Both of my
parents worked a lot, so growing up, I spent a lot of time with my retired
grandparents in Edcouch, a small town in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas. Edcouch, at the time, had a population of
around 2,500 people, about 99% Mexican-American. That’s not based on any polling data, but
that's how I remember it. My
grandparents lived in El Rincon Del Diablo (the Devil's Corner). Sounds scary, but it wasn’t that bad. They had worked in the fields most of their
lives, picking any and all vegetables from Michigan to Texas, and now they
lived off a dependable Social Security check.
Often, I would travel into town with my grandfather.
We would
first go to the Post Office. He would
always check his mail at the Post Office.
As people walked by, they would see him as an easy target for a
conversation. In Edcouch, people speak
passionately about football and local politics, and my grandfather, interested
or not, would stand there and listen. He
would abandon his mail, and except for a few glances down at me, he maintained
eye contact. He never had much to contribute,
but to show empathy, my grandfather would sometimes shake his head in apparent
disbelief and say the only English curse word I ever heard my grandfather say,
“Sheet.” A small crowd would gather and
take part in the discussion.
I wasn’t
one of those kids that would be running around the Post Office getting in
everyone’s way. I wasn’t the type of kid
that would pull on my grandfather’s sleeve, and say over and over again, “I
wanna go. Grandpa, I wanna go. Let’s
go.” No, I just stood there, and watched
him and how patient he was. At some
point, the mob would part ways, and my grandfather would get back to his mail.
After that,
we were off to the local panaderia (the bakery). As always, my grandfather would walk in and
start a conversation with the Panadero before any business was discussed. He would look through the sheets of pan dulce
and would call out his order. Unlike
other customers, my grandfather didn’t reach in and pull out what he
needed. The Panadero would take my
grandfather’s order and start working on a fresh batch of each item.
Then, we
would visit his sister at Nuevo Mundo, my great aunt’s grocery store. Behind the cash register, there was a door
which led to a small room with couches.
They would sit there and talk, while I was allowed to pick anything from
the store. Neither one of them talked
much, but neither one of them was bothered by the silence. Her son-in-law was a butcher. My uncle would take us into a refrigerated
room with beef hanging from hooks. By
this time, I had seen Rocky, so they didn’t scare me at all. My grandfather would walk through the room,
and was allowed to choose which cut he could take home. My uncle would have the beef taken down, cut,
and wrapped while we waited.
On the way
home, we would stop by the bakery and pick up our order. If it wasn’t ready, we would buy a soda and
wait on the bench right outside of the store.
A rare car would drive by, and we would peek into the driver’s seat to
see if it was anyone we knew. Some cars
would stop in the middle road, in downtown Edcouch, roll down the window, and
ask how we were doing. Finally, we would
take our pan dulce and head home. When
we got home, we would sit out on the front porch and eat pan dulce, while my
grandmother would gossip with the neighbor over the fence.
As a sales
person, I can now say that I learned a lot of valuable lessons following my
grandfather around. I learned that a lot
can be said without saying a word, and I learned that a strong personal
relationship can result in you getting the freshest pan dulce and best cuts of
meat in the store. That Post Office is
now an abandoned building, and a new one was built down the street. Nuevo Mundo has been torn down, and I’m not sure
what happened to the bakery. Both of my
grandparents passed away a long time ago.
But, I will never forget those moments I spent in Edcouch, TX around
1978.
