Pecans in Her Pockets

By Robert Wayne Gonzales

Ruby J. Gonzales moved forward while she cared for the multiple-colored irises, wide bright sunflower plants, and other colorful bright splashes of nature’s infinite beauty.

“You plant a garden because you believe in the future. You punch a hole in the soft dirt with your finger and drop a seed in it because you believe in tomorrow. You can’t see what’s going on under the dirt, but you water what you can’t see, believing that one day you’ll see the fruit of your work.”

My dear wonderful Mom was a warm and caring woman, a gentle soul with intense faith and overwhelming love—a woman whose integrity was her trademark, whose only habit was to mix love and truth with honesty, and offered her consejos throughout my life that, now as an adult, I refer to often and still hold close to my heart.

I have chosen to honor my Mom and document her teaching in the hope that as they have helped me through difficult times, her wisdom, grace, love, and compassion will be a part of the next generation and they too will witness what faith and trust in God looks like and how important love for family is.

I dedicate this book to the first woman I ever loved, my Mom.

—El Alto Moreno

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662402500

Book preview

I couldn’t sleep.

A deep restlessness brewed. A rumbling compulsion to get on the road and begin my trip east convinced I would have miles stacked behind me long before the sun’s yellow glow crested the eastern horizon.

The creaky stiff bed didn’t help.

It felt as if I were lying on a fifty-pound bag of rock salt strategically placed over an old box spring specifically designed to hinder any aspirations I had of getting a restful night sleep.

I turned and lifted my head off the lumpy pillow to check the glowing fluorescent pearl-blue light of the digital clock on the dresser no more than eight feet away.

Only ten minutes? I heard my thoughts ask, surprised at how slow time had crawled forward since I last checked.

I should just get up, I whispered, convinced the hush darkness around me would passionately agree.

I can’t sleep anyway. I may as well get on the road. I unenthusiastically supposed.

If I leave now and everything goes smooth, I should be in Oak Hill by three o’clock. I pushed the thin sheet to the floor using my bare feet.

Grabbing a thick green bathroom towel, I stumbled down the hallway toward the bathroom, a dim light plugged into the wall socket scrutinizing my bare feet as they dragged across the brown carpet.

I had packed my small suitcase and laid it on the floorboard of the truck the night before. All that was left to carry out in the early morning darkness were two plastic bags of frozen red and green chili and my backpack.

"Take this chili with you, mijo, Mom said, smiling as she held up two grocery-size plastic bags of frozen New Mexico red and green chili. They’re frozen and should stay frozen for most of the way, but if you notice they are beginning to thaw out or if you touch the outside of the bag and it feels like the ice has melted, stop by a 7-Eleven and buy a large cup of ice and pour the ice inside the bags, then tie them back up in a tight knot so they’ll make it the rest of the way.

"I predict that next Saturday morning you’re going to make delicious huevos rancheros and pour either red or green chili on them, and aye, mijo, they’re going to taste so good."

I’ll be thinking of you when I pour the green or the red over my eggs and bacon. Maybe both.

My mouth is watering, Mom added with a wide smile. I wish I could be there when you do.

Me too, Mom. I wish you could.

She shuffled toward me, her obedient aluminum walker helping her safely maneuver past a line of wobbly wooden stools.

I leaned forward.

Mom kissed both cheeks.

"I love you, mijo, and thank you for coming. You better get some rest. You have a long road ahead of you tomorrow. You did a lot of work outside, and I don’t want you to leave here if you’re tired, Mom stated. Mira, mijo. She placed her small hand under my chin, turning my face toward hers. Promise me you’ll stop and get out every couple of hours to walk around. You and your brother are a lot like your daddy. You want to get where you’re going as fast as you can even if it means you get sick trying!"

I promise, Mom. I’ll stop every couple of hours and get out to stretch my legs.

When me and your daddy were younger and we could still travel, I could see that he was getting tired, and would tell him to stop and walk around a little. He would promise telling me, ‘In the next city I’ll pull over and we’ll walk around,’ but he wouldn’t stop unless I got mad.

Okay, Mom, I promise I’ll stop every once in a while especially if I get sleepy or tired.

One time, I remember you kids were still little and we were driving through Texas, and it started raining real hard. I could see your daddy was getting tired, so I told him we needed to stop and rent a room and rest for the night. We stopped in a small town in west Texas, but when your daddy went in to get us a room, the man at the counter told him, ‘We don’t rent rooms to Mexicans,’ and your daddy came back to the car so mad that he decided he was going to drive the rest of the way without stopping.

