A Small Town Formerly Known as Carnestolendas

By Eddie Gonzalez

Eric recounts growing up in the decade which started with Watergate and ended in malaise. His childhood, defined by family, introduces us to the matriarch Ma Julissa, a strong Christian woman who sought to instill a moral compass, Ma Milli, Ma Julissa’s daughter, Eric’s grandmother, Pa Lazzo, grandfather, an enigmatic man who personified Satan and God, Ma, eternally on the brink of a nervous breakdown, Pa, the hard luck, hard scrabble man of modest means, brothers Justin and Danny, sister Sarah, and cousins. A family emergency, a family reunion with racial overtones, a death in the family, and an ill-conceived pilgrimage to a “Curandero”, are among the events that influence Eric’s young life. After puberty sets in, life becomes much more complicated. He finds himself enamored by the charms of a sexy teacher, only to have his female classmates declare all out war on the rookie educator. Bullying, sexual harassment, attempted sexual assault, and forlorn yearnings, define his freshman year of high school as he tries to win over a girl who already has a boyfriend, has to deal with demanding teachers, band directors, and boorish classmates, and feels strained by the demands of society as he balances his friendships with gay and straight teens. Facing acts of hazing and yearning for the charms of Sofie, Eric does his best to have a good time while doing his part to get the Rio Rattler Band the success and recognition sought by the band director and pass all his classes. With the school year and decade drawing to a close, Eric's troubles parallel those of Sofie, as each one faces their own struggles with the trauma of sexual assault while hiding it from friends, parents, and each other. Survival is at risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eddie Gonzalez
• Release date: Dec 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311848284

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A Small Town Formerly Known As

Carnestolendas

Published by Eduardo Gonzalez @ Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Eduardo Gonzalez

Smashwords Edition license notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for every recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of contents

Prologue

Chapter1) The Prez and the Pachanga

Chapter2) Pain in the butt

Chapter3) Dragging Natasha

Chapter4) Ma Julissa

Chapter5) Pa Lazzo

Chapter6) White Lady

Chapter7) Spy Thy Neighbor

Chapter8) O'er the Fields

Chapter9) Drive-inn Driven

Chapter10) Bigotry

Chapter11) McAlleneando

Chapter12) El Monje Loco

Chapter13) The Injun of Tamanzuchale

Chapter14) Winds of Change

Chapter15) On Puberty and Sexual Humiliation

Chapter16) Sumer of Lizard

Chapter17) A New Page

Chapter18) The Salad Menace

Chapter19) Band Life

Chapter20) Jock for a Day

Chapter21) Shotgun

Chapter22) Football Friday

Chapter23) The Austin Debacle

Chapter24) Madness

Chapter25) Holiday Respite

Chapter26) Dancing with the Devil

Chapter27) Maelstrom

Chapter28) Violation

Chapter29) State of Denial

Chapter30) St Louis or Bust

Chapter31) Sophie

Chapter32) Malaise

Prologue

I was born in the waning days of Virgo of that tragic year, 1963. My place of birth, a small corner of America by the Rio Grande River named Rio Grande City. My name is Eric Gonzalez, third generation U. S. citizen. Mine, is the story of an ordinary boy growing up in a South Texas town during the decade that started with Watergate and ended in malaise.

The U. S. in general and Rio in particular, was a very different place in the seventies. Political correctness, the internet, video games, etc. were non-existent. In short, it was a distinct, strange world from what you’d recognize as America today. The town itself, had its idiosyncrasies which made it a unique, yet, sometimes harrowing experience to have grown up in that place and time.

Tall tales and folklore are among the many quirks the town and its denizens held. Urban legends have a big part of Hispanic culture and this town not only observed the commonly known folklore like La Llorona, it invented its own folktales, like when rumors spread that the local mortician was a necrophilia practicing vampire, or when people started spreading rumors about the County Judge being a brothel patronizing pedophile. Yep, local lore and rumors were great tools townsfolk used for character assassination, or just a way to get back at the local power elite, by demonizing them as inhuman beasts.

