What My Hands Remember

What my Hands Remember

         by Frank Delgado 

 My hands remember holding my sons for the first time.

Saving a choking man's life.         Almost drowning and holding on to a pool's rail. 

Wrapping gauze around a boy whose throat had been slit.          Dangling 400 ft up clawing into a cliff.

My hands remember pulling a trigger that killed a deer. 

 Releasing bowstring that sent an arrow into a man's head. 

 Knifing a cat in an attempt to skin it to make myself a coonskin hat. 

 Choking a boy after he beat up my older brother in Germany.

Throwing a pitch fork at a bird on the ground playing Ben Hur.

 Putting a rifle barrel to my chin and squeezing the trigger to see if I could. 

 Turning off the lights and knife fighting with a friend in a dark room. 

 Churning under the ocean, trap under a raft, unable to see a shark that was stalking me. 

 Riding in the back seat of an out of control car, going over a cliff, pushing people out of the way. 

 Pulling a girl out ,pinned under a car, while gasoline pour down on her face. 

 Putting socks on my dying father's feet. 

Writing a eulogy for my brother. 

My hands remember holding my wife, embracing each other, hurried up together as we slept;

 My hands remember holding my granddaughter Madison.

 Cutting out cardboard dolls with her. 

 Writing math problems on a chalkboard for at risk students.

 Mixing mud and straw with Nauthle Indians to build adobe bricks for a hut. 

Reaching out to touch the window on a bus in Chiapas trying to touch the faces of two barefoot Maya children scarred with spot from malnutrition, dressed in burlap sacks. 

 Pointing to indigenous children in Vida Neva streaming down steep mountains deer trails, with their bright colored dresses that looked like flowers coming to bouquet as they met in the schoolyard.

Family

Its a daunting task to tranverse family history for seldom is it circular, that is , in the sense of a complete story. I suspect I will be chasten for telling the truth as I saw it. The alternative would be the silences of a lie that reinforces a system of illusions and does not call for a change when needed. With a heavy heart of knowing I am going to unveil the fragilities of men and women whose blood I share I write this  piece. With the joy that I will understand the family members who have been set free with the truth I write this piece.
For family history should reflect a reality, it should unveil the cruelties of life without destroying its members, for only then can the healing start. Only then can we understand the struggles and triumphs of those who have gone before us and give reason for their action.

Family

  Its a daunting task to tranverse family history for seldom is it circular, that is , in the sense of a complete story. I suspect I will be chasten for telling the truth as I saw it. The alternative would be the silences of a lie that reinforces a system of illusions and does not call for a change when needed. With a heavy heart of knowing I am going to unveil the fragilities of men and women whose blood I share I write this  piece. With the joy that I will understand the family members who have been set free with the truth I write this piece.  
For family history should reflect a reality, it should unveil the cruelties of life without destroying its members, for only then can the healing start. Only then can we understand the struggles and triumphs of those who have gone before us and give reason for their action.

Saipan part 1

Kiko Delgado

By Frank Delgado

War is a very personal experience, which few if any who have actually gone thru,  would want to share with a love ones , let alone a stranger. But sometimes in unguarded moments the memories leach out, the cruelty : piece by piece and find a voice . Most of the  times we accept  war as a bad experience and something we would rather not discuss. Yet there is a sense of pride in a family member going to war and doing the unspeakable, killing another human being.

   Kiko Delgado , my father,  never claimed to be a “war hero” if there is such a thing. He just wanted to live. Many  times as a child while  watching  John Wayne war movies, my father would enter the room and  tell the four of us  that  only crazy or stupid men would want to go to war, would charge a machine gun nest or throw themselves on a grenade.   He would then change the channel. We looked up at him, silently thinking , “Yea  dad but you are not John Wayne,”  

  Throughout the years, I heard small pieces of my father’s  life in the Navy from him and other relatives. On occasions my father would talk about his boot camp experiences and his interactions with Drill instructors. The stories were mundane, normal, funny, and sometimes sad but he never spoke of the human struggle to stay alive in combat. I took his memories lightly as boring history, not the things war movies were made of. 