I remember the story, Mom.

"When we got to where we were going early the next morning, it was still raining, and your daddy’s legs were so stiff he couldn’t get out of the car. Your brother got out in the rain and ran to the front door and got two of your cousins to come out and help get your daddy out of the car. That’s why I say it’s a good idea to stop every two or every three hours and stretch.

Everybody is in such a hurry these days, and sometimes I wish people would just slow down. She released the walker long enough to pat my left cheek with her thin wrinkled hand.

You need to get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for you.

I moved closer and wrapped both arms gently around her thin body then followed with a flurry of kisses on both tender cheeks.

Your kisses are wet. Mom laughed while pushing me away. And you’re taking off my night cream.

Unfazed, I continued my flurry of kisses.

I won’t need to wash my face in the morning, will I? she laughingly suggested.

No, Mom, you sure won’t, I joked, adding another few more for good measure.

Shuffling through the kitchen, down the ramp toward her small bedroom, she paused at the doorway leading into her small room.

"I love you mijo, and thank you for coming. Don’t leave in the morning without waking me up to say goodbye, okay?"

I love you too Mom, and I won’t leave without saying goodbye.

"You better, o ya vez. She pointed her narrow index finger in my direction. I’ll give you a good talking to when I see you again."

I love you, Mom.

I love you too, mijo. Good night.

I placed the two bags of frozen New Mexico red and green chili inside a dull white Styrofoam container resting on back floorboard alongside my small toiletry bag and a bundle of dirty clothes.

A cool firm north breeze quickened my sluggish senses. I started the truck, turned up the heater, flicked on the orange parking lights, and made my way back into the house to say goodbye.

The always familiar and uncomfortable sting I’d come to dread each time I left the home of my youth trickled into my suffering heart. I was grateful for my visit but miserable at having to whisper another heartbreaking goodbye.

One of these days I’m not going to leave, I threatened as I walked up the wooden ramp toward her bedroom, admitting my mind and heart had battled over these same thoughts a million times before with no clear winner.

One day I’m going to stay here as long as I want and forget what the rest of the world demands! I defiantly claimed, my indignant imagination packing all my assumed responsibilities, along with my conscience, and expected roles including common sense into a large plastic bag then uncaringly tossing it over the backyard fence and into the dirt alley, hoping a nameless faceless wanderer might take ownership.

Untying the loose knot, a wandering man in tattered clothing and worn shoes would glance into the bag admitting later to a friend that the contents were far more than he cared to own, hurrying to retie the plastic bag in a triple knot before, like Pandora’s Box, any of its contents escaped.

Who in their right mind would want to live such a messy chaotic life? He would decide instead to live a life of less frenzied existence.

I’m poor, my shoe soles have holes in them, my pockets are always empty, but it’s better than living a life with that much stress and worry.

Time slowed.

My soft steps seemed to take longer than usual to reach Mom’s bedroom door. I wondered if it was the early morning darkness that surrounded me or wrenching pain and sadness molesting my spirit.

It was apparent by my thumping heartbeat I didn’t want to leave…not just yet.

I turned on the dining room light and slowly pushed open the unlocked wooden door leading into Mom’s room.

Mom, I’m leaving now, I softly whispered.

No response.

I pushed the narrow door wider, allowing more of the dining room light to travel into Mom’s small sweetly scented bedroom.

Mom, I’m leaving.

Still no response.

Her small room was sparsely lit by the soft glow of a bathroom night light shoved into an electrical socket a foot above the linoleum floor that produced just enough light for me to notice Mom’s face turned toward the light blue wall, the back of her head peering from beneath a heavy gray-and-black comforter.

I tiptoed closer.

Mom, can you hear me? I’m getting ready to leave.

Still no response, and for a few seconds I wondered what to do next.

Mom, I repeated, stepping closer to her bed. Can you hear me, Mom? I’m leaving. Still no sign of movement under the heavy blanket.

Nothing.

My mind scrambled, wondering what I would do if she passed away on my watch.

Who would I call first? How would I explain? What would I say, or would I be able to say anything between my anguish-filled howling?

I crept closer.

Mom, I muttered, Can you hear me?

After working outside most of the day, Mom pushed open the back door and hollered, "We’re going to La Salsa tonight, and I’m buying, so don’t tell me anything different, me entiendes?"