For us kids, dreaming of greener pastures is what kept us sane, despite all the malarkey going on around us. In our youth, my brothers, cousins, friends, and myself, thought of leaving town as soon as we graduated from High School and never going back. A new life in some far-away place, any place, was the goal of every young person, come adulthood. Yet, one never fully leaves their hometown behind, no matter how hard one tries. Although the ties that bind; family, friends, acquaintances, slowly fade away with the passage of time as some pass away and others move and lose contact, bitter sweet reminiscence lives on in the heart and soul of this native son.

The book opens with dirty politics, both on a local and national level. Then it quickly moves on to familial events including a re-union with a long lost uncle and his family that turns into interfamily racial tension, working the local agriculture fields, going out on a family movie night, only to find that the second feature of the night was pornographic, and of course, no Hispanic story is complete without a visit to a curandero. Ma was desperate, she needed help so she made a pilgrimage to a famed curandero in San Luis Potosi State with disastrous results and perhaps, a moral lesson.

Chapter fifteen marks the onset of adolescence and the second half of the book. Teen angst is the main theme as I embark on a journey of self-discovery in a world which includes bullying, sexual harassment, and the constant threat of sexual assault in the form of hazing. Lovelorn, seeking romance, and balancing that with school studies and band practice/competition, brought on many ecstasies and agonies on this High School freshman. As the decade nears its conclusion, it all comes to a head as tragedy strikes and sends me into a spiral of emotional turmoil.

To give the reader perspective about the town, a brief history of Rio is in order. Founded by Henry Clay Davis in 1848 on land owned by his wife Hilaria De La Garza Falcon's family, it sprung into existence as a transfer point for supplies and soldiers for the U. S. invasion of Mexico. The land the town was founded on was the southern tip of the Falcon family ranch known as the Carnestolendas ranch. For this reason, many people often referred to the town itself as Carnestolendas, even though that name was never formally bestowed upon it, -Carnestolendas, by the way, is Spanish for a public gala or festival- Eventually, the U. S. government would build an army fort, Fort Ringgold, which hosted a series of prominent American military leaders like Zachary Taylor and Robert E. Lee. It has a long rich history, but I don't have type space here to discuss at length, nor do I claim to be an expert historian, so here is a brief overview.

Mr. Davis founded the town on the outskirts of Fort Ringgold, and it was originally known as Davis Landing because it was the farthest point upstream paddle boats could navigate the Rio Grande before the construction of Falcon Dam in the 1950's. In my childhood, Ma and Grandma would tell me stories of the tense relationship between the troops stationed at the fort, Mexican bandits and revolutionaries, and the Hispanic townspeople. It was a triad or mutual distrust and bigotry that often erupted into tense moments between the townsfolk and the fort denizens. The town folks and the troops, however, would unite in an uneasy alliance whenever rumors spread that their common enemy, Mexican bandits, were in the area. Such was the Rio in which my grandmother grew up in, circa 1910. In 1944, the U. S. Army permanently disposed of the fort as it no longer served a purpose. Mexican political upheavals subsided, and banditry waned as well, and in 1949, the Rio Grande City Consolidated Independent School District purchased the fort from the Federal Government.

I spent a good part of my growing up years within the confines of this fort, attending public school from the first grade through high school. We are all products of our environment, our family, friends, the town we grow up in, and its denizens. The Rio I grew up in, the Rio of the 1970's, was no longer a tense frontier town, but did have its quirks. It was the kind of town that both nurtured and tortured its inhabitants, and, especially its youths.

Now, every story has to have a beginning, and although I was born in the early part of the 1960's, my earliest recollections are of the decade that followed. In short, this story begins with the onset of autumn, in the school year which had me in my third grade class.

