SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS BY Helen Miller Bailey SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS BY Helen Miller Bailey SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS BY Helen Miller ]Bailey UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA PRESS GAINESVILLE 1958 UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA PRESS GAINESVILLE 1958 UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA PRESS GAINESVILLE 1958  A UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA PRESS ROOK A UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA PRESS ROOK A UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA PRESS ROOK V t V COPYRIGHT, 1958, UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 58-11099 ROSE PRINTING CO., INC. TALLAHASSEE, FLORIDA Libray of Cogrs Catalgue CardNumber 5S-110SS COPYRIGHT, 1958, UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 58-11099 ROSE PRINTING CO., INC. TALLAHASSEE, FLORIDA  Contents LIST OF ILLESTRSATIONS, Ci THE PEOPLE OF SANTA CRUz ETLA, vii - THRouGH THE DECADES, iX PART ONE Santa Cruz Etla IS a Town 1. DON AMADo, 2 - 2. DON MARTiN, 23 3. DON Junio, 36 - 4. DON BADTOLo, 44 5. DON MLRIANO, 58 - 6. DON FELuz, 73 PART TWO Women, Also, Make a Town 1. DoNs. ESTTFANA, 88 - 2. DONA PATDociNA, 97 3. LA ADEELiTA, 113 4. LAS OmRAS, 128 PART THREE Rositdso Children 1. RosrrAs, 136 - 2. SCOOLs DAYS IN 1934,144 3. AEGESTINA, 148 - 4. COESEENCIO, 138 5. A DECADE IN BETWEEN, 164 -6. ToE PRODLEMS Or 1944, 168 7. DOHA. OFELIA AND DORA ESTER, 179 9. DON ALFREDO, 187 - 9. Los ANALFADETOS, 182 PART FOUR Send On Another Benito Judrez 1. DON AMADO'S DREAM, 210 - 2. CHIOo AND ESPERANZA, 212 2. TOE OTHSERS FROM ENDED THE COLEMAN LIGHT, 230 4. DON PABLO EL EDACEDO, 235 5. TOE RAMIREZ BROTHSEDS AND DON CEFERINo, 245 - 6. Nico, 248 7. TOSE OTHIERS WOO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934, 258 8. THE CILDREN OP THE RATS OF DORA OFELIA, 267 9. DON AMADo'S OWN SONS, 271 - 10. MARGARITA, 279 11. SANTA CRUX EmL ITSELF, 290 Contents LIST OF nLESTRATIONS, Di THE PEOPLE OF SANTA CRESS EmL, vii - THBOG THoE DECADES, iX PART ONE Santa Cruz Etla IS a Town 1. DON AMADo, 2 - 2. DON MADRTIN,23 3. DON JELIo, 36 - 4. DON RARTOLO, 44 5. DON MADCIANo, 58 - 9. DON Ftuaz, 73 PART TWO Women, Also, Make a Town 1. DoA EST~IFANA, 88 - 2. DoNA PATROCINA, 97 3. LA AREELITA, 113 -4. LAS Dm1A,128 PART THREE Rooita'o Children 1. RosrrA, 136 - 2. SCOOL RATS IN 1934,144 3. AEGESTiNA, 149 - 4. COEsEENESo, 138 5. A DECADE IN BETWEEN, 164-96. TOE FROBLEMS OP 1944, 168 7. DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER, 179 8. DON ALFREDO, 187 - 9. LOS ANALFARETOS, 192 PART FOUR Send On Another Benito Judrez 1. DON AMADo'S DREAM, 210 - 2. CiCO AND EsFRDANZA, 212 3. TnOSE OTHERS FROM ENDED TOE COLEMAN LIGHT, 230 4. DON FARGO EL RAEO, 235 5. TOE RAMisRZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO, 245 - 6. Nico, 248 7. THOSE OTHERS WOO WEE CHILDEN IN 1934, 258 8. TOE CHILEREN OF TOE RATS OF DORA OFELIA, 267 9. DON AMADo'S OWN SONS, 271 - 10. MARGARITA, 279 11. SANTA CREW EmL ITSELF, 290 Contents LIST OF ILLESTRATIONS, Di THE PEOPLE OF SANTA CRUX EmL, vii - THOUGHo TOG DECADES, iX PART ONE Santa Cruz Etlo IS a Town 1. DON AMADo, 2 - 2. Doe MARTIN, 23 3. DON JULno, 36 - 4. DON BRDOLo, 44 5. DONo MADELS IO, 58 - 9. DON FPtuz, 73 PART TWO Women, Also, Make a Town 1. DORA EST6FANA, 88 - 2. DORA PATROESNA, 97 3. LA ADEELiTA, 113 -4. LAS OmRS, 128 PART THREE Rositads Children 1. RosrrAs, 18 - 2. SCHOOL RATS IN 1934,144 3. AEGESTiNA, 149 - 4. COEsEENESo, 138 5. A DECADE IN DETWTEEN, 164 -6. THE FRODLEMS OF 1944, 168 7. DOEA OFELIA AND DOHA ESTER, 179 8. DOe ALFrREDO, 187 - 9. LOS ANALEABETOS, 182 PART POUR Send On Another Benito Judrez 1. DOe AMADO'S DEAM, 210 - 2. CHIOo AND ESPERANZA, 212 3. THOSE OTHERS FROM ENDED TOE COLEMAN LIGHST, 230 4. DOe PARLO EL RACERO, 235 5. THE RAMiREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINo, 245 - 6. NICo, 248 7. THOSE OTHERS WOO WEE CHILDEN IN 8934, 238 8. THRECILDREN OF TOE RATS OF DONA OFELIA, 267 9. DOe AMADo's OWN SONS, 271 - 10. MARGARITA, 279 11. SANTA CRUX EmL ITSELF, 290  Illustrations MA F AT CU ETLA (edap ) (facpges38 ad 19) (facpges 54ad 557) (face pags12and 108) Illustrations MAFSANTA CU EL (edppers) (facpges 8 ad 167) (fepges 5~4 d65) Illustrations MAFSANTA CU ETL (edpapers) DON AMD OARFN O M~' RV DON-T 1934-MGULT N CAEL DNFLZ- UIIA COM1IT7) (face pae 8 n 9 DON ~ g 246IAN -,. 247)TLO-DNJLI N SFMLE -EURD TH 262)BIDIG H E CAE HEPBI OKSCXIIE  The People of Santa Cruz Etla The People of Santa Cruz Etla The People of Santa Cruz Etla THE FAMILIES THE FAMILIES THE FAMILIES Don AMADO, the sage of Santa Cruz Etla, three times its president; DORA RUFINA, his wife; CASSIANO, MARTINIANO, and MARGA- Rrro, his sons. DORA EsT&FANA, leader of the women, Amado's cousin, hostess to the author, 1944; DORA SOFIA, her daughter; JOEL, Sofia's son by her frst husband; DON PABLO ol Beacero, Sofia's second hus- band; INocENcIo and LEOPOLDO, their sons; DON IGNACIO, Estefana's son; AURELto, his son. DON MARTIN, the baker, three times municipal president; DORA PASTORCITA, his wife; MIGUELTo, their son; CHABELLA, his wife; MARGARITA, ARTEmio, ADELA, LUPITA, GRACIELA, JESS, and GUILLERMO, their children; DONA ENRiQuETA, Don Martin's sister-in-law; DON PEDRO, her husband; ORoN, their son; DORA MARGARITA, Pedro's mother; DORA ROsAmo, Chabella's mother; ADELITA, Rosario's other daughter. DoRA PATROCINA, the cure woman, hostess to the author, 1945; LA ABUELITA, her mother; DON FAusTO, Patrocina's brother; DORA BUENAVENTURA, his second wife; CHICO, Patrocina's older son; ESPERANZA, his wife; RAo N, their son; N1co, Patrocina's other son; DORA MANuELA, his wife; ELOISA, their daughter; EosTo- LA, cousin to Chico and Nico; ELJEO RAMiREz, her husband; EUasEO, her brother-in-law; DON MELITON ARROYO, Esperanza's father; HiP6Lrr, his son. DON JUUo, the miller, municipal president, 1938; DORA FECUNDA, his first wife; EDUARDO, JUANITA, and SUSANA, their children; RAFAELA, Eduardo's wife; DoRA REFUGIO, Julio's second wife. DON BARTOLO, goat farmer, municipal president, 1945; DoRA SIsTA, his wife; TIMOTEO and LUsA, their children. vii DON AMADO, the sage of Santa Cruz Etla, three times its president; DORA RUFINA, his wife; CASSIANO, MARTINIANo, and MARGA- Rrro, his sons. DORFA ESTFANA, leader of the women, Amado's cousin, hostess to the author, 1944; DORA SOFiA, her daughter; JOEL, Sofia's son by her first husband; DON PABLO el Breceeo, Sofia's second hus- band; INOCENcio and LEOPOLDO, their sons; DON IGNACIO, Estefana's son; AuRErno, his son. DON MARTIN, the baker, three times municipal president; DORA PAsTORC11A, his wife; MIGUELTo, their son; CHABELLA, his wife; MARGARITA, ARTEMIO, ADELA, LUPITA, GRACELA, JESUS, and GUILLERMO, their children; DORA ENRiQuETA, Don Martin's sister-in-law; DON PEDRO, her husband; ORD6N, their son; DORA MARGARITA, Pedro's mother; DORA ROSARIO, Chabella's mother; ADELITA, Rosario's other daughter. DORA PATROCINA, the cure woman, hostess to the author, 1945; LA ABUELITA, her mother; DON FAUSTO, Patrocina's brother; DoRA BUENAVENTURA, his second wife; CICO, Patrocina's older son; ESPERANZA, his wife; RAs6N, their son; N1co, Patrocina's other son; DORA MANUELA, his wife; ELOISA, their daughter; EosTo- rA, cousin to Chico and Nico; EIJEO RAMiREz, her husband; ELISEo, her brother-in-law; DON MELITON ARoYo, Esperanza's father; HIPoLrro, his son. DON JUoO, the miller, municipal president, 1938; DORA FECUNDA, his first wife; EDUARDO, JUANITA, and SUSANA, their children; RAFAELA, Eduardo's wife; DoRA REFUGIO, Julio's second wife, DON BARTOLO, goat farmer, municipal president, 1945; DoRA SisTA, his wife; TimoTEo and LUsA, their children. vii DON AMADO, the sage of Santa Cruz Etla, three times its president; DORA RUFINA, his wife; CASSIANO, MARTINIANO, and MARGA- Rrro, his sons. DORA EsAFANA, leader of the women, Amado's cousin, hostess to the author, 1944; DORA SOFIA, her daughter; JOEL, Sofia's son by her first husband; DON PABLO el Bracero, Sofia's second hus- hand; INOCENcio and LEOPOLDO, their sons; DON IGNACIO, Estefana's son; AUREo, his son. DON MARTIN, the baker, three times municipal president; DORA PAsTORc1A, his wife; MIGUELTo, their son; CHABELLA, his wife; MARGARITA, ARTEmio, ADELA, LuPiTA, GRACIELA, JES$S, and GUILLERMO, their children; DONA ENRIQUETA, Don Martin's sister-in-law; DON PEDRO, her husband; ORDON, their son; DONA MARGARTA, Pedro's mother; DORA ROsAR1O, Chabella's mother; ADELITA, Rosario's other daughter. DORA PATROCINA, the cure woman, hostess to the author, 1945; LA ABUELITA, her mother; DON FAUSTO, Patrocina's brother; DOlA BUENAVENTURA, his second wife; oico, Patrocina's older son; ESPERANZA, his wife; RAM6N, their son; Nico, Patrocina's other son; DOiA MANUELA, his wife; ELOISA, their daughter; EOsTO- LtA, cousin to Chico and Nico; ELIJEO RAMiREz, her husband; EUISEo, her brother-in-law; DON MELITON ARROYO, Esperanza's father; HiPLIEo, his son. DON Juno, the miller, municipal president, 1938; DORA FECUNDA, his first wife; EDUARDO, JUANITA, and SUSANA, their children; RAFAELA, Eduardo's wife; DORA REFucro, Julio's second wife. DON BARTOLO, goat farmer, municipal president, 1945; DoRA SisTA, his wife; TIMoTEO and LUIsA, their children. vii  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS DON MARcIANo, chairman of public works, 1945; DORA CLARA, his wife; PANFILO and JuANITo, his sons; other children; ADOLFO SOTO, his son-in-law. DORA PAULA, gardener, householder next to the school; DORA NOBARRA, her mother; Mixoo, Paula's oldest son; ELODIA, his wife; ESTEBAN, Paula's second son, municipal president in 1944; MARiA, his wife; CRESCENcio and ALICIA, Paula's other children. DON FiLsZ JIMANEZ, horticulturist, municipal president, 1954. DON CEFERINO, leader of the band. DON Ftsrz LEON, former chairman of public works; DORA ANGELICA, his wife; FRANCISCO and FELCIrO, their sons. DON CAsiMoO, raiser of hogs; DORA BEATmZ, his wife; GERONOMO, their son. DON FLoRENzio, owner of the orchard; DOA MARiA. TERESA, his wife. DON FtsuZ MENDOZA, farmer on San Sebastiin ridge. DON MARCELINO, municipal president, 1951; PERFECTO and TERESA, his children. DON LALo; AURELIA, his daughter, school pet in 1934. DORA CARMEN, a deaf old widow; CARMITA, her daughter. IsAIss PaREZ, fourth-grade leader, 1945. AUGUSTINA, 'slavey" at the school, 1934; JUAN L6PEZ, her husband. San Pablo People: DONA SocoRRo, godmother to Chico; Dox BER- NABE, her husband; DON ENRIQUE et Alto, a bracero. THE OUTSIDERS Rs1sTA ARRIETA, the first teacher; DORA RAFAELA, her mother; DONA MERCEDES, Rosita's aunt; DON OCrAv1ANo, Rosita's uncle; DORA ELENA, la profesora americana, the author; DoN Eo- RIQUE, her husband (his Mexican name); EL MAESTRO, DoN SOLOMON, DOHA OFELIA, DORA ESTER, DON ALFREDO, and ESTELLA, his wife, later teachers; SENOR XIMELLO, DON LUs VARELA, and SENOR G6MEZ, Oaxaca State school officials. SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS DON MARcIANO, chairman of public works, 1945; DONA CLARA, his wife; PANFLo and JuANTo, his sons; other children; ADOLFO SOTO, his son-in-law. DORA PAULA, gardener, householder next to the school; DOA NoBARRA, her mother; M xsMo, Paula's oldest son; ELODIA, his wife; ESTEBAN, Paula's second son, municipal president in 1944; MARis, his wife; CRESCENcio and ALICIA, Paula's other children. DON FfLIZ JIMsNEZ, horticulturist, municipal president, 1954. DON CEFERiNo, leader of the band. DON FtsuZ LEN, former chairman of public works; DoRA ANGZLICA, his wife; FRANCISCO and FELICITO, their sons. DON CASiMIo, raiser of hogs; DORA BEATuZ, his wife; GERONOMO, their son. DON FLORENZIO, owner of the orchard; DONA MARA TERESA, his wife. DON FLIZ MENDOZA, farmer on San Sebastiin ridge. DON MARCELINO, municipal president, 1951; PERFECTO and TERsA, his children. DON LALo; AURELIA, his daughter, school pet in 1934. DORA CARMEN, a deaf old widow; CARMITA, her daughter. IsAfAs PnREZ, fourth-grade leader, 1945. AucUsTINA, "slavey" at the school, 1934; JUAN L6PEZ, her husband. San Pablo People: DORA SocoRRo, godmother to Chico; DON BER- NABE, her husband; DON ENsIQuE of Alto, a bracero. THE OUTSIDERS RosrTA ARRIETA, the first teacher; DONA RAFALA, her mother; DORA MERCEDES, Rosita's aunt; DON OCTAVsAo0, Rosita's uncle; DORA ELENA, Ia profesora americana, the author; Dox Eo- noQUE, her husband (his Mexican name); EL MAESTRO, Dox SOLOMON, DONA OFELIA, DORA ESTER, DON ALFREDo, and ESTELLA, his wife, later teachers; SENOR XIMELLo, DoN Luiss VARELA, and SENOR GoMEZ, Oaxaca State school officials. SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS DON MARCIANo, chairman of public works, 1945; DORA CLARA, his wife; PANo and JuANITO, his sons; other children; ADOLFO SOTO, his son-in-law. DOA PAULA, gardener, householder next to the school; DONA NoBAu, her mother; MaxiMo, Paula's oldest son; ELODIA, his wife; ESTEBAN, Paula's second son, municipal president in 1944; MARA, his wife; CREscENcio and ALICIA, Paula's other children. DON FIsZ JrIMENEz, horticulturist, municipal president, 1954. DON CEFERINO, leader of the band. DON FtLsZ LEN, former chairman of public works; DORA ANGZIcA, his wife; FRANCISCO and FELICITO, their sons. DON CASIMIso, raiser of hogs; DOEA BEAnuaZ, his wife; GERONOMO, their son. DON FLoRENzio, owner of the orchard; DONA MARA TERESA, his wife. DON FELIZ MENDOZA, farmer on San Sebastiin ridge. DON MARCELINO, municipal president, 1951; PERFECTO and TERESA, his children. DON LALO; AURELIA, his daughter, school pet in 1934. DONA CARMEN, a deaf old widow; CAR-MTA, her daughter. IsAfAs PsREZ, fourth-grade leader, 1945. AUcusTNA, "slavey" at the school, 1934; JUAN L6PEZ, her husband. San Pablo People: DORA SocoRRo, godmother to Chico; Dos BER- NAB, her husband; DON ENsIQUE et Alto, a braceco. THE OUTSIDERS ROsITA ARRIETA, the first teacher; DORA RAFAELA, her mother; DOHA MERCEDEs, Rosita's aunt; DON OCTAVIANo, Rosita's uncle; DORA ELENA, la profesora americans, the author; DoNi Eo- msQuE, her husband (his Mexican name); EL MAESTo, DON SuOLOMuON, DORA OFELIA, DORA ESTER, DON ALFREDO, and ESTELLA, his wife, later teachers; SENOR XIMELLo, DoN LUcs VARELA, and SEoRo GoMEz, Oaxaca State school officials. viii viii viii  Through the Decades THE AUTHOR'S VISITS TO SANTA CRUZ ETLA 1934-Three months. With husband, guests of the rural school authorities and assigned to the Santa Cruz Etla school. Don Martin the municipal president. Rosita the school teacher. 1938 - One-day stop-off. Don Julio the municipal president. Dinner at his mill-home. 1944- Two weeks-After one decade. Guest of Dona Estefana. Don Amado's history lessons. Visit of the rural education director. Don Esteban the municipal president. Don Solomon the school teacher. 1945- Three months. To work in the campaign against illiteracy. Guest of Dona Patrocina. Don Bartolo the municipal presi- dent. Dona Ofelia the school teacher. 1951-One-day stop-off. Dinner at Don Martin's. Don Marcelino the municipal president. 1954-Ten days-After two decades. Guest of Don Martin. The new chapel. Don Feliz Jimenez the municipal president. Don Alfredo the school teacher. Through the Decades THE AUTHOR'S VISITS TO SANTA CRUZ ETLA 1934-Three months. With husband, guests of the rural school authorities and assigned to the Santa Cruz Etla school. Don Martin the municipal president. Rosita the school teacher. 1938 - One-day stop-off. Don Julio the municipal president. Dinner at his mill-home. 1944- Two weeks-After one decade. Guest of Dona Estefana. Don Amado's history lessons. Visit of the rural education director. Don Esteban the municipal president. Don Solomin the school teacher. 1945 - Three months. To work in the campaign against illiteracy. Guest of Dona Patrocina. Don Bartolo the municipal presi- dent. Dona Ofelia the school teacher. 1951-One-day stop-off. Dinner at Don Martin's. Don Marcelino the municipal president. 1954-Ten days-After two decades. Guest of Don Martin. The new chapel. Don Feliz Jimenez the municipal president. Don Alfredo the school teacher. Through the Decades THE AUTHOR'S VISITS TO SANTA CRUZ ETLA 1934-Three months. With husband, guests of the rural school authorities and assigned to the Santa Cruz Etla school. Don Martin the municipal president. Rosita the school teacher. 1938- One-day stop-off. Don Julio the municipal president. Dinner at his mill-home. 1944- Two weeks-After one decade. Guest of Dona Estefana. Don Amado's history lessons. Visit of the rural education director. Don Esteban the municipal president. Don Solomon the school teacher. 1945- Three months. To work in the campaign against illiteracy. Guest of Dona Patrocina. Don Bartolo the municipal presi- dent. Dona Ofelia the school teacher. 1951-One-day stop-off. Dinner at Don Martin's. Don Marcelino the municipal president. 1954-Ten days-After two decades. Guest of Don Martin. The new chapel. Don FEliz Jimenez the municipal president. Don Alfredo the school teacher. ix   PART ONE PART ONE PART ONE Santa Cruz Etla IS a Town 1. DON AMADo: This "Sage of Santa Cruz Etla" created a mu- nicipality. 2. DON MARTIN: The "first modern man" ran the town's funerals and became a wheat-bread baker. 3. DON JuLio: This hard-headed businessman who brought in a corn mill was able to find little personal happiness. 4. DON BAnTOLO: The town comic had a chance to run the local government. 5. DON MARCIANO: The owner of the only horse was chairman of public works. 6. DON Fsiz: This shy horticulturist supervised the building of a chapel. Santa Cruz Etla IS a Town 1. DON AMADO: This "Sage of Santa Cruz Etla" created a mu- nicipality. 2. DON MARTN: The "first modern man" ran the town's funerals and became a wheat-bread baker. 3. DON JuOio: This hard-headed businessman who brought in a corn mill was able to find little personal happiness. 4. DON BARTOLO: The town comic had a chance to run the local government. 5. DON MARcIANO: The owner of the only horse was chairman of public works. 6. DON Fiz: This shy horticulturist supervised the building of a chapel. Santa Cruz Etla IS a Town 1. DON AMADO: This "Sage of Santa Cruz Etla" created a mu- nicipality. 2. DON MABTiN: The "first modern man" ran the town's funerals and became a wheat-bread baker. 3. DON JuLio: This hard-headed businessman who brought in a corn mill was able to find little personal happiness. 4. DON BaRTOLO: The town comic had a chance to run the local government. 5. DON MARcIANO: The owner of the only horse was chairman of public works. 6. DON Fkiz: This shy horticulturist supervised the building of a chapel.  /'I IV 4r , I A- DON AMADO, Mexican Indian farmer, wisest and best educated man in the village of Santa Cruz Etla, spoke earnestly. I, the American visitor whom he knew as Dona Elena, sat with him on the hard earthen floor of the little adobe house, sleepily trying to listen to his long harangue and to keep up my end of the conversation. It was July of 1944. "Santa Cruz Etla is a town, Dona Elena, a municipio of itself. It is not a ward, a barrio of San Pablo Etla." "Does it matter so much, Don Amado? San Pablo is a nice enough village, larger than your municipio here in Santa Cruz," I argued for the sake of something to say. He was offended. "All my life I have struggled to make Santa Cruz Etla a separate town. I went to Mexico City myself to arrange it, Dona Elena. I went on the train in 1923, when the train ran 2 *3% I l9 DON AMADO, Mexican Indian farmer, wisest and best educated man in the village of Santa Cruz Etla, spoke earnestly. I, the American visitor whom he knew as Dona Elena, sat with him on the hard earthen floor of the little adobe house, sleepily trying to listen to his long harangue and to keep up my end of the conversation. It was July of 1944. "Santa Cruz Etla is a town, Dona Elena, a municipio of itself. It is not a ward, a barrio of San Pablo Etla." "Does it matter so much, Don Amado? San Pablo is a nice enough village, larger than your municipio here in Santa Cruz," I argued for the sake of something to say. He was offended. "All my life I have struggled to make Santa Cruz Etla a separate town. I went to Mexico City myself to arrange it, Dona Elena. I went on the train in 1923, when the train ran , I A DON AMADO, Mexican Indian farmer, wisest and best educated man in the village of Santa Cruz Etla, spoke earnestly. I, the American visitor whom he knew as Dona Elena, sat with him on the hard earthen floor of the little adobe house, sleepily trying to listen to his long harangue and to keep up my end of the conversation. It was July of 1944. "Santa Cruz Etla is a town, Doa Elena, a municipio of itself. It is not a ward, a barrio of San Pablo Etla." "Does it matter so much, Don Amado? San Pablo is a nice enough village, larger than your municipio here in Santa Cruz," I argued for the sake of something to say. He was offended. "All my life I have struggled to make Santa Cruz Etla a separate town. I went to Mexico City myself to arrange it, Dona Elena. I went on the train in 1923, when the train ran 2  DON AMADO seldom. For then the Indian towns were being given charters by Obregdn, when the Revolution was hardly yet won." "And you got a separate charter? What did the people of San Pablo think about that? Often enough you and I and many Santa Cruz people go to weddings and funerals in San Pablo Etla, and your own cousins are married to San Pablo people," I said. I don't know why I kept on extolling San Pablo. As I remember back to that visit in my second decade of friendship for Santa Cruz Etla, I can't excuse myself. Surely I should have known by then how much it meant to Don Amado to insist on the independence of his own community. "True, the San Pablo neighbors did not love me for it," he answered to my objections. "But since that time we have been a town. What does it take in your country to make a municipality, a chartered village? We have our school, which through the years will surely bring so much good for la gente, the people here. We have our president, our public affairs committees. We have our water supply, of which the San Pablo people are so jealous. My sons and my sons' sons will keep Santa Cruz Etla a separate town. Who knows what great good may come out of Santa Cruz?" So prophesied the sage of Santa Cruz Etla, Don Amado Mendez, while light from the pine-bough torch flickered on the faces of a handful of neighbors and cousins who had drifted in to listen. I had been sitting there with him since sunset, both of us guests for the evening in the large adobe house of his elderly cousin. I had plied him with a hundred questions about the thirty or so families who lived near him there in the Etla Hills, and always he had come back to the insistence on the town's independence. To weld the families into a unit, to raise their standards, to provide them a school, to inspire their children to serve the community in their turn; in these efforts he had spent his life-he of the small Vandyke beard, the faraway eyes and the manner of a college professor- while he himself remained the poorest man in town as far as material prosperity was concerned, and his land was untilled, and his own sons went uneducated. Sad to say, no son of his today lives in Santa Cruz Etla at all. DON AMADO seldom. For then the Indian towns were being given charters by Obregon, when the Revolution was hardly yet won." "And you got a separate charter? What did the people of San Pablo think about that? Often enough you and I and many Santa Cruz people go to weddings and funerals in San Pablo Etla, and your own cousins are married to San Pablo people," I said. I don't know why I kept on extolling San Pablo. As I remember back to that visit in my second decade of friendship for Santa Cruz Etla, I can't excuse myself. Surely I should have known by then how much it meant to Don Amado to insist on the independence of his own community. "True, the San Pablo neighbors did not love me for it," he answered to my objections. "But since that time we have been a town. What does it take in your country to make a municipality, a chartered village? We have our school, which through the years will surely bring so much good for la gente, the people here. We have our president, our public affairs committees. We have our water supply, of which the San Pablo people are so jealous. My sons and my sons' sons will keep Santa Cruz Etla a separate town. Who knows what great good may come out of Santa Cruz?" So prophesied the sage of Santa Cruz Etla, Don Amado Mendez, while light from the pine-bough torch flickered on the faces of a handful of neighbors and cousins who had drifted in to listen. I had been sitting there with him since sunset, both of us guests for the evening in the large adobe house of his elderly cousin. I had plied him with a hundred questions about the thirty or so families who lived near him there in the Etla Hills, and always he had come back to the insistence on the town's independence. To weld the families into a unit, to raise their standards, to provide them a school, to inspire their children to serve the community in their turn; in these efforts he had spent his life-he of the small Vandyke beard, the faraway eyes and the manner of a college professor- while he himself remained the poorest man in town as far as material prosperity was concerned, and his land was untilled, and his own sons went uneducated. Sad to say, no son of his today lives in Santa Cruz Etla at all. DON AMADO seldom. For then the Indian towns were being given charters by Obregn, when the Revolution was hardly yet won." "And you got a separate charter? What did the people of San Pablo think about that? Often enough you and I and many Santa Cruz people go to weddings and funerals in San Pablo Etla, and your own cousins are married to San Pablo people," I said. I don't know why I kept on extolling San Pablo. As I remember back to that visit in my second decade of friendship for Santa Cruz Etla, I can't excuse myself. Surely I should have known by then how much it meant to Don Amado to insist on the independence of his own community. "True, the San Pablo neighbors did not love me for it," he answered to my objections. "But since that time we have been a town. What does it take in your country to make a municipality, a chartered village? We have our school, which through the years will surely bring so much good for la gente, the people here. We have our president, our public affairs committees. We have our water supply, of which the San Pablo people are so jealous. My sons and my sons' sons will keep Santa Cruz Etla a separate town. Who knows what great good may come out of Santa Cruz?" So prophesied the sage of Santa Cruz Etla, Don Amado Mendez, while light from the pine-bough torch flickered on the faces of a handful of neighbors and cousins who had drifted in to listen. I had been sitting there with him since sunset, both of us guests for the evening in the large adobe house of his elderly cousin. I had plied him with a hundred questions about the thirty or so families who lived near him there in the Etla Hills, and always he had come back to the insistence on the town's independence. To weld the families into a unit, to raise their standards, to provide them a school, to inspire their children to serve the community in their turn; in these efforts he had spent his life-he of the small Vandyke beard, the faraway eyes and the manner of a college professor- while he himself remained the poorest man in town as far as material prosperity was concerned, and his land was untilled, and his own sons went uneducated. Sad to say, no son of his today lives in Santa Cruz Etla at all.  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS But Don Amado's interest in his hillside town helped buoy up my own interest, and it was one reason I kept coming back there through the years, from 1934 to 1944 to 1954, until I knew and loved all the houses and the people who lived in them, a love that has lasted more than two decades. It takes love and enthusiasm to call Santa Cruz Etla a town. As the visitor comes by train or by car into the valley of Oaxaca, nearly four hundred miles south of Mexico City, he can see the small church of San Pablo Etla, that smug, self-righteously superior town, up near the timber on the sierra to the left. It is beyond the large valley market center called Etla, a name given also to the entire hill region behind that city. There is a jagged oxcart and truck trail leading up to the San Pablo church from a flag stop on the railroad. If the visitor has sharp eyes, he can make out the burros coming down the trail, dragging behind them the hand-cut railway ties which the hill people bring down to pile at the Hacienda Blanca station. In the fold of the hills three miles above the San Pablo church, and just below the dark line of the sierra forest, are the homes of Don Amado and his neighbors of Santa Cruz Etla. There are thirty families in the Santa Cruz municipality, living along three ridges, or lomas, and in the ravines between. Up the center ridge runs the burro and oxcart road; a brook from the higher sierra has been canalized to run down the top of this ridge to provide the town's water supply. In a level cleared space on this central ridge are the school and the municipal building, built by volunteer labor under Don Amado's leadership, and by the mid-1950's a neat new chapel. Most of the thirty families live along the brook in adobe huts a hundred yards or so apart and set in little cleared spaces, the houseyards in which the cattle and other livestock are tethered. The fields farmed by the families stretch down either side of the ridge. From every house in Santa Cruz Etla there is a breath- taking view of the valley of Oaxaca, twenty miles wide, with valley villages and the river bed below, the ancient ruins of Monte Albin across on the other side, and around the bend out of sight, the state capital, the city of Oaxaca de Juurez with its 30,000 people, a 4 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS But Don Amado's interest in his hillside town helped buoy up my own interest, and it was one reason I kept coming back there through the years, from 1934 to 1944 to 1954, until I knew and loved all the houses and the people who lived in them, a love that has lasted more than two decades. It takes love and enthusiasm to call Santa Cruz Etla a town. As the visitor comes by train or by car into the valley of Oaxaca, nearly four hundred miles south of Mexico City, he can see the small church of San Pablo Etla, that smug, self-righteously superior town, up near the timber on the sierra to the left. It is beyond the large valley market center called Etla, a name given also to the entire hill region behind that city. There is a jagged oxcart and truck trail leading up to the San Pablo church from a flag stop on the railroad. If the visitor has sharp eyes, he can make out the burros coming down the trail, dragging behind them the hand-cut railway ties which the hill people bring down to pile at the Hacienda Blanca station. In the fold of the hills three miles above the San Pablo church, and just below the dark line of the sierra forest, are the homes of Don Amado and his neighbors of Santa Cruz Etla. There are thirty families in the Santa Cruz municipality, living along three ridges, or lomas, and in the ravines between. Up the center ridge runs the burro and oxcart road; a brook from the higher sierra has been canalized to run down the top of this ridge to provide the town's water supply. In a level cleared space on this central ridge are the school and the municipal building, built by volunteer labor under Don Amado's leadership, and by the mid-1950's a neat new chapel. Most of the thirty families live along the brook in adobe huts a hundred yards or so apart and set in little cleared spaces, the houseyards in which the cattle and other livestock are tethered. The fields farmed by the families stretch down either side of the ridge. From every house in Santa Cruz Etla there is a breath- taking view of the valley of Oaxaca, twenty miles wide, with valley villages and the river bed below, the ancient ruins of Monte Albian across on the other side, and around the bend out of sight, the state capital, the city of Oaxaca de Juirez with its 30,000 people, a 4 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS But Don Amado's interest in his hillside town helped buoy up my own interest, and it was one reason I kept coming back there through the years, from 1934 to 1944 to 1954, until I knew and loved all the houses and the people who lived in them, a love that has lasted more than two decades. It takes love and enthusiasm to call Santa Cruz Etla a town. As the visitor comes by train or by car into the valley of Oaxaca, nearly four hundred miles south of Mexico City, he can see the small church of San Pablo Etla, that smug, self-righteously superior town, up near the timber on the sierra to the left. It is beyond the large valley market center called Etla, a name given also to the entire hill region behind that city. There is a jagged oxcart and truck trail leading up to the San Pablo church from a flag stop on the railroad. If the visitor has sharp eyes, he can make out the burros coming down the trail, dragging behind them the hand-cut railway ties which the hill people bring down to pile at the Hacienda Blanca station. In the fold of the hills three miles above the San Pablo church, and just below the dark line of the sierra forest, are the homes of Don Amado and his neighbors of Santa Cruz Etla. There are thirty families in the Santa Cruz municipality, living along three ridges, or lomas, and in the ravines between. Up the center ridge runs the burro and oxcart road; a brook from the higher sierra has been canalized to run down the top of this ridge to provide the town's water supply. In a level cleared space on this central ridge are the school and the municipal building, built by volunteer labor under Don Amado's leadership, and by the mid-1950's a neat new chapel. Most of the thirty families live along the brook in adobe huts a hundred yards or so apart and set in little cleared spaces, the houseyards in which the cattle and other livestock are tethered. The fields farmed by the families stretch down either side of the ridge. From every house in Santa Cruz Etla there is a breath- taking view of the valley of Oaxaca, twenty miles wide, with valley villages and the river bed below, the ancient ruins of Monte Albin across on the other side, and around the bend out of sight, the state capital, the city of Oaxaca de Juirez with its 30,000 people, a 4  DON AMADO bustling metropolis compared to the hill villages. Between Santa Cruz in the hills and the parallel lines of the Pan American High- way and the narrow-gauge railway that run the length of the valley floor lies that "sophisticated" rival, San Pablo Etla, with its three hundred or more people, its cobbled plaza, its centuries-old church and burial grounds, its acceptance by valley authorities, both lay and religious, as a true municipality of longstanding and unques- tioned authenticity. Up behind Santa Cruz Etla are the wooded hills, forest which belongs in community holding to all the people, to which the young men have gone for four generations to cut wood for cash sale in the city, wood for pottery kilns in valley villages, wood for the charcoal fires of the city household kitchens, wood for the railway ties which first helped to bring "modernism" into Oaxaca State. For generations the sierra provided the cash income of the people, though by 1957 many young men had left the increasingly treeless and eroding hillsides to seek wage work in the city. The older men plow the lower hillsides with oxen and homemade plows, planting corn and beans in the rainy season and harvesting them in the dry. Each family has about five acres of land (two hectares) and grows enough so that few have to buy food. The little gardens around the houses produce mangoes and avocados and squashes and toma- toes; chickens, turkeys, and pigs in the houseyards provide occa- sional meat for fiestas. Every yard has its trees, its roses and hibiscus bushes, and its bougainvillea vines and jasmines blooming the year around. To Santa Cruz Etla in 1934 came my husband and I, sociologi- cally-minded young enthusiasts, prepared to spend a summer photographing one of Mexico's new rural schools, those products of Mexico's Indian Revolution which were being founded in the early 1930's to "Mexicanize" and modernize remote, illiterate com- munities and to raise the standard of living. Dr. Rafael Ramirez, Director of Indigenous Education, had given us letters of intro- duction to a Mr. Ximello, the Director of Rural Education for the state of Oaxaca, asking him to locate us in a model community. I wrote in a 1934 diary: DON AMADO bustling metropolis compared to the hill villages. Between Santa Cruz in the hills and the parallel lines of the Pan American High- way and the narrow-gauge railway that run the length of the valley floor lies that "sophisticated" rival, San Pablo Etla, with its three hundred or more people, its cobbled plaza, its centuries-old church and burial grounds, its acceptance by valley authorities, both lay and religious, as a true municipality of longstanding and unques- tioned authenticity. Up behind Santa Cruz Etla are the wooded hills, forest which belongs in community holding to all the people, to which the young men have gone for four generations to cut wood for cash sale in the city, wood for pottery kilns in valley villages, wood for the charcoal fires of the city household kitchens, wood for the railway ties which first helped to bring "modernism" into Oaxaca State. For generations the sierra provided the cash income of the people, though by 1957 many young men had left the increasingly treeless and eroding hillsides to seek wage work in the city. The older men plow the lower hillsides with oxen and homemade plows, planting corn and beans in the rainy season and harvesting them in the dry. Each family has about five acres of land (two hectares) and grows enough so that few have to buy food. The little gardens around the houses produce mangoes and avocados and squashes and toma- toes; chickens, turkeys, and pigs in the