Kind Acts, Long Remembered
My first introduction to San Sebastián del Álamo was in 1976, the year I married La Flor de Los Altos de Jalisco, María Auxilio Silvestre Pedroza de Molina. Yes, get that last part…de Molina. De mi. She was mine now, and my bride was bringing her novio home to her home town.
It was in late spring. The cornfields were green, the countryside was ablaze with mirasoles, pink sunflowers gazing up at the sun. I arrived at my new bride’s home, greeted with enthusiastic abrazos and kisses by María’s tíos and tías, primos y primas - who were now and forever my tíos and tías, my primos and primas. Because that’s they way it works.
Tía María was my wife’s favorite aunt, the aunt who stepped up and cared for María and her sister when their mother was away early in their childhood. Tía María, a gray-haired wisp of lady who stood taller than any man in town, was a force of nature - energetic, enthusiastic, a woman who more than held her ground. She loved to cook, and she immediately sat us down in her kitchen, and prepared her famous gorditas - thick corn tortillas grilled on an iron comal. As the sweet smell of wood, corn, and chiles filled the kitchen, Tía María would have you laughing with her stories. She was a fine lady, and like so many in the small town, she had a keen sense of humor spiced with just enough irreverence to make you laugh until you were crying and your stomach hurt.
I found my new home town charming, fascinating, and a great adventure, with surprises at every turn. But I am quite sure that my relatives felt a bit uneasy, not knowing how I, a norteamericano from far, far away, would adjust to their humble village and their country ways.
Now that I was a beloved family member, Tía María felt it appropriate to confide in me.
“Ay, Deibi (her pronunciation of ‘Davey’, my new nickname)…they say there are only two seasons here in San Sebas….the dusty season and the muddy season.”
I laughed, and told her in that case I had timed our visit for the week in between those two seasons, and how beautiful I found the town.
“Ay, Deibi…” she continued, shaking her head and lowering her voice. “They also say, San Sebas es tan feo como el ombligo del Diablo.” María, giggling a bit, provided the translation. “She is telling you that people say this town is as ugly as the devil’s ombligo…. belly button.”
We had a good belly laugh right down to our belly buttons. The irreverent humor convinced me I was going to fit in just fine in my new home.
During the four and a half decades of our marriage, María made many trips to and from San Sebas, caring for her parents as they got older. She had a few midnight calls, never a good sign, and she would be on the plane the next day. One such call happened a month and a half after she delivered her fourth child, Daniel. Her father had suffered a very serious auto accident and was rushed to the hospital in Aguascalientes. She packed her bags and was on the plane the next day, cradling her newborn in her arms.
Little Danny earned his first nickname at the hospital in Aguas - they called him “El Doctorcito.” At that early age he didn’t have much of a curriculum vitae or repertoire, and yet his presence in the hospital room where mother and child lived and slept surely speeded Papaquel’s recovery. To have your daughter and your youngest grandchild through it all, that meant a lot. Papaquel made it home for a few weeks, but then was back in the hospital. The doctors had discovered internal bleeding, and so he was back in the hospital, along with his daughter and El Doctorcito. He underwent another surgery, and María and Danny stayed with him for another few weeks, camping out on the bedside chair in his room.
María made many more trips to San Sebas over the years than I did, most of which could hardly be considered a vacation. In 2003, when her mother passed, I returned to San Sebas for the funeral. The town had changed. Satellite dishes had sprouted from the roofs of the adobe brick houses. My tíos and tías were older, my primos and primas were married and had families.
Two decades passed before I returned, last spring, 2022. It was the dusty season. The town had changed. Water tanks had sprouted from the roofs of the adobe brick houses. My tíos and tías had all passed, my primos and primas were now the elders, with adult children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren. The home, which María had inherited, was now almost a hundred years old.
It was a difficult but necessary decision to sell the old house, the house that her father built stone by stone. As a young man Papaquel had to go to the outskirts to find the stones for the foundation, which he loaded onto an old burro. It was slow going, but went faster when a relative saw him toiling and lent him a small cart for the burro. Once the foundation was laid, his cousins and in-laws helped bake mud in wooden forms to create the adobe bricks, which were mortared upon each other and eventually plastered. It took more than a year, but with the help of many he was able to raise the house for his young bride, and eventually his young family. It stood up to wind, rain, and storms for many decades. After he retired, Papaquel and Mama Tola lived together in that home. With the patience and tenderness with which he built the house, he tended to his wife who was confined to a wheel chair for her last two decades.
María’s connection to the home was deep. She was born in that home. Her earliest memories were loading tiny frogs in the pockets of her apron in the back garden. Her mother died in that home, surrounded by her family. So the choice to sell it was difficult, and even more difficult was the task of culling through the belongings accumulated by her parents over a lifetime. Letting go has never been easy for her.
But her cousins - some now in their eighties - rallied to help her with the huge task. When María and I arrived at her home last spring, exhausted by two days of travel, her cousin Tencha had prepared a pot of soup, fresh tortillas, carnitas, and a bowl of chile. Another cousin had her husband haul away boxes and boxes of the accumulation of items once useful many decades ago. A neighbor who worked in construction offered to help repair the plaster inside that was deteriorating. There were so many kindnesses shown her those weeks, I could not count them. She and I will always remember them.
I learned that the smallest of kindnesses can linger for decades.
There was a woman in the town, one with whom María was not familiar with—a bit unusual, as she knew most of the people of the town. They saw each other a few times in the distance. María made a note that the woman was well-dressed. Finally they crossed paths in the plaza.
The woman introduced herself. “Excuse me, are you the daughter of Don Ezequiel Pedroza?” She had very polite and friendly manner, and it turns out she was a well-to-do shopkeeper. María said, yes, she was.
The woman told her this story. Many decades ago the woman was walking across that same plaza, and took a misstep. She stepped off the concrete edge and fell a few feet, tumbling onto the road pavement. Papaquel saw this from across the street, went over and asked if she was alright. She was pretty well shaken, so he just stayed with her. When she calmed down, he helped her up and had her sit on the concrete edge. They talked, he kept her company until she was ready to go home. She told him she was a bit shaky still. He told her he would stay with her until she was better. She said, no, you’ve spent enough time. He offered to walk her home, which he did.
For all those years, the woman remembered that patient, kind gentleman, and had the kindness herself to share that story with his daughter, decades later. María was choked up by this encounter not only with the woman, but with her father, long gone, but still ever present.
On Sunday that week there was an outdoor Mass celebrated in that same plaza. It was May 1st, the feast day of San José, Obrador - St. Joseph, the Worker. San José is the patron of all workers, and a good saint if you need help looking for job, getting a job, or working on the job, I was surprised to see almost the entire town was in the plaza that evening. I noticed as we filed up for communion that María nodded and smiled at a woman, who returned the smile, with a nod.
Afterwards I asked my wife who that woman was. María could not recall the woman’s name, but she remembered who she was and what she had done decades ago. It was at the time that she and El Doctorcito were tending Papaquel in the hospital after his accident. In Mexico there is not a volunteer blood source, so if a family member is in need of blood, a family member has to step up. It turns out that this woman, a stranger and not a family member, heard the request for a needed donor for Don Ezequiel, and she took the hour long bus ride to the hospital and back and gave her blood for María’s father.
And so a kind act ripples across decades, it turns out. A simple, uncommon act of kindness has a power to create others. Sharing these stories of kindness creates kindness, preserves kindness, and spreads kindness.
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