space vehicles, my brother, Robert, cousin Mayo and I would enter the darkened garage where my Buelito, a self-taught mechanic, stored his tools and junked-out parts of cars and trucks he worked on over the past few decades. That garage, a large, box-like structure made of aluminum sheeting, was hellishly hot, but that never stopped us from snooping when Buelito wasn’t working in there. We investigated every inch of the garage as if it had treasures and it never got old for us. Sometimes, when no one was looking, we’d pull back the dirty rag draped over the bucket that held gasoline and we’d dip our somewhat greasy hands into the bucket. The gasoline felt cool as our small hands made their way into the liquid. We thought we were cool dong what Buelito did. When we bored of the garage or playing space cowboys, there always were the neighboring yards. To the west was Emilia, who owned a large lot, but her house was small and she never made it out back to where we played. Tall reedy weeds made for excellent hiding placed. Or we’d tear down some of the sturdier branch-like weeds and cut them to length for swashbuckling mayhem. To the east was a grassy, tangled mess, where we usually looked for insects to play with or investigate whatever came our way. Sometimes we climbed the trees in that yard and rested there like monkeys. We’d sit with our backs against tree branches, beads of sweat trickling down our foreheads and our faces smudged with dirt. The palms of our hands were scratched up from the playing; maybe one of us got a cut from playing in the weeds. As we got our second wind while resting in the trees, the morning was gone, stored in our memories for a later time to peruse and enjoy. It was then that Buelita would call out, “Vengan a comer!” Lunch. We’d jump off from our hiding place in the trees and plop down onto the ground, jumping a fence and striding over to Buelitos’ house, moving around junk parts, cars with hoods propped open. Having expended all that energy that morning, our stomachs rumbled as we sat for lunch. Back then, Buelita had sandwiches for us. We’d make our own. Usually it was sliced bologna or pressed ham. These tasty treats were found in the old fridge, wrapped in white butcher’s paper from the market at The Cash Store. The bread used depended on what was a hand. There was Roman Meal and white bread. Being a kid, Roman Meal, despite the emblem of the tough Roman on the bread wrapper, was not appealing. It was white bread all the way. And the mayo was lemon-flavored Real mayonnaise. Sometimes I’d dip my pinky finger in to get extra mayo. Once the bread was lathered with mayo, the bologna or pressed ham was next. Since both came from the market at The Cash Shore, there always was a red or white wrapping around the edges. This wrapping was ripped off and the meat placed on the bread. Buelito sat with us if he was done with working on a car. He ate hurriedly and drank coffee. No matter if it was hot or cold, Buelito drank coffee. Lunch was quick for us, too. No sooner had we made our sandwiches than we were off again, ready to play. If Mayo ate as his house, my brother and I headed over past the garage and knocked at Mayo’s house. Mayo lived behind my Buelitos’ house. Once together again we pushed on through the thick of the afternoon. July and August afternoons are furnaces in South Texas. While we still played outside, we stuck to the shade. Trees held a source of solace for us during this time of day. A huge mesquite stood near the kitchen door of my Buelos’ house. The trunk was twisted at an eighty-degree angle; its bark was rough. One large branch jutted out over the caliche-covered backyard. Like monkeys, the three of us would attempt the tough climb. Our fingers dug into the ridges in the bark as we tried to get leverage. Our tennis shoes struggled for purchase. When we reached the point where the branch veered off the main trunk, we maneuvered carefully around until we sat atop that large branch. We were no more than eight feet off the ground, but when we were kids, that eight feet looked like twenty feet. When the mesquite tree climb was unappealing, we sought shelter from the sun in other ways. Tree houses. Well, we were never great at building these houses on trees. These were more like ground houses. We became architectural engineers as we sought out pieces of wood and boards. It never failed. The material was there, scattered throughout my Buelitos’ house or Mayo’s yard. Much thought was put into making the ground houses. The three of us worked together and progress was made and the shelter built. When complete, three of us would squeeze into the shelter. Our bodies were tight in there, arm to arm. But the sun’s heat was abated. Or, when there was an occasional afternoon shower, we would wait out the