houseyards provide occa- sional meat for fiestas. Every yard has its trees, its roses and hibiscus bushes, and its bougainvillea vines and jasmines blooming the year around. To Santa Cruz Etla in 1934 came my husband and I, sociologi- cally-minded young enthusiasts, prepared to spend a summer photographing one of Mexico's new rural schools, those products of Mexico's Indian Revolution which were being founded in the early 1930's to "Mexicanize" and modernize remote, illiterate com- munities and to raise the standard of living. Dr. Rafael Ramirez, Director of Indigenous Education, had given us letters of intro- duction to a Mr. Ximello, the Director of Rural Education for the state of Oaxaca, asking him to locate us in a model community. I wrote in a 1934 diary: DON AMADO bustling metropolis compared to the hill villages. Between Santa Cruz in the hills and the parallel lines of the Pan American High- way and the narrow-gauge railway that run the length of the valley floor lies that "sophisticated" rival, San Pablo Etla, with its three hundred or more people, its cobbled plaza, its centuries-old church and burial grounds, its acceptance by valley authorities, both lay and religious, as a true municipality of longstanding and unques- tioned authenticity. Up behind Santa Cruz Etla are the wooded hills, forest which belongs in community holding to all the people, to which the young men have gone for four generations to cut wood for cash sale in the city, wood for pottery kilns in valley villages, wood for the charcoal fires of the city household kitchens, wood for the railway ties which first helped to bring "modernism" into Oaxaca State. For generations the sierra provided the cash income of the people, though by 1957 many young men had left the increasingly treeless and eroding hillsides to seek wage work in the city. The older men plow the lower hillsides with oxen and homemade plows, planting corn and beans in the rainy season and harvesting them in the dry. Each family has about five acres of land (two hectares) and grows enough so that few have to buy food. The little gardens around the houses produce mangoes and avocados and squashes and toma- toes; chickens, turkeys, and pigs in the houseyards provide occa- sional meat for fiestas. Every yard has its trees, its roses and hibiscus bushes, and its bougainvillea vines and jasmines blooming the year around. To Santa Cruz Etla in 1934 came my husband and I, sociologi- cally-minded young enthusiasts, prepared to spend a summer photographing one of Mexico's new rural schools, those products of Mexico's Indian Revolution which were being founded in the early 1930's to "Mexicanize" and modernize remote, illiterate com- munities and to raise the standard of living. Dr. Rafael Ramirez, Director of Indigenous Education, had given us letters of intro- duction to a Mr. Ximello, the Director of Rural Education for the state of Oaxaca, asking him to locate us in a model community. I wrote in a 1934 diary:  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Mr. Ximello already knew of our arrival and had made plans for us. He was most delightfully cordial, suggested that we go to a small town called Santa Cruz Etla and stay there during our study of rural schools. He thought the little town was one of surpassing beauty, and had made a special trip on horseback to plan for our coming. He called it our pueblecito and has arranged for us to stay in a vacant part of the school house. The day after that first arrival in Oaxaca City we all went in Mr. Ximello's official car as far as Hacienda Blanca. Dramatically, the driver stopped the car below the San Pablo church and said: En esta via no puede andar El Cristo (Christ himself couldn't drive on this road). The town council of San Pablo sent a runner up to the Santa Cruz Etla community to tell the people that the education director and his guests were stranded down below on the edge of the valley. That first time the Santa Cruz people sent burros to get us. We have since been in by oxcart, by mule, on foot, in latter years by station wagon, and finally in 1954 in our own car (with the aid of a team of oxen through the bad mudholes ). Getting to Santa Cruz Etla is still a transportation problem, however. How could I ever have been disappointed in Santa Cruz Etla? Yet, that first time with Mr. Ximello, I was. My diary notes, written as I prepared for the trip, constantly referred to the "village," the "little town." I expected a crisscross of streets, probably cobbled, a church, a plaza bigger than San Pablo's, perhaps a market. "Rural" schools that we had visited during studies made in 1933 near Mexico City were often in good-sized provincial tons. I did not know the mountain communities above Oaxaca City. For Santa Cruz Etla is to a village near Mexico City what a Ken- tucky mountain rural school district is to a county seat. I was never disappointed in Santa Cruz Etla again after my first few days there. It is the people, even more than the view, that make me love to go back; my deep regard for them has taken me into Oaxaca Valley and up the hills when I had no other excuse at all to go-in 1938 again briefly, and for a two weeks' stay in 6 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Mr. Ximello already knew of our arrival and had made plans for us. He was most delightfully cordial, suggested that we go to a small town called Santa Cruz Etla and stay there during our study of rural schools. He thought the little town was one of surpassing beauty, and had made a special trip on horseback to plan for our coming. He called it our pueblecito and has arranged for us to stay in a vacant part of the school house. The day after that first arrival in Oaxaca City we all went in Mr. Ximello's official car as far as Hacienda Blanca. Dramatically, the driver stopped the car below the San Pablo church and said: En esta via no puede andar El Cristo (Christ himself couldn't drive on this road). The town council of San Pablo sent a runner up to the Santa Cruz Etla community to tell the people that the education director and his guests were stranded down below on the edge of the valley. That first time the Santa Cruz people sent burros to get us. We have since been in by oxcart, by mule, on foot, in latter years by station wagon, and finally in 1954 in our own car (with the aid of a team of oxen through the bad mudholes ). Getting to Santa Cruz Etla is still a transportation problem, however. How could I ever have been disappointed in Santa Cruz Etla? Yet, that first time with Mr. Ximello, I was. My diary notes, written as I prepared for the trip, constantly referred to the "village," the "little town." I expected a crisscross of streets, probably cobbled, a church, a plaza bigger than San Pablo's, perhaps a market. "Rural" schools that we had visited during studies made in 1933 near Mexico City were often in good-sized provincial towns. I did not know the mountain communities above Oaxaca City. For Santa Cruz Etla is to a village near Mexico City what a Ken- tucky mountain rural school district is to a county seat. I was never disappointed in Santa Cruz Etla again after my first few days there. It is the people, even more than the view, that make me love to go back; my deep regard for them has taken me into Oaxaca Valley and up the hills when I had no other excuse at all to go-in 1938 again briefly, and for a two weeks' stay in 6 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Mr. Ximello already knew of our arrival and had made plans for us. He was most delightfully cordial, suggested that we go to a small town called Santa Cruz Etla and stay there during our study of rural schools. He thought the little town was one of surpassing beauty, and had made a special trip on horseback to plan for our coming. He called it our pueblecito and has arranged for us to stay in a vacant part of the school house. The day after that first arrival in Oaxaca City we all went in Mr. Ximello's official car as far as Hacienda Blanca. Dramatically, the driver stopped the car below the San Pablo church and said: En esta eia no puede andar El Cristo (Christ himself couldn't drive on this road). The town council of San Pablo sent a runner up to the Santa Cruz Etla community to tell the people that the education director and his guests were stranded down below on the edge of the valley. That first time the Santa Cruz people sent burros to get us. We have since been in by oxcart, by mule, on foot, in latter years by station wagon, and finally in 1954 in our own car (with the aid of a team of oxen through the bad mudholes ). Getting to Santa Cruz Etla is still a transportation problem, however. How could I ever have been disappointed in Santa Cruz Etla? Yet, that first time with Mr. Ximello, I was. My diary notes, written as I prepared for the trip, constantly referred to the "village," the "little town." I expected a crisscross of streets, probably cobbled, a church, a plaza bigger than San Pablo's, perhaps a market. "Rural" schools that we had visited during studies made in 1933 near Mexico City were often in good-sized provincial towns. I did not know the mountain communities above Oaxaca City. For Santa Cruz Etla is to a village near Mexico City what a Ken- tucky mountain rural school district is to a county seat. I was never disappointed in Santa Cruz Etla again after my first few days there. It is the people, even more than the view, that make me love to go back; my deep regard for them has taken me into Oaxaca Valley and up the hills when I had no other excuse at all to go-in 1938 again briefly, and for a two weeks' stay in 6  DON AMADO 1944; for a long whole summer in 1945, then for a day's picnic in 1951, and for a ten-day visit in 1954, two decades after my first. If I had "anthropological and sociological" interest in the people of Santa Cruz, if I hoped to write learned reports on them for credit in university graduate work, the people never knew or cared. I never classified them by type, nor measured their heads for anthropological data, nor considered them interesting specimens of anything. I had come to them an honored guest, I had stayed with them rather than with other villagers because Mr. Ximello thought they had such a fine school, and the school was their own pride and joy. Their town sage and wiseman considered me a fellow spirit, even though I spoke his native Spanish haltingly, and still do. I was a guest in their houses; I danced at their weddings and at their funerals; I took scores of photographs of them and their children through the years, seldom for my own purposes but to send back to them as gifts. Because these snapshots are their only family photographs, the photos are enshrined above their home altars inside the rough adobe huts, and often my husband and I appear in the photographs. When any current town president knew beforehand of our coming, he hastened to plan a fiesta for us, with turkey dinner and music and rockets. By accepting me as an equal, these people taught me a deep lesson in the equality of all mankind, and I have done little for them in return through the years. Everyone visiting Mexico has seen the poor, ragged, country Indians in the markets of the larger towns. Their hair is uncut; their ill-fitting, white cotton clothes are ragged and dirty; the men have scraggly beards and torn straw hats with high crowns and wide brims. The women wrap themselves in dark blue shawls, the familiar rebozo, and sit on the ground in the market streets with their bare feet tucked under them. They offer a few tomatoes, or some embroidery, or a basket of beans, or two or three clay water jars, or a burro-load of firewood or charcoal for sale. They are always sitting in the market place when the city visitor gets up in the morning, and they have suddenly disappeared when market is over in the middle of the afternoon. The visitor is told 7 DON AMADO 1944; for a long whole summer in 1945, then for a day's picnic in 1951, and for a ten-day visit in 1954, two decades after my first. If I had "anthropological and sociological" interest in the people of Santa Cruz, if I hoped to write learned reports on them for credit in university graduate work, the people never knew or cared. I never classified them by type, nor measured their heads for anthropological data, nor considered them interesting specimens of anything. I had come to them an honored guest, I had stayed with them rather than with other villagers because Mr. Ximello thought they had such a fine school, and the school was their own pride and joy. Their town sage and wiseman considered me a fellow spirit, even though I spoke his native Spanish haltingly, and still do. I was a guest in their houses; I danced at their weddings and at their funerals; I took scores of photographs of them and their children through the years, seldom for my own purposes but to send back to them as gifts. Because these snapshots are their only family photographs, the photos are enshrined above their home altars inside the rough adobe huts, and often my husband and I appear in the photographs. When any current town president knew beforehand of our coming, he hastened to plan a fiesta for us, with turkey dinner and music and rockets. By accepting me as an equal, these people taught me a deep lesson in the equality of all mankind, and I have done little for them in return through the years. Everyone visiting Mexico has seen the poor, ragged, country Indians in the markets of the larger towns. Their hair is uncut; their ill-fitting, white cotton clothes are ragged and dirty; the men have scraggly beards and torn straw hats with high crowns and wide brims. The women wrap themselves in dark blue shawls, the familiar rebozo, and sit on the ground in the market streets with their bare feet tucked under them. They offer a few tomatoes, or some embroidery, or a basket of beans, or two or three clay water jars, or a burro-load of firewood or charcoal for sale. They are always sitting in the market place when the city visitor gets up in the morning, and they have suddenly disappeared when market is over in the middle of the afternoon. The visitor is told 7 DON AMADO 1944; for a long whole summer in 1945, then for a day's picnic in 1951, and for a ten-day visit in 1954, two decades after my first. If I had "anthropological and sociological" interest in the people of Santa Cruz, if I hoped to write learned reports on them for credit in university graduate work, the people never knew or cared. I never classified them by type, nor measured their heads for anthropological data, nor considered them interesting specimens of anything. I had come to them an honored guest, I had stayed with them rather than with other villagers because Mr. Ximello thought they had such a fine school, and the school was their own pride and joy. Their town sage and wiseman considered me a fellow spirit, even though I spoke his native Spanish haltingly, and still do. I was a guest in their houses; I danced at their weddings and at their funerals; I took scores of photographs of them and their children through the years, seldom for my own purposes but to send back to them as gifts. Because these snapshots are their only family photographs, the photos are enshrined above their home altars inside the rough adobe huts, and often my husband and I appear in the photographs. When any current town president knew beforehand of our coming, he hastened to plan a fiesta for us, with turkey dinner and music and rockets. By accepting me as an equal, these people taught me a deep lesson in the equality of all mankind, and I have done little for them in return through the years. Everyone visiting Mexico has seen the poor, ragged, country Indians in the markets of the larger towns. Their hair is uncut; their ill-fitting, white cotton clothes are ragged and dirty; the men have scraggly beards and torn straw hats with high crowns and wide brims. The women wrap themselves in dark blue shawls, the familiar rebozo, and sit on the ground in the market streets with their bare feet tucked under them. They offer a few tomatoes, or some embroidery, or a basket of beans, or two or three clay water jars, or a burro-load of firewood or charcoal for sale. They are always sitting in the market place when the city visitor gets up in the morning, and they have suddenly disappeared when market is over in the middle of the afternoon. The visitor is told 7  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that they come on foot from many miles away, that they are peones, or paisanos, or campesinos, or inditos, or whatever word is used locally. They all look alike except for the different wares they sell. Even in an Indian center like Oaxaca, where many different costumes and types are seen, they appear almost identical in the market place. Such as these are the people of Santa Cruz Etla when they come to market in Oaxaca City. But not so at home in the hills. There they are people of great dignity and importance. They are "householders." They call each other by their first names, with the title Don for men and Dona for women. To this day I know few last names in the village, and I checked Don Amado's own last name only when I very recently undertook correspondence with his son. To call a person Don Juan or Doria Isabella, in the days when the Spanish language was first brought to the valley of Oaxaca in the sixteenth century, svas the same as calling an English person Sir John or Lady Isabel. It is still the sign of great respect and courtesy. They have always called me "Doria Elena," the Spanish word for Helen. When the grown men introduce themselves, they say, "Don Martin Garcia, at your service, seiora," and say it so fast, like a ritual, that yo must ask them to repeat in order to catch their names. Greeting each other on the ravine trails, they shake hands all around with the deepest courtesy. Everyone assumes responsibility in the town government, entertains guests in his houseyard with dignity, and carries on his affairs with the poise of a well-to-do farmer in the United States. This for five days of the week. Then on Saturday he takes firewood or charcoal and farm products to market to get cash for his few store-bought necessities. There in the market of Oaxaca he is suddenly a poor, ragged Indian, indistinguishable from all the other ragged Indians of Mexico. Don Amado, he who cut the least firewood and had the least cash, had determined that Santa Cruz people should not be "indis- tinguishable," that they should be citizens of an outstanding, sepa- rate community. He was not an old man, though when I first saw him in 1934 I was in my early twenties and anyone over forty seemed old to me. My first mention of him in my diary notes de- 8 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that they come on foot from many miles away, that they are peones, or paisanos, or campesinos, or inditos, or whatever word is used locally. They all look alike except for the different wares they sell. Even in an Indian center like Oaxaca, where many different costumes and types are seen, they appear almost identical in the market place. Such as these are the people of Santa Cruz Etla when they come to market in Oaxaca City. But not so at home in the hills. There they are people of great dignity and importance. They are "householders." They call each other by their first names, with the title Don for men and Dona for women. To this day I know few last names in the village, and I checked Don Amado's own last name only when I very recently undertook correspondence with his son. To call a person Don Juan or Doria Isabella, in the days when the Spanish language was first brought to the valley of Oaxaca in the sixteenth century, was the same as calling an English person Sir John or Lady Isabel. It is still the sign of great respect and courtesy. They have always called me "Doia Elena," the Spanish word for Helen. When the grown men introduce themselves, they say, "Don Martin Garcia, at your service, senora," and say it so fast, like a ritual, that you must ask them to repeat in order to catch their names. Greeting each other on the ravine trails, they shake hands all around with the deepest courtesy. Everyone assumes responsibility in the town government, entertains guests in his houseyard with dignity, and carries on his affairs with the poise of a well-to-do farmer in the United States. This for five days of the week. Then on Saturday he takes firewood or charcoal and farm products to market to get cash for his few store-bought necessities. There in the market of Oaxaca he is suddenly a poor, ragged Indian, indistinguishable from all the other ragged Indians of Mexico. Don Amado, he who cut the least firewood and had the least cash, had determined that Santa Cruz people should not be "indis- tinguishable," that they should be citizens of an outstanding, sepa- rate community. He was not an old man, though when I first saw him in 1934 I was in my early twenties and anyone over forty seemed old to me. My first mention of him in my diary notes de- 8 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that they come on foot from many miles away, that they are peones, or paisanos, or campesinos, or inditos, or whatever word is used locally. They all look alike except for the different wares they sell. Even in an Indian center like Oaxaca, where many different costumes and types are seen, they appear almost identical in the market place. Such as these are the people of Santa Cruz Etla when they come to market in Oaxaca City. But not so at home in the hills. There they are people of great dignity and importance. They are "householders." They call each other by their first names, with the title Don for men and Doia for women. To this day I know few last names in the village, and I checked Don Amado's own last name only when I very recently undertook correspondence with his son. To call a person Don Juan or Dona Isabella, in the days when the Spanish language was first brought to the valley of Oaxaca in the sixteenth century, was the same as calling an English person Sir John or Lady Isabel. It is still the sign of great respect and courtesy. They have always called me "Doria Elena," the Spanish word for Helen. When the grown men introduce themselves, they say, "Don Martin Garcia, at your service, sehora," and say it so fast, like a ritual, that you must ask them to repeat in order to catch their names. Greeting each other on the ravine trails, they shake hands all around with the deepest courtesy. Everyone assumes responsibility in the town government, entertains guests in his houseyard with dignity, and carries on his affairs with the poise of a well-to-do farmer in the United States. This for five days of the week. Then on Saturday he takes firewood or charcoal and farm products to market to get cash for his few store-bought necessities. There in the market of Oaxaca he is suddenly a poor, ragged Indian, indistinguishable from all the other ragged Indians of Mexico. Don Amado, he who cut the least firewood and had the least cash, had determined that Santa Cruz people should not be "indis- tinguishable," that they should be citizens of an outstanding, sepa- rate community. He was not an old man, though when I first saw him in 1934 I was in my early twenties and anyone over forty seemed old to me. My first mention of him in my diary notes de- 8  DON AMADO scribes him as "that very ragged old man with the Van Dyke beard who makes those long, dignified speeches at fiestas." I had difficulty following the speeches in Spanish in those days, and I did not think to question him carefully and at length about the history and growth of the town until I was there on a leisurely visit just a decade later. At that time I was the guest of his respected older first cousin, his prima hermana, his "cousin-sister" as they say in Oaxaca, the matriarch Dofia Estefana, and he had come to chat with us in the evening as we all sat at twilight helping Dona Estdfana shell corn. They were pleased that my Spanish was better, that I could converse with them more freely than on my previous two visits; and Doa Estefana was asking me about that idioma, that "dialect," the English language, the existence of which they had not known until they had heard the talk between my husband and me on our first visit. Many things about the United States are hard to explain to them, and one of them is that we do not speak Spanish at home, also that our language is not just another Indian dialect from the remote sierra, such as those spoken by Santa Cruz Etla's more primitive neighbors, the Mixes and the Zapotecs of the higher hills and the farther valleys. Then I won- dered out loud why Santa Cruz, almost entirely of Indian blood, spoke no Indian dialect itself. "Why, Don Amado," I asked, "does no one in the whole Etla region speak an idioma? Everyone, the oldest people know the castellano, the Spanish. Why is this? In the large town of Mitla, thirty miles away only, everyone speaks the idioma, the Zapotecan." "We are of the Mixtecs, Doa Elena; our ancestors built the monuments at Monte Albin across the valley. We never knew Zapotecan. How could we speak it now?" Thus spoke Don Amado, the history professor. Surely no other person in all the Etla Hills knows anything of Zapotecs, or Aztecs, or Mayas. The great ruin of Mitla, which brings so many tourists to Oaxaca, is unknown to these people. The huts in the far sierra where live los tontos, as the ignorant ones who speak idiomas are called in Santa Cruz, are spoken of as "the houses of the primi- tives." But Don Amado did not scorn these tontos. 9 DON AMADO scribes him as "that very ragged old man with the Van Dyke beard who makes those long, dignified speeches at fiestas." I had difficulty following the speeches in Spanish in those days, and I did not think to question him carefully and at length about the history and growth of the town until I was there on a leisurely visit just a decade later. At that time I was the guest of his respected older first cousin, his prima hermana, his "cousin-sister" as they say in Oaxaca, the matriarch Doa Estefana, and he had come to chat with us in the evening as we all sat at twilight helping Dona Estdefana shell corn. They were pleased that my Spanish was better, that I could converse with them more freely than on my previous two visits; and Dona Estefana was asking me about that idioma, that "dialect," the English language, the existence of which they had not known until they had heard the talk between my husband and me on our first visit. Many things about the United States are hard to explain to them, and one of them is that we do not speak Spanish at home, also that our language is not just another Indian dialect from the remote sierra, such as those spoken by Santa Cruz Etla's more primitive neighbors, the Mixes and the Zapotecs of the higher hills and the farther valleys. Then I won- dered out loud why Santa Cruz, almost entirely of Indian blood, spoke no Indian dialect itself. "Why, Don Amado," I asked, "does no one in the whole Etla region speak an idioma? Everyone, the oldest people know the castellano, the Spanish. Why is this? In the large town of Mitla, thirty miles away only, everyone speaks the idioma, the Zapotecan." "We are of the Mixtecs, Doa Elena; our ancestors built the monuments at Monte Alban across the valley. We never knew Zapotecan. How could we speak it now?" Thus spoke Don Amado, the history professor. Surely no other person in all the Etla Hills knows anything of Zapotecs, or Aztecs, or Mayas. The great ruin of Mitla, which brings so many tourists to Oaxaca, is unknown to these people. The huts in the far sierra where live los eontos, as the ignorant ones who speak idiomas are called in Santa Cruz, are spoken of as "the houses of the primi- tives." But Don Amado did not scorn these tontos. 9 DON AMADO scribes him as "that very ragged old man with the Van Dyke beard who makes those long, dignified speeches at fiestas." I had dificulty following the speeches in Spanish in those days, and I did not think to question him carefully and at length about the history and growth of the town until I was there on a leisurely visit just a decade later. At that time I was the guest of his respected older first cousin, his prima hermana, his "cousin-sister" as they say in Oaxaca, the matriarch Dona Estfana, and he had come to chat with us in the evening as we all sat at twilight helping Doaa Estefana shell corn. They were pleased that my Spanish was better, that I could converse with them more freely than on my previous two visits; and Doa Estefana was asking me about that idioma, that "dialect," the English language, the existence of which they had not known until they had heard the talk between my husband and me on our first visit. Many things about the United States are hard to explain to them, and one of them is that we do not speak Spanish at home, also that our language is not just another Indian dialect from the remote sierra, such as those spoken by Santa Cruz Etla's more primitive neighbors, the Mixes and the Zapotecs of the higher hills and the farther valleys. Then I won- dered out loud why Santa Cruz, almost entirely of Indian blood, spoke no Indian dialect itself. "Why, Don Amado," I asked, "does no one in the whole Etla region speak an idioma? Everyone, the oldest people know the castellano, the Spanish. Why is this? In the large town of Mitla, thirty miles away only, everyone speaks the idioma, the Zapotecan." "We are of the Mixtecs, Doa Elena; our ancestors built the monuments at Monte Albin across the valley. We never knew Zapotecan. How could we speak it now?" Thus spoke Don Amado, the history professor. Surely no other person in all the Etla Hills knows anything of Zapotecs, or Aztecs, or Mayas. The great ruin of Mitla, which brings so many tourists to Oaxaca, is unknown to these people. The huts in the far sierra where live los tontos, as the ignorant ones who speak idiomas are called in Santa Cruz, are spoken of as "the houses of the primi- tives." But Don Amado did not scorn these tontos. 9  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "Of such Zapotecs came Benito Juarez," said Don Amado, speak. ing of his hero, the famous Indian president of Mexico who defeated Maximilian in the 1860's. "In Juirez' day, his town Ixtlin was no bigger than San Pablo Etla. The Zapotecs were proud people; they fought the Spaniards. Our people in this part of the valley were perhaps never so independent. They bowed to the conquerors" Don Amado, ragged, unread hill farmer, knew almost as much of the history of Oaxaca as the archeologists who work in the ruins of Monte Albin and Mitla. Students of the ancient peoples of Mexico know that there were the two groups of civilized Indians here in the south, Mixtecs and Zapotecs, that they warred against each other, perhaps in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that they both built elaborate cities of stone. When the Spaniards came, most of the common people were living much as Santa Cruz Etla lives today. The customs and dances and ways of eating remained. The Zapotecs kept their language, since few Spaniards went into their region where the land was less fertile. The Mixtecs lost their fertile lands to the Spanish soldiers. The city of Oaxaca was built in their territory, and the soldiers took wives among the valley people. Then the valley villagers forgot the old language and spoke the language of their conquerors. They learned to use burros and oxen from Spain, to hitch their oxen to Spanish peasants' wheeled carts, to raise chickens, to put tiles on their roofs. These things, though not the Spanish blood, spread to the nearby hills. They remained the only changes, the only way Don Amado's village differed in his childhood from a village of his ancient ancestors. "But we have never been slaves of the landowners; we were always free municipalities here in the hills," he told me as the dark descended that night at Dona Estefana's, and we lit the pine- wood torch. I was startled at these words, for I had known that the history of many Indian villages was the sad story of lands worked by peons around a privately owned hacienda. There was a ruined hacienda, a typical Spanish colonial house, as the only landmark at the railway flag stop of Hacienda Blanca. The school authorities with whom I first came to Santa Cruz Etla had told 10 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "Of such Zapotecs came Benito Juarez," said Don Amado, speak. ing of his hero, the famous Indian president of Mexico who defeated Maximilian in the 1860's. "In Juirez' day, his town Ixtlain was no bigger than San Pablo Etla. The Zapotecs were proud people; they fought the Spaniards. Our people in this part of the valley were perhaps never so independent. They bowed to the conquerors." Don Amado, ragged, unread hill farmer, knew almost as much of the history of Oaxaca as the archeologists who work in the ruins of Monte Albn and Mitla. Students of the ancient peoples of Mexico know that there were the two groups of civilized Indians here in the south, Mixtees and Zapotecs, that they warred against each other, perhaps in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that they both built elaborate cities of stone. When the Spaniards came, most of the common people were living much as Santa Cruz Etla lives today. The customs and dances and ways of eating remained. The Zapotecs kept their language, since few Spaniards went into their region where the land was less fertile. The Mixtecs lost their fertile lands to the Spanish soldiers. The city of Oaxaca was built in their territory, and the soldiers took wives among the valley people. Then the valley villagers forgot the old language and spoke the language of their conquerors. They learned to use burros and oxen from Spain, to hitch their oxen to Spanish peasants' wheeled carts, to raise chickens, to put tiles on their roofs. These things, though not the Spanish blood, spread to the nearby hills. They remained the only changes, the only way Don Amado's village differed in his childhood from a village of his ancient ancestors. "But we have never been slaves of the landowners; we were always free municipalities here in the hills," he told me as the dark descended that night at Dona Estefana's, and we lit the pine- wood torch. I was startled at these words, for I had known that the history of many Indian villages was the sad story of lands worked by peons around a privately owned hacienda. There was a ruined hacienda, a typical Spanish colonial house, as the only landmark at the railway flag stop of Hacienda Blanca. The school authorities with whom I first came to Santa Cruz Etla had told 10 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "Of such Zapotecs came Benito Juarez," said Don Amado, speak- ing of his hero, the famous Indian president of Mexico who defeated Maximilian in the 1860's. "In Juarez' day, his town Ixtlin was no bigger than San Pablo Etla. The Zapotecs were proud people; they fought the Spaniards. Our people in this part of the valley were perhaps never so independent. They bowed to the conquerors." Don Amado, ragged, unread hill farmer, knew almost as much of the history of Oaxaca as the archeologists who work in the ruins of Monte Albin and Mitla. Students of the ancient peoples of Mexico know that there were the two groups of civilized Indians here in the south, Mixtecs and Zapotecs, that they warred against each other, perhaps in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that they both built elaborate cities of stone. When the Spaniards came, most of the common people were living much as Santa Cruz Etla lives today. The customs and dances and ways of eating remained. The Zapotecs kept their language, since few Spaniards went into their region where the land was less fertile. The Mixtecs lost their fertile lands to the Spanish soldiers. The city of Oaxaca was built in their territory, and the soldiers took wives among the valley people. Then the valley villagers forgot the old language and spoke the language of their conquerors. They learned to use burros and oxen from Spain, to hitch their oxen to Spanish peasants' wheeled carts, to raise chickens, to put tiles on their roofs. These things, though not the Spanish blood, spread to the nearby hills. They remained the only changes, the only way Don Amado's village differed in his childhood from a village of his ancient ancestors. "But we have never been slaves of the landowners; we were always free municipalities here in the hills," he told me as the dark descended that night at Dona Estefana's, and we lit the pine- wood torch. I was startled at these words, for I had known that the history of many Indian villages was the sad story of lands worked by peons around a privately owned hacienda. There was a ruined hacienda, a typical Spanish colonial house, as the only landmark at the railway flag stop of Hacienda Blanca. The school authorities with whom I first came to Santa Cruz Etla had told 10  DON AMADO me that the lands around the large valley town of Etla had once been part of this hacienda. I had taken it for granted that the hill land had also belonged to el patron, the hacienda owner, and that the revolutionists of 1910 had freed the lands when they burned the building. And now Don Amado was telling me that the lands of Santa Cruz Etla had always been free. "The Spaniards took only the level lands near the river; under Carlos IV charters were given to the mountain villages," he went on. "Is there such a charter here? Do you have it?" I asked, eager for historical documents. "It was lost at our first village, Santa Cruz Salinas, Dona Elena, long before the days of my grandfather." Santa Cruz Salinas? Don Esteban, the serious young man who was town president in 1944, had told me that very day to ask Don Amado about Santa Cruz Salinas. "We only know our grandfathers lived there. Don Amado knows all those things for us," he had said. So Don Amado told me all those things, coming back to Dona Estifana's two more evenings. The Mixtees called all the ridges and the upper valley "Ela." The Spaniards found Mixtecan grass-hut villagers living near a place where rock salt was