From under my sunbaked straw hat, sweat stains splattered on both lenses of my sunglasses I looked up from the top of the metal rake and enthusiastically replied, Sounds good.

An hour later we were driving north on Garden Street to Mom’s favorite restaurant.

She fancied their salsa bar along with their fresh tostada chips.

While I stood at the counter placing our order, Mom was busy filling several small one-ounce plastic containers with an assortment of hot sauces.

"Mijo, ask her for an empty plate." she called out.

Placing the empty plate on the wooden table top Mom emptied the contents of several small plastic containers onto the six inch wide plate then stirred the different sauces together using a plastic knife and spoon.

Mom, what are you doing? I wondered.

I like to mix up the different sauces because it gives me something that taste much better than the salsa everybody else is dipping their chips in.

Who knows, Mom, maybe you can share your secret sauce recipe with the owner, who might add it to the salsa bar.

"No, señor! This is my recipe, not theirs, she vigorously protested. If they want it, they can have it, but they’ll have to pay me for it." Mom laughingly proposed as she tipped the corner of a crispy corn chip into her unique one of the kind creation.

"Aye tan sabroso!" She had small broken pieces of chip clinging to the corners of her satisfied smile.

We sat at the table nearest the window waiting for our order, watching mall customers forcefully push open wide glass doors then hurriedly trample in, painful looks in their eyes, dense expressions tattooed across their sunbaked foreheads, faces covered with fuming resentful scars at having to leave whatever they were doing to come to a near desolate mall.

We found it entertaining to stare out the large clean window imagining what passersby might be thinking as they flirted with fate.

Oh, that one is mad because her husband probably sent her to pick something up that she thinks he could have picked up himself, Mom uttered.

He’s probably sitting at home in his recliner right now watching TV, she added, and wondering why it’s taking her so long to get back.

Or maybe she’s wondering how she’s going to explain away the extra cost on the credit card if she decides to buy something for herself instead of picking up what her husband asked for, I announced. What about that one? What do you think his story is?

I’ll take a guess, Mom replied, glancing into the mall foyer. Looks to me like he’s from out of town and thinks the mall has everything he needs or wants, and now he’s thinking he should have brought more money and wait until next week to cut up his credit card.

Hmm, I followed. I think he’s preoccupied with what he wants to buy his wife knowing that no matter what he gets her, she ain’t gonna be happy with it, and maybe now that he’s here, he’s thinking to himself, ‘Screw it, why bother? She doesn’t appreciate anything I do for her anyway!’

We laughed, admitting neither of us knew anything about the gallery of shoppers entering the front doors of the mall yet found delight pretending we did.

"You know what, mijo?"

What?

I just noticed something. Mom declared.

What’s that?

"We’re the ones inside the window, she pointed out. For all we know they might be wondering about us ’cause some are looking at us like we are those monkeys trapped in tall cages at the zoo."

You got a point, Mom. Hurry! Look away or they may think we’re waiting for them to feed us.

Just then the sturdy dark-haired cashier called out our number.

I jumped out of my wooden chair like a jack-in-the-box clown and hurried to the pickup counter, my mouth watering in anticipation.

For the next fourteen minutes, neither of us said a word nor discussed any possible reason shoppers had for hurrying about nor bother to guess what they might be thinking.

All that was heard were the clanging of overflowing spoons or forks or an occasional guttural sound as our taste buds exploded with pleasure.

I pushed my bare plate to the end of the table near a shrine of white crushed table napkins, streaks of red chili sauce, and a splattering of charro beans plastered on every used napkin, a messy testament to my talent at consuming a tasty meal.

Mom, do you want anything else? A tapered toothpick dangled from her lower lip.

I hoped Mom might want an order of sopapillas and a small plastic squeeze bottle of local Pecos Valley honey, but she had her mind tuned in on something entirely different.

"Sabes que, mijo. Si tengo ganas de un Blue Bell."

The narrow near vacant mall had a small corner shop that sold nachos, hot dogs, burgers, fries, and an assortment of delectable flavors of Blue Bell Ice Cream sold in cups or crunchy waffle cones.

That’s a great idea, and lucky for the both of us, we still have room, I broadcasted with a wide smile, patting my already inflated belly. One scoop or two?

"Just one, mijo, pero que sea de chocolate chip."

You got it, Mom, one scoop, chocolate chip.

What about you? she said, pointing her toothpick at my face.

Cookies and cream, I responded with a wide smile. "That’s my favorite. I pointed toward a narrow wooden bench. Sit here, and I’ll bring your chocolate chip cone to you."