  When I was fourteen,  we took a trip to San Diego. I remember riding in a car descending  a bridge on a freeway  looking down on an armada of War Ships. As we approach closer my nose started to burn from the foul  smell of axial grease,  used on ships of war. Some of the ships were in dry dock. My father  pointed  out the destroyers, the cruisers, and the LSTs  troop transports. 

“ See there , those are the ships I was stationed on in the Pacific” he said pointing to a troop transport.

 “ I was a boatsman, I drove landing barges , LVT’s in two invasions. I was nineteen and one hundred-twenty seven pounds back then.” 

Then there was silence and no more talk. He had a sad look on his face. 

When I was nineteen ,  home from college,  I  over heard my father  tell my Uncle Pete about his second invasion.  My father’s ship was one day from approaching the landing zone. An alarm was sent out that there was a submarines in the area. The troops were tense, and total silences was ordered. As dusk approached an all clear was announced , the submarine had left. The troops relaxed . The men lingered topside on the decks, some writing letters to love ones  in anticipation of what tomorrow morning held.  Through out the ship men  gathered  in groups with common interest, singing , playing cards, sleeping but none laughing. My father knew three sailors on board from Southern Texas: Emilio De la Fuente from San Benito , Alberto Montoya from Corpus Christi, and Alonso Cantu from San Antonio. Emilio played the guitar as they sang old songs sung for generations in the Tejano neighborhoods of Texas.  Songs in Spanish sung  in better times,  with families that brought back good memories.  The cascades of  words soothed  their souls  , assuring them that a man would not be alone at his time of death. It was a  lament that no man knows his time, for the forces of nature determine life not men. The comforting  melody of the guitar echoed throughout the ship as the bright orange sun sank into Pacific Ocean.  

Then an ensign ran over and  shouted, “Stop, no more singing in Spanish! That an order. , Damn it !  How many more times do I have to tell you guys to speak English… only. The ensign saw their reaction and felt compassion. Besides , you guys better get some sleep ,you’re going in tomorrow morning.”

“ And no Texas flags on your boats. It that clear ! ” 

“ Montoya , De la Funtes you are in the first wave. Delgado , Cantu you are in the second.”  

Emilio turned pale, his spirit sank,  he had a flush stare . Perhaps he saw his future.

Alberto gave a big sigh, his face turned red, he swiped his mouth with is cupped hand and took a deep swallow. 

The first wave draws out  the enemy fire so the battle ships can zero in on enemy artillery. The first wave get hit the hardest.    

   The men slowly walked away cursing under their breath. .

Living for the Moment

WORD COUNT 2954

Living for the Moment

By Francisco Delgado

GOING HOME

Through out the ages men have searched for the meaning of life; some have defined it, but few if any, have experienced it. I stumbled on it, this elusive concept that gives value to life, when I met Sandra’s family.

As I think back of those times we spent together, a warm smile comes to my face and a chuckle to my heart. From them I learned the meaning of life by watching them interact with it

Sandra’s family, like all  immigrants  came to the United States in search of a better life: they came  from Mexico. 

Her father a burley man, who stood at 5’7” and weighted about 195 lbs, first crossed the border into the United States during the Second World War. He stayed many years after the war had ended. 

 During those years he traveled from state to state in search of work in migrant labor camps. I remember him telling me of sleeping near the roadside and cooking-out in the woods to save money. He told me how he kept busy in the harvests fields, working long hours to make time pass quickly, counting the days until he could return to his native Mexico to see his family.

 At night he dreamt of being with his kids and in the arms of his Chelo, his wife.

When the day finally arrived, he readied his car. He checked the tires, which were bald, but not yet showing threads. He changed the oil and filled the gas tank. Then like a good Mexican he prayed to the Virgin de Guadalupe for a safe journey. He loaded the car with gifts for his children and groceries for the family. Then he drove into the night, tired from working all week, on a journey that would take him across two states and into Mexico.

There was very little sound the night he left, on the road, except the humming of the tires as they grabbed the pavement. The occasional headlight of another car’s seal beam, as it passed by, flashed across his face. He started to daydream of all the things he was going to do, once he got home. Then the excitement of going home gave way to a sad realization that he would have to return to his job and leave his family once again. Lost were the dreams of being with his kids as they grew up, being with his wife at night, and hearing their voices at birthday parties.