found on a ridge near Etla town. A salt mine is a salina; the Spaniards first saw the village on Holy Cross Day; they called it "Santa Cruz Salinas de Etla." From this Santa Cruz Salinas Don Amado's grandfather went to fight the French, joining a young lieutenant named Porfirio Diaz (born in Oaxaca City) against Maximilian's army in the 1860's. The French drove his grandfather back to the gates of Oaxaca, but then many others from Santa Cruz Salinas went to fight with him for Benito Juarez. In the armies they got the cholera, the only "booty" from the long war that they brought back to the hills. For two years people in Santa Cruz Salinas had cholera occasionally; then suddenly cholera was very bad. People in every family died; nothing could stop it. There was only one solution, to move away what was left of the town. The ancient Mixtecan rights applied to the uncleared ridges farther from Etla. The leading citizens got a new charter from the governor of Oaxaca, who granted it on San Pablo Day. The families 11 DON AMADO me that the lands around the large valley town of Etla had once been part of this hacienda. I had taken it for granted that the hill land had also belonged to el patron, the hacienda owner, and that the revolutionists of 1910 had freed the lands when they burned the building. And now Don Amado was telling me that the lands of Santa Cruz Etla had always been free. "The Spaniards took only the level lands near the river; under Carlos IV charters were given to the mountain villages," he went on. "Is there such a charter here? Do you have it?" I asked, eager for historical documents. "It was lost at our first village, Santa Cruz Salinas, Dona Elena, long before the days of my grandfather." Santa Cruz Salinas? Don Esteban, the serious young man who was town president in 1944, had told me that very day to ask Don Amado about Santa Cruz Salinas. "We only know our grandfathers lived there. Don Amado knows all those things for us," he had said. So Don Amado told me all those things, coming back to Dofna Estifana's two more evenings. The Mixtees called all the ridges and the upper valley "Etla." The Spaniards found Mixtecan grass-hut villagers living near a place where rock salt was found on a ridge near Etla town. A salt mine is a salina; the Spaniards first saw the village on Holy Cross Day; they called it "Santa Cruz Salinas de Etla." From this Santa Cruz Salinas Don Amado's grandfather went to fight the French, joining a young lieutenant named Porfirio Diaz (born in Oaxaca City) against Maximilian's army in the 1860's. The French drove his grandfather back to the gates of Oaxaca, but then many others from Santa Cruz Salinas went to fight with him for Benito JuArez. In the armies they got the cholera, the only "booty" from the long war that they brought back to the hills. For two years people in Santa Cruz Salinas had cholera occasionally; then suddenly cholera was very bad. People in every family died; nothing could stop it. There was only one solution, to move away what was left of the town. The ancient Mixtecan rights applied to the uncleared ridges farther from Etla. The leading citizens got a new charter from the governor of Oaxaca, who granted it on San Pablo Day. The families 11 DON AMADO me that the lands around the large valley town of Etla had once been part of this hacienda. I had taken it for granted that the hill land had also belonged to el patron, the hacienda owner, and that the revolutionists of 1910 had freed the lands when they burned the building. And now Don Amado was telling me that the lands of Santa Cruz Etla had always been free. "The Spaniards took only the level lands near the river; under Carlos IV charters were given to the mountain villages," he went on. "Is there such a charter here? Do you have it?" I asked, eager for historical documents. "It was lost at our first village, Santa Cruz Salinas, Dona Elena, long before the days of my grandfather." Santa Cruz Salinas? Don Esteban, the serious young man who was town president in 1944, had told me that very day to ask Don Amado about Santa Cruz Salinas. "We only know our grandfathers lived there. Don Amado knows all those things for us," he had said. So Don Amado told me all those things, coming back to Dona Estefana's two more evenings. The Mixtees called all the ridges and the upper valley "Etla." The Spaniards found Mixtecan grass-hut villagers living near a place where rock salt was found on a ridge near Etla town. A salt mine is a salina; the Spaniards first saw the village on Holy Cross Day; they called it "Santa Cruz Salinas de Etla." From this Santa Cruz Salinas Don Amado's grandfather went to fight the French, joining a young lieutenant named Porfirio Diaz (born in Oaxaca City) against Maximilian's army in the 1860's. The French drove his grandfather back to the gates of Oaxaca, but then many others from Santa Cruz Salinas went to fight with him for Benito JuArez. In the armies they got the cholera, the only "booty" from the long war that they brought back to the hills. For two years people in Santa Cruz Salinas had cholera occasionally; then suddenly cholera was very bad. People in every family died; nothing could stop it. There was only one solution, to move away what was left of the town. The ancient Mixtecan rights applied to the uncleared ridges farther from Etla. The leading citizens got a new charter from the governor of Oaxaca, who granted it on San Pablo Day. The families 11  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS with most possessions went to the new San Pablo Etla, near an abandoned hillside shrine which they made their church. About sixty or more families live there today. The men of this new site had never held lands from the hacienda. Their fathers had often been "rounded up" during harvest seasons by riders who came into the hills. Then they were forced to leave their own harvests and to gather the harvests of the patrdn. Because of this forced labor, they were "glad to help the valley people burn the hacienda in 1915." Don Amado implied that he was talking about the families who had settled in San Pablo Etla. Don Amado's grandfather went farther up the ridges. Above San Pablo Etla he picked another spot. He worked out a plan for bringing water to the site. He planted mangoes and avocados and oranges. He built the house in which Doia Estefana, the old cousin-sister, lived in 1944 and where we were her guests when Don Amado told me this history. The grandfather cleared about eighteen acres of land. Others followed him; they all called their new village a ward, a barrio, of San Pablo Etla. Since Don Amado's grandfather had had the idea of moving, he himself brought the name "Santa Cruz" to his barrio, changing it from "Salinas" to "Etla." Here they had always had a pueblo sano, a healthy town. "My grandfather came to build on the loma, the ridge of Santa Cruz Etla, where the devils of the cholera were not in the virgin ground," Don Amado said in concluding one evening's "lecture." Before that particular night, I had been walking and talking and visiting all day; I was so tired I could hardly listen. Much of the time that he was talking about Santa Cruz Salinas, I was dozing in the torchlight. His voice went on and on in a soft, musical cadence. I ceased translating the Spanish words to myself; he might have been reading a church sermon aloud in Medieval Latin for all I understood. But I could piece together the storv the next day, and I had occasion many times in my later relations with Santa Cruz Etla to remember about the pueblo sano and the words tierra virgen, the virgin ground. Maybe Don Amado told me-and I didn't like to ask him if he didn't, though his sons have recently wondered if I would know- 12 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS with most possessions went to the new San Pablo Etla, near an abandoned hillside shrine which they made their church. About sixty or more families live there today. The men of this new site had never held lands from the hacienda. Their fathers had often been "rounded up" during harvest seasons by riders who came into the hills. Then they were forced to leave their own harvests and to gather the harvests of the patron. Because of this forced labor, they were "glad to help the valley people burn the hacienda in 1915." Don Amado implied that he was talking about the families who had settled in San Pablo Etla. Don Amado's grandfather went farther up the ridges. Above San Pablo Etla he picked another spot. He worked out a plan for bringing water to the site. He planted mangoes and avocados and oranges. He built the house in which Dona Estefana, the old cousin-sister, lived in 1944 and where we were her guests when Don Amado told me this history. The grandfather cleared about eighteen acres of land. Others followed him; they all called their new village a ward, a barrio, of San Pablo Etla. Since Don Amado's grandfather had had the idea of moving, he himself brought the name "Santa Cruz" to his barrio, changing it from "Salinas" to "Etla." Here they had always had a pueblo sano, a healthy town. "My grandfather came to build on the loma, the ridge of Santa Cruz Etla, where the devils of the cholera were not in the virgin ground," Don Amado said in concluding one evening's "lecture." Before that particular night, I had been walking and talking and visiting all day; I was so tired I could hardly listen. Much of the time that he was talking about Santa Cruz Salinas, I was dozing in the torchlight. His voice went on and on in a soft, musical cadence. I ceased translating the Spanish words to myself; he might have been reading a church sermon aloud in Medieval Latin for all I understood. But I could piece together the story the next day, and I had occasion many times in my later relations with Santa Cruz Etla to remember about the pueblo sano and the words tierra virgen, the virgin ground. Maybe Don Amado told me-and I didn't like to ask him if he didn't, though his sons have recently wondered if I would know- 12 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS with most possessions went to the new San Pablo Etla, near an abandoned hillside shrine which they made their church. About sixty or more families live there today. The men of this new site had never held lands from the hacienda. Their fathers had often been "rounded up" during harvest seasons by riders who came into the hills. Then they were forced to leave their own harvests and to gather the harvests of the patron. Because of this forced labor, they were "glad to help the valley people burn the hacienda in 1915." Don Amado implied that he was talking about the families who had settled in San Pablo Etla. Don Amado's grandfather went farther up the ridges. Above San Pablo Etla he picked another spot. He worked out a plan for bringing water to the site. He planted mangoes and avocados and oranges. He built the house in which Dona Estafana, the old cousin-sister, lived in 1944 and where we were her guests when Don Amado told me this history. The grandfather cleared about eighteen acres of land. Others followed him; they all called their new village a ward, a barrio, of San Pablo Etla. Since Don Amado's grandfather had had the idea of moving, he himself brought the name "Santa Cruz" to his barrio, changing it from "Salinas" to "Etla." Here they had always had a pueblo sano, a healthy town. "My grandfather came to build on the loma, the ridge of Santa Cruz Etla, where the devils of the cholera were not in the virgin ground," Don Amado said in concluding one evening's "lecture." Before that particular night, I had been walking and talking and visiting all day; I was so tired I could hardly listen. Much of the time that he was talking about Santa Cruz Salinas, I was dozing in the torchlight. His voice went on and on in a soft, musical cadence. I ceased translating the Spanish words to myself; he might have been reading a church sermon aloud in Medieval Latin for all I understood. But I could piece together the story the next day, and I had occasion many times in my later relations with Santa Cruz Etla to remember about the pueblo sano and the words tierra virgen, the virgin ground. Maybe Don Amado told me-and I didn't like to ask him if he didn't, though his sons have recently wondered if I would know- 12  DON AMADO what happened among the children of his grandfather, how it was that Dona Estdfana, daughter of his grandfather's older son, should then have eight hectares of land and a strong adobe house, while Don Amado had only one and a half hectares and lived in a hut of thatch and wattle. He had never spoken of his father-only of his grandfather. "My grandfather served as a secretary to the municipality of San Pablo." "My grandfather had learned to read and write from his captain while in the armies of Juarez." "My grandfather taught me my letters." (All this reading and writing in an otherwise completely illiterate community.) "He sent me for a year to the priest at Etla to study books and history." "He sent me on a trip to Mexico City with a soldier friend of his when I was not yet eighteen years old." "He wanted me to be a second Benito Juirez." How often those of us who had hopes for Santa Cruz Etla were to think of the hopes of Don Amado, and of his grandfather before him, in connection with "a second Benito Juirez." Benito Juirez had been pure Indian. Don Amado looked some- thing of an aristocrat, for he had lighter eyes and more beard than any full-blooded Mixtec. Dona Estefana and her children and her children's children are completely Indian, but she it was who in- herited the good house and the good land. Was Don Amado a favored grandchild, son of the younger son who did not inherit house and land, but who passed the brains and soul of the grand- father, perhaps through a valley wife with Spanish blood, into the spirit of Don Amado? He was satisfied with what his grandfather had done for him. "The finest years were in the priest's school in Etla," he said. "Thanks to the blessed saints and my grandfather that I went there. I came back from Mexico City and many other wanderings determined to make this a better municipality for the people." Surely he succeeded. He got a charter for their town; he arranged to build their school; he kept their records; in intermittent years he served as their presidente municipal. He went to council meetings in San Pablo to give advice; he helped the tontos, the Indians in the remote sierra, get clear titles to their land. Of course, his own land went 13 DON AMADO what happened among the children of his grandfather, how it was that Dona Estefana, daughter of his grandfather's older son, should then have eight hectares of land and a strong adobe house, while Don Amado had only one and a half hectares and lived in a hut of thatch and wattle. He had never spoken of his father-only of his grandfather. "My grandfather served as a secretary to the municipality of San Pablo." "My grandfather had learned to read and write from his captain while in the armies of Juarez." "My grandfather taught me my letters." (All this reading and writing in an otherwise completely illiterate community.) "He sent me for a year to the priest at Etla to study books and history." "He sent me on a trip to Mexico City with a soldier friend of his when I was not yet eighteen years old." "He wanted me to be a second Benito Juirez." How often those of us who had hopes for Santa Cruz Etla were to think of the hopes of Don Amado, and of his grandfather before him, in connection with "a second Benito Juarez." Benito Juarez had been pure Indian. Don Amado looked some- thing of an aristocrat, for he had lighter eyes and more beard than any full-blooded Mixtec. Dona Estefana and her children and her children's children are completely Indian, but she it was who in- herited the good house and the good land. Was Don Amado a favored grandchild, son of the younger son who did not inherit house and land, but who passed the brains and soul of the grand- father, perhaps through a valley wife with Spanish blood, into the spirit of Don Amado He was satisfied with what his grandfather had done for him. "The finest years were in the priest's school in Etla," he said. "Thanks to the blessed saints and my grandfather that I went there. I came back from Mexico City and many other wanderings determined to make this a better municipality for the people." Surely he succeeded. He got a charter for their town; he arranged to build their school; he kept their records; in intermittent years he served as their presidente municipal. He went to council meetings in San Pablo to give advice; he helped the tontos, the Indians in the remote sierra, get clear titles to their land. Of course, his own land went 13 DON AMADO what happened among the children of his grandfather, how it was that Dona Estefana, daughter of his grandfather's older son, should then have eight hectares of land and a strong adobe house, while Don Amado had only one and a half hectares and lived in a hut of thatch and wattle. He had never spoken of his father-only of his grandfather. "My grandfather served as a secretary to the municipality of San Pablo." "My grandfather had learned to read and write from his captain while in the armies of JuArez." "My grandfather taught me my letters." (All this reading and writing in an otherwise completely illiterate community.) "He sent me for a year to the priest at Etla to study books and history." "He sent me on a trip to Mexico City with a soldier friend of his when I was not yet eighteen years old." "He wanted me to be a second Benito Juarez." How often those of us who had hopes for Santa Cruz Etla were to think of the hopes of Don Amado, and of his grandfather before him, in connection with "a second Benito Juarez." Benito Juarez had been pure Indian. Don Amado looked some- thing of an aristocrat, for he had lighter eyes and more beard than any full-blooded Mixtec. Dona Estdfana and her children and her children's children are completely Indian, but she it was who in- herited the good house and the good land. Was Don Amado a favored grandchild, son of the younger son who did not inherit house and land, but who passed the brains and soul of the grand- father, perhaps through a valley wife with Spanish blood, into the spirit of Don Amado? He was satisfied with what his grandfather had done for him. "The finest years were in the priest's school in Etla," he said. "Thanks to the blessed saints and my grandfather that I went there. I came back from Mexico City and many other wanderings determined to make this a better municipality for the people." Surely he succeeded. He got a charter for their town; he arranged to build their school; he kept their records; in intermittent years he served as their presidente municipal. He went to council meetings in San Pablo to give advice; he helped the tontos, the Indians in the remote sierra, get clear titles to their land. Of course, his own land went 13  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS often to weeds, and he was always late planting corn. I remember hearing him curse at the slow oxen as he urged them through the neglected fields, and I thought to myself: "How much he hates the farm work!" But his public service brought him no corn crop, and his wife and children had to eat. He was too idealistic to live off other people as a fat politician; anyway, there is no place for such a person in the scheme of life in Santa Cruz. Dofia Rufina, his patient and hard-working wife, was an Indian woman, sweet and smiling of face, though frail of body. Twenty years his junior, she was perhaps a sudden love of his middle age, when he paused between community welfare projects. She had borne him a daughter whom we knew as a child in school in 1934, but who had died of typhoid by 1944, and then three fine sons, all still living. But Doia Rufina never understood what went on in his mind, for she could neither read nor write; and when I came back for my long visit in 1945, the year after the twilight history lectures, she could do little to help answer my questions. When I arrived at the school steps of the village in 1945, heralded by school authorities, riding in a school director's station wagon, prepared to spend a summer asking Don Amado more questions as a part of a "history of a village" project of mine, the first words I heard from the people were of the death of Don Amado in March. The municipality was still trying to rearrange its affairs and to recover from the shock. One of his projects in 1944 was to secure title to land on which to build a graveyard, a Pantedn for the dead of Santa Cruz, so that they could lie in Santa Cruz ground away from the church of San Pablo. Now he himself filled one of the first graves there. Doia Rufina urged me to go visit him in the graveyard, the second day of my visit, to pay my respects to him at his high, new grave. "He would want you to come, Doia Elena. He spoke of writing you letters in other years, but there was always the matter of the strange country and the postoffice money. There were questions he wanted to ask you, why there was a war in your country and who was fighting. He would have wanted you at the funeral, such a large funeral at the church in San Pablo, and then a procession 14 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS often to weeds, and he was always late planting corn. I remember hearing him curse at the slow oxen as he urged them through the neglected fields, and I thought to myself: "How much he hates the farm work!" But his public service brought him no corn crop, and his wife and children had to eat. He was too idealistic to live off other people as a fat politician; anyway, there is no place for such a person in the scheme of life in Santa Cruz. Dofna Rufina, his patient and hard-working wife, was an Indian woman, sweet and smiling of face, though frail of body. Twenty years his junior, she was perhaps a sudden love of his middle age, when he paused between community welfare projects. She had borne him a daughter whom we knew as a child in school in 1934, but who had died of typhoid by 1944, and then three fine sons, all still living. But Doia Rufina never understood what went on in his mind, for she could neither read nor write; and when I came back for my long visit in 1945, the year after the twilight history lectures, she could do little to help answer my questions. When I arrived at the school steps of the village in 1945, heralded by school authorities, riding in a school director's station wagon, prepared to spend a summer asking Don Amado more questions as a part of a "history of a village" project of mine, the first words I heard from the people were of the death of Don Amado in March. The municipality was still trying to rearrange its affairs and to recover from the shock. One of his projects in 1944 was to secure title to land on which to build a graveyard, a Pantedn for the dead of Santa Cruz, so that they could lie in Santa Cruz ground away from the church of San Pablo. Now he himself filled one of the first graves there. Dofna Rufina urged me to go visit him in the graveyard, the second day of my visit, to pay my respects to him at his high, new grave. "He would want you to come, Dofna Elena. He spoke of writing you letters in other years, but there was always the matter of the strange country and the postoffice money. There were questions he wanted to ask you, why there was a war in your country and who was fighting. He would have wanted you at the funeral, such a large funeral at the church in San Pablo, and then a procession 14 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS often to weeds, and he was always late planting corn. I remember hearing him curse at the slow oxen as he urged them through the neglected fields, and I thought to myself: "How much he hates the farm work!" But his public service brought him no corn crop, and his wife and children had to eat. He was too idealistic to live off other people as a fat politician; anyway, there is no place for such a person in the scheme of life in Santa Cruz. Dofa Rufina, his patient and hard-working wife, was an Indian woman, sweet and smiling of face, though frail of body. Twenty years his junior, she was perhaps a sudden love of his middle age, when he paused between community welfare projects. She had borne him a daughter whom we knew as a child in school in 1934, but who had died of typhoid by 1944, and then three fine sons, all still living. But Dofna Rufina never understood what went on in his mind, for she could neither read nor write; and when I came back for my long visit in 1945, the year after the twilight history lectures, she could do little to help answer my questions. When I arrived at the school steps of the village in 1945, heralded by school authorities, riding in a school director's station wagon, prepared to spend a summer asking Don Amado more questions as a part of a "history of a village" project of mine, the first words I heard from the people were of the death of Don Amado in March. The municipality was still trying to rearrange its affairs and to recover from the shock. One of his projects in 1944 was to secure title to land on which to build a graveyard, a Pantedn for the dead of Santa Cruz, so that they could lie in Santa Cruz ground away from the church of San Pablo. Now he himself filled one of the first graves there. Dofna Rufina urged me to go visit him in the graveyard, the second day of my visit, to pay my respects to him at his high, new grave. "He would want you to come, Dofna Elena. He spoke of writing you letters in other years, but there was always the matter of the strange country and the postoffice money. There were questions he wanted to ask you, why there was a war in your country and who was fighting. He would have wanted you at the funeral, such a large funeral at the church in San Pablo, and then a procession 14  DON AMADO from San Pablo back up here to our own graveyard in Santa Cruz. Imagine how pleased he was at that, Dofia Elena, after the years we have taken funeral processions from up here down to the grave- yard in San Pablo. All San Pablo came to the funeral, and many men in black suits, wearing shoes, came from Oaxaca City. They knew of his death without our sending word. Some of them walked up from the bus road; they came to show respect for him." She was still in awe about it months after the occasion. "Go to see him in the Pantedn, Dona Elena, you will not be here to talk with his spirit when it comes on All Saints' Day in November." So I went. I sat under the giant wild-fig tree at the graveyard and looked down the valley for an hour; and I determined that some day, for his memory, I would write this little story, perhaps in one decade, or perhaps in the next. Then I came back to sit on a straw mat, a petate, in Dofia Rufina's house, and ask about his last days. He had died in March, after three months of "sickness of the stomach." He had been unable to eat anything, he was in great pain and lost weight rapidly. Perhaps he had a cancer. For all his "book learning," all his concern for the pueblo sano, and all his interest in progress, Don Amado clung to the old ways in medi- cine. When Dofia Patrocina, our dear old cure woman in Santa Cruz, had been unable to help him, it had not occurred to him to go to a modern doctor in Oaxaca. ;Qui istimal "What a pity, for myself and my sons, that you did not take more pictures of him before, Doba Elena. I have only this one taken in the shadow." She took from her old bridal chest, the only furniture in the house, a bad print of the picture of Don Amado shown here. I had taken it in 1944 as a typical shot of a Santa Cruz farmer going to plow- a poor choice by a poor photographer. Don Amado was not a typical farmer and he never went willingly to plow. I have since had a careful photography shop in the United States make good enlarge- ments of this weak negative, one each for Don Amado's sons, so that more portraits of him are now in existence. With the poor little photo in the chest, Dona Rufina had rolls and rolls of papers and correspondence carried on by the "sage" of Santa Cruz Etla. "Tell me what these things all are, Dona 15 DON AMADO from San Pablo back up here to our own graveyard in Santa Cruz. Imagine how pleased he was at that, Dona Elena, after the years we have taken funeral processions from up here down to the grave- yard in San Pablo. All San Pablo came to the funeral, and many men in black suits, wearing shoes, came from Oaxaca City. They knew of his death without our sending word. Some of them walked up from the bus road; they came to show respect for him." She was still in awe about it months after the occasion. "Go to see him in the Pantedn, Doba Elena, you will not be here to talk with his spirit when it comes on All Saints' Day in November." So I went. I sat under the giant wild-fg tree at the graveyard and looked down the valley for an hour; and I determined that some day, for his memory, I would write this little story, perhaps in one decade, or perhaps in the next. Then I came back to sit on a straw mat, a petate, in Dona Rufina's house, and ask about his last days. He had died in March, after three months of "sickness of the stomach." He had been unable to eat anything, he was in great pain and lost weight rapidly. Perhaps he had a cancer. For all his "book learning," all his concer for the pueblo sano, and all his interest in progress, Don Amado clung to the old ways in medi- cine. When Dona Patrocina, our dear old cure woman in Santa Cruz, had been unable to help him, it had not occurred to him to go to a modem doctor in Oaxaca. jQud idstimal "What a pity, for myself and my sons, that you did not take more pictures of him before, Dona Elena. I have only this one taken in the shadow." She took from her old bridal chest, the only furniture in the house, a bad print of the picture of Don Amado shown here. I had taken it in 1944 as a typical shot of a Santa Cruz farmer going to plow- a poor choice by a poor photographer. Don Amado was not a typical farmer and he never went willingly to plow. I have since had a careful photography shop in the United States make good enlarge- ments of this weak negative, one each for Don Amado's sons, so that more portraits of him are now in existence. With the poor little photo in the chest, Dona Rufina had rolls and rolls of papers and correspondence carried on by the "sage" of Santa Cruz Etla. "Tell me what these things all are, Dona 15 DON AMADO from San Pablo back up here to our own graveyard in Santa Cruz. Imagine how pleased he was at that, Dona Elena, after the years we have taken funeral processions from up here down to the grave- yard in San Pablo. All San Pablo came to the funeral, and many men in black suits, wearing shoes, came from Oaxaca City. They knew of his death without our sending word. Some of them walked up from the bus road; they came to show respect for him." She was still in awe about it months after the occasion. "Go to see him in the Pantedn, Doba Elena, you will not be here to talk with his spirit when it comes on All Saints' Day in November." So I went. I sat under the giant wild-fig tree at the graveyard and looked down the valley for an hour; and I determined that some day, for his memory, I would write this little story, perhaps in one decade, or perhaps in the next. Then I came back to sit on a straw mat, a petate, in Dona Rufina's house, and ask about his last days. He had died in March, after three months of "sickness of the stomach." He had been unable to eat anything, he was in great pain and lost weight rapidly. Perhaps he had a cancer. For all his "book learning," all his concern for the pueblo sano, and all his interest in progress, Don Amado clung to the old ways in medi- cine. When Doa Patrocina, our dear old cure woman in Santa Cruz, had been unable to help him, it had not occurred to him to go to a modern doctor in Oaxaca. ;Qud ldstimal "What a pity, for myself and my sons, that you did not take more pictures of him before, Doba Elena. I have only this one taken in the shadow." She took from her old bridal chest, the only furniture in the house, a bad print of the picture of Don Amado shown here. I had taken it in 1944 as a typical shot of a Santa Cruz farmer going to plow- a poor choice by a poor photographer. Don Amado was not a typical farmer and he never went willingly to plow. I have since had a careful photography shop in the United States make good enlarge- ments of this weak negative, one each for Don Amado's sons, so that more portraits of him are now in existence. With the poor little photo in the chest, Dona Rufina had rolls and rolls of papers and correspondence carried on by the "sage" of Santa Cruz Etla. "Tell me what these things all are, Dona 15  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Elena," she said wistfully, for the letters were then just so many scratches to her. I myself started to teach her to read that same summer in the campaign against illiteracy; her oldest son carried her on. But even if she had learned to read better than an other woman in the Etla Hills, still she would never have understood all that went on in the mind of Don Amado, or all that was explained in his papers. First there was the legal founding of the independent town. Don Amado had been in great sympathy with the Mexican Revolution of 1910 to 1920. Naturally he was an "armchair" revolutionist who did not go out burning haciendas with the San Pablo men, but he read the proclamations posted in Oaxaca City and heard the speeches on market days. He knew that the Indian villages from the hacienda lands were being urged to incorporate and to make their local governments and their land holdings legal. In 1923 he had written to the authorities in Mexico City asking how Santa Cruz Etla could become an independent town. Dona Rufina had the brief, legalistic answer suggesting a charter, a municipal head- quarters. He had gone to Mexico City about it, his first visit since his youth. This time he went on the train. My husband and I had been often to Mexico in the 1930's on the second-class native trains, in years of low budgets and ambitious study projects; and we thought of those bare coaches as the hardest part of hard trips-the crowds, the fleas, the hard benches, the dirty toilets. To Don Amado who loved crowds, who came from a com- munity where there are fleas in every grass-mat bed, where the town council itself sits on the hard ground for meetings, where in his day there was no toilet of any kind, outdoor or indoor, clean or dirty, but only the hedgerows and the cornfields-to Don Amado the second-class train was doubtless the whole outside world. But I can see him lost in the maze of officialdom in Mexico City, where in 1923, even more so than now, long lines of poor barefooted Indians waited and waited to see some official or to ask for help about a problem in some distant village. Anyway, Don Amado got the papers, which I have never seen, and came back successfully with them and with the plan for the 16 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Elena," she said wistfully, for the letters were then just so many scratches to her. I myself started to teach her to read that same summer in the campaign against illiteracy; her oldest son carried her on. But even if she had learned to read better than any other woman in the Etla Hills, still she would never have understood all that went on in the mind of Don Amado, or all that was explained in his papers. First there was the legal founding of the independent town. Don Amado had been in great sympathy with the Mexican Revolution of 1910 to 1920. Naturally he was an "armchair" revolutionist who did not go out burning haciendas with the San Pablo men, but he read the proclamations posted in Oaxaca City and heard the speeches on market days. He knew that the Indian villages from the hacienda lands were being urged to incorporate and to make their local governments and their land holdings legal. In 1923 he had written to the authorities in Mexico City asking hose Santa Cruz Etla could become an independent town. Dona Rufina had the brief, legalistic answer suggesting a charter, a municipal head- quarters. He had gone to Mexico City about it, his first visit since his youth. This time he went on the train. My husband and I had been often to Mexico in the 1930's on the second-class native trains, in years of low budgets and ambitious study projects; and we thought of those bare coaches as the hardest part of hard trips-the crowds, the fleas, the hard benches, the dirty toilets. To Don Amado who loved crowds, who came from a com- munity where there are fleas in every grass-mat bed, where the town council itself sits on the hard ground for meetings, where in his day there was no toilet of any kind, outdoor or indoor, clean or dirty, but only the hedgerows and the cornfields-to Don Amado the second-class train was doubtless the whole outside world. But I can see him lost in the maze of officialdom in Mexico City, where in 1923, even more so than now, long lines of poor barefooted Indians waited and waited to see some official or to ask for help about a problem in some distant village. Anyway, Don Amado got the papers, which I have never seen, and came back successfully with them and with the plan for the 16 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Elena," she said wistfully, for the letters were then just so many scratches to her. I myself started to teach her to read that same summer in the campaign against illiteracy; her oldest son carried her on. But even if she had learned to read better than any other woman in the Etla Hills, still she would never have understood all that went on in the mind of Don Amado, or all that was explained in his papers. First there was the legal founding of the independent town. Don Amado had been in great sympathy with the Mexican Revolution of 1910 to 1920. Naturally he was an "armchair" revolutionist who did not go out burning haciendas with the San Pablo men, but he read the proclamations posted in Oaxaca City and heard the speeches on market days. He knew that the Indian villages from the hacienda lands were being urged to incorporate and