"Aqui te espero," Mom answered flashing an anticipating grin.

Four minutes later I returned with two sugar cones, chocolate chip in one and cookies and cream in the other.

Here you go, Mom, I said, reaching out to hand Mom her desired dessert.

"Como me gusta Blue Bell."

I like it too, Mom. Wait here on this bench, and I’ll go get the car.

"Esta bien," she answered, nibbling on the edges of her sugar cone.

I pulled next to the front curb and got out to help Mom into the car before maneuvering leisurely through a near empty parking lot.

Neither of us spoke a word for several long minutes, our dripping ice cream cones standing alone in the limelight.

"It feels like a north wind is blowing in, mijo. I hope it doesn’t bring rain or snow tonight," Mom stated between long expressive licks of her chocolate chip ice cream cone.

It’s not as warm as it was when we went in, but you’re right, it’s gotten a little colder and windier too, I replied, my tongue lapping up melting ice cream from the sides of my sugar cone. Maybe it’s just the ice cream that’s making us feel cold, I suggested.

We traveled south down Main Street with no set goal in mind, no purpose, no appointment to keep or target to strike, enjoying a hushed dedication to our favorite flavored ice cream in the midst of perfect company.

"Mijo, when we get home, remind me to give you a few things that I want you to put in your truck and take back with you."

Like what?

Just some things I want you to take to your brother and some things I want you to have.

An uninvited discomfort declared its nasty presence throughout the tan interior of the white Pontiac. My once delicious ice cream strangely soured.

Mom, I don’t want any of your things, and I don’t need your things. If brother wants something, he can come get them himself! A wrenching feeling coiled itself around my rapidly beating heart.

"Mijo, I need you to take some things to your brother, do you hear me?" Mom insistently repeated.

I hear you just fine, but I’m not taking anything out of your house for my brother or for me or for anyone, I forcefully declared, that I didn’t bring with me!

"Mijo, you listen to me, Mom emphasized. And I need you to pay attention to what I’m telling you."

I turned slowly into the driveway, narrowly missing the black post keeping the iron gate open.

Your daddy and I worked very hard for everything we have. Because God is good and blessed your daddy with strength and a strong will to work, and blessed us both with good jobs, we gathered things, and now I want to give them to our children.

I unfastened my seat belt, stared straight ahead and listened intently, temporarily holding back my tears, refusing to turn my flushed face toward Mom, finding it hard to breathe as my insides fluttered.

If your daddy were alive, he would agree and would tell you the same thing, and you know how your daddy would get if you kids wouldn’t obey him, right?

I continued my forward stare into the cold north wind-driven drizzle, believing that if I ignored the conversation somehow it would evaporate into a tasteless, orderless cloud I could easily release by simply pushing open the driver’s side door.

Somewhere in my past, a place and time I favored to forget, I read that as the final sunset looms on the horizon of life and the once brilliant light that glows from loving eyes dims, there are those who set about the heartbreaking process of giving away their once treasured belongings, like the father who gave his youngest son a rifle his father had given to him.

With a tap on his son’s slender slouching shoulder the devoted father handed the unloaded rifle to his son.

Your grandfather gave this rifle to me when I was about your age, the article noted. Now I want you to have and take good care of it, and promise that one day when you grow up and get to be my age, you’ll pass this old rifle onto your son so that he might pass it on to his son.

The sixteen year old looked into his father’s gray eyes and pronounced, I promise, Dad. Trust me to keep my promise.

He leaned the heavy rifle against the wall and tightly hugged his father’s waist.

"Te amo mucho, Papa."

"Y yo te amo mucho mas, mijo."

I heard a story of an aging mother who gave away her priced possession, a piano she bought immediately after her precious daughter was born. She paid $32.00 cash for it and told her protesting husband, It’s money well spent, honey, and someday that little girl you’re holding in your arms will play and make us both happy and proud.

If you think so, the proud father replied. "Esta bien."

She’ll learn and who knows, maybe one day she’ll be an elementary school teacher and will calm her screaming class by playing the piano and having them sing along, the mother predicted.

Concerned her arthritic fingers ached while she played and on occasion struggled to remember which keys produced the once familiar sounds she loved to hear, she choose to give the heavy brown piano with worn ivory keys to her now grown daughter.

My fingers ache, I don’t remember all the words, my voice has faded, and I get tired easy these days. I want Raquel to have this piano. I want her to make restless children smile and lonely children feel loved as they sing along.