Chapter 1 The Prez and the Pachanga

It was the 22nd of September in 1972. Shortly after the late bell rang for the commencement of afternoon classes, our teacher Mr. McCaffigan, announced that there'd be a special assembly. The Principal called special assemblies on a regular basis, but this one took us all by surprise. We had already started classroom study, and were expecting a pop quiz, when the sudden change of activity was proclaimed. We weren't sure what to expect, but were eager to escape the doldrums of our regular class.

Hey, what’s going on? I asked Raul, who sat in front of me.

Don’t know, maybe somebody important died.

That'd be sad, but hey, anything to get out of class, don’t you think?

At this point Elizabeth, a pretentious little girl who sat in front of Raul, joined in the conversation, You guys always looking to get out of class.

I'm tired of class and bored half asleep half the time, nice to get out of here for a while, right vato, I motioned to Raul.

Yeah, why you always come down on us for wanting time off? Raul asked Elizabeth.

Well we don’t even know what’s going on, and you boys want somebody to croak just to get out of class, Elizabeth scolded.

O K class, I want you guys to go outside row by row, stand in formation out there in front, and wait for further instruction, Mr. McCaffigan barked.

We vacated the class room and made formation in the courtyard. Ringgold Primary was a small school. It consisted of two buildings at the Southwest end of Ft Ringgold. Each building contained four classrooms, two each for first, second, third, and fourth grades. The two edifices were separated by a third building between them which served as a warehouse. The building closest to the fence line held the first and second grades, the innermost held the third and fourth grades.

We assembled outside and started to shiver, there was a chill in the air. The four classrooms combined to form two columns, one was the third graders, and the other the fourth graders. We stood there expecting to be lectured by the principal over some misdeed, most special assemblies were scolding sessions. Instead, we were led off to some other venue.

Hey you all, follow us, McCaffican hollered.

He and the other teachers lead us on a march. As we cleared the warehouse, we were joined by two other columns, they were the first and second graders. This was clearly going to be more than the typical assembly. While on this secretive march, whispered speculation moved up and down the hushed columns.

Where are they leading us, maybe somebody did die, I speculated.

Maybe we’re the ones going to the slaughter, Raul laughed.

Becky, a girl marching within earshot of us interjected, I think that it’s an award ceremony for some hero.

Some of you guys must've done some pendejada, stupidity, and now have us all in a boatload of trouble, Elizabeth murmured, she was a sanctimonious little scamp. A Catholic, she looked down on me for not knowing the Our Father or Hail Mary prayers, nor participating in any parochial indoctrination.

Within a couple of minutes, we came up on a dilapidated old structure. Chipped paint, rotted boards, broken windows, and waist high grass all around, the building looked like it was going to collapse with the slightest breeze. It was Lee’s house, the living quarters for Colonel Robert E. Lee when he spent a tour of duty on the border, pre-Civil War.

Next we came upon a large field surrounded by buildings. This field was formerly used by marching soldiers and now by the High School marching band. The field was about four hundred yards long north to south and about two hundred yards wide. On the western edge was a row of houses. Back in the old days these were the officer’s quarters. In ’72 they housed miscellaneous offices, specialty classrooms and living quarters for the Superintendent of Schools. In the north end were some additional houses. I’m not sure exactly what it is that they all housed but I do know that one of them was a sort of on campus clinic where I'd had the unpleasant experience of being herded to, for battery of vaccinations.

We hiked along the south end of the field which was bordered by more modern buildings, the band hall, the central cafeteria, and some administrative offices for the High School principal. After we got past the field, we arrived at the buildings rimming the east side. These two story structures were once the barracks for the soldiers. In’72 they housed grade levels fifth, on the northern edge, through the twelfth on the opposite end. Clearing this set of structures brought us upon the burned out remains of what had been the campus’ auditorium. It caught fire the previous year and was reduced to skeletal remains.