After five hours he pulled over to walk around: exercising his legs that were going numb from sitting too long. As he drove further south the terrain became drier and gave way to a flat horizon. The morning sun glowed a bright orange, an ominous warning of a scorching day. He pierces into the desert ahead and  saw the rippling waves of heat awaiting him. The temperature race upward and in no time it was approaching 110 degrees. As he drove further he ate lukewarm burritos and wash them down with warm water. His car was old and he worried about breaking down in the middle of the highway. He prayed that the threats on his tire didn’t wear through.

The sun beat down from on top and an oppressive heat radiated from the car’s hot engine. He felt trapped in a searing oven. His eyes burned from the sweat that rolled down from his browse. The opened window on his side gave no relief; it only brought in a blast of hot air. He continued on only stopping for fuel and bathroom visits . The evening brought a welcome relief from the heat he reach over and tapped the statue of San Martin de Porres that was glued to the dash. He arrived late that night, after driving 36 hours, to surprises his family.

Once inside the house he jostled with his boys. After the boys turn, the girls reached out with their arms extended crying out for daddy to pick them up. He then turned to the girls and in one move swooped them up in his arms. His wife watched with tears at seeing him again and seeing her children’s excitement. She silently slipped away into the bathroom where she quickly rub on blush and put on red lipstick. Then she ran to her room to change her dress and shoes. She viewed herself in he mirror hurriedly touching her hair in place. Then, she heard her husband calling her from the living room, Chelo, Chelo. She appeared flirtatiously, prancing across him, asking him if he was hungry. He just stared at her all dolled up, mouth open. She laughed and reached over and kisses him. She felt as if she could breath again now that he was safe with them. There was always that fear that he would find another, younger and prettier than her in those long lonely months away from her but not today, today he was hers.

Most of that night he told stories of all that happened to him in the north. Then it was family’s turn to fill him in on what he missed: The little things that kids think are important and the blaming of the other sibling. His wife Chela interrupted them and told the children to go to bed, it was late. The children pleaded for more time but they were answered with an assurance that their father would be there in the morning. Once the kids were put away, Chelo has her husband all to her self. Her love for him burned deeper and his for her.

The kid awoke with the earliest of birds and rush into see him. That day was filled with parks and shopping. His girls held on to his hand every chance they got. The following day his wife complained about the difficulties of rearing the boys and her finances. Igancio suggested taking the eldest boy back with him: Julio who was twelve. With Julio working they could raise the money faster to pay for the processing fees that would allow the family to immigrate. They agreed.

The following Sunday arrived too quickly, the day of his return back north. His heart ached at the thought of being separated from all he cherished. He called his family together and told them that he had to leave. He kissed his wife and turned to his kids, hug and kisses them quickly then turned to Julio and asks him if he was ready. Julio’s mother had tears at the thought of her son leaving, she reached out to him, blessed him, and gave him a tight hug and kisses him on the cheek.

She turned to her husband and said, “ Please take care of my son.”

He nodded.

Then they both walked out the door, Ignacio and his son. The children cried out, pleading with their father to stay, pleading to go with him. Chelo leaning toward them, held back crying out the same things.

REUNITED

Once they were back, up north, they worked long hours and saved like squirrels. After ten months they had enough money to bring Hilda north and she helped with the housework. Eventually the entire family was able to immigrate.

As time passed Ignacio found a steady job in a factor and they bought a house in Southern California. From this experience, (being separated and struggling together to reunite) Sandra’s family learned to value each other and not take one another for granted. These were some of her family’s most cherishes memories of their youth. It was

Christmas and New Years rolled into one. The family learned to enjoy each moment and not to dwell on the future at the expense of the present.

Sandra’s mother was a small woman with blue eyes and light brown hair. When she spoke English she had a Russian’s accent and was mistaken repeatedly for an Eastern European. No one knew where she got her accent. She was an attractive woman always well groomed with clothes that drape and highlighted her shape. The poor lady could not walk down the street without some guys whistling and calling out “ Hey Chula.”