to make their local governments and their land holdings legal. In 1923 he had written to the authorities in Mexico City asking how Santa Cruz Etla could become an independent town. Dofia Rufina had the brief, legalistic answer suggesting a charter, a municipal head- quarters. He had gone to Mexico City about it, his first visit since his youth. This time he went on the train. My husband and I had been often to Mexico in the 1930's on the second-class native trains, in years of low budgets and ambitious study projects; and we thought of those bare coaches as the hardest part of hard trips-the crowds, the fleas, the hard benches, the dirty toilets. To Don Amado who loved crowds, who came from a com- munity where there are fleas in every grass-mat bed, where the town council itself sits on the hard ground for meetings, where in his day there was no toilet of any kind, outdoor or indoor, clean or dirty, but only the hedgerows and the cornfields-to Don Amado the second-class train was doubtless the whole outside world. But I can see him lost in the maze of officialdom in Mexico City, where in 1923, even more so than now, long lines of poor barefooted Indians waited and waited to see some official or to ask for help about a problem in some distant village. Anyway, Don Amado got the papers, which I have never seen, and came back successfully with them and with the plan for the 16  DON AMADO municipal building. I would like to have asked Don Amado about all this: what the other Dons of Santa Cruz thought and said, whether there was a fiesta. If only he had shown me these papers when we were talking the year before at Dona Estefana's! But now I saw only the letters, three altogether, that Don Amado received from Mexico City about it. Anyway, after the letters were sent, Santa Cruz was a town! There was more correspondence about the school. Don Amado had heard about the plans for rural schools after the Revolution, and in 1929 he had started the idea of building the Santa Cruz school. In order to get federal government funds for the school, he had sent the papers of incorporation of Santa Cruz Etla as independent of San Pablo to Mexico City. They had never been returned. I am the one who asked to see them in 1944 in order to show them to the rural education director who urged the town council members to get them back and to keep them in their own municipal building. Evidently, at a later council meeting after I left that year, Don Amado volunteered to go to Mexico City himself and get them during the dry season. Such a journey costs twenty-five pesos round trip. Don Amado himself had told me, in speaking of his 1923 trip: "I would prefer to spend my twenty-five pesos in that manner, Dona Elena, than to save for a tile roof on my house. When I go again, I will take my Cassiano [his oldest son, then fifteen years old] to see the cathedral of Guadalupe, the great markets, the Aztec museum." Cassiano was to wait ten years, finally to go under much more tragic circumstances; and as of 1958 he had never yet moved back to Santa Cruz. But in the fall of 1944 Don Amado was short of money. He went alone and stinted himself on the trip. He was ailing when he left. He came back to find his dear and only daughter dead of typhoid. He took the charter for some sort of recording into Oaxaca City and left it with authorities there. Then he came home to the hills, lay down on his pelate and slowly died. No one else has ever got the papers back; no one knows for sure, as far as I was able to find out in 1954, in just what official bureaucratic department of the state government Don Amado had left them. Perhaps if Don Amado 17 DON AMADO municipal building. I would like to have asked Don Amado about all this: what the other Dons of Santa Cruz thought and said, whether there was a fiesta. If only he had shown me these papers when we were talking the year before at Dona Estefana's! But now I saw only the letters, three altogether, that Don Amado received from Mexico City about it. Anyway, after the letters were sent, Santa Cruz was a town! There was more correspondence about the school. Don Amado had heard about the plans for rural schools after the Revolution, and in 1929 he had started the idea of building the Santa Cruz school. In order to get federal government funds for the school, he had sent the papers of incorporation of Santa Cruz Etla as independent of San Pablo to Mexico City. They had never been returned. I am the one who asked to see them in 1944 in order to show them to the rural education director who urged the town council members to get them back and to keep them in their own municipal building. Evidently, at a later council meeting after I left that year, Don Amado volunteered to go to Mexico City himself and get them during the dry season. Such a journey costs twenty-five pesos round trip. Don Amado himself had told me, in speaking of his 1923 trip: "I would prefer to spend my twenty-five pesos in that manner, Dona Elena, than to save for a tile roof on my house. When I go again, I will take my Cassiano [his oldest son, then fifteen years old] to see the cathedral of Guadalupe, the great markets, the Aztec museum." Cassiano was to wait ten years, finally to go under much more tragic circumstances; and as of 1958 he had never yet moved back to Santa Cruz. But in the fall of 1944 Don Amado was short of money. He went alone and stinted himself on the trip. He was ailing when he left. He came back to find his dear and only daughter dead of typhoid. He took the charter for some sort of recording into Oaxaca City and left it with authorities there. Then he came home to the hills, lay down on his petate and slowly died. No one else has ever got the papers back; no one knows for sure, as far as I was able to find out in 1954, in just what official bureaucratic department of the state government Don Amado had left them. Perhaps if Don Amado 17 DON AMADO municipal building. I would like to have asked Don Amado about all this: what the other Dons of Santa Cruz thought and said, whether there was a fiesta. If only he had shown me these papers when we were talking the year before at Dona Estefana's! But now I saw only the letters, three altogether, that Don Amado received from Mexico City about it. Anyway, after the letters were sent, Santa Cruz was a town! There was more correspondence about the school. Don Amado had heard about the plans for rural schools after the Revolution, and in 1929 he had started the idea of building the Santa Cruz school. In order to get federal government funds for the school, he had sent the papers of incorporation of Santa Cruz Etla as independent of San Pablo to Mexico City. They had never been returned. I am the one who asked to see them in 1944 in order to show them to the rural education director who urged the town council members to get them back and to keep them in their own municipal building. Evidently, at a later council meeting after I left that year, Don Amado volunteered to go to Mexico City himself and get them during the dry season. Such a journey costs twenty-five pesos round trip. Don Amado himself had told me, in speaking of his 1923 trip: "I would prefer to spend my twenty-five pesos in that manner, Dona Elena, than to save for a tile roof on my house. When I go again, I will take my Cassiano [his oldest son, then fifteen years old] to see the cathedral of Guadalupe, the great markets, the Aztec museum." Cassiano was to wait ten years, finally to go under much more tragic circumstances; and as of 1958 he had never yet moved back to Santa Cruz. But in the fall of 1944 Don Amado was short of money. He went alone and stinted himself on the trip. He was ailing when he left. He came back to find his dear and only daughter dead of typhoid. He took the charter for some sort of recording into Oaxaca City and left it with authorities there. Then he came home to the hills, lay down on his petate and slowly died. No one else has ever got the papers back; no one knows for sure, as far as I was able to find out in 1954, in just what official bureaucratic department of the state government Don Amado had left them. Perhaps if Don Amado 17  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS had not gone on that last, unnecessary trip to Mexico City? Perhaps if no one had suggested that the documents should be back? Perhaps if I had not come in 1944 and fussed to see the documents, there would not have been that first big grave in the Panteon in 1945. But Don Amado would have exhausted himself, anyway, trying to raise the village by its sandal straps. Nothing less than death would ever have stopped him. Doia Rufna had letters about his attempt to found a Cooperativa. As early as 1934 we had called a small empty building near the San Pablo boundary La Cooperatica; I had often wondered why. A whole package of letters in Donia Rufina's collection helped me to piece together the story. I could see then why Don Amado never had time to write to me; he had handled so many letters all his life, going to the general delivery window to ask for answers every time he was in Oaxaca City. The Cooperativa was his idea to start a gasoline mill. In the 1920's all the people of Santa Cruz Etla were equally poor. No one had capital to run a mill to grind the corn for the tortillas, the daily bread of every Mexican rural family. The women ground it by hand through many, many hours of hard handwork, bending over a stone grinder as had their remotest ancestors in Aztec and Mixtecan times. In most Mexican villages a corn-grinding mill has been the first machinery introduced. Mechanical corn grinding was listed as a "must" for rural improvements by the school authorities under whose sponsorship we first came to Santa Cruz. Don Amado knew of such machinery. Perhaps it cost a hundred or two hundred pesos; the letters about it did not say the cost. After many speeches and much persuasion, Don Amado got thirty householders in Santa Cruz and on the upper trails of San Pablo to join his Cooperatica. They paid seven pesos apiece. The machinery was purchased, the Cooperativa shed was built in the dry season when farm work was slack. Cooperativa members were to get their corn ground free, non-members would pay enough to buy the gasoline. It was a fine idea. Unfortunately, Don Amada was a dreamer, a planner-a social engineer, but not a mechanical engineer. He did not know anything about the machinery. Doia Rufina said a joven, a youthful one, ran 18 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS had not gone on that last, unnecessary trip to Mexico City? Perhaps if no one had suggested that the documents should be back? Perhaps if I had not come in 1944 and fussed to see the documents, there would not have been that first big grave in the Panteon in 1945. But Don Amado would have exhausted himself, anyway, trying to raise the village by its sandal straps. Nothing less than death would ever have stopped him. Doria Rufina had letters about his attempt to found a Cooperativa. As early as 1934 we had called a small empty building near the San Pablo boundary La Cooperatica; I had often wondered why. A whole package of letters in Doia Rufina's collection helped me to piece together the story. I could see then why Don Amado never had time to write to me; he had handled so many letters all his life, going to the general delivery window to ask for answers every time he was in Oaxaca City. The Cooperativa was his idea to start a gasoline mill. In the 1920's all the people of Santa Cruz Etla were equally poor. No one had capital to run a mill to grind the corn for the tortillas, the daily bread of every Mexican rural family. The women ground it by hand through many, many hours of hard handwork, bending over a stone grinder as had their remotest ancestors in Aztec and Mixtecan times. In most Mexican villages a corn-grinding mill has been the first machinery introduced. Mechanical corn grinding was listed as a "must" for rural improvements by the school authorities under whose sponsorship we first came to Santa Cruz. Don Amado knew of such machinery. Perhaps it cost a hundred or two hundred pesos; the letters about it did not say the cost. After many speeches and much persuasion, Don Amado got thirty householders in Santa Cruz and on the upper trails of San Pablo to join his Cooperatica. They paid seven pesos apiece. The machinery was purchased, the Cooperativa shed was built in the dry season when farm work was slack. Cooperativa members were to get their corn ground free, non-members would pay enough to buy the gasoline. It was a fine idea. Unfortunately, Don Amada was a dreamer, a planner-a social engineer, but not a mechanical engineer. He did not know anything about the machinery. Dona Rufina said a joven, a youthful one, ran 18 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS had not gone on that last, unnecessary trip to Mexico City? Perhaps if no one had suggested that the documents should be back? Perhaps if I had not come in 1944 and fussed to see the documents, there would not have been that first big grave in the Pantedn in 1945. But Don Amado would have exhausted himself, anyway, trying to raise the village by its sandal straps. Nothing less than death would ever have stopped him. Doia Rufina had letters about his attempt to found a Cooperativa. As early as 1934 we had called a small empty building near the San Pablo boundary La Cooperatica; I had often wondered why. A whole package of letters in Doia Rufina's collection helped me to piece together the story. I could see then why Don Amado never had time to write to me; he had handled so many letters all his life, going to the general delivery window to ask for answers every time he was in Oaxaca City. The Cooperativa was his idea to start a gasoline mill. In the 1920's all the people of Santa Cruz Etla were equally poor. No one had capital to run a mill to grind the corn for the tortillas, the daily bread of every Mexican rural family. The women ground it by hand through many, many hours of hard handwork, bending over a stone grinder as had their remotest ancestors in Aztec and Mixtecan times. In most Mexican villages a corn-grinding mill has been the first machinery introduced. Mechanical corn grinding was listed as a "must" for rural improvements by the school authorities under whose sponsorship we first came to Santa Cruz. Don Amado knew of such machinery. Perhaps it cost a hundred or two hundred pesos; the letters about it did not say the cost. After many speeches and much persuasion, Don Amado got thirty householders in Santa Cruz and on the upper trails of San Pablo to join his Cooperatica. They paid seven pesos apiece. The machinery was purchased, the Cooperativa shed was built in the dry season when farm work was slack. Cooperatica members were to get their corn ground free, non-members would pay enough to buy the gasoline. It was a fine idea. Unfortunately, Don Amada was a dreamer, a planner-a social engineer, but not a mechanical engineer. He did not know anything about the machinery. Doia Rufina said a joven, a youthful one, ran 18  DON AMADO it, but she did not say what joven. Anyway, he was too joven, and when the machinery broke he could not fix it. When a mechanic had to walk in to make repairs, all the members of the Cooperativa had to pay again. The mill ran for two years, while Don Amado worked on the idea about the school building. Finally, the ma- chinery stopped altogether, and a man from the valley bought the broken engine. In 1934 lazy women walked to a new mill in San Pablo Etla; industrious women ground their own corn. Then a Santa Cruz Etla farmer named Don Julio (he will be often a character in this account) who had much mechanical ingenuity and hard-headed practical sense, but who looked scornfully at the Cooperativa, sold some corn land and bought a mill. Thus private capital triumphed over socialism. How unfortunate for Santa Cruz Etla that Don Amado did not have Don Julio's love of machinery, that Don Julio did not have Don Amado's love of Santa Cruz Etla! How un- fortunate for all of us that the Don Julios and the Don Amados of the world are not oftener combined in the same person! After the failure of the mill, Don Amado's correspondence showed that he was trying to found a chapter of the Confederacion de Obreros y Campesinos, a workers' and farmers' union active during the Calles regime. He was appointed the organizer for the region; a letter from the Mexico City headquarters in 1930 told him to go ahead and start a group. Another letter urged him to come to a big meeting in Mexico City, unfortunately held in June, the busiest planting season. Evidently he didn't go. There was a whole package of literature this organization had sent him, many fine things about fertilizing, irrigating, improving seed corn, about founding coopera- tives to buy farm machinery or to put in electric power lines, and about electing certain people for local and national offices who would do all these things for the hill farmers. But no other man in Santa Cruz Etla who owned land, only Don Amado himself, could read at that time; and he knew about all these things already. No one in Santa Cruz Etla, not even Don Amado, ever went to Oaxaca or to Etla to vote in any state or national election, to help choose any farmers' candidate. Dona Rufina, when I tried to explain these letters to her, shook her head 19 DON AMADO it, but she did not say what joven. Anyway, he was too joven, and when the machinery broke he could not fix it. When a mechanic had to walk in to make repairs, all the members of the Cooperativa had to pay again. The mill ran for two years, while Don Amado worked on the idea about the school building. Finally, the ma- chinery stopped altogether, and a man from the valley bought the broken engine. In 1934 lazy women walked to a new mill in San Pablo Etla; industrious women ground their own corn. Then a Santa Cruz Etla farmer named Don Julio (he will be often a character in this account) who had much mechanical ingenuity and hard-headed practical sense, but who looked scornfully at the Cooperativa, sold some corn land and bought a mill. Thus private capital triumphed over socialism. How unfortunate for Santa Cruz Etla that Don Amado did not have Don Julio's love of machinery, that Don Julio did not have Don Amado's love of Santa Cruz Etla! How un- fortunate for all of us that the Don Julios and the Don Amados of the world are not oftener combined in the same person! After the failure of the mill, Don Amado's correspondence showed that he was trying to found a chapter of the Confederacion de Obreros y Campesinos, a workers' and farmers' union active during the Calles regime. He was appointed the organizer for the region; a letter from the Mexico City headquarters in 1930 told him to go ahead and start a group. Another letter urged him to come to a big meeting in Mexico City, unfortunately held in June, the busiest planting season. Evidently he didn't go. There was a whole package of literature this organization had sent him, many fine things about fertilizing, irrigating, improving seed corn, about founding coopera- tives to buy farm machinery or to put in electric power lines, and about electing certain people for local and national offices who would do all these things for the hill farmers. But no other man in Santa Cruz Etla who owned land, only Don Amado himself, could read at that time; and he knew about all these things already. No one in Santa Cruz Etla, not even Don Amado, ever went to Oaxaca or to Etla to vote in any state or national election, to help choose any farmers' candidate. Dona Rufina, when I tried to explain these letters to her, shook her head 19 DON AMADO it, but she did not say what joven. Anyway, he was too joven, and when the machinery broke he could not fix it. When a mechanic had to walk in to make repairs, all the members of the Cooperativa had to pay again. The mill ran for two years, while Don Amado worked on the idea about the school building. Finally, the ma- chinery stopped altogether, and a man from the valley bought the broken engine. In 1934 lazy women walked to a new mill in San Pablo Etla; industrious women ground their own corn. Then a Santa Cruz Etla farmer named Don Julio (he will be often a character in this account) who had much mechanical ingenuity and hard-headed practical sense, but who looked scornfully at the Cooperativa, sold some corn land and bought a mill. Thus private capital triumphed over socialism. How unfortunate for Santa Cruz Etla that Don Amado did not have Don Julio's love of machinery, that Don Julio did not have Don Amado's love of Santa Cruz Etla! How un- fortunate for all of us that the Don Julios and the Don Amados of the world are not oftener combined in the same person! After the failure of the mill, Don Amado's correspondence showed that he was trying to found a chapter of the Confederacidn de Obreros y Campesinos, a workers' and farmers' union active during the Calles regime. He was appointed the organizer for the region; a letter from the Mexico City headquarters in 1930 told him to go ahead and start a group. Another letter urged him to come to a big meeting in Mexico City, unfortunately held in June, the busiest planting season. Evidently he didn't go. There was a whole package of literature this organization had sent him, many fine things about fertilizing, irrigating, improving seed corn, about founding coopera- tives to buy farm machinery or to put in electric power lines, and about electing certain people for local and national offices who would do all these things for the hill farmers. But no other man in Santa Cruz Etla who owned land, only Don Amado himself, could read at that time; and he knew about all these things already. No one in Santa Cruz Etla, not even Don Amado, ever went to Oaxaca or to Etla to vote in any state or national election, to help choose any farmers' candidate. Dona Rufina, when I tried to explain these letters to her, shook her head 19  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS sadly. "I remember this thing, this Confederacidn. He was dis- appointed in it. He said many times, 'We must all have more education before we can use these ideas!'" Anyway he lived long enough to see elementary education come successfully to Santa Cruz Etla, to see the first teacher he helped to hire become in her turn a leader in Santa Cruz. But that is another part of the story. Another set of "official correspondence" among Don Amado's papers which interested and amused me was an account of the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua in 1934. We had been at Santa Cruz Etla when that happened, and it bad seemed to us then a "tempest in a teapot," an "interesting small-town economic problem." Now here were all the documents to prove how important it had been to Don Amado and to the town. Perhaps from the ancient Mixtees, perhaps from early Spanish law, it had been established that charcoal burners could cut wood in the forests of the sierra, the public forests. Santa Cruz Etla is a woodcutting town, TeotitlAn del Valle makes sarapes, Santa Maria Asumpa makes pottery. Without the forest Santa Cruz Etla would have had no cash crop. Always our men had used the wood "to the top of the divide." I have been up there on horseback; it is perhaps fifteen miles away from the village. But San Felipe de Agua, a mountain town directly up out of Oaxaca City, also has charcoal burners; they also work up to the "top of the divide." Suddenly in the spring of 1934, they said, "The top of the divide means this divide," the one in Santa Cruz Etla territory. When the young men of Santa Cruz cut wood. the San Felipe cutters took it in the night. Such a thing is never heard of there between individuals. A feud developed between the towns. The people of the two towns seldom cross each other's paths. going into market by different routes. Few families of one are related to those of the other; no one even knows anyone else except among the woodcutters. But all the men of Santa Cruz Etla had been woodcutters in their youth. The town council called a meeting. Hot-blooded young men asked for action. I remember, when my husband and I were sleeping in the school, being awakened at 20 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS sadly. "I remember this thing, this Confederacidn. He was dis- appointed in it. He said many times, 'We must all have more education before we can use these ideas!'" Anyway he lived long enough to see elementary education come successfully to Santa Cruz Etla, to see the first teacher he helped to hire become in her turn a leader in Santa Cruz. But that is another part of the story. Another set of "official correspondence" among Don Amado's papers which interested and amused me was an account of the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua in 1934. We had been at Santa Cruz Etla when that happened, and it had seemed to us then a "tempest in a teapot," an "interesting small-town economic problem." Now here were all the documents to prove how important it had been to Don Amado and to the town. Perhaps from the ancient Mixtees, perhaps from early Spanish law, it had been established that charcoal burners could cut wood in the forests of the sierra, the public forests. Santa Cruz Etla is a woodcutting town, Teotitlan del Valle makes sarapes, Santa Maria Asumpa makes pottery. Without the forest Santa Cruz Etla would have had no cash crop. Always our men had used the wood "to the top of the divide." I have been up there on horseback; it is perhaps fifteen miles away from the village. But San Felipe de Agua, a mountain town directly up out of Oaxaca City, also has charcoal burners; they also work up to the "top of the divide." Suddenly in the spring of 1934, they said, "The top of the divide means this divide," the one in Santa Cruz Etla territory. When the young men of Santa Cruz cut wood. the San Felipe cutters took it in the night. Such a thing is never heard of there between individuals. A feud developed between the towns. The people of the two towns seldom cross each other's paths. going into market by different routes. Few families of one are related to those of the other; no one even knows anyone else except among the woodcutters. But all the men of Santa Cruz Etla had been woodcutters in their youth. The town council called a meeting. Hot-blooded young men asked for action. I remember, when my husband and I were sleeping in the school, being awakened at 20 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS sadly. "I remember this thing, this Confederacition. He was dis- appointed in it. He said many times, 'We must all have more education before we can use these ideas!'" Anyway he lived long enough to see elementary education come successfully to Santa Cruz Etla, to see the first teacher he helped to hire become in her turn a leader in Santa Cruz. But that is another part of the story. Another set of "official correspondence" among Don Amado's papers which interested and amused me was an account of the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua in 1934. We had been at Santa Cruz Etla when that happened, and it had seemed to us then a "tempest in a teapot," an "interesting small-town economic problem." Now here were all the documents to prove how important it had been to Don Amado and to the town. Perhaps from the ancient Mixtees, perhaps from early Spanish law, it had been established that charcoal burners could cut wood in the forests of the sierra, the public forests. Santa Cruz Etla is a woodcutting town, Teotitlan del Valle makes sarapes, Santa Maria Asumpa makes pottery. Without the forest Santa Cruz Etla would have had no cash crop. Always our men had used the wood "to the top of the divide." I have been up there on horseback; it is perhaps fifteen miles away from the village. But San Felipe de Agua, a mountain town directly up out of Oaxaca City, also has charcoal burners; they also work up to the "top of the divide." Suddenly in the spring of 1934, they said, "The top of the divide means this divide," the one in Santa Cruz Etla territory. When the young men of Santa Cruz cut wood. the San Felipe cutters took it in the night. Such a thing is never heard of there between individuals. A feud developed between the towns. The people of the two towns seldom cross each other's paths, going into market by different routes. Few families of one are related to those of the other; no one even knows anyone else except among the woodcutters. But all the men of Santa Cruz Etla had been woodcutters in their youth. The town council called a meeting. Hot-blooded young men asked for action. I remember, when my husband and I were sleeping in the school, being awakened at 20  DON AMADO dawn by the bell madly tolling. All grown men were to come and bring weapons to the school porch, said the council president. The men came wrapped in sarapes to their eyes; it is cold at that altitude in the early morning. One is more likely to see Mexicans wrapped up like that painted on pottery or carved on bookends, souvenirs of a Mexico that never existed, than to see such at work in the fields or at the market. But the Santa Cruz men looked that way that morning. And the "weapons" of Santa Cruz Etla! One man had a muzzle-loader made to shoot game, another a deer rifle, a third a shotgun. All the other men had machetes, the long knives they use to cut corn and alfalfa. We stood on the school porch and watched them file off on the three-hour hike to the sierra, the older men going up for the first time in fifteen or twenty years. My husband had a small telescope. Through it we could see the trees on the high hills, each tree standing out individually; but we could not see beneath the trees because the undergrowth was too thick. Wisps of smoke continued to rise where wood was burning into charcoal. Doubtless we would not have seen or heard any shots fired, but everyone left at home wanted to look through the telescope; and my husband had a tiring day adjusting it for the wives and children the "warriors" had left behind. In the evening they all came down again. There had been an armed truce all day in the hills, they said. Now there was another council meeting, held on the school porch in the fading light, but I could not speak Spanish then well enough to follow the intricacies of meetings. We did know, though, that Don Amado went to Oaxaca City to see the governor, that two "armed men" went to the hills with the young woodcutters every day. This went on for three weeks. The dispute came to be called la guerrita, the little war. At the end of the fourth week, Don Amado had received three letters from the forestry supervisor, evidently, for Dona Rufina had the correspondence dated July, 1934. One letter, couched in the elaborate language of Mexican official correspondence, announced that inspectors sent by the forestry supervisor would come and survey the ridge. I remember the day they came-two mounted 21 DON AMADO dawn by the bell madly tolling. All grown men were to come and bring weapons to the school porch, said the council president. The men came wrapped in sarapes to their eyes; it is cold at that altitude in the early morning. One is more likely to see Mexicans wrapped up like that painted on pottery or carved on bookends, souvenirs of a Mexico that never existed, than to see such at work in the fields or at the market. But the Santa Cruz men looked that way that morning. And the "weapons" of Santa Cruz Etla! One man had a muzzle-loader made to shoot game, another a deer rifle, a third a shotgun. All the other men had machetes, the long knives they use to cut corn and alfalfa. We stood on the school porch and watched them file off on the three-hour hike to the sierra, the older men going up for the first time in fifteen or twenty years. My husband had a small telescope. Through it we could see the trees on the high hills, each tree standing out individually; but we could not see beneath the trees because the undergrowth was too thick. Wisps of smoke continued to rise where wood was burning into charcoal. Doubtless we would not have seen or heard any shots fired, but everyone left at home wanted to look through the telescope; and my husband had a tiring day adjusting it for the wives and children the "warriors" had left behind. In the evening they all came down again. There had been an armed truce all day in the hills, they said. Now there was another council meeting, held on the school porch in the fading light, but I could not speak Spanish then well enough to follow the intricacies of meetings. We did know, though, that Don Amado went to Oaxaca City to see the governor, that two "armed men" went to the hills with the young woodcutters every day. This went on for three weeks. The dispute came to be called la guerrita, the little war. At the end of the fourth week, Don Amado had received three letters from the forestry supervisor, evidently, for Dofna Rufina had the correspondence dated July, 1934. One letter, couched in the elaborate language of Mexican official correspondence, announced that inspectors sent by the forestry supervisor would come and survey the ridge. I reemmber the day they came-two mounted 21 DON AMADO dawn by the bell madly tolling. All grown men were to come and bring weapons to the school porch, said the council president. The men came wrapped in sarapes to their eyes; it is cold at that altitude in the early morning. One is more likely to see Mexicans wrapped up like that painted on pottery or carved on bookends, souvenirs of a Mexico that never existed, than to see such at work in the fields or at the market. But the Santa Cruz men looked that way that morning. And the "weapons" of Santa Cruz Etla! One man had a muzzle-loader made to shoot game, another a deer rife, a third a shotgun. All the other men had machetes, the long knives they use to cut corn and alfalfa. We stood on the school porch and watched them file off on the three-hour hike to the sierra, the older men going up for the first time in fifteen or twenty years. My husband had a small telescope. Through it we could see the trees on the high hills, each tree standing out individually; but we could not see beneath the trees because the undergrowth was too thick. Wisps of smoke continued to rise where wood was burning into charcoal. Doubtless we would not have seen or heard any shots fired, but everyone left at home wanted to look through the telescope; and my husband had a tiring day adjusting it for the wives and children the "warriors" had left behind. In the evening they all came down again. There had been an armed truce all day in the hills, they said. Now there was another council meeting, held on the school porch in the fading light, but I could not speak Spanish then well enough to follow the intricacies of meetings. We did know, though, that Don Amado went to Oaxaca City to see the governor, that two "armed men" went to the hills with the young woodcutters every day. This went on for three weeks. The dispute came to be called la guerrita, the little war. At the end of the fourth week, Don Amado had received three letters from the forestry supervisor, evidently, for Dona Rufina had the correspondence dated July, 1934. One letter, couched in the elaborate language of Mexican official correspondence, announced that inspectors sent by the forestry supervisor would come and survey the ridge. I remember the day they came-two mounted 21  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS inspectors with high-stepping horses and a pack animal carrying surveying instruments. They stopped at the school, chatted with us and the teacher, and went ceremoniously off up the hill. When they came down the next day, they had driven the San Felipe men from the Santa Cruz sierra. From that time on, the top of the divide has meant the top of the divide. I came to realize, in long conversations in 1954 with the "no longer young" men who had been the hot-headed woodcutters in 1934, how important this negotiation of Don Amado was to Santa Cruz. Twenty years later the sierra on the Santa Cruz side had begun to be depleted, and hot-blooded young men were having to look elsewhere for a cash income. Win- ning the guerrita by arbitration kept Santa Cruz men busy at home for another two decades. I did not translate all of Don Amado's other correspondence- the plans for the school, the legal title to two acres of fertile farm land to be held in the name of the school and worked by the school committee for a cash crop to buy supplies for the children, the plans for the graveyard and for the municipal building. All these records are now kept by Cassiano, Don Amado's oldest son and one of those young men who sought work elsewhere, in a sad, slum-area rooming house in Mexico City; but Cassiano reveres the memory of his father, he can read well, he has Santa Cruz Etla in his blood, and he still hopes to go back. Other writing in Don Amado's fine hand is kept in the records of the municipal building, since Don Amado served as municipal secretary when he was not president. Zealous young Mexican reformers, after the stormy days of the Revolution had subsided, were organized into "cultural missions" which were sent into remote villages to found schools, spread public health ideas, teach illiterates, and raise the rural standard of living. So successful were these missions in the late 1920's and early 1930's that other backward nations took up their ideas, and rural communities throughout the world profited. No such cultural mission ever came to Santa Cruz, although some correspondence implied that Don Amado and the Santa Cruz council had asked for one. However, when the long-term goals of the cultural missions 22 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS inspectors with high-stepping horses and a pack animal carrying surveying instruments. They stopped at the school, chatted with us and the teacher, and went ceremoniously off up the hill. When they came down the next day, they had driven the San Felipe men from the Santa Cruz sierra. From that time on, the top of the divide has meant the top of the divide. I came to realize, in long conversations in 1954 with the "no longer young" men who