No Answers, Just Hope
The old man would assign us chores on the farm – fairly large in scale and scope, and then tell us we’d better go downtown and get some help. I was the eldest of the boys so it was my job to make the run.
Thirty minutes to the south across the Broadway Bridge and then west just a few more, the Argentine District (its actual name) is where the Mexicans lived. They huddled in large groups near the corners of the intersections waiting for guys like me. I pulled up just close enough to the crowd and held up three fingers. Without hesitation, the next three in line piled in the back of the truck and away we went. There weren’t any questions about pay or the job; no fear or animosity about who I was or who they were. I had work to do and I had money. That was good enough.
The barbed wire fence that encircled the hay field had seen better days and the decision was made to take it out. The horses and the cattle had been moved to a different property so it really served no need, and likewise, it didn’t do all that good of a job in the first place.
Asking if anyone among the hombres spoke English usually led to everyone shaking their heads no. This was never a problem however, because a quick 15- or 20-minute demonstration was all that was needed. Leather gloves were handed out and the lesson began.
I enjoyed the dramatic “how to and what to do” part of it and throwing in what little Spanish I was capable of. As I grabbed the flimsy wire and shook it wildly, I’d say, “No Bueno,” pointing to the long run headed east and then
making a big circular motion with my finger in the air, meaning the whole field. They all nodded and smiled.
Handing each one a pair of fencing pliers or some other type staple yanker outer, they began. I watched them for a short time until about a hundred feet was lying on the ground and then stopped them. Slowly rolling it up and looking like a large rusty Christmas wreath, I asked, “Bien?”
“Si’, si’,” they replied and continued working. I left them alone as I went back to the house to retrieve the orange Coleman water jug, some ice and the tractor. When I arrived back to where they had started, their progress was impressive and they had things well in hand. “Bien?” I again asked. “No problema,” they replied.
Checking on the old man and my brothers who were in the opposite corner of the field doing the same, they too were making wonderful progress. Without speaking a word, I tilted the bucket on the tractor as the log chain slid out; everyone knew the drill. A quick loop and a hitch at the base of the post and a gentle tug with the hydraulics was all it took.
When I finished all the available posts for the American crew, I'd drive back to the Mexicans. This scenario repeated itself dozens of times, back and forth, each time grabbing a load of posts in the bucket of the tractor and dumping them on the burn pile.
In the distance I could see the black Lincoln Continental headed our way, my heavy footed mother bringing us lunch. I rounded up the Latin fellows and said, “Siesta, alimento, bolonia, vamos, uno hora.” Translation (at least in my head) – Rest, food, bologna, quick, one hour.”
“Ah, muy bueno,” one of them said as they sat on the edge of the bucket. A large maple tree near the now unneeded horse stable offered cool shade in the soft brome. We ate and rested in the grass, together as if we were all family.
The work continued throughout the day until complete. It was time to take them home.
Back south across the river, down Southwest Boulevard to the intersection and the crowd, they hopped out of the bed of the truck. I stepped out with them and handed each a fifty. "Bueno?" I asked.
“Ah, muy bien, gracias,” they all said as I turned to leave. “Senor?” one of them asked as I turned back toward them. “Cerveza?” “Si’, muy bien, gracias,” as I accepted the cold beverage. Brothers.