Sandra had the same seductive walk and charm as her mother. The first time I saw her, it was her walk that attracted me to her. She would glide across a floor walking with her steps narrowing as she stepped forward. This caused a slight sway of her hips. The movement accentuated her voluptuous figure with her 28 inches waist. I knew from the time I saw her that I had to make her mine. She had innocence’s about her. Her light brown eyes and her grin would have men falling all over themselves to take her out. I asked her to go out for dinner and she hesitated to answer. I mentioned that the food was really good and asked with my eyes, hoping she would say yes. She final agreed to go. I took her to a drive thru that had great Mexican food. She was probably expecting a nice sit down restaurant but she was gracious enough not to make a scene. I order two burritos and two drinks. When it came time to pay I was short five of the seven dollars. I forgot I bought something earlier that day. She lent me the five-dollar. I apologized for not having all the money and promised to make it up to her with a sit down diner in a nice restaurant. She gave me a reassuring smile, winked her eye and said that it was OK. I kept on taking her out for

four month. In the third month I knew she was the woman I wanted to marry and to have my children. I asked her repeatedly to marry me but she refused. She held back, telling me that I did not know her well enough. She finally agreed. After she accepted, I found how hard it was being engaged to a woman that beautiful. We would go to different places and other men would flirt with her right in front of me. She would always turn to me with a smile and wink to assure me that she was mine.

Her family gathered every weekend over a special meal just to celebrate being a family. There didn’t have to be a special reason, just the fact that they were together was enough. These gathering seemed to follow a ritual. Her father rose early to cut the grass and wash down the patio. As his sons arrived with their children each one of the sons started to help their father with the yard work. They would talk as they worked about their kids and their jobs. I heard the tenderness in their voices and saw the sincerity in their faces. The sons called their father “ Papi” which is an endearing word in Spanish for beloved father. At the end of the discussions they would always be laughing or joking as they put away their tools. As the daughters arrived they hugged their dad, gave him a little kiss on the cheek, and rushes to see their mother. Their mother eyes would open wide as she saw her daughters coming in the front door and a warm smile that rose from the depth of her heart would cover her face. It was the joy of a mother hen seeing her baby chicks comes home. “Mijita” and “mamita” , both words of endearment were words that followed every other word as they greeted one another.

After Don Ignacio put away his tools he walked briskly into the house, renewed by the thought of the barbecue to come. Inside the house he joked with his daughters and his wife Dona Chelo, then he disappeared into the bathroom. The sounds of the shower striking the floor and Don Ignacio could be heard. It was only a few minutes later that his grandsons rushed into the house and made a beeline straight for the bathroom. “ Abra la puetra, Abra la puetra, open the door, we have to pee, who’s in there ” they called out banging on the door. Dona Chelo sternly rebuked them for running in the house then chased them outside. “And don’t run! ” , were the last words the grandsons heard. They started to walk out, looked back to make sure she was not watching then ran to the back of the house, just outside the bedroom window. From the bedroom I heard their young voices talking to each other of how badly they had to pee. Then the sounds of zippers followed by the sounds of two competing streams hitting the side of the house. “ Hey, Chuyo what wrong with you... move over... you’re peeing on my leg” his cousin Jimmy complained.

After showering and changing clothes, Don Ignacio stepped outside to prepare the grill for the barbeque. He sang as he rolled out the grill, which he set under the canopy of a large pomegranate tree. Don Ignacio made a nice fire with the coals neatly arrange in a pyramid that quickly glowed an iridescent bright orange. His sons join in by setting up tables and white plastic chairs. The chairs were set in a semi circle to allow for the family members to face each other. The tables were just shelves for the food. Sandra’s older sister Hilda brought out two table clothes one white and the other plaid. Once the tables were covered, out came Dona Chelo and Sandra with corn chips, salsa and salads. Next to the table was a large ice cooler filled with beer and pop. Once the meat was done it was place in a platter in the middle of the table. Hilda watched as flies hovered over the meat looking to join the family. She hated insects, special flies! No sooner had a fly landed then she swat it dead.

The women served the food to the men first, than served the children. The men congregated on one side of chairs and the women on the other side. , Dona Chelo at on end Don Ignacio at other. The children set their plates on the table and ran off to play tag returning occasionally to sneak a bite. Hilda sat near the meat armed with her fly swatter, cocked ready to leap on any fly that dare land on the table.