The eloquently dressed mother scribbled her desires on a white paper napkin then flipped the napkin over and continued.

It read, Raquel is the only person I want striking the keys of this old piano, and I don’t want there to be any discussion about it between you three. When I pass away, the piano in the living room belongs to her. Please honor my wish.

She then signed her full name and dated the paper napkin.

Using a red magic marker, she added small hearts to all four corners of the napkin, neatly folded it, and promptly handed it to her eldest son.

This is my wish, she added. Please honor it.

I will, he whispered.

I remember hearing of a man who had a small shed full of tools, a virtual museum of implements he’d gathered over forty years.

When you boys were kids, I would go to garage sales or the flea market and buy tools. I would bring them home, clean them up, and hang them on nails in the shed.

I remember you boys would take my tools and use them, but wouldn’t put them back in the right place, or if you did, they’d be covered in dirt or mud. Sometimes I would even find them laying in the yard or even in the cellar, and would tell you boys that one day they would be yours so you’d better take care of them, he declared. Do you remember?

The two brothers nodded their heads in unison as they remorsefully remembered their childhood irresponsibilities.

Well, the elderly man stated before lifting both wrinkled hands and resting them on the shoulders of his two grown sons. They belong to you boys now. Take what you want and what you think you can use, the man sadly declared. They served me when I was young and strong. He flexed each bicep.

These used to be sixteen inches around, but these days I’m not as young or as strong. His tired arms fell at his sides. And now the tools just hang there, he said, pointing toward the musty shed. It’s a shame. Some haven’t been used in so long they’re covered with rust.

The two brothers turned to see the puzzled look on each other’s faces.

Those tools and everything inside belong to you, Dad, the younger of the two responded, pointing toward the opened shed door. We can’t take your things!

"Mira muchachos, I get tired, my hands hurt, and my back isn’t nearly as strong as it used to be. I can’t see chalk lines. It hurts me to hold a two-pound hammer, and when I do, I usually smash a finger. The truth is, I gathered these tools over time not just to use but to give them to mis hijos, so that one day you could use them around your own homes." He glanced at the tools spread from one side of the wall to the next.

Boys, they belong to you now. His gray tired eyes were now glassy.

I had a good run, but the season has changed. A goodbye look covered his mature face. The coming seasons belong to you boys now.

Dad, there’s nothing in there that I haven’t learned to live without! the shocked youngest son shouted.

Dad, the older son interjected, these are your tools!

Kids, listen to me, the weathered man calmly replied. You’ll honor me if you take what I’m offering you and use them.

Okay, the younger son conceded, I’ll take whatever you want me to have and will take care of them.

"There’s more in the suterano." He pointed toward the backyard fence and the twelve-foot-deep, eighteen-foot-wide underground covered shelter he and his two brothers in law dug by hand.

Someday when I am older and have my own sons, the younger sibling added, I’ll pass them on with a history lesson attached.

I was told of an aunt who loved to paint. She confessed to her nephew that she found painting therapeutic.

When I see beauty around me, she confessed to her wide-eyed teenage nephew, I feel I won’t rest until I put what I see on canvas. I see clouds in the sky and they sing to my heart or the desert that appears dry and quiet but is full of life and enchanting sounds if you’ll slow down, be still, and listen.

Her paintings adorned the walls of her home, and each hallway had a beautifully framed painting hanging by a small nail punched into a brightly painted sheetrock wall.

I see God’s beautiful handiwork all around me, and it would be a shame if I didn’t put it on canvas for others to enjoy.

Her paintings accurately portrayed nature’s beauty she saw simply by looking out her kitchen, bedroom, or living room windows—mountains to the east, high desert to the west, and in between yucca plants that stretched out like monuments of strength and power.

Her paintings included turquoise skies with feathery white clouds that lured the viewer to take in a deep calming breath and feel the warm desert air amorously swirling around their imagination.

After she completed a painting but before she signed her full name on the bottom right corner, she would rest both hands on the top of the picture frame and pray, God in heaven, let this painting be a blessing to someone, a visual reminder of what you created for our viewing pleasure, and thank you for life. Amen.

On a warm Saturday afternoon, while sitting under her covered back porch staring across the vast open desert, she informed her only daughter that at her passing, she wished her nephew to have one of her paintings.

He’s going to argue with you and tell you no, but you tell him that I insisted.

I will, Mama, the daughter respectfully replied. I’ll tell him.

A few months later, she suffered a debilitating stroke,