had been the hot-headed woodcutters in 1934, how important this negotiation of Don Amado was to Santa Cruz. Twenty years later the sierra on the Santa Cruz side had begun to be depleted, and hot-blooded young men were having to look elsewhere for a cash income. Win- ning the guerrita by arbitration kept Santa Cruz men busy at home for another two decades. I did not translate all of Don Amado's other correspondence- the plans for the school, the legal title to two acres of fertile farm land to be held in the name of the school and worked by the school committee for a cash crop to buy supplies for the children, the plans for the graveyard and for the municipal building. All these records are now kept by Cassiano, Don Amado's oldest son and one of those young men who sought work elsewhere, in a sad, slum-area rooming house in Mexico City; but Cassiano reveres the memory of his father, he can read well, he has Santa Cruz Etla in his blood, and he still hopes to go back. Other writing in Don Amado's fine hand is kept in the records of the municipal building, since Don Amado served as municipal secretary when he was not president. Zealous young Mexican reformers, after the stormy days of the Revolution had subsided, were organized into "cultural missions" which were sent into remote villages to found schools, spread public health ideas, teach illiterates, and raise the rural standard of living. So successful were these missions in the late 1920's and early 1930's that other backward nations took up their ideas, and rural communities throughout the world profited. No such cultural mission ever came to Santa Cruz, although some correspondence implied that Don Amado and the Santa Cruz council had asked for one. However, when the long-term goals of the cultural missions 22 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS inspectors with high-stepping horses and a pack animal carrying surveying instruments. They stopped at the school, chatted with us and the teacher, and went ceremoniously off up the hill. When they came down the next day, they had driven the San Felipe men from the Santa Cruz sierra. From that time on, the top of the divide has meant the top of the divide. I came to realize, in long conversations in 1954 with the "no longer young" men who had been the hot-headed woodcutters in 1934, how important this negotiation of Don Amado was to Santa Cruz. Twenty years later the sierra on the Santa Cruz side had begun to be depleted, and hot-blooded young men were having to look elsewhere for a cash income. Win- ning the guerrita by arbitration kept Santa Cruz men busy at home for another two decades. I did not translate all of Don Amado's other correspondence- the plans for the school, the legal title to two acres of fertile farm land to be held in the name of the school and worked by the school committee for a cash crop to buy supplies for the children, the plans for the graveyard and for the municipal building. All these records are now kept by Cassiano, Don Amado's oldest son and one of those young men who sought work elsewhere, in a sad, slum-area rooming house in Mexico City; but Cassiano reveres the memory of his father, he can read well, he has Santa Cruz Etla in his blood, and he still hopes to go back. Other writing in Don Amado's fine hand is kept in the records of the municipal building, since Don Amado served as municipal secretary when he was not president. Zealous young Mexican reformers, after the stormy days of the Revolution had subsided, were organized into "cultural missions" which were sent into remote villages to found schools, spread public health ideas, teach illiterates, and raise the rural standard of living. So successful were these missions in the late 1920's and early 1930's that other backward nations took up their ideas, and rural communities throughout the world profited. No such cultural mission ever came to Santa Cruz, although some correspondence implied that Don Amado and the Santa Cruz council had asked for one. However, when the long-term goals of the cultural missions 22  DON MARTIN program were standardized and published, after twenty years of success in many other backward parts of Mexico, it was evident that Don Amado himself had accomplished a good part of the "long-range goals." "Secure legal title to community lands. Guar- antee legal incorporation of local governments. Construct adequate public buildings. Build modern schools." These things high on the "must list" Don Amado had done in Santa Cruz Etla. "Assure practice in local self-government by guiding the choice of wise community leaders," say the instructions to the cultural missions. But the slogans of revolutionary Mexico since 1920 have included "no re-election." Only one term per president-in suc- cession, that is. Thus, Don Amado, local president for two years, 1925 and 1926, alternated the post with other community leaders every two years. And of course, Don Amado had not given Santa Cruz such fine "town" status singlehanded; a group of other men, now the grandfathers of Santa Cruz, were behind him in most of what he did. A TowN ELECrION had been held in January, 1933, beginning one of Don Amado's "out" terms, and Don Martin Garcia had been elected Santa Cruz Etla's presidente municipal. When we arrived with Mr. Ximello the next year for our first visit, it was Don Martin who welcomed us to the school. Even then a trifle plump and bald, but with fine white teeth flashing a bright smile in his dark, pock- marked face, Don Martin sang to the guitar by torchlight on the school steps that night. Not only his position as president, but his big heart and high integrity endeared him especially to my husband, and they spent many days together under the portico of Don Martin's but that first summer, even though neither under- stood the other's language. Don Martin was willing to make special trips into Oaxaca to see my husband at a city boardinghouse two other summers, when I made the long hike into Santa Cruz alone. 23 DON MARTIN program were standardized and published, after twenty years of success in many other backward parts of Mexico, it was evident that Don Amado himself had accomplished a good part of the "long-range goals." "Secure legal title to community lands. Guar- antee legal incorporation of local governments. Construct adequate public buildings. Build modern schools." These things high on the "must list" Don Amado had done in Santa Cruz Etla. "Assure practice in local self-government by guiding the choice of wise community leaders," say the instructions to the cultural missions. But the slogans of revolutionary Mexico since 1920 have included "no re-election." Only one term per president-in suc- cession, that is. Thus, Don Amado, local president for two years, 1925 and 1926, alternated the post with other community leaders every two years. And of course, Don Amado had not given Santa Cruz such fine "town" status singlehanded; a group of other men, now the grandfathers of Santa Cruz, were behind him in most of what he did. A TOWN ELECTION had been held in January, 1933, beginning one of Don Amado's "out" terms, and Don Martin Garcia had been elected Santa Cruz Etla's presidente municipal. When we arrived with Mr. Ximello the next year for our first visit, it was Don Martin who welcomed us to the school. Even then a trifle plump and bald, but with fine white teeth flashing a bright smile in his dark, pock- marked face, Don Martin sang to the guitar by torchlight on the school steps that night. Not only his position as president, but his big heart and high integrity endeared him especially to my husband, and they spent many days together under the portico of Don Martin's but that first summer, even though neither under- stood the other's language. Don Martin was willing to make special trips into Oaxaca to see my husband at a city boardinghouse two other summers, when I made the long hike into Santa Cruz alone. 23 DON MARTIN program were standardized and published, after twenty years of success in many other backward parts of Mexico, it was evident that Don Amado himself had accomplished a good part of the "long-range goals." "Secure legal title to community lands. Guar- antee legal incorporation of local governments. Construct adequate public buildings. Build modem schools." These things high on the "must list" Don Amado had done in Santa Cruz Etla. "Assure practice in local self-government by guiding the choice of wise community leaders," say the instructions to the cultural missions. But the slogans of revolutionary Mexico since 1920 have included "no re-election." Only one term per president-in suc- cession, that is. Thus, Don Amado, local president for two years, 1925 and 1926, alternated the post with other community leaders every two years. And of course, Don Amado had not given Santa Cruz such fine "town" status singlehanded; a group of other men, now the grandfathers of Santa Cruz, were behind him in most of what he did. -2,% 2jf. A TowN ELECrION had been held in January, 1933, beginning one of Don Amado's "out" terms, and Don Martin Garcia had been elected Santa Cruz Etla's presidente municipal. When we arrived with Mr. Ximello the next year for our first visit, it was Don Martin who welcomed us to the school. Even then a trifle plump and bald, but with fine white teeth flashing a bright smile in his dark, pock- marked face, Don Martin sang to the guitar by torchlight on the school steps that night. Not only his position as president, but his big heart and high integrity endeared him especially to my husband, and they spent many days together under the portico of Don Martin's but that first summer, even though neither under- stood the other's language. Don Martin was willing to make special trips into Oaxaca to see my husband at a city boardinghouse two other summers, when I made the long hike into Santa Cruz alone. 23  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When I came to spend the entire summer of 1945 and to work in the campaign against illiteracy, my husband, a teacher of science with only mild interest in teaching illiterates, chose to stay at Mexico's west-coast beach resorts. I had to lie to Don Martin about the bad health of Don Enrique, as they called my husband, and explain to him that Don Enrique needed to bathe in the ocean. No one in Santa Cruz Etla had then seen the ocean, perhaps not even pictures of it; they knew only that the dear Don Enrique was in bad health jqud istima! and I have been explaining about the medical properties of ocean bathing on every visit since. When I left Santa Cruz in 1945, Don Martin sent my husband a big abrazo, an embrace and a plea to come the next year and spend the entire summer in his house. "Don Enrique will like it then," he said, "as I will have it whitewashed inside." It was not until 1951 that we, either of us, were to see the whitewash in Don Martin's house. We drove down the Pan American Highway into Guatemala and Honduras that summer, and coming back, we brought our own car up to San Pablo. Roads had been so bad in Central America that no oxcart trail could frighten us. Don Martin and the then president, Don Marcelina, sent an oxcart to bring us the rest of the way. We stayed all day at Don Martin's, admiring his whitewashed house and his grandchildren, compli- menting him on the progress of the town in his two terms as president after 1934, and above all on the progress of his family. and his venture into "business." His daughter-in-law had been one of my favorites in the school in 1934, his house was always my house, es su casa as the good host says in Mexico; so when I went to Santa Cruz Etla in 1954, two decades after Don Martin's first presidency, I slept in his house, with his granddaughters, on a real bed set up on a tile floor in a whitewashed house, not on a straw mat, a petate, in a floorless adobe house. Santa Cruz was really a town then. It had a "grocery store" and a "bakery," both created by Don Martin. Before he was ever president Don Martin had delivered loads of firewood to a bakery in Oaxaca City. There he had watched the bakers mix the wheat dough, for even in 1930 well-to-do city 24 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When I came to spend the entire summer of 1945 and to work in the campaign against illiteracy, my husband, a teacher of science with only mild interest in teaching illiterates, chose to stay at Mexico's west-coast beach resorts. I had to lie to Don Martin about the bad health of Don Enrique, as they called my husband, and explain to him that Don Enrique needed to bathe in the ocean. No one in Santa Cruz Etla had then seen the ocean, perhaps not even pictures of it; they knew only that the dear Don Enrique was in bad health jqui ldstima! and I have been explaining about the medical properties of ocean bathing on every visit since. When I left Santa Cruz in 1945, Don Martin sent my husband a big abrazo, an embrace and a plea to come the next year and spend the entire summer in his house. "Don Enrique will like it then," he said, "as I will have it whitewashed inside." It was not until 1951 that we, either of us, were to see the whitewash in Don Martin's house. We drove down the Pan American Highway into Guatemala and Honduras that summer, and coming back, we brought our own car up to San Pablo. Roads had been so bad in Central America that no oxcart trail could frighten us. Don Martin and the then president, Don Marcelino, sent an oxcart to bring us the rest of the way. We stayed all day at Don Martin's, admiring his whitewashed house and his grandchildren, compli- menting him on the progress of the town in his two terms as president after 1934, and above all on the progress of his family, and his venture into "business." His daughter-in-law had been one of my favorites in the school in 1934, his house was always my house, es su casa as the good host says in Mexico; so when I went to Santa Cruz Etla in 1954, two decades after Don Martin's first presidency, I slept in his house, with his granddaughters, on a real bed set up on a tile floor in a whitewashed house, not on a straw mat, a petate, in a floorless adobe house. Santa Cruz was really a town then. It had a "grocery store" and a "bakery," both created by Don Martin. Before he was ever president Don Martin had delivered loads of firewood to a bakery in Oaxaca City. There he had watched the bakers mix the wheat dough, for even in 1930 well-to-do city 24 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When I came to spend the entire summer of 1945 and to work in the campaign against illiteracy, my husband, a teacher of science with only mild interest in teaching illiterates, chose to stay at Mexico's west-coast beach resorts. I had to lie to Don Martin about the bad health of Don Enrique, as they called my husband, and explain to him that Don Enrique needed to bathe in the ocean. No one in Santa Cruz Etla had then seen the ocean, perhaps not even pictures of it; they knew only that the dear Don Enrique was in bad health jqui ldstimal and I have been explaining about the medical properties of ocean bathing on every visit since. When I left Santa Cruz in 1945, Don Martin sent my husband a big abrazo, an embrace and a plea to come the next year and spend the entire summer in his house. "Don Enrique will like it then," he said, "as I will have it whitewashed inside." It was not until 1951 that we, either of us, were to see the whitewash in Don Martin's house. We drove down the Pan American Highway into Guatemala and Honduras that summer, and coming back, we brought our own car up to San Pablo. Roads had been so bad in Central America that no oxcart trail could frighten us. Don Martin and the then president, Don Marcelino, sent an oxcart to bring us the rest of the way. We stayed all day at Don Martin's, admiring his whitewashed house and his grandchildren, compli- menting him on the progress of the town in his two terms as president after 1934, and above all on the progress of his family, and his venture into "business." His daughter-in-law had been one of my favorites in the school in 1934, his house was always my house, es sm casa as the good host says in Mexico; so when I went to Santa Cruz Etla in 1954, two decades after Don Martin's frst presidency, I slept in his house, with his granddaughters, on a real bed set up on a tile floor in a whitewashed house, not on a straw mat, a petate, in a floorless adobe house. Santa Cruz was really a town then. It had a "grocery store" and a "bakery," both created by Don Martin. Before he was ever president Don Martin had delivered loads of firewood to a bakery in Oaxaca City. There he had watched the bakers mix the wheat dough, for even in 1930 well-to-do city 24  DON MARTIN people in Oaxaca ate wheat rolls for breakfast in preference to the common Mexican corn cake, or tortilla. These city bakers used Santa Cruz charcoal, heated large adobe ovens which had been constructed easily enough, and put the wheat dough into the oven as rolls. One time Don Martin had taken home rolls of wheat bread as part payment for wood, when it had been a bad corn year; it was at the end of the dry season, and corn tortillas were getting scarce at home. His family had eaten the rolls with wonder and enthusiasm; his wife, Dona Pastorcita, a keen, intelligent woman, compared the process of their preparation to the long labor of making tortillas. The flour was already ground; the mixing was done with large ladles; the rolls were quickly shaped; eighty of them were in the oven at once. They cost ten centavos apiece in any bakeshop. Don Martin remembered the rolls when he retired from being municipal president the second time, in 1942. Since he had served the community well, both as official and as public-spirited citizen, he had incurred debts for funerals and fiestas. Miguelito, his only child, was thin and slight to work up at the woodcutting, but he had a strong right hand to shape rolls. Don Martin went again with a load of charcoal to visit the bakeshop in Oaxaca City. The proprietor gave him the recipe: so many kilograms of flour, so many packages of dry yeast, so much water, so much salt. Mix it in a large wooden trough, roll it out into long rolls as big as a man's leg, let it set overnight, knead it again the next day. Then with a sharp knife cut it into two-inch lengths; work each length into a saucer shape, two at a time, one in each hand. It was cer- tainly simple. In return for more loads of charcoal, Don Martin took home five sacks of flour on burro-back. He baked first for his family and his daughter-in-law's family in a crude mud oven his wife, Dofia Pastorcita, had sometimes used for meat. Others heard about the bread; they came to look, to taste, to buy. He taught the corn-and- tortilla-loving people of Santa Cruz Etla to eat wheat rolls in spite of themselves. "Today they ate one hundred fifty rolls," he told us in 1951. "I use up fifty-four kilograms of Sour every week." 25 DON MARTIN people in Oaxaca ate wheat rolls for breakfast in preference to the common Mexican corn cake, or tortilla. These city bakers used Santa Cruz charcoal, heated large adobe ovens which had been constructed easily enough, and put the wheat dough into the oven as rolls. One time Don Martin had taken home rolls of wheat bread as part payment for wood, when it had been a bad corn year; it was at the end of the dry season, and corn tortillas were getting scarce at home. His family had eaten the rolls with wonder and enthusiasm; his wife, Dona Pastorcita, a keen, intelligent woman, compared the process of their preparation to the long labor of making tortillas. The flour was already ground; the mixing was done with large ladles; the rolls were quickly shaped; eighty of them were in the oven at once. They cost ten centavos apiece in any bakeshop. Don Martin remembered the rolls when he retired from being municipal president the second time, in 1942. Since he had served the community well, both as official and as public-spirited citizen, he had incurred debts for funerals and fiestas. Miguelito, his only child, was thin and slight to work up at the woodcutting, but he had a strong right hand to shape rolls. Don Martin went again with a load of charcoal to visit the bakeshop in Oaxaca City. The proprietor gave him the recipe: so many kilograms of flour, so many packages of dry yeast, so much water, so much salt. Mix it in a large wooden trough, roll it out into long rolls as big as a man's leg, let it set overnight, knead it again the next day. Then with a sharp knife cut it into two-inch lengths; work each length into a saucer shape, two at a time, one in each hand. It was cer- tainly simple. In return for more loads of charcoal, Don Martin took home five sacks of flour on burro-back. He baked first for his family and his daughter-in-law's family in a crude mud oven his wife, Dona Pastorcita, had sometimes used for meat. Others heard about the bread; they came to look, to taste, to buy. He taught the corn-and- tortilla-loving people of Santa Cruz Etla to eat wheat rolls in spite of themselves. "Today they ate one hundred fifty rolls," he told us in 1951. "I use up fifty-four kilograms of flour every week." 25 DON MARTIN people in Oaxaca ate wheat rolls for breakfast in preference to the common Mexican corn cake, or tortilla. These city bakers used Santa Cruz charcoal, heated large adobe ovens which had been constructed easily enough, and put the wheat dough into the oven as rolls. One time Don Martin had taken home rolls of wheat bread as part payment for wood, when it had been a bad corn year; it was at the end of the dry season, and corn tortillas were getting scarce at home. His family had eaten the rolls with wonder and enthusiasm; his wife, Dona Pastorcita, a keen, intelligent woman, compared the process of their preparation to the long labor of making tortillas. The flour was already ground; the mixing was done with large ladles; the rolls were quickly shaped; eighty of them were in the oven at once. They cost ten centavos apiece in any bakeshop. Don Martin remembered the rolls when he retired from being municipal president the second time, in 1942. Since he had served the community well, both as official and as public-spirited citizen, he had incurred debts for funerals and fiestas. Miguelito, his only child, was thin and slight to work up at the woodcutting, but he had a strong right hand to shape rolls. Don Martin went again with a load of charcoal to visit the bakeshop in Oaxaca City. The proprietor gave him the recipe: so many kilograms of flour, so many packages of dry yeast, so much water, so much salt. Mix it in a large wooden trough, roll it out into long rolls as big as a man's leg, let it set overnight, knead it again the next day. Then with a sharp knife cut it into two-inch lengths; work each length into a saucer shape, two at a time, one in each hand. It was cer- tainly simple. In return for more loads of charcoal, Don Martin took home five sacks of flour on burro-back. He baked first for his family and his daughter-in-law's family in a crude mud oven his wife, Dona Pastorcita, had sometimes used for meat. Others heard about the bread; they came to look, to taste, to buy. He taught the corn-and- tortilla-loving people of Santa Cruz Etla to eat wheat rolls in spite of themselves. "Today they ate one hundred fifty rolls," he told us in 1951. "I use up fifty-four kilograms of flour every week." 25  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS In back of his house he built another room in which the ovens were situated and the bread was made. The oven was just a big ole surrounded by adobe bricks. The rolls were placed in it on a long, hand-hewn plank, charcoal was piled all around, and the flre was fanned through vents in the adobe. The rolls got done before the planks caught fire; the bread came out brown and gnarled-looking, because the flour used was of the cheapest Mexican grade, a sort of unscreened wholewheat; and the dry yeast and primitive baking methods made the center of each roll come out one big hole. But the fame of these rolls spread even to San Pablo Etla. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday Don Martin's family baked, four ovenfuls a day. The rolls were sold right at his house, which was a half-mile up the ridge from the school. Each family sent up a child, or a young girl, to buy them in the evening, one, two, or three rolls at a time. Don Martin sometimes took things in trade, but usually wanted cash; he had to pay for the flour in cash when he bought it in Oaxaca every two weeks. "No Sunday has ever come that we were not out of bread on Saturday night," said Dona Pastorcita proudly. There was only one old lady in Santa Cruz Etla who would not eat Don Martin's bread: Dona Estdfana, the cousin of Don Amado. Not that she had any enmity against Don Martin, quite the contrary; she had stood up as godmother at the baptism of his only child and thus was his comadre, a relationship as close as blood. But she would not touch anything but handmade tortillas; she even thought corn ground in a mechanical mill tasted bad. However, the family with whom I lived all summer in 1945 knew I sometimes tired of tortillas, and often the new little bride went up to Don Martin's to buy rolls for supper. They were good on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday nights, but dry by Tuesday or Thursday and uneatable by Sunday night, unless dunked in cocoa. In 1954 I lived in Don Martin's enlarged house, right next to the ovens, and so had the rolls fresh and hot. It would have been nice to try them with butter sometimes, but such a luxury article as butter had never been seen in Santa Cruz! With errand runners from every houseyard coming up the trail 26 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS In back of his house he built another room in which the ovens were situated and the bread was made. The oven was just a big hole surrounded by adobe bricks. The rolls were placed in it on a long, hand-hewn plank, charcoal was piled all around, and the fire was fanned through vents in the adobe. The rolls got done before the planks caught fire; the bread came out brown and gnarled-looking, because the flour used was of the cheapest Mexican grade, a sort of unscreened wholewheat; and the dry yeast and primitive baking methods made the center of each roll come out one big hole. But the fame of these rolls spread even to San Pablo Etla. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday Don Martin's family baked, four ovenfuls a day. The rolls were sold right at his house, which was a half-mile up the ridge from the school. Each family sent up a child, or a young girl, to buy them in the evening, one, two, or three rolls at a time. Don Martin sometimes took things in trade, but usually wanted cash; he had to pay for the flour in cash when he bought it in Oaxaca every two weeks. "No Sunday has ever come that we were not out of bread on Saturday night," said Dona Pastorcita proudly. There was only one old lady in Santa Cruz Etla who would not eat Don Martin's bread: Dona Estefana, the cousin of Don Amado. Not that she had any enmity against Don Martin, quite the contrary; she had stood up as godmother at the baptism of his only child and thus was his comadre, a relationship as close as blood. But she would not touch anything but handmade tortillas; she even thought corn ground in a mechanical mill tasted bad. However, the family with whom I lived all summer in 1945 knew I sometimes tired of tortillas, and often the new little bride went up to Don Martin's to buy rolls for supper. They were good on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday nights, but dry by Tuesday or Thursday and uneatable by Sunday night, unless dunked in cocoa. In 1954 I lived in Don Martin's enlarged house, right next to the ovens, and so had the rolls fresh and hot. It would have been nice to try them with butter sometimes, but such a luxury article as butter had never been seen in Santa Cruz! With errand runners from every houseyard coming up the trail 26 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS In back of his house he built another room in which the ovens were situated and the bread was made. The oven was just a big hole surrounded by adobe bricks. The rolls were placed in it on a long, hand-hewn plank, charcoal was piled all around, and the fire was fanned through vents in the adobe. The rolls got done before the planks caught fire; the bread came out brown and gnarled-looking, because the flour used was of the cheapest Mexican grade, a sort of unscreened wholewheat; and the dry yeast and primitive baking methods made the center of each roll come out one big hole. But the fame of these rolls spread even to San Pablo Etla. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday Don Martin's family baked, four ovenfuls a day. The rolls were sold right at his house, which was a half-mile up the ridge from the school. Each family sent up a child, or a young girl, to buy them in the evening, one, two, or three rolls at a time. Don Martin sometimes took things in trade, but usually wanted cash; he had to pay for the flour in cash when he bought it in Oaxaca every two weeks. "No Sunday has ever come that we were not out of bread on Saturday night," said Dona Pastorcita proudly. There was only one old lady in Santa Cruz Etla who would not eat Don Martin's bread: Dona Estefana, the cousin of Don Amado. Not that she had any enmity against Don Martin, quite the contrary; she had stood up as godmother at the baptism of his only child and thus was his comadre, a relationship as close as blood. But she would not touch anything but handmade tortillas; she even thought corn ground in a mechanical mill tasted bad. However, the family with whom I lived all summer in 1945 knew I sometimes tired of tortillas, and often the new little bride went up to Don Martin's to buy rolls for supper. They were good on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday nights, but dry by Tuesday or Thursday and uneatable by Sunday night, unless dunked in cocoa. In 1954 I lived in Don Martin's enlarged house, right next to the ovens, and so had the rolls fresh and hot. It would have been nice to try them with butter sometimes, but such a luxury article as butter had never been seen in Santa Cruz! With errand runners from every houseyard coming up the trail 26  DON MARTIN to Don Martin's, and with actual cash money in his pocket every time he went to Oaxaca City, how easy it was for Don Martin to buy in the city things which his neighbors might want. No Mexican city dweller would have said that Don Martin ran a grocery store any more than he ran a bakery; but how about a community where there had been no way to buy candles, or cigarettes, or tequila, or the rice and macaroni all housewives like to cook when they can afford something more than beans and tortillas, or even the strawberry pop so necessary for fiestas? And now, right in Don Martin's house on the main ditch and oxcart trail, one could get such things for cash-well, surely that was a store. When I was amazed in 1954 to find pop being sold right in the community like that, with no trip to Oaxaca seventeen miles away necessary, I thought that Don Amado would have been pleased and would have said, "Santa Cruz Etla is a town." Pastorcita, the wife, and Miguelito, the son, did the work of the bakery in the busy planting and plowing season. Don Martin, as a man of honor and integrity in the community, had to till his own fields; he could hire a worker in the bakery, but never a man to do the farm work, if he was himself physically able to do it. In 1954 business in the bakery was so heavy right at planting time that he got a young man from the sierra, a green tonto who had never seen bread, to come and take Dona Pastorcita's place in the bakeshop. It is better that a man's wife plant the corn behind him as he plows than that a paid man do it; and Miguelito had to stay and run the "store." I was there one day when this Indian from the sierra was learn- ing the job. He was a great, rawboned, bigmouthed fellow, bold and jolly, standing high above the small-boned Santa Cruz Etla men, even though barefooted when they wore sandals. Since the tonto knew little Spanish, Miguelito, who was in those days a shy, wistful person himself, dominated by his father, had to show him over and over how to judge the size of the chunks of dough, how to knead it, how to put it in the oven. Don Martin was a modern man. He branched out in business, he hired help, and he also improved his real estate. The last 27 DON MARTIN to Don Martin's, and with actual cash money in his pocket every time he went to Oaxaca City, how easy it was for Don Martin to buy in the city things which his neighbors might want. No Mexican city dweller would have said that Don Martin ran a grocery store any more than he ran a bakery; but how about a community where there had been no way to buy candles, or cigarettes, or tequila, or the rice and macaroni all housewives like to cook when they can afford something more than beans and tortillas, or even the strawberry pop so necessary for fiestas? And now, right in Don Martin's house on the main ditch and oxcart trail, one could get such things for cash-well, surely that was a store. When I was amazed in 1954 to find pop being sold right in the community like that, with no trip to Oaxaca seventeen miles away necessary, I thought that Don Amado would have been pleased and would have said, "Santa Cruz Etla is a town." Pastorcita, the wife, and Miguelito, the son, did the work of the bakery in the busy planting and plowing season. Don Martin, as a man of honor and integrity in the community, had to till his own fields; he could hire a worker in the bakery, but never a man to do the farm work, if he was himself physically able to do it. In 1954 business in the bakery was so heavy right at planting time that he got a young man from the sierra, a green tonto who had never seen bread, to come and take Dona Pastorcita's place in the bakeshop. It is better that a man's wife plant the corn behind him as he plows than that a paid man do it; and Miguelito had to stay and run the "store." I was there one day when this Indian from the sierra was learn- ing the job. He was a great, rawboned, bigmouthed fellow, bold and jolly, standing high above the small-boned Santa Cruz Etla men, even though barefooted when they wore sandals. Since the tonto knew little Spanish, Miguelito, who was in those days a shy, wistful person himself, dominated by his father, had to show him over and over how to judge the size of the chunks of dough, how to knead it, how to put it in the oven. Don Martin was a modern man. He branched out in business, he hired help, and he also improved his real estate. The last 27 DON MARTIN to Don Martin's, and with actual cash money in his pocket every time he went to Oaxaca City, how easy it was for Don Martin to buy in the city things which his neighbors might want. No Mexican city dweller would have said that Don Martin ran a grocery store any more than he ran a bakery; but how about a community where there had been no way to buy candles, or cigarettes, or tequila, or the rice and macaroni all housewives like to cook when they can afford something more than beans and tortillas, or even the strawberry pop so necessary for fiestas? And now, right in Don Martin's house on the main ditch and oxcart trail, one could get such things for cash-well, surely that was a store. When I was amazed in 1954 to find pop being sold right in the community like that, with no trip to Oaxaca seventeen miles away necessary, I thought that Don Amado would have been pleased and would have said, "Santa Cruz Etla is a town." Pastorcita, the wife, and Miguelito, the son, did the work of the bakery in the busy planting and plowing season. Don Martin, as a man of honor and integrity in the community, had to till his own fields; he could hire a worker in the bakery, but never a man to do the farm work, if he was himself physically able to do it. In 1954 business in the bakery was so heavy right at planting time that he got a young man from the sierra, a green tonto who had never seen bread, to come and take Dona Pastorcita's place in the bakeshop. It is better that a man's wife plant the corn behind him as he plows than that a paid man do it; and Miguelito had to stay and run the "store." I was there one day when this Indian from the sierra was learn- ing the job. He was a great, rawboned, bigmouthed fellow, bold and jolly, standing high above the small-boned Santa Cruz Etla men, even though barefooted when they wore sandals. Since the tonto knew little Spanish, Miguelito, who was in those days a shy, wistful person himself, dominated by his father, had to show him over and over how to judge the size of the chunks of dough, how to knead it, how to put it in the oven. Don Martin was a modern man. He branched out in business, he hired help, and he also improved his real estate. The last 27  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS day of my 1954 visit, in order to honor the fact that I was there, he was building cement steps from the brook into his houseyard. This was a revolutionary idea in Santa Cruz Etla; no one else there would think of steps. The cement alone cost fourteen pesos, which though little over a dollar in today's exchange, is a good deal in terms of ten-centavo rolls or three-peso loads of charcoal. His house was whitewashed inside, and above the new brick tile on the floor there was a stripe of bright blue color all round, up two feet from the floor. Would he have whitewashed the outside after that? There are two houses whitewashed on the outside in San Pablo Etla; they have stripes of pink and red around the bottom. In 1954 Don Martin's house looked as nice inside as any house I was ever in in San Pablo Etla, but it would have to be whitewashed inside and out to beat those two San Pablo houses on all counts. "Whitewashing houses inside and out" is one of the things on that cultural missions list. However, in spite of the warm feeling we had for Don Martin and our admiration for his progressive ways, his memory was for years connected in our minds with funerals. Not