They sat telling stories of family members and laughing. Julio, with his thick curly black hair, was the comic of the family and he never lacked an audience. He was his biggest fan. Susan the elder daughters with her deep religious faith left nothing to chances. She had an altar in her living room with candles and different Gods. She had Jesus, the Buddha, the Virgin de Guadalupe, and the Hindu elephant-headed God Ganesha. Julio confessed that night that he was the one who buried an old shoe at the back of her altar. He said he wanted to give her another Gods to worship for her birthday. Sometimes the person spoken of denied it happen that way and the laughter got harder. Sandra’s laughter was deep hearted, it rose higher until it reached a crescendo, and it was very contagious.

I was an outsider seeing this foreign interaction between family members. I felt sad and angry that my home life with my parents and sibling had been so different. My parent wanted us both my brothers and my sisters, to have money and power. They though it would bring us happiness, so they were preparing us. They pitted us against each other. They mocked us if we showed any tenderness or compassion. Sandra saw how I held back pretending to be tough and uncaring took me by my hand to her father. She introduced me as her future husband to the family. The whole family opened up their hearts to me.

There was one incident that happened during Christmas that showed how this family deal with things most families would fight over. We were at K-mark, a discount store, where Sandra was buying the last of the Christmas gifts. She needed one more gift for her dad and the store was about to close. I told her to pick up a box of house shoes that were on special and she did. Christmas came and went and everybody received a gift thanks to Sandra. In February her father came to the table shifting his head side to side like a spoil child. He addressed Sandra in a child like tone asking her whether she wanted to know something special.

Sandra looked up at her father and asked, “ What Papito”

“ You know that special gift you gave me for Christmas?” He asked as he pretended to be a shy little boy.

“ It’s the best gift I have ever received, … in my entire life.”

Sandra beamed with pride that her dad had enjoyed her gift and that it was the best of all the gifts.

“ That gift you gave me is not the kind of gift I could wear because its soooo...special!” Then he said, “ O yes, one of the shoes was a size 6 and the other one a size 15.”

Sandra turned red and then started to laugh and laugh and laugh. Her father then started to chuckle, which became a laugh. Soon the whole family was laughing.

Since meeting Sandra and her family I have taken on their values. I now feel whole and complete as a person. I have a new script in my heart, to enjoy the moment and not dwell on the future at the expense of the present.

Daves Last days

Dave’s Last Days
by Frank Delgado

At 10 o’clock buses start staggering in from their morning rush. Dave, a spotter sits at the control desk inside a cozy shack. He greets a driver as he pulls in with a warm smile and looks down at his list to check him off .
Twenty-five” he yells out
Another bus pulls up, the driver peers out the front door. Nothing is said, its a look that Dave has seen for thirty years.
Dave sings out , “ Put it on 35.”
He’ll repeats this routine until the morning rush is over. Then buses start to trickle in. Sometimes during a lull he steps out of the shack to sneak a smoke. He leans against the doorway and stares into space. With his head cocked, he drags on his cigarette.
He asks himself , Where has all the time gone?
His gaze is interrupted by a hacking cough from too many cigarette , too many years. No longer does he have the energy or the fire of his youth. His body aches and his curly black hair is long gone. Time as tempered his eternal dreams of life. His retirement date is but a few days away ; A bitter sweet time rushing down a upon him, too fast: like death.
This job was meant to be temporary,now 30 years later he finds himself leaving this “Temporary job.”
But he leaves with respect from his fellow maintenance workers, admiration that could not be delegated by authority. Respect that he has earned by working in the rain, the snow ,and the heat that his job exposes him to day in and day out.
He also has earned appreciation from the bus drivers . Respect for crawling under hot buses on ice to install and remove snow chains.
Another Bus pulls in and sends Dave back to his desk. A high pitch voice from female driver rekindles memories of his rooster years. He flirts a little to makes her feel young and appreciated in a job that robs her of her femininity. And isn’t that what life about; making people feel good about themselves.
“ Park it in lane four , cutie “ he winks at her.
One more bus accounted for. Across bus yard the lone sound of a freight train horn can be heard. Its sound dying in the distance as it move on it journey. It’s time for another smoke. The metal click of a cigarette lighter cap flipping , the scratching noise of the wheel striking the flint, the glowing of flame and then the falling of the lighter’s cap.