Beyond this point, we crossed a street and finally arrived at our destination, the Multi-Purpose Center. It housed school administration offices and also contained a hall for assemblies, albeit, much smaller than the burned out auditorium. Once there, we were assembled outside the M-P-C. The march tired us out and if that were not enough, we were made to stand out there, in the chilly breeze, for some reason we were yet to be let in on. There was a long walkway leading from the street to the main entrance, lined with barrels and yellow tape, we were made to stand on both sides of this makeshift corridor. There, we were joined by bus loads of kids from the other elementary schools from around town. The hall at the M-P-C could not hold everybody, so the privilege of actually sitting inside, was given to the High School students. Meanwhile, we stood outside, braving the chilly northern breeze, wondering what was up.

I hope this is over soon, I’m cold, I shivered and surveyed those around me.

Everybody is out here, this must be some really of big event, Elizabeth surmised.

I’m bored and cold, we’d be better off staying in the classroom and doing math, Raul complained.

What do they want with us anyway? Juan, another boy in line with us wondered.

At that moment, Mr McCaffigan, Mrs Garza, and the other teachers excitedly walked up and down the cordoned off walkway yelling, they’re coming, they’re coming! I had no idea who was coming, but my gaze was set to the north, where the teachers pointed. I saw nothing at first. Then they started to appear.

One black dot appeared first, then a second, soon a third dot, and finally the fourth dot, appeared in the northern sky, like a swarm of locusts blown in by the northern. They grew bigger by the minute, until it was clear as to what they really were. They were Huey helicopters, bombarding my eardrums with a rhythmic whomp, whomp, whomp, for a few minutes, before landing in the baseball field which was adjacent to the M-P-C. Now it became apparent, we were in for a special visit by a very distinguished guest. The passengers disembarked and made their way through the walkway. It was the President of the United States, some members of his White House staff, and the national press. The students started crowding inwards to get a glimpse of the head of state.

Stop pushing me! Raul complained.

Nobody’s pushing you, spaghetti legs, Elizabeth retorted.

I don’t see anything, where is he? I was too short to see.

I can’t even breathe, people back off! Raul gasped.

Ouch, somebody jabbed me with their elbow, I want to see the President, I shrilled.

The closest I got to see the Prez was espying a set of head tops that floated in front of me. The crowd was so dense, I could not tell who was who. Within seconds, the V I P s were inside the hall, while we shivered outside. A loudspeaker was set up for those of us left out in the cold, but had so much white noise and feedback, that I could hardly make out a word. These are some exerts from that speech.

" - I want to tell you what a very great privilege it is for me to keep that promise that I made in the Rose Garden just a little over a year ago….I was glad that on that beautiful spring day in April, I could come out and meet this group (of students)…

Now the visit of this school--or at least the representatives of this school--to Washington told me something else about America, something I have known all my life from the time I grew up in southern California, where we have a great many students and young people, Americans of Mexican background and other backgrounds as well, something about the strength of this country.

I knew from what I had heard about this group--they always give me a little sheet, the background of the group--that probably a majority of those who attend this school are proud of the fact that they are Americans of Mexican background.

When I met this group in the Rose Garden, I thought of all the groups that make up America. I thought of all the countries I have visited, and it is a very great privilege to have visited them all. My wife and I together have been to over 80 countries in this world--North America, South America, Africa, Asia, the first time to visit the People's Republic of China, Peking, and then, of course, to Moscow, as you know.

We met many wonderful people. We have been impressed by the countries that we have seen. But you know, when you come home to America, what you realize [is] that America is a very unique country, America is all the world in one nation.

these young people had made their way to Washington by doing a lot of things—they had washed cars, they had done babysitting, they had done all sorts of chores. As a matter of fact they got into some businesses. They, I remember, made some tamales and sold them at 50 cents apiece from door to door…

"…wasn’t it really a shame to think of many of those young people…some from poor families, that they had to come that way...Not at all…not at all for a reason. Not because we don’t want to help anybody who can’t help himself, but because the great American tradition is…that we help ourselves when we can. And we only ask somebody else to help us when we can’t help ourselves. That is what made this country great.