that funerals are unhappy times in Santa Cruz Etla-quite the contrary. But he officiated at so many, and put on such grand parties for them, that I would have liked to have Don Martin run my funeral for me. The first one we attended, in 1934, was that of his own old Aunt Maria, who lived in his household. She was nearly eighty and suffered from no one knows what complaints. Dona Patrocina, our herbwoman, could not prescribe anything to help the old lady. But Aunt Maria had land in her own right. She asked Don Martin to sell this land for cash in San Pablo Etla, during the last days of her illness. She made three hundred pesos on the sale. Don Martin, progressive and practical, took some of the money to a doctor in Oaxaca for advice. There was then no active department of health for the rural areas, and advice from a private physician was an unusual thing in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Martin gave the doctor ten pesos-three-for-a-dollar pesos in those days-and received in return two doses of sedatives to be given in hypodermic injections. Don Martin knew nothing of giving hypos, and he sadly made a 28 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS day of my 1954 visit, in order to honor the fact that I was there, he was building cement steps from the brook into his houseyard. This was a revolutionary idea in Santa Cruz Etla; no one else there would think of steps. The cement alone cost fourteen pesos, which though little over a dollar in today's exchange, is a good deal in terms of ten-centavo rolls or three-peso loads of charcoal. His house was whitewashed inside, and above the new brick tile on the floor there was a stripe of bright blue color all round, up two feet from the floor. Would he have whitewashed the outside after that? There are two houses whitewashed on the outside in San Pablo Etla; they have stripes of pink and red around the bottom. In 1954 Don Martin's house looked as nice inside as any house I was ever in in San Pablo Etla, but it would have to be whitewashed inside and out to beat those two San Pablo houses on all counts. "Whitewashing houses inside and out" is one of the things on that cultural missions list. However, in spite of the warm feeling we had for Don Martin and our admiration for his progressive ways, his memory was for years connected in our minds with funerals. Not that funerals are unhappy times in Santa Cruz Etla-quite the contrary. But he ofirciated at so many, and put on such grand parties for them, that I would have liked to have Don Martin run my funeral for me. The first one we attended, in 1934, was that of his own old Aunt Maria, who lived in his household. She was nearly eighty and suffered from no one knows what complaints. Dona Patrocina, our herbwoman, could not prescribe anything to help the old lady. But Aunt Maria had land in her own right. She asked Don Martin to sell this land for cash in San Pablo Etla, during the last days of her illness. She made three hundred pesos on the sale. Don Martin, progressive and practical, took some of the money to a doctor in Oaxaca for advice. There was then no active department of health for the rural areas, and advice from a private physician eas an unusual thing in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Martin gave the doctor ten pesos-three-for-a-dollar pesos in those days-and received in return two doses of sedatives to be given in hypodermic injections. Don Martin knew nothing of giving hypos, and he sadly made a 28 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS day of my 1954 visit, in order to honor the fact that I was there, he was building cement steps from the brook into his houseyard. This was a revolutionary idea in Santa Cruz Etla; no one else there would think of steps. The cement alone cost fourteen pesos, which though little over a dollar in today's exchange, is a good deal in terms of ten-centavo rolls or three-peso loads of charcoal. His house was whitewashed inside, and above the new brick tile on the floor there was a stripe of bright blue color all round, up two feet from the floor. Would he have whitewashed the outside after that? There are two houses whitewashed on the outside in San Pablo Etla; they have stripes of pink and red around the bottom. In 1954 Don Martin's house looked as nice inside as any house I was ever in in San Pablo Etla, but it would have to be whitewashed inside and out to beat those two San Pablo houses on all counts. "Whitewashing houses inside and out" is one of the things on that cultural missions list. However, in spite of the warm feeling we had for Don Martin and our admiration for his progressive ways, his memory was for years connected in our minds with funerals. Not that funerals are unhappy times in Santa Cruz Etla-quite the contrary. But he officiated at so many, and put on such grand parties for them, that I would have liked to have Don Martin run my funeral for me. The first one we attended, in 1934, was that of his own old Aunt Maria, who lived in his household. She was nearly eighty and suffered from no one knows what complaints. Dona Patrocina, our herbwoman, could not prescribe anything to help the old lady. But Aunt Maria had land in her own right. She asked Don Martin to sell this land for cash in San Pablo Etla, during the last days of her illness. She made three hundred pesos on the sale. Don Martin, progressive and practical, took some of the money to a doctor in Oaxaca for advice. There was then no active department of health for the rural areas, and advice from a private physician was an unusual thing in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Martin gave the doctor ten pesos-three-for-a-dollar pesos in those days-and received in return two doses of sedatives to be given in hypodermic injections. Don Martin knew nothing of giving hypos, and he sadly made a 28  DON MARTIN visit to the coffinmakers. There he ordered a hundred-peso coffin, silk ruffles, silver handles, and all. Coming back by the school, he asked advice of the enthusiastic young teacher, schooled in the art of "health for rural communities." She found a hypodermic needle among her "health supplies" in the enema can with the school chalk, washed the chalk dust out of it in the brook, and went with Don Martin to give the old lady the shots. It was too late. Next day Don Martin and Miguelito went to Oaxaca City to get the coffin. They did not take the oxcart for fear the coffin would get scratched. Instead they walked into the city in the morning and caught the bus out to Hacienda Blanca in the afternoon. I knew that bus, which covered the valley run from Oaxaca City out to Etla town and back in those days; you could carry anything on it as long as the driver did not have to help you put your load on and off. Hence, even live pigs could be carried if other passengers helped you get them up on top. Undoubtedly the coffin traveled its first ten miles in style, with Miguelito sitting on top with it to watch that it came to no harm. It had a trium- phant march up the hill trail, too; even the sophisticated people of San Pablo Etla had seldom seen so fancy a coffin. After many stops, Don Martin and Miguelito got it to the school porch and sat down to rest. We were living in the school building that year, and we joined the children in a long admiration of such a fine honor for Aunt Maria. Many children followed it the half-mile farther up to Don Martin's house, just to touch the silver handles. A really religious funeral, with a priest officiating, should be held for such a dignified older person. Parties and dances are for the funerals of children. But a priest, even today, comes to the church at San Pablo Etla only one Sunday morning a month, and no other time; when he next came, he would say a prayer for the soul of Aunt Maria, a very faithful member of his flock. To speed her soul till then, Dona Pastorcita, her sister Dona Enriqueta, and all the other grown women of Don Martin's family spent the night praying and burning candles at the San Pablo church. The next day, Don Martin held open house, serving pulque and tequila to all who came and sat awhile with him on the dirt floor of his portico. 29 DON MARTIN visit to the coffinmakers. There he ordered a hundred-peso coffin, silk ruffles, silver handles, and all. Coming back by the school, he asked advice of the enthusiastic young teacher, schooled in the art of "health for rural communities." She found a hypodermic needle among her "health supplies" in the enema can with the school chalk, washed the chalk dust out of it in the brook, and went with Don Martin to give the old lady the shots. It was too late. Next day Don Martin and Miguelito went to Oaxaca City to get the coffin. They did not take the oxcart for fear the coffin would get scratched. Instead they walked into the city in the morning and caught the bus out to Hacienda Blanca in the afternoon. I knew that bus, which covered the valley run from Oaxaca City out to Etla town and back in those days; you could carry anything on it as long as the driver did not have to help you put your load on and off. Hence, even live pigs could be carried if other passengers helped you get them up on top. Undoubtedly the coffin traveled its first ten miles in style, with Miguelito sitting on top with it to watch that it came to no harm. It had a trium- phant march up the hill trail, too; even the sophisticated people of San Pablo Etla had seldom seen so fancy a coffin. After many stops, Don Martin and Miguelito got it to the school porch and sat down to rest. We were living in the school building that year, and we joined the children in a long admiration of such a fine honor for Aunt Maria. Many children followed it the half-mile farther up to Don Martin's house, just to touch the silver handles. A really religious funeral, with a priest officiating, should be held for such a dignified older person. Parties and dances are for the funerals of children. But a priest, even today, comes to the church at San Pablo Etla only one Sunday morning a month, and no other time; when he next came, he would say a prayer for the soul of Aunt Maria, a very faithful member of his flock. To speed her soul till then, Dona Pastorcita, her sister Dona Enriqueta, and all the other grown women of Don Martin's family spent the night praying and burning candles at the San Pablo church. The next day, Don Martin held open house, serving pulque and tequila to all who came and sat awhile with him on the dirt floor of his portico. 29 DON MARTIN visit to the coffinmakers. There he ordered a hundred-peso coffin, silk ruffles, silver handles, and all. Coming back by the school, he asked advice of the enthusiastic young teacher, schooled in the art of "health for rural communities." She found a hypodermic needle among her "health supplies" in the enema can with the school chalk, washed the chalk dust out of it in the brook, and went with Don Martin to give the old lady the shots. It was too late. Next day Don Martin and Miguelito went to Oaxaca City to get the coffin. They did not take the oxcart for fear the coffin would get scratched. Instead they walked into the city in the morning and caught the bus out to Hacienda Blanca in the afternoon. I knew that bus, which covered the valley run from Oaxaca City out to Etla town and back in those days; you could carry anything on it as long as the driver did not have to help you put your load on and off. Hence, even live pigs could be carried if other passengers helped you get them up on top. Undoubtedly the coffin traveled its first ten miles in style, with Miguelito sitting on top with it to watch that it came to no harm. It had a trium- phant march up the hill trail, too; even the sophisticated people of San Pablo Etla had seldom seen so fancy a coffin. After many stops, Don Martin and Miguelito got it to the school porch and sat down to rest. We were living in the school building that year, and we joined the children in a long admiration of such a fine honor for Aunt Maria. Many children followed it the half-mile farther up to Don Martin's house, just to touch the silver handles. A really religious funeral, with a priest offciating, should be held for such a dignified older person. Parties and dances are for the funerals of children. But a priest, even today, comes to the church at San Pablo Etla only one Sunday morning a month, and no other time; when he next came, he would say a prayer for the soul of Aunt Maria, a very faithful member of his flock. To speed her soul till then, Dofna Pastorcita, her sister Dona Enriqueta, and all the other grown women of Don Martin's family spent the night praying and burning candles at the San Pablo church. The next day, Don Martin held open house, serving pulque and tequila to all who came and sat awhile with him on the dirt floor of his portico. 29  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS We went ourselves with the schoolteacher, one of my first formal visits to Don Martin's, to pay our respects to the withered old Indian lady in her beautiful coffin. The women brought ten large religious banners home with them to be carried in the procession. At sundown on the second night, the members of the town council, carrying the coffin, led the whole village down to the San Pablo Etla churchyard. The people all had on clean, starched clothes, washed and ironed for the occasion. Banners, flowers, and candles were in everyone's hands. We could hear the echo of rockets, made with black powder by Don Martin himself, as the coffin was lowered into the San Pablo burial ground. The funeral party given in 1934 by Don Martin for his little godchild was the most elaborate funeral he arranged during his years as a leading citizen. For an aged aunt there is dignity; candles, banners, prayers, but no music, no dancing. For a child under ten there is merriment and festivity. This custom follows logically a very happy philosophy. The people of Santa Cruz Etla used to lose so many little children-to the "water sickness," the "dry season's sickness," the "coughing sickness," and so on. Dona Est6- fana had two survive out of six born; Pastorcita saved only ifiguelito out of I don't know how many; her sister Enriqueta had only one grow to maturity out of five. If they had observed the traditional Spanish Catholic ideas of mourning, every family would have been in black all the time. Instead, they reasoned it out. A little child just come to earth is still an angel. In the first ten years of its life it has no chance to sin. Therefore, when the saints call it home to heaven it automatically becomes an angelito, a little angel without stain. How fortunate that it died before life spoiled it! How fortunate is the family that the saints so choose to grant it such honorl So, hold a party, hire the best musicians, and enter- tain the town. Don Martin's little godchild was three years old. He and his wife had stood up at his baptism in the San Pablo church; now they were obligated by custom to give his funeral. Pastorcita, joined by other women whom she had helped at such "parties" during the past year, spent the day after the child's death grinding 30 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS We went ourselves with the schoolteacher, one of my first formal visits to Don Martin's, to pay our respects to the withered old Indian lady in her beautiful coffin. The women brought ten large religious banners home with them to be carried in the procession. At sundown on the second night, the members of the town council, carrying the coffin, led the whole village down to the San Pablo Etla churchyard. The people all had on clean, starched clothes, washed and ironed for the occasion. Banners, flowers, and candles were in everyone's hands. We could hear the echo of rockets, made with black powder by Don Martin himself, as the coffin was lowered into the San Pablo burial ground. The funeral party given in 1934 by Don Martin for his little godchild was the most elaborate funeral he arranged during his years as a leading citizen. For an aged aunt there is dignity; candles, banners, prayers, but no music, no dancing. For a child under ten there is merriment and festivity. This custom follows logically a very happy philosophy. The people of Santa Cruz Etla used to lose so many little children-to the "water sickness," the "dry season's sickness," the "coughing sickness," and so on. Dona Est6- fana had two survive out of six born; Pastorcita saved only MIiguelito out of I don't know how many; her sister Enriqueta had only one grow to maturity out of five. If they had observed the traditional Spanish Catholic ideas of mourning, every family would have been in black all the time. Instead, they reasoned it out. A little child just come to earth is still an angel. In the first ten years of its life it has no chance to sin. Therefore, when the saints call it home to heaven it automatically becomes an angelito, a little angel without stain. How fortunate that it died before life spoiled it! How fortunate is the family that the saints so choose to grant it such honor! So, hold a party, hire the best musicians, and enter- tain the town. Don Martin's little godchild was three years old. He and his wife had stood up at his baptism in the San Pablo church; now they were obligated by custom to give his funeral. Pastorcita, joined by other women whom she had helped at such "parties" during the past year, spent the day after the child's death grinding 30 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS We went ourselves with the schoolteacher, one of my first formal visits to Don Martin's, to pay our respects to the withered old Indian lady in her beautiful coffin. The women brought ten large religious banners home wihthem to be carried in the procession. At sundown on the second night, the members of the town council, carrying the coffin, led the whole village down to the San Pablo Etla churchyard. The people all had on clean, starched clothes, washed and ironed for the occasion. Banners, flowers, and candles were in everyone's hands. We could hear the echo of rockets, made with black powder by Don Martin himself, as the coffin was lowered into the San Pablo burial ground. The funeral party given in 1934 by Don Martin for his little godchild was the most elaborate funeral he arranged during his years as a leading citizen. For an aged aunt there is dignity; candles, banners, prayers, but no music, no dancing. For a child under ten there is merriment and festivity. This custom follows logically a very happy philosophy. The people of Santa Cruz Etla used to lose so many little children-to the "water sickness," the "dry season's sickness," the "coughing sickness," and so on. Dona Est6- fana had two survive out of six born; Pastorcita saved only Miguelito out of I don't know how many; her sister Enriqueta had only one grow to maturity out of five. If they had observed the traditional Spanish Catholic ideas of mourning, every family would have been in black all the time. Instead, they reasoned it out. A little child just come to earth is still an angel. In the first ten years of its life it has no chance to sin. Therefore, when the saints call it home to heaven it automatically becomes an angelito, a little angel without stain. How fortunate that it died before life spoiled it! How fortunate is the family that the saints so choose to grant it such honor! So, hold a party, hire the best musicians, and enter- tain the town. Don Martin's little godchild was three years old. He and his wife had stood up at his baptism in the San Pablo church; now they were obligated by custom to give his funeral. Pastorcita, joined by other women whom she had helped at such "parties" during the past year, spent the day after the child's death grinding 30  DON MARTIN chiles for mole, their favorite sauce, dressing turkeys, and preparing chocolate. Next morning they were up early to make tortillas for everyone. I had refused to go to the child's funeral, expecting great sorrow and unhappiness; hence, I did not get in on any of the turkey because it was all gone by noon. But the schoolteacher went to the dance in the afternoon, and when I heard there was music and dancing, I followed along. The child was sitting up inside Don Martin's house, in front of the Virgin on the adobe altar. He was dressed all in white with a paper crown on his head and red and white roses entwined in his fingers. Flowers banked the coffin on both sides; Don Martin and the child's own father, Don Marceline, stood on each side of the altar to give the latecomers a drink of pulque from a gourd. Don Martin received our congratulations on how beautiful the angelito looked. Then he put long chains of hibiscus flowers, like leis from Hawaii, over our heads. Such a crowd had come to the municipal president's angelito that none of the festivity could be held inside the house. The band alone, sitting down on the floor, would have filled every inch of space. The four Santa Cruz musicians and six San Pablo musicians sat on a hill slope behind Don Martin's house. There were two bass viols. Women and children sat around on the ground, on Don Martin's sleeping petates (he had no beds until after several years of prosperity in the bakery) while the men stood near the door or drank inside the house. There had been a lull in the proceedings just as the teacher and I got there. Then Doia Pastorcita stood up in the center of the open space, holding under her dark blue rebozo a basket of hard, store-bought candies. The musicians struck up a lively tune, and she began to throw candy out of the basket into the crowd. She jigged up and down and tossed the candy in time to the tune. Soon her sister joined her with another basket of candy. While the children and young men scrambled for the candy, the crowd called for the godfather, yelling the word jPadrino! jPadrio! Don Martin came out of the hut, put a garland around his neck, and joined in the jig. An Indian then unknown to me, Don Bartolo, who ten years later was municipal president at an auspicious moment 31 DON MARTIN chiles for mole, their favorite sauce, dressing turkeys, and preparing chocolate. Next morning they were up early to make tortillas for everyone. I had refused to go to the child's funeral, expecting great sorrow and unhappiness; hence, I did not get in on any of the turkey because it was all gone by noon. But the schoolteacher went to the dance in the afternoon, and when I heard there was music and dancing, I followed along. The child was sitting up inside Don Martin's house, in front of the Virgin on the adobe altar. He was dressed all in white with a paper crown on his head and red and white roses entwined in his fingers. Flowers banked the coffin on both sides; Don Martin and the child's own father, Don Marcelino, stood on each side of the altar to give the latecomers a drink of pulque from a gourd. Don Martin received our congratulations on how beautiful the angelito looked. Then he put long chains of hibiscus flowers, like leis from Hawaii, over our heads. Such a crowd had come to the municipal president's angelito that none of the festivity could be held inside the house. The band alone, sitting down on the floor, would have filled every inch of space. The four Santa Cruz musicians and six San Pablo musicians sat on a hill slope behind Don Martin's house. There were two bass viols. Women and children sat around on the ground, on Don Martin's sleeping petates (he had no beds until after several years of prosperity in the bakery) while the men stood near the door or drank inside the house. There had been a lull in the proceedings just as the teacher and I got there. Then Dona Pastorcita stood up in the center of the open space, holding under her dark blue rebozo a basket of hard, store-bought candies. The musicians struck up a lively tune, and she began to throw candy out of the basket into the crowd. She jigged up and down and tossed the candy in time to the tune. Soon her sister joined her with another basket of candy. While the children and young men scrambled for the candy, the crowd called for the godfather, yelling the word jPadrio! /Padriio! Don Martin came out of the but, put a garland around his neck, and joined in the jig. An Indian then unknown to me, Don Bartolo, who ten years later was municipal president at an auspicious moment 31 DON MARTIN chiles for mole, their favorite sauce, dressing turkeys, and preparing chocolate. Next morning they were up early to make tortillas for everyone. I had refused to go to the child's funeral, expecting great sorrow and unhappiness; hence, I did not get in on any of the turkey because it was all gone by noon. But the schoolteacher went to the dance in the afternoon, and when I heard there was music and dancing, I followed along. The child was sitting up inside Don Martin's house, in front of the Virgin on the adobe altar. He was dressed all in white with a paper crown on his head and red and white roses entwined in his fingers. Flowers banked the coffin on both sides; Don Martin and the child's own father, Don Marcelina, stood on each side of the altar to give the latecomers a drink of pulque from a gourd. Don Martin received our congratulations on how beautiful the angelito looked. Then he put long chains of hibiscus flowers, like leis from Hawaii, over our heads. Such a crowd had come to the municipal president's angelito that none of the festivity could be held inside the house. The band alone, sitting down on the floor, would have filled every inch of space. The four Santa Cruz musicians and six San Pablo musicians sat on a hill slope behind Don Martin's house. There were two bass viols. Women and children sat around on the ground, on Don Martin's sleeping petates (he had no beds until after several years of prosperity in the bakery) while the men stood near the door or drank inside the house. There had been a lull in the proceedings just as the teacher and I got there. Then Dona Pastorcita stood up in the center of the open space, holding under her dark blue rebozo a basket of hard, store-bought candies. The musicians struck up a lively tune, and she began to throw candy out of the basket into the crowd. She jigged up and down and tossed the candy in time to the tune. Soon her sister joined her with another basket of candy. While the children and young men scrambled for the candy, the crowd called for the godfather, yelling the word /Padrio! jPadrio! Don Martin came out of the hut, put a garland around his neck, and joined in the jig. An Indian then unknown to me, Don Bartolo, who ten years later was municipal president at an auspicious moment 31  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for Santa Cruz Etla, had been drinking to himself enthusiastically inside the hut in honor of the angelito, whose father was a relative of his. Dragged out of the hut for the dance, he hopped around on one foot singing, to everyone's delight jQue bonito, este ange- lito! (How beautiful is this little angel!). The whole dance livened up as the other three tried to keep up with him. When the candy was all gone, each man picked out a woman-not necessarily a young, pretty one; old Dona Estefana was the best dancer there- and the dance became general, with the barefooted or sandaled couples doing a sort of fox trot on the hard earth. Don Martin asked the teacher to dance and then me; I danced with all the members of the president's council, and even with the happy Don Bartolo. Unfortunately for this particular angelito, a heavy rain came up just as the dancing ended. Rockets were set off as the sun went behind the hills underneath the low clouds across the valley. But the rockets sputtered out, the candles would not stay lighted, and the president and his council went almost unattended down the long, muddy trail to the San Pablo burial ground. This rain was fortunate for us. We were leaving Santa Cruz the next day, and a farewell meeting with speechmaking was to be held for our departure. Because there was no long burial procession, most of the flowers which had been brought to the angelito were saved and presented to us. Otherwise, with such an important angelito held just the day before, there would have been few flowers left to honor us in all Santa Cruz Etla. One child I knew died while I was in Santa Cruz on the long visit in 1945. Her family lived on the side of the ravine between the central ridge and the San Lorenzo ridge to the south. Though they had a fine flower garden there in the river bottom, and though the father of that family was to be president in 1954, they had a poor house made of thatch and wattle and no large cleared house- yard. They could not give a party outside, with the San Pablo musicians. Besides, no one ever goes to quite so much trouble for an angelita, a girl angel. But Don Martin, then on the town council as a successful former president, was there with the rest of the 32 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for Santa Cruz Etla, had been drinking to himself enthusiastically inside the hut in honor of the angelito, whose father was a relative of his. Dragged out of the hut for the dance, he hopped around on one foot singing, to everyone's delight jQui bonito, este ange- lito! (How beautiful is this little angel!). The whole dance livened up as the other three tried to keep up with him. When the candy was all gone, each man picked out a woman-not necessarily a young, pretty one; old Dona Estefana was the best dancer there- and the dance became general, with the barefooted or sandaled couples doing a sort of fox trot on the hard earth. Don Martin asked the teacher to dance and then me; I danced with all the members of the president's council, and even with the happy Don Bartolo. Unfortunately for this particular angelito, a heavy rain came up just as the dancing ended. Rockets were set off as the sun went behind the hills underneath the low clouds across the valley. But the rockets sputtered out, the candles would not stay lighted, and the president and his council went almost unattended down the long, muddy trail to the San Pablo burial ground. This rain was fortunate for us. We were leaving Santa Cruz the next day, and a farewell meeting with speechmaking was to be held for our departure. Because there was no long burial procession, most of the flowers which had been brought to the angelito were saved and presented to us. Otherwise, with such an important angelito held just the day before, there would have been few flowers left to honor us in all Santa Cruz Etla. One child I knew died while I was in Santa Cruz on the long visit in 1945. Her family lived on the side of the ravine between the central ridge and the San Lorenzo ridge to the south. Though they had a fine flower garden there in the river bottom, and though the father of that family was to be president in 1954, they had a poor house made of thatch and wattle and no large cleared house- yard. They could not give a party outside, with the San Pablo musicians. Besides, no one ever goes to quite so much trouble for an angelita, a girl angel. But Don Martin, then on the town council as a successful former president, was there with the rest of the 32 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for Santa Cruz Etla, had been drinking to himself enthusiastically inside the but in honor of the angelito, whose father was a relative of his. Dragged out of the hut for the dance, he hopped around on one foot singing, to everyone's delight jQui bonito, este ange- lito! (How beautiful is this little angel!). The whole dance livened up as the other three tried to keep up with him. When the candy was all gone, each man picked out a woman-not necessarily a young, pretty one; old Dona Estufana was the best dancer there- and the dance became general, with the barefooted or sandaled couples doing a sort of fox trot on the hard earth. Don iartin asked the teacher to dance and then me; I danced with all the members of the president's council, and even with the happy Don Bartolo. Unfortunately for this particular angelito, a heavy rain came up just as the dancing ended. Rockets were set off as the sun went behind the hills underneath the low clouds across the valley. But the rockets sputtered out, the candles would not stay lighted, and the president and his council went almost unattended down the long, muddy trail to the San Pablo burial ground. This rain was fortunate for us. We were leaving Santa Cruz the next day, and a farewell meeting with speechmaking was to be held for our departure. Because there was no long burial procession, most of the flowers which had been brought to the angelito were saved and presented to us. Otherwise, with such an important angelito held just the day before, there would have been few flowers left to honor us in all Santa Cruz Etla. One child I knew died while I was in Santa Cruz on the long visit in 1945. Her family lived on the side of the ravine between the central ridge and the San Lorenzo ridge to the south. Though they had a fine flower garden there in the river bottom, and though the father of that family was to be president in 1954, they had a poor house made of thatch and wattle and no large cleared house- yard. They could not give a party outside, with the San Pablo musicians. Besides, no one ever goes to quite so much trouble for an angelita, a girl angel. But Don Martin, then on the town council as a successful former president, was there with the rest of the 32  DON MARTIN municipal officials. There were bouquets of roses from the garden for me and for the wives of the councilmen. The little angelita, so gaunt and worn with three months of stomach disorder, was there on the altar, like a little bride in veil and lace. Candles all around among the altar flowers were the only light, except when the petate serving as a door was pushed aside for someone else to come in. The crowd inside had forced into a corner Santa Cruz's own four musicians, including three friends of mine from the classes we were then conducting for illiterates at the school in the evenings. The bass-viol player broke two strings during the first dance after I came, which put him in the ranks of the dancers for the rest of the afternoon. This situation was fine for me. He had some obli- gation to dance with me several times, because I was working so hard in the evenings to teach him to read and write. Don Martin himself, though his eldest grandchild was then six years old, was still able to do the sedate fox trot step better than many of the younger men. At this angelita I saw the only sign of of sorrow I ever saw at one of Don Martin's well-managed funerals. This had been the only girl-child born in this family, and the mother had cared for it tenderly through a long illness; she cried silently in the corner throughout the dance, while the godmother officiated. When the altar was cleared and the body put in the little white coffin by Don Martin and the godfather, the mother broke down completely and had to be carried away. But save for the poor mother, I was the only one who felt any sorrow. Dona Pastorcita thought it was "an unusually nice angelita," evidently referring to the whole funeral. "How beautiful the dead child looked!" she said. Thanks to Don Martin, this funeral procession went, not to the San Pablo churchyard, but to the new Santa Cruz Etla cemetery. Don Amado, then the president emeritus of his town, had arranged before his death the legal proceedings to secure community title to the hillside land on which the Pantedn was to be built. It remained for Don Martin to build it, in his second term as president. Only Don Amado and Don Martin have ever been president more than once, and each of them served four different, intermittent times. 33 DON MARTIN municipal officials. There were bouquets of roses from the garden for me and for the wives of the councilmen. The little angelita, so gaunt and worn with three months of stomach disorder, was there on the altar, like a little bride in veil and lace. Candles all around among the altar flowers were the only light, except when the petate serving as a door was pushed aside for someone else to come in. The crowd inside had forced into a corner Santa Cruz's own four musicians, including three friends of mine from the classes we were then conducting for illiterates at the school in the evenings. The bass-viol player broke two strings during the first dance after I came, which put him in the ranks of the dancers for the rest of the afternoon. This situation was fine for me. He had some obli- gation to dance with me several times, because I was working so hard in the evenings to teach him to read and write. Don Martin himself, though his eldest grandchild was then six years old, was still able to do the sedate fox trot step better than many of the younger men. At this angelita I saw the only sign of of sorrow I ever saw at one of Don Martin's well-managed funerals. This had been the only girl-child born in this family, and the mother had cared for it tenderly through a long illness; she cried silently in the corner throughout the dance, while the godmother officiated. When the altar was cleared and the body put in the little white coffin by Don Martin and the godfather, the mother broke down completely and had to be carried away. But save for the poor mother, I was the only one who felt any sorrow. Dona Pastorcita thought it was "an unusually nice angelita," evidently referring to the whole funeral. "How beautiful the dead child looked!" she said. Thanks to Don Martin, this funeral procession went, not to the San Pablo churchyard, but to the new Santa Cruz Etla cemetery. Don Amado, then the president emeritus of his town, had arranged before his death the legal proceedings to secure community title to the hillside land on which the Pantedn was to be built. It remained for Don Martin to build it, in his second term as president. Only Don Amado and Don Martin have ever been president more than once, and each of them served four different, intermittent times. 