fifteen-minute shower from inside the tiny shelter. During the afternoon showers, the coolness lasted only minutes before the heat took over and steam rose in tendrils off the ground. Humidity kicked in. By this time it was mid-afternoon. My mom, who worked at the Catholic church a block away, soon would be picked us up. Around this time Buelito would come around. He knew it was almost time to leave. He’d call us over, “Hey, chivos! Ven ’aca.” The three of us would rush over. Buelito would pull out his faded, black wallet. He would reach in and pluck out three one-dollar bills. Our eyes widened at the prospect. A dollar each. A dollar would buy us goodies. “Ten, vayanse, cabrones. Te ’ta esperando Lauro,” he’d say and cackle. Off we’d go, crossing the mostly quiet street and entered a yard directly across from my Buelitos’ house. This house belonged to Lauro Yzaguirre, who owned The Cash Store, the local market. We just called it Lauro’s. We used the path around Lauro’s house and through his narrow yard and strolled through the back entrance of the store. The back entrance led us right past the market where Lauro, tall and imposing reigned as the store’s owner and meat manager. The door creaked open and we would step inside. Two or three steps in and we would hear it. “Vaqueros!” Lauro would bellow. It was an odd day that Lauro didn’t greet us in this fashion. It was a mascot thing between Benavides and San Diego. Benavides school mascot was an eagle and San Diego’s school mascot was a vaquero. Lauro greeted us like this for years. We’d walk Lauro, wave or smile. There stood this tall man, wrapped in a white, butcher’s apron. He would make small talk as we passed and then return to his job slicing meat or cheese. Our sights were set on how we could spend our dollar. Back in 1980 a buck went a long way. A dollar would buy three items. We had four to choose: a candy bar, a soda, an ice cream or chips. It all depended on mood or time of year. During the summer days, we usually begged off the chips and went straight for the Hygeia ice cream freezer. The flat, glass sliding doors were foggy and had to be wiped. All the ice creams looked scrumptious. Push Ups, cones, sandwiches, Big Red lollipops, Eskimo pies. My favorites were the waffle cones. I enjoyed the sprinkle of peanuts and the chocolate covered top. Most times after grabbing a cone, a Big Red or RC Cola followed. As for the candy bar, any kind did the job. Any chocolate candy bar. One of Lauro’s daughters, usually Nilda or Nena, would ring us up at the cash register. The buck would suffice. I now had three delicious snacks in hand. If I felt like drinking the soda first and it was a RC, Lauro had a bottle opener on hand. And the thing with RCs was the possibility of winning a prize. Inside the cap was a tough, gray plastic lining. Rip off this gray plastic and you never know. Might be a winner. Sometimes I would win a free RC or fifty cents. That was a prize for a nine-year-old kid. Returning to Buelitos’ house with our sugar rush, we settled inside to drink the soda, scarf down the ice cream and finish off with the candy bar. Soon our mom would arrive. We would say goodbye to our cousin Mayo. He would be off back to his house. Buelita got a kiss from us. Buelito, if he was in the back, would say, “Bueno, chivos. Hay los miro,” and he would nod his head. My brother and I then fight for the front seat. No matter who sat up front on the drive in from the ranch. Mom settled it by telling us to stop fighting over the seat. After one of us settled in, off we went back to the ranch. We waved at Buelita, who might have sat on the rocking chair on the front porch. We drive off and the image of my Buelita sitting on the front porch and the house and my Buelo’s garage and all the junk cars fade into the late afternoon heat Still remaining is the house and the garage, a sturdier version of it, I believe. But gone are the junked-out cars, the old space vehicle that was the tractor, gone even is the gnarled mesquite tree. No shade lies where that tall, old tree once stood majestic. But more importantly gone are Buelito and Buelita. Buelito died in 2009 at age 92 and Buelita died July 25 of this year; she was 95. They were married more than sixty years. Still, those summer days at my Buelitos’ house transcend time, seasons, age. I still see my Buelito smoking his Pall Mall, hat on his head as he ponders over a car. I still see my Buelita sitting in her chair out front, rocking or washing and hanging up clothes. And I still can see the ghosts of those three kids hiding in a tree, taking shelter from the noonday sun. I can still hear their voices carry and their boyish laughter. I still can see those boys, happy and carefree. Just being boys on a hot, summer day at their Buelitos’ house in Benavides, Texas.