President Richard M. Nixon

Deep South Texas is heavily Democratic. In fact, Starr County usually votes for the Democrats at a rate of eighty to ninety percent. It may seem odd that the town was going gaga for this Republican President, but the pragmatic truth is that there was little chance of electoral victory at the top of the ticket. The President was heavily favored to be re-elected, come November. Besides, it is a rare treat to have a sitting President come around and visit our little town, and at this point in time, nobody around these parts was giving much thought to the break-in at the Washington D.C. condo and office complex by the Potomac. We were a world away from Washington politics, and the President was having a good day.

Let me tell you a little bit about South Texas politics. Here in Starr county, politicking takes place not so much in the fall, as it does in the spring. Whoever gets the Democratic nomination for local office, is effectively elected, since opposition in November is non existent. Therefore, the local political big wigs were not at all threatened by the Republican President's presence.

Now, when it came to running for office on the local level, politics took on a more personal approach than running for national office. You had your standard placards, bumper stickers, signs in people’s yards, and maybe even some ads in the local paper, but the mainstay of getting the vote out around here was the pachanga. A pachanga is a political rally, South Texas style. To have a successful pachanga, there needs to be three main ingredients.

1.) Live music, usually a local Tejano band. 2.) Food, this could be in the form of grilled meats such as beef fajitas, chicken and sausage. It could also be in the form of a guisado, which is a sort of a stew. 3. ) Beer, any brand, canned, bottled, or in a keg, just have plenty of it.

These pachangas were usually held on a weekend afternoon. They were pre announced by way of placards and word of mouth. However, to make sure that everybody who wanted to attend got the news, the pachanga was preceded on the day of the event by a boisterous parade. Supporters of the candidate, or slate of candidates, jumped into their cars and cruised around every neighborhood that made up the precinct. With headlights on and car horns honking, they'd drive up and down the highway, caliche and dirt roads, and pot hole filled colonia streets and alleys. Many residents would jump into their cars and join them, others would flip them off. But the caravan grew in numbers and noise with every mile as it snaked its way around the neighborhood. Finally, when satisfied that every voter had been aroused to the prospect of free food and drink, the lead car, like a four wheeled pied piper, would make its way to the pachanga site with a herd of voters in tow.

It was about noon time on a Saturday in mid March, I was loafing around the house when my cousin came by to alert me that a pachanga was fixing to take place at the local precinct workshop grounds.

Hey vato watcha doing? Cousin Nando peered through the screened window.

Watching stuff on TV, what you want? I replied.

Where’s Danny? He gazed around the room for any sign of my brother.

In the bathroom, was my terse reply.

Que ase, doing what?

Cagando, taking a shit, I suppose.

Too much information.

You asked, pendejo, dumb ass, I was irked by my nosy cousin, don't you have anybody else to, bother?

Rene and me, we’re going to the pachanga at tio Juan’s (uncle John's) place, there’s nuthin’ else to do, come with us. Cousin Nando extended an invitation.

Juan Berlanga was the public works supervisor for precinct 12. His boss was the Commissioner for precinct 12, Chema Chavez. Juan was not particularly qualified to run the shop, but he was a talented brown noser, which is how people get ahead around these parts. He was nobody’s damn uncle either. For some reason that was foreign to me, the moniker, tio Juan, clung to him.

Van vatos o no, you dudes going or not? Rene, a neighbor boy who lived a few houses down from tio Juan's had snuck up and was pressing his face onto the window screen.

Hold on, Danny’s in the crapper, I said, I swung a fly swatter I picked up off the sofa and slapped Rene squarely in the face.

Ay pendejo! he stumbled backward.

Heh, heh, heh… I enjoyed doing that.

"He’s taking long, is he constipated? Nando was getting antsy.