33 DON MARTIN municipal officials. There were bouquets of roses from the garden for me and for the wives of the councilmen. The little angelita, so gaunt and worn with three months of stomach disorder, was there on the altar, like a little bride in veil and lace. Candles all around among the altar flowers were the only light, except when the petate serving as a door was pushed aside for someone else to come in. The crowd inside had forced into a corner Santa Cruz's own four musicians, including three friends of mine from the classes we were then conducting for illiterates at the school in the evenings. The bass-viol player broke two strings during the first dance after I came, which put him in the ranks of the dancers for the rest of the afternoon. This situation was fine for me. He had some obli- gation to dance with me several times, because I was working so hard in the evenings to teach him to read and write. Don Martin himself, though his eldest grandchild was then six years old, was still able to do the sedate fox trot step better than many of the younger men. At this angelita I saw the only sign of of sorrow I ever saw at one of Don Martin's well-managed funerals. This had been the only girl-child born in this family, and the mother had cared for it tenderly through a long illness; she cried silently in the corner throughout the dance, while the godmother officiated. When the altar was cleared and the body put in the little white coffin by Don Martin and the godfather, the mother broke down completely and had to be carried away. But save for the poor mother, I was the only one who felt any sorrow. Dona Pastorcita thought it was "an unusually nice angelita," evidently referring to the whole funeral. "How beautiful the dead child looked!" she said. Thanks to Don Martin, this funeral procession went, not to the San Pablo churchyard, but to the new Santa Cruz Etla cemetery. Don Amado, then the president emeritus of his town, had arranged before his death the legal proceedings to secure community title to the hillside land on which the Pantedn was to be built. It remained for Don Martin to build it, in his second term as president. Only Don Amado and Don Martin have ever been president more than once, and each of them served four different, intermittent times. 33  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I heard of the acquisition of the land as a great piece of news when I came to Santa Cruz in 1944, but I had only pretended an interest, not understanding then the use of the Spanish word Panteon.c Besides, it did not seem to me, in my zeal to "improve" Santa Cruz, that having a graveyard was a great improvement. It was very important to the community leaders in their effort to create a town separate from San Pablo. The dead of Santa Cruz had always been sort of "poor relations" in the San Pablo Etla churchyard. Now they could be decently buried in a graveyard of their own. All processions go to it from the hills and ravines around; no coffin need be carried down through San Pablo Etla. And for a people who go so sincerely on All Saints Day, the first of November, to really converse with their dead relatives in the graveyard, it is surely a comfort not to be crowded into a secondary place during such visits by those pushy San Pablo people! Hundreds of adobe brick had to be dried in the sun before the Pantedn wall could be built. First the adobe had to be dug out of the dry ravine; then it had to be mixed with bean straw. The land alloted for it by the public land office of Oaxaca State had to be cleared of brush. Don Martin "drafted" the able-bodied men of the town to do all this in the dry season of the winter months, December, 1944, to March, 1945. The wall was laid three bricks wide and twelve bricks high. Don Martin sent members of the public works committee down into the valley to the clay deposits of Santa Maria Asumpa to get red clay to put all around the top of the wall, because the adobe mud found in the Santa Cruz ravines was not fine enough for that. Thirty different men worked on and off on the project; then fifty pesos-pesos at twenty cents each by then-were saved from the yearly fiesta fund in May to buy a large iron gate that swung from two iron posts. This gate opens under the shade of the gigantic wild mountain fig tree under which Don Amado was the first to be buried, one of those trees that grow in unexpected places in the hills around Oaxaca. Don Martin had brought the gate up in his own oxcart, he told me in 1954, remi- niscing about his public projects. He had not thought his cart good enough in 1934 to bring up his aunt's hundred-peso coffin, but it 34 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I heard of the acquisition of the land as a great piece of news when I came to Santa Cruz in 1944, but I had only pretended an interest, not understanding then the use of the Spanish word Pantedn. Besides, it did not seem to me, in my zeal to "improve" Santa Cruz, that having a graveyard was a great improvement. It was very important to the community leaders in their effort to create a town separate from San Pablo. The dead of Santa Cruz had always been sort of "poor relations" in the San Pablo Etla churchyard. Now they could be decently buried in a graveyard of their own. All processions go to it from the hills and ravines around; no coffin need be carried down through San Pablo Etla. And for a people who go so sincerely on All Saints Day, the first of November, to really converse with their dead relatives in the graveyard, it is surely a comfort not to be crowded into a secondary place during such visits by those pushy San Pablo people! Hundreds of adobe brick had to be dried in the sun before the Pantedn wall could be built. First the adobe had to be dug out of the dry ravine; then it had to be mixed with bean straw. The land alloted for it by the public land office of Oaxaca State had to be cleared of brush. Don Martin "drafted" the able-bodied men of the town to do all this in the dry season of the winter months, December, 1944, to March, 1945. The wall was laid three bricks wide and twelve bricks high. Don Martin sent members of the public works committee down into the valley to the clay deposits of Santa Maria Asumpa to get red clay to put all around the top of the wall, because the adobe mud found in the Santa Cruz ravines was not fine enough for that. Thirty different men worked on and off on the project; then fifty pesos-pesos at twenty cents each by then-were saved from the yearly fiesta fund in May to buy a large iron gate that swung from two iron posts. This gate opens under the shade of the gigantic wild mountain fig tree under which Don Amado was the first to be buried, one of those trees that grow in unexpected places in the hills around Oaxaca. Don Martin had brought the gate up in his own oxcart, he told me in 1954, remi- niscing about his public projects. He had not thought his cart good enough in 1934 to bring up his aunt's hundred-peso coffin, but it 34 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I heard of the acquisition of the land as a great piece of news when I came to Santa Cruz in 1944, but I had only pretended an interest, not understanding then the use of the Spanish word Pantedn. Besides, it did not seem to me, in my zeal to "improve" Santa Cruz, that having a graveyard was a great improvement. It was very important to the community leaders in their effort to create a town separate from San Pablo. The dead of Santa Cruz had always been sort of "poor relations" in the San Pablo Etla churchyard. Now they could be decently buried in a graveyard of their own. All processions go to it from the hills and ravines around; no coffin need be carried down through San Pablo Etla. And for a people who go so sincerely on All Saints Day, the first of November, to really converse with their dead relatives in the graveyard, it is surely a comfort not to be crowded into a secondary place during such visits by those pushy San Pablo people! Hundreds of adobe brick had to be dried in the sun before the Pantedon wall could be built. First the adobe had to be dug out of the dry ravine; then it had to be mixed with bean straw. The land alloted for it by the public land office of Oaxaca State had to be cleared of brush. Don Martin "drafted" the able-bodied men of the town to do all this in the dry season of the winter months, December, 1944, to March, 1945. The wall was laid three bricks wide and twelve bricks high. Don Martin sent members of the public works committee down into the valley to the clay deposits of Santa Maria Asumpa to get red clay to put all around the top of the wall, because the adobe mud found in the Santa Cruz ravines was not fine enough for that. Thirty different men worked on and off on the project; then fifty pesos-pesos at twenty cents each by then-were saved from the yearly fiesta fund in May to buy a large iron gate that swung from two iron posts. This gate opens under the shade of the gigantic wild mountain fig tree under which Don Amado was the first to be buried, one of those trees that grow in unexpected places in the hills around Oaxaca. Don Martin had brought the gate up in his own oxcart, he told me in 1954, remi- niscing about his public projects. He had not thought his cart good enough in 1934 to bring up his aunt's hundred-peso coffin, but it 34  DON MARTIN had been honored by the load of cemetery gates-the same oxcart in which my husband and I had been "honored" to go to market, back and forth twice, in 1934, pleased to be riding behind the municipal president's star-faced ax. "The Panteon is the finest thing we have built; each pueblo must have its own holy ground," said Doa Patrocina, the cure woman, my hostess on one long visit. But what's the use of a separate graveyard, if Santa Cruz people must still go down to the church in San Pablo for prayer to the saints or for any kind of religious service? After Don Amado's death, Don Martin persuaded a new, younger president to start the foundation for a chapel right next to the school. It was then too ambitious a project: the church authorities did not help them, the foundation was made too large, and the supply of cement ran out during the restrictions right after World War II. But the idea had been a splendid one, more advanced even than Don Amado's original idea for the school. All rural communities are supposed to have schools; few the size of Santa Cruz Etla have chapels. Most chapels date from the days of the early Spaniards; they are seldom built in modern times by community effort. When Don Martin himself was the "sage emeri- tus" of the town, and the town's most successful businessman, he counseled a younger president to complete such a chapel. Its building is part of the account of my 1954 visit. Don Martin's own death came as sad news to me nearly two years after I last saw him in 1954. A group of us had started a project to send his oldest granddaughter on to college, and his sudden death brought the plans to a grinding halt. I was not in Santa Cruz for Don Martin's own funeral and have not been back to visit a Santa Cruz bereft of him. He had become such a leader in his last years that it is difficult to imagine how the com- munity fares without him. After Don Amado's death, Don Martin had become the most honored man in town; but he never became a "big shot" in spirit, in spite of his gaining the financial success which Don Amado was never able to achieve. He served on the school committee while he hoped for further education for his own grandchildren beyond 35 DON MARTIN had been honored by the load of cemetery gates-the same oxcart in which my husband and I had been "honored" to go to market, back and forth twice, in 1934, pleased to be riding behind the municipal president's star-faced ox. "The Pantedn is the finest thing we have built; each pueblo must have its own holy ground," said Doa Patrocina, the cure woman, my hostess on one long visit. But what's the use of a separate graveyard, if Santa Cruz people must still go down to the church in San Pablo for prayer to the saints or for any kind of religious service? After Don Amado's death, Don Martin persuaded a new, younger president to start the foundation for a chapel right next to the school. It was then too ambitious a project: the church authorities did not help them, the foundation was made too large, and the supply of cement ran out during the restrictions right after World War II. But the idea had been a splendid one, more advanced even than Don Amado's original idea for the school. All rural communities are supposed to have schools; few the size of Santa Cruz Etla have chapels. Most chapels date from the days of the early Spaniards; they are seldom built in modem times by community effort. When Don Martin himself was the "sage emeri- tus" of the town, and the town's most successful businessman, he counseled a younger president to complete such a chapel. Its building is part of the account of my 1954 visit. Don Martin's own death came as sad news to me nearly two years after I last saw him in 1954. A group of us had started a project to send his oldest granddaughter on to college, and his sudden death brought the plans to a grinding halt. I was not in Santa Cruz for Don Martin's own funeral and have not been back to visit a Santa Cruz bereft of him. He had become such a leader in his last years that it is difficult to imagine how the com- munity fares without him. After Don Amado's death, Don Martin had become the most honored man in town; but he never became a "big shot" in spirit, in spite of his gaining the financial success which Don Amado was never able to achieve. He served on the school committee while he hoped for further education for his own grandchildren beyond 35 DON MARTIN had been honored by the load of cemetery gates-the same oxcart in which my husband and I had been "honored" to go to market, back and forth twice, in 1934, pleased to be riding behind the municipal president's star-faced ox. "The Pantedn is the finest thing we have built; each pueblo must have its own holy ground," said Doa Patrocina, the cure woman, my hostess on one long visit. But what's the use of a separate graveyard, if Santa Cruz people must still go down to the church in San Pablo for prayer to the saints or for any kind of religious service? After Don Amado's death, Don Martin persuaded a new, younger president to start the foundation for a chapel right next to the school. It was then too ambitious a project: the church authorities did not help them, the foundation was made too large, and the supply of cement ran out during the restrictions right after World War I. But the idea had been a splendid one, more advanced even than Don Amado's original idea for the school. All rural communities are supposed to have schools; few the size of Santa Cruz Etla have chapels. Most chapels date from the days of the early Spaniards; they are seldom built in modern times by community effort. When Don Martin himself was the "sage emeri- tus" of the town, and the town's most successful businessman, he counseled a younger president to complete such a chapel. Its building is part of the account of my 1954 visit. Don Martin's own death came as sad news to me nearly two years after I last saw him in 1954. A group of us had started a project to send his oldest granddaughter on to college, and his sudden death brought the plans to a grinding halt. I was not in Santa Cruz for Don Martin's own funeral and have not been back to visit a Santa Cruz bereft of him. He had become such a leader in his last years that it is difficult to imagine how the com- munity fares without him. After Don Amado's death, Don Martin had become the most honored man in town; but he never became a "big shot" in spirit, in spite of his gaining the financial success which Don Amado was never able to achieve. He served on the school committee while he hoped for further education for his own grandchildren beyond 35  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that afforded in Santa Cruz. His clothing was the same as that worn by all Santa Cruz men-the white pajama outfit, with a pink, orange, or purple shirt for Sunday, sandals on bare feet, straw sombrero on top, and a black, white, and red sarape, or Indian blanket from the valley weavers, wrapped around everything, in the rain or on cold mornings, until it wears out from years of use. Miguelito, his son, was seen to wear a store-bought jacket in 1954; and Artemio, his beloved, ten-year-old grandson, put his shirt inside blue jeans when he went to school and even owned a pair of shoes, though he took no pleasure in wearing them. Don Martin's years of serving the community, building a grave- yard, contacting authorities in Oaxaca after Don Amado's death, gave him ideas of how to improve his own household. His lovely daughter-in-law taught him how to write and to figure accounts; he could receive mail from me in the United States-thanks for his hospitality to me in 1954, copies of all the photos I took then, which he distributed to the townspeople as they came into the store-and he took the initiative in establishing mail service for Santa Cruz, in care of the weekly service up to San Pablo. He told me in 1954 that his father had come as the poorest and last man from Santa Cruz Salinas, that the family had worked the poorest land, that many in his family had died of smallpox when he was ten, that he had herded goats from the time he was eight, without chance for education. He wanted his grandchildren and the other young people of Santa Cruz not to have to work so hard. But in his "prosperity" he gave way gracefully in his last years to presidents poorer, younger, and "dumber" than he; and he still played cards on the school steps or handball on the school playground with the younger men on Sunday afternoons when I last saw him in 1954. What changes came to Don Martin's family with his death! Miguelito, perhaps after feeling repressed by his father's expansive personality all these years, was suddenly, in 1956, the head of the family. Within months he had moved himself and his wife into Oaxaca City and was attempting to set up a small wheat-bread bakery in the market. He was not going to be dominated by the women of his family either, and he left his mother in the hills 36 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that afforded in Santa Cruz. His clothing was the same as that worn by all Santa Cruz men-the white pajama outfit, with a pink, orange, or purple shirt for Sunday, sandals on bare feet, straw sombrero on top, and a black, white, and red sarape, or Indian blanket from the valley weavers, wrapped around everything, in the rain or on cold mornings, until it wears out from years of use. Miguelito, his son, was seen to wear a store-bought jacket in 1954; and Artemio, his beloved, ten-year-old grandson, put his shirt inside blue jeans when he went to school and even owned a pair of shoes, though he took no pleasure in wearing them, Don Martin's years of serving the community, building a grave- yard, contacting authorities in Oaxaca after Don Amado's death, gave him ideas of how to improve his own household. His lovely daughter-in-law taught him how to write and to figure accounts; he could receive mail from me in the United States-thanks for his hospitality to me in 1954, copies of all the photos I took then, which he distributed to the townspeople as they came into the store-and he took the initiative in establishing mail service for Santa Cruz, in care of the weekly service up to San Pablo. He told me in 1954 that his father had come as the poorest and last man from Santa Cruz Salinas, that the family had worked the poorest land, that many in his family had died of smallpox when he was ten, that he had herded goats from the time he was eight, without chance for education. He wanted his grandchildren and the other young people of Santa Cruz not to have to work so hard. But in his "prosperity" he gave way gracefully in his last years to presidents poorer, younger, and "dumber" than he; and he still played cards on the school steps or handball on the school playground with the younger men on Sunday afternoons when I last saw him in 1954. What changes came to Don Martin's family with his death! Miguelito, perhaps after feeling repressed by his father's expansive personality all these years, was suddenly, in 1956, the head of the family. Within months he had moved himself and his wife into Oaxaca City and was attempting to set up a small wheat-bread bakery in the market. He was not going to be dominated by the women of his family either, and he left his mother in the hills 36 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that afforded in Santa Cruz. His clothing was the same as that worn by all Santa Cruz men-the white pajama outfit, with a pink, orange, or purple shirt for Sunday, sandals on bare feet, straw sombrero on top, and a black, white, and red sarape, or Indian blanket from the valley weavers, wrapped around everything, in the rain or on cold mornings, until it wears out from years of use. Miguelito, his son, was seen to wear a store-bought jacket in 1954; and Artemio, his beloved, ten-year-old grandson, put his shirt inside blue jeans when he went to school and even owned a pair of shoes, though he took no pleasure in wearing them. Don Martin's years of serving the community, building a grave- yard, contacting authorities in Oaxaca after Don Amado's death, gave him ideas of how to improve his own household. His lovely daughter-in-law taught him how to write and to figure accounts; he could receive mail from me in the United States-thanks for his hospitality to me in 1954, copies of all the photos I took then, which he distributed to the townspeople as they came into the store-and he took the initiative in establishing mail service for Santa Cruz, in care of the weekly service up to San Pablo. He told me in 1954 that his father had come as the poorest and last man from Santa Cruz Salinas, that the family had worked the poorest land, that many in his family had died of smallpox when he was ten, that he had herded goats from the time he was eight, without chance for education. He wanted his grandchildren and the other young people of Santa Cruz not to have to work so hard. But in his "prosperity" he gave way gracefully in his last years to presidents poorer, younger, and "dumber" than he; and he still played cards on the school steps or handball on the school playground with the younger men on Sunday afternoons when I last saw him in 1954. What changes came to Don Martin's family with his death! Miguelito, perhaps after feeling repressed by his father's expansive personality all these years, was suddenly, in 1956, the head of the family. Within months he had moved himself and his wife into Oaxaca City and was attempting to set up a small wheat-bread bakery in the market. He was not going to be dominated by the women of his family either, and he left his mother in the hills 36  DON JULIO with his two youngest girls and the tonto hired man to run the Santa Cruz bakery as a minor project. If anyone was to go on for higher education, it was to be his older son and not the daughter in whom I had been so interested. The fact that Miguelito is now head of Don Martin's family is one reason why I have not been back to Santa Cruz. 43 THE MEN in Santa Cruz Etla could play ball on Sunday afternoons because Don Julio had once been municipal president and at that time had donated land for a town ball-court, but the gift of this playing field was the only magnanimous thing I ever heard of him doing. In the United States or Europe or Asia, surely there is always one hard and selfish person for every two men of public spirit and good will, one Don Julio for every pair like Don Martin and Don Amado. Of course Don Julio, like the other heads of households in Santa Cruz, had to be more public spirited than any city-bred man, and he served on the public works committee and had been often on the school committee-but he seemed so dour, had so little good cheer, and had been so harsh with his first family. When I had been in Santa Cruz only a week in 1934, I saw Don Julio for the first time. I sat on the school porch at dusk and watched as a stern, forbidding-looking man carried a half-unconscious, four- teen-year-old boy in to the teacher. The child had gone out to cut alfalfa with a sharp sickle, to give the oxen their evening meal; the sickle had slipped and severed an artery in his hand. The father found him nearly fainting in the field and carried him on his own strong shoulders, blood dripping all the way, to get first aid at the school. The teacher and I put on a tourniquet, and I bathed the hand with Lysol from my first-aid kit; but before we stopped the blood, the boy had lost consciousness. I did not fully understand, and certainly did not record then, Don Julio's sharp words - in anger at the carelessness of the unconscious boy, in disgust at the 37 DON JULIO with his two youngest girls and the tonto hired man to run the Santa Cruz bakery as a minor project. If anyone was to go on for higher education, it was to be his older son and not the daughter in whom I had been so interested. The fact that Miguelito is now head of Don Martin's family is one reason why I have not been back to Santa Cruz. THE MEN in Santa Cruz Etla could play ball on Sunday afternoons because Don Julio had once been municipal president and at that time had donated land for a town ball-court, but the gift of this playing field was the only magnanimous thing I ever heard of him doing. In the United States or Europe or Asia, surely there is always one hard and selfish person for every two men of public spirit and good will, one Don Julio for every pair like Don Martin and Don Amado. Of course Don Julio, like the other heads of households in Santa Cruz, had to be more public spirited than any city-bred man, and be served on the public works committee and had been often on the school committee-but he seemed so dour, had so little good cheer, and had been so harsh with his first family. When I had been in Santa Cruz only a week in 1934, I saw Don Julio for the first time. I sat on the school porch at dusk and watched as a stern, forbidding-looking man carried a half-unconscious, four- teen-year-old boy in to the teacher. The child had gone out to cut alfalfa with a sharp sickle, to give the oxen their evening meal; the sickle had slipped and severed an artery in his hand. The father found him nearly fainting in the field and carried him on his own strong shoulders, blood dripping all the way, to get first aid at the school. The teacher and I put on a tourniquet, and I bathed the hand with Lysol from my first-aid kit; but before we stopped the blood, the boy had lost consciousness. I did not fully understand, and certainly did not record then, Don Julio's sharp words - in anger at the carelessness of the unconscious boy, in disgust at the 37 DON JULIO with his two youngest girls and the tonto hired man to run the Santa Cruz bakery as a minor project. If anyone was to go on for higher education, it was to be his older son and not the daughter in whom I had been so interested. The fact that Miguelito is now head of Don Martin's family is one reason why I have not been back to Santa Cruz. +3 THE MEN in Santa Cruz Etla could play ball on Sunday afternoons because Don Julio had once been municipal president and at that time had donated land for a town ball-court, but the gift of this playing field was the only magnanimous thing I ever heard of him doing. In the United States or Europe or Asia, surely there is always one hard and selfish person for every two men of public spirit and good will, one Don Julio for every pair like Don Martin and Don Amado. Of course Don Julio, like the other heads of households in Santa Cruz, had to be more public spirited than any city-bred man, and be served on the public works committee and had been often on the school committee-but he seemed so dour, had so little good cheer, and had been so harsh with his first family. When I had been in Santa Cruz only a week in 1934, I saw Don Julio for the first time. I sat on the school porch at dusk and watched as a stern, forbidding-looking man carried a half-unconscious, four- teen-year-old boy in to the teacher. The child had gone out to cut alfalfa with a sharp sickle, to give the oxen their evening meal; the sickle had slipped and severed an artery in his hand. The father found him nearly fainting in the field and carried him on his own strong shoulders, blood dripping all the way, to get first aid at the school. The teacher and I put on a tourniquet, and I bathed the hand with Lysol from my first-aid kit; but before we stopped the blood, the boy had lost consciousness. I did not fully understand, and certainly did not record then, Don Julio's sharp words - in anger at the carelessness of the unconscious boy, in disgust at the 37  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS teacher's unsuccessful treatment. His whole attitude was entirely unlike the cheerful and courteous manner of all the other Santa Cruz men. Though the boy was never taken to a doctor, he grew up, with a slightly scarred hand, to become himself Don Eduardo, operator of the gristmill in 1954. But by that time Don Julio was estranged from the boy and his mother, under criticism from the whole town for the quarrel between them, and had taken on an entire, new family. In between, he had prospered as a miller. It was he who had watched the Cooperativa of Don Amado go to pieces in 1931. Five years later he sold two hectares of land in a good corn year and bought another, smaller gasoline mill. At first he put it right into the one room of his house, while his family lived around it and his wife kept house under the engine belt in the midst of the oil and gasoline. In 1938 we traveled again into southerr Nexico on the way to visit Mayan ruins. We took the train into Oaxaca just to see the people of Santa Cruz once more, and we arranged in the city for a truck with skid chains and a powerful low gear (a whole thirty pesos' worth) just to take us into the hills for the one day we had to spare from a busy trip. Having sent up word by the charcoal burners as to our coming for a Sunday, we expected who- ever was president to give us some kind of welcome feast. We surely did not expect the dour and unkind Don Julio to be president, but there he was. I don't know how he got elected. There is no record of achievement during his term, and he never served as chief again. But we will always remember the smelly mill and its gasoline engine filling all the space of the dark little hut, for we had a "fiesta" company dinner there - chunks of boiled pork, rice, and beans, tequila and strawberry pop - served to the guests at the expense of the municipal president. The food was handed in under the machine belt by his cowed and timid wife, while the boy with the scarred hand and his shy little sister stood in the doorway. All our other, gayer friends waited discreetly outside till the formal dinner should be over. When Eduardo, the boy, was old enough, he himself built a bigger hut for the family and they 38 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS teacher's unsuccessful treatment. His whole attitude was entirely unlike the cheerful and courteous manner of all the other Santa Cruz men. Though the boy was never taken to a doctor, he grew up, with a slightly scarred hand, to become himself Don Eduardo, operator of the gristmill in 1954. But by that time Don Julio was estranged from the boy and his mother, under criticism from the whole town for the quarrel between them, and had taken on an entire, new family. In between, he had prospered as a miller. It was he who had watched the Cooperativa of Don Amado go to pieces in 1931. Five years later he sold two hectares of land in a good corn year and bought another, smaller gasoline mill. At first he put it right into the one room of his house, while his family lived around it and his wife kept house under the engine belt in the midst of the oil and gasoline. In 1938 we traveled again into southern slexico on the way to visit Mayan ruins. We took the train into Oaxaca just to see the people of Santa Cruz once more, and we arranged in the city for a truck with skid chains and a powerful low gear (a whole thirty pesos' worth) just to take us into the hills for the one day we had to spare from a busy trip. Having sent up word by the charcoal burners as to our coming for a Sunday, we expected who- ever was president to give us some kind of welcome feast. We surely did not expect the dour and unkind Don Julio to be president, but there he was. I don't know how he got elected. There is no record of achievement during his term, and he never served as chief again. But we will always remember the smelly mill and its gasoline engine filling all the space of the dark little hut, for we had a "fiesta" company dinner there - chunks of boiled pork, rice, and beans, tequila and strawberry pop - served to the guests at the expense of the municipal president. The food was handed in under the machine belt by his cowed and timid wife, while the boy with the scarred hand and his shy little sister stood in the doorway. All our other, gayer friends waited discreetly outside till the formal dinner should be over. When Eduardo, the boy, was old enough, he himself built a bigger hut for the family and they 38 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS teacher's unsuccessful treatment. His whole attitude was entirely unlike the cheerful and courteous manner of all the other Santa Cruz men. Though the boy was never taken to a doctor, he grew up, with a slightly scarred hand, to become himself Don Eduardo, operator of the gristmill in 1954. But by that time Don Julio was estranged from the boy and his mother, under criticism from the whole town for the quarrel between them, and had taken on an entire, new family. In between, he had prospered as a miller. It was he who had watched the Cooperativa of Don Amado go to pieces in 1931. Five years later he sold two hectares of land in a good corn year and bought another, smaller gasoline mill. At first he put it right into the one room of his house, while his family lived around it and his wife kept house under the engine belt in the midst of the oil and gasoline. In 1938 we traveled again into southern inexico on the way to visit Mayan ruins. We took the train into Oaxaca just to see the people of Santa Cruz once more, and we arranged in the city for a truck with skid chains and a powerful low gear (a whole thirty pesos' worth) just to take us into the hills for the one day we had to spare from a busy trip. Having sent up word by the charcoal burners as to our coming for a Sunday, we expected who- ever was president to give us some kind of welcome feast. We surely did not expect the dour and unkind Don Julio to be president, but there he was. I don't know how he got elected. There is no record of achievement during his term, and he never served as chief again. But we will always remember the smelly mill and its gasoline engine filling all the space of the dark little hut, for we had a "fiesta" company dinner there - chunks of boiled pork, rice, and beans, tequila and strawberry pop - served to the guests at the expense of the municipal president. The food was handed in under the machine belt by his cowed and timid wife, while the boy with the scarred hand and his shy little sister stood in the doorway. All our other, gayer friends waited discreetly outside till the formal dinner should he over. When Eduardo, the boy, was old enough, he himself built a bigger hut for the family and they 38  - C Y _ ' ot 3 ,j!r at ry i.. yr: ART, .111 ®R T F t2 - r f r it 1 yn 41 .. . by C 1 d yI, s wA.J S 2 Y r 1 {1iCY Xl .wwiai: -i r t.. A 'I --  - I Ic ,  DON JULIO moved out of the house up on the main trail which remained in use as the mill, and nothing but the mill. Women, or mostly the young girls, lined up there early in the morning. The little bride from the house of the cure woman who was my hostess in 1945 always went early to get the corn ground, and once I did this errand myself to help out the family. Some- times ten or twenty girls waited on the trails, baskets of "hominy- cooked" corn on their heads. Inside the hut Don Julio himself, al- ways on hand to see that no one cheated, would nod a curt greet- ing, take the corn from the girl's head, and weigh it on a simple hand scale. He charged five centavos for grinding two kilos, about five pounds. Many times the girls would not have the copper five- centavo pieces, and as often as not one would pay with an egg, or two tomatoes, or a few peaches. A girl in front of me that time of- fered twenty wild pecans. If there was no money to pay or no gift to offer, Don Julio would take out two handfuls of the corn to keep for himself. Then the girl had to put the corn in the hopper and scrape it off the walls of the bin as it sprayed out below, a wet corn-meal dough. Don Julio had responsibility only for the care of the machine, as important as the mighty wheels of a great factory, though it was only a simple gasoline donkey engine connected to the grinder and hopper by the long space-filling belt. Don Julio devoted all his time to this engine; unlike Don Martin, he felt no great honor and pride in the land. He got more corn than he needed for his own family's tortillas just by collecting tithes from the baskets. He sold all his land except the hard-packed little flat place below the school on which the men played ball; he kept no livestock save the burros that carried the gasoline cans up from market with fuel for the engine. Indeed, he often got milk in exchange for corn grinding, or cuts of meat at butchering time, so why keep livestock at all? Thus was the miller, even before the baker, the first to leave the land, the first Santa Cruz Etla man to launch a private business, city fashion. Perhaps I should not sound so critical of Don Julio. Just because I did not like his personality is no reason why he and his mill did not help mightily in Don Amado's program to make Santa Cruz 39 DON JULIO moved out of the house up on the main trail which remained in use as the mill, and nothing but the mill. Women, or mostly the young girls, lined up there early in the morning. The little bride from the house of the cure woman who was my hostess in 1945 always went early to get the corn ground, and once I did this errand myself to help out the family. Some- times ten or twenty girls waited on the trails, baskets of "hominy- cooked" corn on their heads. Inside the hut Don Julio himself, al- ways on hand to see that no one cheated, would nod a curt greet- ing, take the corn from the girl's head, and weigh it on a simple hand scale. He charged five centavos for grinding two kilos, about five pounds. Many times the girls would not have the copper five- centavo pieces, and as often as not one would pay with an egg, or two tomatoes, or a few peaches. A girl in front of me that time of- fered twenty wild pecans. If there was no money to pay or no gift to offer, Don Julio would take out two handfuls of the corn to keep for himself. Then the girl had to put the corn in the hopper and scrape it off the walls of the bin as it sprayed out below, a wet corn-meal dough. Don Julio had responsibility only for the care of the machine, as important as the mighty wheels of a great factory, though it was only a simple gasoline donkey engine connected to the grinder and hopper by the long space-filling belt. Don Julio devoted all his time to this engine; unlike Don Martin, he felt no great honor and pride in the land. He got more corn than he needed for his own family's tortillas just by collecting tithes from the baskets. He sold all his land except the hard-packed little flat place below the school on which the men played ball; he kept no livestock save the burros that carried the gasoline cans up from market with fuel for the engine. Indeed, he often got milk in exchange for corn grinding, or cuts of meat at butchering time, so why keep livestock at all? Thus was the miller, even before the baker, the first to leave the land, the first Santa Cruz Etla man to launch a private business, city fashion. Perhaps I should not sound so critical of Don Julio. Just because I did not like his personality is no reason why he and his mill did not help mightily in Don Amado's program to make Santa Cruz 39 DON JULIO moved out of the house up on the main trail which remained in use as the mill, and nothing but the mill. Women, or mostly the young girls, lined up there early in the morning. The little bride from the house of the cure woman who was my hostess in 1945 always went early to get the corn ground, and once I did this errand myself to help out the family. Some- times ten or twenty girls waited on the trails, baskets of "hominy- cooked" corn on their heads. Inside the hut Don Julio himself, al- ways on hand to see that no one cheated, would nod a curt greet- ing, take the corn from the girl's head, and weigh it on a simple hand scale. He charged five centavos for grinding two kilos, about five pounds. Many times the girls would not have the copper five- centavo pieces, and as often as not one would pay with an egg, or two tomatoes, or a few peaches. A girl in front of me that time of- fered twenty wild pecans. If there was no money to pay or no gift to offer, Don Julio would take out two handfuls of the corn to keep for himself. Then the girl had to put the corn in the hopper and scrape it off the walls of the bin as it sprayed out below, a wet corn-meal dough. Don Julio had responsibility only for the care of the machine, as important as the mighty wheels of a great factory, though it was only a simple gasoline donkey engine connected to the grinder and hopper by the long space-filling belt. Don Julio devoted all his time to this engine; unlike Don Martin, he felt no great honor and pride in the land. He got more corn than he needed for his own family's tortillas just by collecting tithes from the baskets. He sold all his land except the hard-packed little flat place below the school on which the men played ball; he kept no livestock save the burros that carried the gasoline cans up from market with fuel for the engine. Indeed, he often got milk in exchange for corn grinding, or cuts of meat at butchering time, so why keep livestock at all? Thus was the miller, even before the baker, the first to leave the land, the first Santa Cruz Etla man to launch a private business, city fashion. Perhaps I should not sound so critical of Don Julio. Just because I did not like his personality is no reason why he and his mill did not help mightily in Don Amado's program to make Santa Cruz 39  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS into a town. The list of goals for rural improvement set up by the cultural missions includes "mechanical corn grinders"; teachers should establish one in every village. By 1945 the village would have been lost without its own mill. The most upsetting day during my visit that summer was the Sunday the mill broke down. Both Don Julio and his son were such good mechanics that something like that occurred seldom. Surely it couldn't have been that Don Julio, the hardheaded, the practical, actually ran out of gas! I never did find out, and no one would dare ask him, but Eduardo had been sent off immediately to Oaxaca, driving a burro which carried an empty gasoline can. The trip would take all day, ever.