And the last one on that theme is entitled 1910.
When I first started seriously spending time writing,
a lot of my initial writing I felt,
was really done with somebody else, an aunt who
was very dear to me.
And, she was a wonderful storyteller,
a wonderful cuentista.
The kind of storyteller where we would all
say, oh, not that story again.
But they were wonderful stories and they proved a great source
of inspiration for me.
Not only the concrete details, but I
think she as a spirit is probably somebody
I'll write about for the rest of my life.
In Mexico they bowed their heads when she passed.
Timid villagers stepped aside for the judge's mother,
Doña Luz.
Who wore her black shawl, black gloves
whenever she left her home.
At the church, the Mercado, and the Plaza.
In the cool evenings when she strode
barely touching her son's wrist with her fingertips.
Who wore her black shawl, black gloves
in the carriage that took her and her family to Juarez,
border town.
Away from Via laughing at their terror
when he rode through the village shouting spitting dust.
Who wore her black shawl, black gloves when she crossed the Rio
Grande to El Paso.
Her back straight, chin high, never watching her feet.
Who wore her black shawl, black gloves into Upton's
five and dime.
Who walked out, back straight, lips quivering, and slowly
removed her shawl and gloves, placed them on the sidewalk
with the other shawls and shopping bags.
You Mexicans can't hide things from me, often would say.
Thieves.
All thieves.
Let me see those hands.
Who wore her black shawl, black gloves the day
she walked, chin high, never watching her feet,
on the black beams and boards still
smoking that had been Upton's five and dime.
[LAUGHTER]
And she said that was a true story.