You wanna go check on him, maybe wipe his ass, I offered.

I can wipe my own cola, tail. Danny had walked into the room and interrupted our guttural discourse, que pasa, what's up, he asked.

We’re going to the pachanga, Rene responded, with his face momentarily pressed against the screen then quickly stepped back lest he be swatted again.

Vamos, let’s go, Ma, can we go to tio Juan’s for that pachanga that he’s thowing? Danny hollered loud enough for Ma to hear him from the kitchen.

Bueno pero quidense, okay but take care.

Pa worked at the precinct 12 workshop. It, like most of the county, would run out of funds around early September and workers would be laid off until the first of October. That was the start of the new fiscal year, and a new budget. Pa, usually the first to be laid off, subsidized his salary by doing auto mechanic work in a back yard shop at home. For the precinct, he was a heavy machinery operator, equipment maintenance man, and general laborer. Tio Juan would tell Pa that he could be fairing better maybe even get promoted if he would only be more sociable and kiss up to Chema Chavez during the political season. To which Pa responded that he had never kissed any s.o.b.’s ass and was not about to start now. Pa never participated in local politics, nor did he ever get any kind of promotion from Tio Juan.

So, to get to tio Juan’s would require a quick quarter mile trip westward on highway 83 which ran in front of our house. Then a right turn on a caliche road which crossed over the railroad tracks, ran next to a hill, and curved around its base. At the end of the curve sat tio Juan's house. Next to the house was the precinct workshop and yard. On the other side of the house, in the middle of the curve was a large vacant lot. It didn’t belong to tio Juan but to a close associate. That is where the pachanga was to be held.

You took that route if you were going by car. We kids, we were going on foot. So the route we took was quite different. Out the back door and through the back yard then over the fence we went. Next it was up the rail road track embankment then down on the opposite side. On the other side was a fence that marked the border of a cattle ranch. We jumped that fence and went into the ranch, about seventy yards deep, until we ran into a seldom used dirt road. We walked that road westward till it took a sharp right. After another fifty yards we left the road towards the west for a few more yards then came upon another fence. We jumped that fence and were in the vacant lot where the pachanga was being readied.

We're early vatos, Danny was disappointed for the lack of action going on.

Let’s hang out till it gets going, Rene suggested.

Maybe we could grab a soda, I started scrounging around for a soft drink.

A pick up truck had just pulled up and unloaded several large coolers containing soda and beer. It was barely one o’clock and the preparations were still on their way, a crowd slowly started to grow. There was a flatbed trailer towards the fence line. It was to serve as the platform for music and caliche politics. Caliche is a limestone like substance that is quarried locally and used as a cheep paving material. It is not nearly as good as blacktop, but it does keep vehicles from getting stuck in the mud. And around Primary time it became a hot commodity as the precinct workers scrambled to distribute the stuff around the back roads in an effort to win votes for Chema Chavez. Ramiro, one of the workers at the precinct, was busy unloading the large coolers along with other supplies.

Hey, Ramiro can we help with something? Rene offered.

No estorben esquinkles, get out of the way brats, Ramiro snorted.

We just want to help, I said.

You’re not much help, fuck off.

Hey guys, don’t mind that culo, asshole, check out these cool instrumentos, Nando said.

The band had set up their instruments and were busy doing a sound check. A cable running from the shop through tio Juan’s backyard into the vacant lot and to the flatbed trailer, provided the juice for the amps. The band, Los Gatos Negros, The Black Cats, were a local Tejano group. They were regularly booked for bodas, weddings, quincenieras, debutant balls which Mexicans celebrate at girls’ fifteenth birthdays, and other functions like this pachanga. Anyway, these cats played Tejano, Norteno, Northern Mexico music, and U.S. pop songs, some in English some in Spanish but mostly in Spanglish.

You guys really cool. I said to the band members.

For real, you guys rockean, Danny gushed.

Hacemos, we do what we can, a band member responded.

