I have just returned from a weekend in the environs of Premont-La Concepcion-Realitos at a friend's ranch.
Sometimes those of us who live in a water-rich environment like Brownsville with its sinuous resacas, the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico probably can't imagine what it means to live in a place where there is no water other than that drawn by a windmill.
The dirt around the brush swirls into small dirt devils that swirl among the thorny brush of granjeno, ebony, cenizos and drying cactus. The grass – what little there is – is dry and brown. About the only visible life around are the flocks of vultures who seem to thrive pecking away at carrion left from roadkills. Small coyotes, skunks, an occasional snake, and very rarely, even small deer make up the diet of these, nature's recyclers.
To make matters worse, my friend's windmill had come crashing to the ground a few weeks ago and the small tanks that he used to store water and fill two small ponds in the front of the property were bone dry. Even the cactus seemed parched. Even though we never saw them, feral pigs left their calling card in the form of large clear spaces filled with their hoofed tracks and holes under the cactus where they rooted for their meals.Premont is a dying town. As you enter it through US 281, you can't help but notice the closed storefronts along the highway. Even a school is shuttered closed as is Mario's Restaurant belying the sing on its wall that promises it will be "always open." There is an "Oasis" cafe and motel, and to tell you the truth, the only native trees that seem to be green are those that are in the middle of the little town a few blocks west of the highway, an oasis if there is one here.
La Concepcion is more of a place than an actual town. Although there is a gathering of small home and even a trailer park, it is reminiscent of a hard-scrabble Western spaghetti than a Heart of Texas movie set.
Nonetheless, the natives eke out a living and have made a life there. The annual fiesta de rancho at La Chona is – I am told by natives who return to attend it – an authentic celebration of ranchero lifestyle. Conjunto music, the cuisine of the cowboy complete with pan de rancho, mollejas, and other delicious victuals of the local stock fill out the menu.
At nearby Realitos, the local cantina has a jukebox filled with conjunto and country and western standards. Locals dressed in Western-motif standard of boots and checkered shirts wander in and out and visit. They all know each other and can tell you about the local guy who got shot over another man's woman.
However, our sojourn was more of a housekeeping visit. My friend cut some of the uña de gato plants from around the house with a lawn mower and trimmed some of the cactus tat was trying to sneak into the small roads he cleared to get around the property. And the windmill repairman had not finished repairing the broken propellers so the dryness of the drought was made more palpable.
"Snakes like any little weed they can get to get cover," he said. "You could be right up to them and if there is some weed growing, they can hide and bit you as you pass by."
A neighbor who stopped by said he had seen the tracks by the gate of a large indigo snake that had slithered in the dry sand during the night.
"I once saw two of them each about eight feet long," he said. "They both went into a small hole by the pond when it was filled with water. It came right at me and slithered right by my boot. I was frozen to the spot."
After we set the traps using deer corn as bait, we hooked up a CD player and listened to Fruity (Fructoso?) Villarreal sing a homage to past and present conjunto masters. Fruity played in Brownsville during the Conjunto festival. That was enjoyable, but listening to the songs by the crackle
of a mesquite wood fire gave the music a certain quality missing from the environs around Market Square.
of a mesquite wood fire gave the music a certain quality missing from the environs around Market Square. Around the campfire, the talk turned to an update on family, relatives and local tragedies. One of the guests had lost is wife of 30 years less than two months ago and he told of her passing away before his eyes as she drove toward her home with him in the passenger seat. He said the home where both lived after their kids had grown and started their own families was not the same. He said he sometimes feels that she is there when he sleep in their bed.
Sometimes just having someone listen to your pain assuages it. We sat in silence as he recounted something that had to be spoken to make it endurable.
Only the silent flutter of a great horned owl lets you know that there are other creatures nearby in the clear starry, starry night as the dying embers signal the end of the day. Tomorrow, the living will stir again remembering their dead and life in the ranchitos of Central Texas will continue as it has for generations.
Pray for rain and comfort to these paisas. They – and their land – certainly need it.
2 comments:
My mother grew up in the La Chona, Concepción area. She is 84 now. She will be sad to learn of this. Have you ever gone there in the summer? It is unbelievably hot.
My Tío Beto, who along with my father was born and raised in Concepcion, used to tell us, "Don't call it La Chona. Call it Concepcion, con respecto."
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