You'll hit it big, algun dia, some day, Nando praised.

Thanks, God willing, maybe pronto, soon.

Vatos look, I can almost taste the guisado already!! Rene had wondered off towards the southern end of the lot where the guisado, stew was being prepared.

There, a man named Luis was busy cutting beef into cubes. A local rancher who was one of Chema’s political patrons donated a calf which had been slaughtered and butchered that morning. Luis cut up the meat while another man cut up the vegetables. It was all going to be stewed in this huge black steel cauldron. It was situated on a steel rack no more than twelve inches off the ground. Hot coals under and around its perimeter provided the heat. A few yards off to one side, a small bonfire of mesquite logs, supplied fresh, red hot coals, to keep the heat going.

Sometime in the middle of his chore, this Luis guy felt the calling of mother nature. Being that the only bathrooms available were at the shop two lots away and with little time to waste, he walked off a few feet back from his cooking station and with his back towards the rest of us, unzipped his pants and relieved himself. After a few seconds of gilded precipitation, he rinsed out his hands with beer poured out of the can he had been drinking from, and was ready to finish the cooking task at hand. One of Luis’ buddies melted a couple of one pound cubes of Rogelein’s brand lard in the vat. Once the lard was melted, the meat went in. It was to be stir fried, until thoroughly browned. Spices included salt, pepper, minced garlic, and crushed cumin. Next into the pot were the veggies, which included bell peppers, onions and tomatoes, a fruit. After a few minutes of frying, some water with Argo corn starch was added, to simmer and create gravy. As a final touch, three men surrounded the cauldron and poured beer into the mixture, with a can in each hand, for a total of six cans of beer.

Checking one, two, the singer checked the sound system.

It’s about to start, I said.

Great, it's about tiempo, Danny complained.

Checking one, two…

Chale, good grief, what's the holdup, I wish they'd get going, Nando expressed his exasperation.

Checking one, two, three.

Orale, come on, hit a note, I exclaimed.

By that time, a sizable crowd had begun to gather. In the distance, could be heard a concert of klaxons, that grew louder by the second. Soon, the parading mob of beeping cars, rounded the curve. Kicking up dust in the air, the people were hooting and hollering in their cars, and were joined in kind, by those already assembled, at the site. The dust had not yet settled down when the band struck its first notes, and broke into their first number.

They opened with a corrido. A corrido is sort of a folk ballad, that usually featured a fatally flawed hero. The corrrido, is the story, of his/her trials and tribulations, usually ending on a sad/tragic note. The best examples of this in American music would be Tom Dooley by the Kingston Trio or The night they burned old Dixie down by Joan Baez.

In addition to the guisado cauldron, pots of rice and charro beans, were brought in from somebody’s kitchen, and were at the ready for the feast. Also, corn tortillas and white bread, were available to satisfy the Mexican-American pallet. Most people started forming a line at the food station ,while some broke into dancing in front of the band. The festivities were barely getting started but Ramiro had already had a few, beers too many.

Aye mamasita, que chula te ves, looking good sweet hunnie. He was addressing Viviana, a neighborhood hottie. She tried to ignore him as she walked past, but was forced to slap Ramiro, when he ventured to play grab ass.

Aye, ouch, you look cuter when angry, Ramiro flirted.

Look puto, man whore, I have a novio, boyfriend, Viviana snarled as she flipped him off and walked away in her tight jeans.

Other than the little exchange between Ramiro and Viviana, the festivities went on without a glitch. There were no chairs or tables available, so people tailgated as they gobbled up plates of guisado. All the while, the band played and as the people sated their hunger, more and more broke into dancing and singing. Beer flowed freely, and spirits were high, when suddenly, the revelry was interrupted.

"Atencion amigos, attention friends. I’d like to thank my tocayo, namesake, Juan for donating the fine meat you folks are enjoying.

Es un placer, it is a pleasure to help out, rancher Juan offered, talking into the