- one knew, and Sunday is a bad day to go to the city. No one else in Santa Cruz Etla knew anything about machinery, and no one could hope to analyze the trouble. Philosophically, the women where I was staying said: "Don Julio's mill se rompid, broke itself." This I could understand, having been on Mexican mixed trains, decrepit, wooden, second-class passenger cars and freight cars combined, when passengers waited in the heat for hours, even all day, and were told merely, Se rompid la mdquina (the engine broke itself), and no one asked questions, everyone just sat and waited. But in 1945 Santa Cruz Etla had changed so much in the ten years since I was first there that everyone's family life was upset when the mill broke. That much did they come to depend on the machine age. My hostess said cheerfully, "Pues, well, tortillas are always mds dulcitas, much the sweetest when the corn is hand ground." But we had few tortillas all that day, and no bread from Don Martin's either; other families up the ridge had bought out what bread was left. The little bride spent the whole morning grinding and grinding on the rough stones of the metate; she was so young she had seldom made tortillas from hand-ground corn, and she produced only enough tortillas for three apiece for supper. Without Don Julio, the Cooperativa having failed, Santa Cruz as a town would still be in the stone-grinding age. Don Julio sold the last of his corn land while he was municipal president, being too busy with mill and politics to farm again; but 40 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS into a town. The list of goals for rural improvement set up by the cultural missions includes "mechanical corn grinders"; teachers should establish one in every village. By 1945 the village would have been lost without its own mill. The most upsetting day during my visit that summer was the Sunday the mill broke down. Both Don Julio and his son were such good mechanics that something like that occurred seldom. Surely it couldn't have been that Don Julio, the hardheaded, the practical, actually ran out of gas! I never did find out, and no one would dare ask him, but Eduardo had been sent off immediately to Oaxaca, driving a burro which carried an empty gasoline can. The trip would take all day, every- one knew, and Sunday is a bad day to go to the city. No one else in Santa Cruz Etla knew anything about machinery, and no one could hope to analyze the trouble. Philosophically, the women where I was staying said: "Don Julio's mill se rompid, broke itself." This I could understand, having been on lexican mixed trains, decrepit, wooden, second-class passenger cars and freight cars combined, when passengers waited in the heat for hours, even all day, and were told merely, Se rompid la niquina (the engine broke itself), and no one asked questions, everyone just sat and waited. But in 1945 Santa Cruz Etla had changed so much in the ten years since I was first there that everyone's family life was upset when the mill broke. That much did they come to depend on the machine age. My hostess said cheerfully, "Pues, well, tortillas are always ms dulcitas, much the sweetest when the corn is hand ground." But we had few tortillas all that day, and no bread from Don Martin's either; other families up the ridge had bought out what bread was left. The little bride spent the whole morning grinding and grinding on the rough stones of the metate; she was so young she had seldom made tortillas from hand-ground corn, and she produced only enough tortillas for three apiece for supper. Without Don Julio, the Cooperatica having failed, Santa Cruz as a town would still be in the stone-grinding age. Don Julio sold the last of his corn land while he was municipal president, being too busy with mill and politics to farm again; but 40 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS into a town. The list of goals for rural improvement set up by the cultural missions includes "mechanical corn grinders"; teachers should establish one in every village. By 1945 the village would have been lost without its own mill. The most upsetting day during my visit that summer was the Sunday the mill broke down. Both Don Julio and his son were such good mechanics that something like that occurred seldom. Surely it couldn't have been that Don Julio, the hardheaded, the practical, actually ran out of gas! I never did find out, and no one would dare ask him, but Eduardo had been sent off immediately to Oaxaca, driving a burro which carried an empty gasoline can. The trip would take all day, ever- one knew, and Sunday is a bad day to go to the city. No one else in Santa Cruz Etla knew anything about machinery, and no one could hope to analyze the trouble. Philosophically, the women where I was staying said: "Don Julio's mill se rompid, broke itself." This I could understand, having been on lexican mixed trains, decrepit, wooden, second-class passenger cars and freight cars combined, when passengers waited in the heat for hours, even all day, and were told merely, Se rompid la mdquina (the engine broke itself), and no one asked questions, everyone just sat and waited. But in 1945 Santa Cruz Etla had changed so much in the ten years since I was first there that everyone's family life was upset when the mill broke. That much did they come to depend on the machine age. My hostess said cheerfully, "Pues, well, tortillas are always mds dulcitas, much the sweetest when the corn is hand ground." But we had few tortillas all that day, and no bread from Don Martin's either; other families up the ridge had bought out what bread was left. The little bride spent the whole morning grinding and grinding on the rough stones of the etate; she seas so young she had seldom made tortillas from hand-ground corn, and she produced only enough tortillas for three apiece for supper. Without Don Julio, the Cooperativa having failed, Santa Cruz as a town would still be in the stone-grinding age. Don Julio sold the last of his corn land while he was municipal president, being too busy with mill and politics to farm again; but 40  DON JULIO he found no buyers for an infertile, hard-packed bit of soil he owned behind the school. Though he gave his son Eduardo little free time and no life of his own - and Eduardo was twenty-five in 1945 -he allowed the boy to indulge his love of handball, and he gave the unsold plot to the young men of the community. Ed- uardo bought the necessary hard rubber ball, and young men and middle-aged joined to build an adobe wall from which the handball could bounce back, to make the play possible. But that is a story of the young men. Don Martin and Don Bartolo were still playing handball in 1954, but never Don Julio. He sat on Sunday playing cards with the other less active men on the school steps or in the trail in front of the school, a folded sarape in the center of the circle and a jack pot in the middle of the sarape. The cards they used were Spanish-type playing cards, with four suits (palos), but not the ones to which we are accustomed. There is a suit called bastos, which are really pictures of gnarled hickory clubs, and in place of hearts there are copas, or cups. A third suit, corresponding to spades, is called espadas, swords, and the fourth suit, our diamonds, which has pictures of gold pieces, is called oros. There is no queen, but three men instead, a sota, or knave, a prince, and a king. The sota is ten, so there are only twelve cards in each suit. The game the men played seemed like rummy and was played for five- or ten- centavo stakes. Once I heard loud argument and wandered up from where I had been gossiping with the women to find Don Julio and Don Bartolo involved in fifty-centavo stakes. The fifty-centavo coin, a silver piece called a toston, is very seldom seen in Mexico any more; ten years ago it was really quite a bit of money to the hill people. Today a game with peso stakes, and all paper pesos at that, would be the equivalent. A peso is now worth only eight cents in United States money; its value in Santa Cruz has lessened by half since 1934 in terms of charcoal, corn, or strawberry pop. With his own family Don Julio tried to be a tyrant. His oldest girl Juanita, smart and graceful then, had been a pet of the teachers in 1934. When she was fifteen, her father forced her into mar- 41 DON JULIO he found no buyers for an infertile, hard-packed bit of soil he owned behind the school. Though he gave his son Eduardo little free time and no life of his own - and Eduardo was twenty-five in 1945 -he allowed the boy to indulge his love of handball, and he gave the unsold plot to the young men of the community. Ed- uardo bought the necessary hard rubber ball, and young men and middle-aged joined to build an adobe wall from which the handball could bounce back, to make the play possible. But that is a story of the young men. Don Martin and Don Bartolo were still playing handball in 1954, but never Don Julio. He sat on Sunday playing cards with the other less active men on the school steps or in the trail in front of the school, a folded sarape in the center of the circle and a jack pot in the middle of the sarape. The cards they used were Spanish-type playing cards, with four suits (palos), but not the ones to which we are accustomed. There is a suit called bastos, which are really pictures of gnarled hickory clubs, and in place of hearts there are copas, or cups. A third suit, corresponding to spades, is called espadas, swords, and the fourth suit, our diamonds, which has pictures of gold pieces, is called oros. There is no queen, but three men instead, a sota, or knave, a prince, and a king. The sota is ten, so there are only twelve cards in each suit. The game the men played seemed like rummy and was played for five- or ten- centavo stakes. Once I heard loud argument and wandered up from where I had been gossiping with the women to find Don Julio and Don Bartolo involved in fifty-centavo stakes. The fifty-centavo coin, a silver piece called a toston, is very seldom seen in Mexico any more; ten years ago it was really quite a bit of money to the hill people. Today a game with peso stakes, and all paper pesos at that, would be the equivalent. A peso is now worth only eight cents in United States money; its value in Santa Cruz has lessened by half since 1934 in terms of charcoal, corn, or strawberry pop. With his own family Don Julio tried to be a tvrant. His oldest girl Juanita, smart and graceful then, had been a pet of the teachers in 1934. When she was fifteen, her father forced her into mar- 41 DON JULIO he found no buyers for an infertile, hard-packed bit of soil he owned behind the school. Though he gave his son Eduardo little free time and no life of his own - and Eduardo was twenty-five in 1945 -he allowed the boy to indulge his love of handball, and he gave the unsold plot to the young men of the community. Ed- uardo bought the necessary hard rubber ball, and young men and middle-aged joined to build an adobe wall from which the handball could bounce back, to make the play possible. But that is a story of the young men. Don Martin and Don Bartolo were still playing handball in 1954, but never Don Julio. He sat on Sunday playing cards with the other less active men on the school steps or in the trail in front of the school, a folded sarape in the center of the circle and a jack pot in the middle of the sarape. The cards they used were Spanish-type playing cards, with four suits (palos), but not the ones to which we are accustomed. There is a suit called bastos, which are really pictures of gnarled hickory clubs, and in place of hearts there are copas, or cups. A third suit, corresponding to spades, is called espadas, swords, and the fourth suit, our diamonds, which has pictures of gold pieces, is called oros. There is no queen, but three men instead, a sota, or knave, a prince, and a king. The sota is ten, so there are only twelve cards in each suit. The game the men played seemed like rummy and was played for five- or ten- centavo stakes. Once I heard loud argument and wandered up from where I had been gossiping with the women to find Don Julio and Don Bartolo involved in fifty-centavo stakes. The fifty-centavo coin, a silver piece called a toston, is very seldom seen in Mexico any more; ten years ago it was really quite a bit of money to the hill people. Today a game with peso stakes, and all paper pesos at that, would be the equivalent. A peso is now worth only eight cents in United States money; its value in Santa Cruz has lessened by half since 1934 in terms of charcoal, corn, or strawberry pop. With his own family Don Julio tried to be a tyrant. His oldest girl Juanita, smart and graceful then, had been a pet of the teachers in 1934. When she was fifteen, her father forced her into mar- 41  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS riage with a much older man in San Pablo. I was distressed to hear of this; but Juanita, when I visited her in San Pablo in 1954, seemed perfectly happy, boss of her life as she never was at home, and proud of her half-grown children. She had so quarreled and fussed at her father's marriage plans for her at first, however, that he re- fused in turn to let his youngest child, Susana, marry at all. In 1947 Susana repaid him for his firmness by running off to Oaxaca City where she worked as a chambermaid in a hotel. I sensed some unhappiness among them in 1945 when Don Julio wanted me to take pictures of himself and the mill house, but refused to have his wife and daughters pose. Dona Fecunda, his quiet, retiring wife, conditioned by twenty-five years of mar- riage with Don Julio, hesitated to pose for a picture at all. It was only when I spoke of the group pictures I was taking of all the other families in Santa Cruz, and Eduardo summoned his own wife and baby from the inner room, that Don Julio grudgingly stood up with his family. I remember receiving little thanks from the older couple and feeling distinctly embarrassed at having insisted on the pictures. Thus, I should not have been surprised, though I was, at finding Don Julio with a completely new family in 1954. Going blithely from houseyard to houseyard, I came to a hillside adobe house owned by a pleasant old couple who had only one child, a daughter Refugio, who had been in school in the fourth grade in 1934. The father had even then spoken to me about the lack of sons to help him farm the land, the death of his boys when they were both under ten, the hope that Refugio would marry someone to help him with the corn planting. Refugio had seemed poor marriage material, even at thirteen. Thin, whining-voiced, flat-chested, prone to goiter as are so many Santa Cruz women, narrow between the eyes, she appears often in the school-activity movies we took in 1984. No one spoke for her in marriage through the years. In 1947 both father and mother died, leaving her heiress to the land with no one to work it for her. Now Don Julio lived there as her hus- band and welcomed me into the house. It was hard to piece together the story, for family affairs are 42 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS riage with a much older man in San Pablo. I was distressed to hear of this; but Juanita, when I visited her in San Pablo in 1954, seemed perfectly happy, boss of her life as she never was at home, and proud of her half-grown children. She had so quarreled and fussed at her father's marriage plans for her at first, however, that he re- fused in turn to let his youngest child, Susana, marry at all. In 1947 Susana repaid him for his firmness by running off to Oaxaca City where she worked as a chambermaid in a hotel. I sensed some unhappiness among them in 1945 when Don Julio wanted me to take pictures of himself and the mill house, but refused to have his wife and daughters pose. Dona Fecunda, his quiet, retiring wife, conditioned by twenty-five years of mar- riage with Don Julio, hesitated to pose for a picture at all. It was only when I spoke of the group pictures I was taking of all the other families in Santa Cruz, and Eduardo summoned his own wife and baby from the inner room, that Don Julio grudgingly stood up with his family. I remember receiving little thanks from the older couple and feeling distinctly embarrassed at having insisted on the pictures. Thus, I should not have been surprised, though I was, at finding Don Julio with a completely new family in 1954. Going blithely from houseyard to houseyard, I came to a hillside adobe house owned by a pleasant old couple who had only one child, a daughter Refugio, who had been in school in the fourth grade in 1934. The father had even then spoken to me about the lack of sons to help him farm the land, the death of his boys when they were both under ten, the hope that Refugio would marry someone to help him with the corn planting. Refugio had seemed poor marriage material, even at thirteen. Thin, whining-voiced, flat-chested, prone to goiter as are so many Santa Cruz women, narrow between the eyes, she appears often in the school-activity movies we took in 1934. No one spoke for her in marriage through the years. In 1947 both father and mother died, leaving her heiress to the land with no one to work it for her. Now Don Julio lived there as her hus- band and welcomed me into the house. It was hard to piece together the story, for family affairs are 42 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS riage with a much older man in San Pablo. I was distressed to hear of this; but Juanita, when I visited her in San Pablo in 1954, seemed perfectly happy, boss of her life as she never was at home, and proud of her half-grown children. She had so quarreled and fussed at her father's marriage plans for her at first, however, that he re- fused in turn to let his youngest child, Susana, marry at all. In 1947 Susana repaid him for his firmness by running off to Oaxaca City where she worked as a chambermaid in a hotel. I sensed some unhappiness among them in 1945 when Don Julio wanted me to take pictures of himself and the mill house, but refused to have his wife and daughters pose. Dona Fecunda, his quiet, retiring wife, conditioned by twenty-five years of mar- riage with Don Julio, hesitated to pose for a picture at all. It was only when I spoke of the group pictures I was taking of all the other families in Santa Cruz, and Eduardo summoned his own wife and baby from the inner room, that Don Julio grudgingly stood up with his family. I remember receiving little thanks from the older couple and feeling distinctly embarrassed at having insisted on the pictures. Thus, I should not have been surprised, though I was, at finding Don Julio with a completely new family in 1954. Going blithely from houseyard to houseyard, I came to a hillside adobe house owned by a pleasant old couple who had only one child, a daughter Refugio, who had been in school in the fourth grade in 1934. The father had even then spoken to me about the lack of sons to help him farm the land, the death of his boys when they were both under ten, the hope that Refugio would marry someone to help him with the corn planting. Refugio had seemed poor marriage material, even at thirteen. Thin, whining-voiced, flat-chested, prone to goiter as are so many Santa Cruz women, narrow between the eyes, she appears often in the school-activity movies we took in 1984. No one spoke for her in marriage through the years. In 1947 both father and mother died, leaving her heiress to the land with no one to work it for her. Now Don Julio lived there as her hus- band and welcomed me into the house. It was hard to piece together the story, for family affairs are 42  DON JULIO not discussed by other families in Santa Cruz. Don Martin's lovely daughter-in-law, Chabella, finally told me that Eduardo and his father had quarreled violently about the money from the mill and the use of the house behind the mill. Juanita had dropped them both, her father because her sympathies were with Eduardo, her brother because it was so unseemly for a boy to defy his father. Susana had gone to live in the city. Dona Fecunda, the perhaps never so meek mother, had sided with Eduardo. Don Julio had gone off in a rage, leaving Eduardo to run the mill and in possession of the house. Eduardo is still there, the boss of both, the miller of the town and as such an important person, though it is doubtless hard to live down the scandal of the quarrel and his father's second mar- riage, and there is probably more of the account of Eduardo I could tell in its own right as a part of the tale of a new generation in Santa Cruz. Don Julio was most cordial when I visited Refugio's home that day in 1954 and found him ensconced in it, father of a second family. He urged me to take many photos of the son and three little daughters Refugio had borne him rapidly in the eight years since the quarrel. I asked tactlessly about Dona Fecunda- it seems hard even now to write Dofia Refugio when speaking of the second wife - and Don Julio launched into a tirade about the "in- justice" she had done him, the bad treatment she had always given him. I did not like to ask anyone about "divorce" and "second mar- riage ceremony." These people are devout in their religion; but it is true that many of the older couples, who in their youth knew neither school nor priest nor civil law authority in the hills, simply lived together as common-law spouses, without the expense of a ceremony and a formal paper. If that had been true with them, then Don Julio could easily have cast Doia Fecunda off in this modem age and have had his first real wedding ceremony with Refugio. Would Refugio, trained in school, inheriting land, have taken on a grouchy old grass widower, made him master of her land, and borne him children without a legal bond to hold him and to give her status? The whole thing puzzles me still; it is so unlike anything else that ever happened openly in Santa Cruz Etla. And 43 DON JULIO not discussed by other families in Santa Cruz. Don Martin's lovely daughter-in-law, Chabella, finally told me that Eduardo and his father had quarreled violently about the money from the mill and the use of the house behind the mill. Juanita had dropped them both, her father because her sympathies were with Eduardo, her brother because it was so unseemly for a boy to defy his father. Susana had gone to live in the city. Doa Fecunda, the perhaps never so meek mother, had sided with Eduardo. Don Julio had gone off in a rage, leaving Eduardo to run the mill and in possession of the house. Eduardo is still there, the boss of both, the miller of the town and as such an important person, though it is doubtless hard to live down the scandal of the quarrel and his father's second mar- riage, and there is probably more of the account of Eduardo I could tell in its own right as a part of the tale of a new generation in Santa Cruz. Don Julio was most cordial when I visited Refugio's home that day in 1954 and found him ensconced in it, father of a second family. He urged me to take many photos of the son and three little daughters Refugio had borne him rapidly in the eight years since the quarrel. I asked tactlessly about Dona Fecunda - it seems hard even now to write Doa Refugio when speaking of the second wife - and Don Julio launched into a tirade about the "in- justice" she had done him, the bad treatment she had always given him. I did not like to ask anyone about "divorce" and "second mar- riage ceremony." These people are devout in their religion; but it is true that many of the older couples, who in their youth knew neither school nor priest nor civil law authority in the hills, simply lived together as common-law spouses, without the expense of a ceremony and a formal paper. If that had been true with them, then Don Julio could easily have cast Dona Fecunda off in this modern age and have had his first real wedding ceremony with Refugio. Would Refugio, trained in school, inheriting land, have taken on a grouchy old grass widower, made him master of her land, and borne him children without a legal bond to hold him and to give her status? The whole thing puzzles me still; it is so unlike anything else that ever happened openly in Santa Cruz Etla. And 43 DON JULIO not discussed by other families in Santa Cruz. Don Martin's lovely daughter-in-law, Chabella, finally told me that Eduardo and his father had quarreled violently about the money from the mill and the use of the house behind the mill. Juanita had dropped them both, her father because her sympathies were with Eduardo, her brother because it was so unseemly for a boy to defy his father. Susana had gone to live in the city. Dona Fecunda, the perhaps never so meek mother, had sided with Eduardo. Don Julio had gone off in a rage, leaving Eduardo to run the mill and in possession of the house. Eduardo is still there, the boss of both, the miller of the town and as such an important person, though it is doubtless hard to live down the scandal of the quarrel and his father's second mar- riage, and there is probably more of the account of Eduardo I could tell in its own right as a part of the tale of a new generation in Santa Cruz. Don Julio was most cordial when I visited Refugio's home that day in 1954 and found him ensconced in it, father of a second family. He urged me to take many photos of the son and three little daughters Refugio had borne him rapidly in the eight years since the quarrel. I asked tactlessly about Doa Fecunda- it seems hard even now to write Doda Refugio when speaking of the second wife - and Don Julio launched into a tirade about the "in- justice" she had done him, the bad treatment she had always given him. I did not like to ask anyone about "divorce" and "second mar- riage ceremony." These people are devout in their religion; but it is true that many of the older couples, who in their youth knew neither school nor priest nor civil law authority in the hills, simply lived together as common-law spouses, without the expense of a ceremony and a formal paper. If that had been true with them, then Don Julio could easily have cast Doa Fecunda off in this modern age and have had his first real wedding ceremony with Refugio. Would Refugio, trained in school, inheriting land, have taken on a grouchy old grass widower, made him master of her land, and borne him children without a legal bond to hold him and to give her status? The whole thing puzzles me still; it is so unlike anything else that ever happened openly in Santa Cruz Etla. And 43  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS what of Don Julio's economic status now? He is back again at the farming, running Refugio's skimpy acres, living much more poorly than when he ran the mill in such a lordly fashion. Was it perhaps Eduardo who always knew the mechanical side of the mill, Dona Fecunda who always managed with an unseen iron hand behind the mill's affairs, and Don Julio's dour appearance in public really a cover for a hard life at home? I would have thought in earlier visits that it was just the other way around. I noticed in 1954 that when I offered to take pictures of the public works committee, the officials who repair the trail and keep up the water ditch, Don Julio showed up with four other pillars of society to take his proper place in the photo; and he was on hand as we drove our car down the mountain at the end of our 1954 visit, to see to it that we did not get stuck in the mud and to join the rest of the committee in standing by with ox teams to pull us out if we did. He came up one day to drink with us at Don Martin's and to ask me if I thought the school was well run then and the teacher conscientious, for his six-year-old son by Refugio was to go to school the next year. Of all the well-established, leading families in Santa Cruz Etla, that of Don Julio saw the greatest change in two decades. Successful in "business," he failed in "family life"; perhaps his second try will bring him more personal happiness. And Santa Cruz does not now seem to care. His mill helped make the town independent of San Pablo, and personal family problems can perhaps be soon forgotten among old neighbors. THAT DON BARTOLO, who drank and danced so ecstatically at the child's funeral in 1934, should ever be elected municipal president was almost as surprising as that Don Julio should acquire a whole new family. True, Don Esteban, a young man hardly old enough to be called a don, had been president in 1944, between the terms 44 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS what of Don Julio's economic status now? He is back again at the farming, running Refugio's skimpy acres, living much more poorly than when he ran the mill in such a lordly fashion. Was it perhaps Eduardo who always knew the mechanical side of the mill, Dona Fecunda who always managed with an unseen iron hand behind the mill's affairs, and Don Julio's dour appearance in public really a cover for a hard life at home? I would have thought in earlier visits that it was just the other way around. I noticed in 1954 that when I offered to take pictures of the public works committee, the officials who repair the trail and keep up the water ditch, Don Julio showed up with four other pillars of society to take his proper place in the photo; and he was on hand as we drove our car down the mountain at the end of our 1954 visit, to see to it that we did not get stuck in the mud and to join the rest of the committee in standing by with ox teams to pull us out if we did. He came up one day to drink with us at Don Martin's and to ask me if I thought the school was well run then and the teacher conscientious, for his six-year-old son by Refugio was to go to school the next year. Of all the well-established, leading families in Santa Cruz Etla, that of Don Julio saw the greatest change in two decades. Successful in "business," he failed in "family life"; perhaps his second try will bring him more personal happiness. And Santa Cruz does not now seem to care. His mill helped make the town independent of San Pablo, and personal family problems can perhaps be soon forgotten among old neighbors. 44& THAT DON BARTOLO, who drank and danced so ecstatically at the child's funeral in 1934, should ever be elected municipal president was almost as surprising as that Don Julio should acquire a whole new family. True, Don Esteban, a young man hardly old enough to be called a don, had been president in 1944, between the terms 44 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS what of Don Julio's economic status now? He is back again at the farming, running Refugio's skimpy acres, living much more poorly than when he ran the mill in such a lordly fashion. Was it perhaps Eduardo who always knew the mechanical side of the mill, Doua Fecunda who always managed with an unseen iron hand behind the mill's affairs, and Don Julio's dour appearance in public really a cover for a hard life at home? I would have thought in earlier visits that it was just the other way around. I noticed in 1954 that when I offered to take pictures of the public works committee, the officials who repair the trail and keep up the water ditch, Don Julio showed up with four other pillars of society to take his proper place in the photo; and he was on hand as we drove our car down the mountain at the end of our 1954 visit, to see to it that we did not get stuck in the mud and to join the rest of the committee in standing by with ox teams to pull us out if we did. He came up one day to drink with us at Don Martin's and to ask me if I thought the school was well run then and the teacher conscientious, for his six-year-old son by Refugio was to go to school the next year. Of all the well-established, leading families in Santa Cruz Etla, that of Don Julio saw the greatest change in two decades. Successful in "business," he failed in "family life"; perhaps his second try will bring him more personal happiness. And Santa Cruz does not now seem to care. His mill helped make the town independent of San Pablo, and personal family problems can perhaps be soon forgotten among old neighbors. 44 THAT DON BARTOLO, who drank and danced so ecstaticallv at the child's funeral in 1934, should ever be elected municipal president was almost as surprising as that Don Julio should acquire a whole new family. True, Don Esteban, a young man hardly old enough to be called a don, had been president in 1944, between the terms 44  DON BARTOLO of Don Martin and before the death of Don Amado, so that he had good guidance; but even so, Esteban's term was something of a failure and belongs in the story about the school. That after Este- ban's youthful bungling the town should turn to such a light- hearted, irresponsible, immature person as Don Bartolo-though he was then more than forty-is still to me one of the puzzles of Santa Cruz Etla politics. Perhaps the shock of Don Amado's death left the town unable to make any wiser choice that year. In 1945, when I decided to come and spend an entire summer to help teach in the campaign against illiteracy, I was already the guest in Oaxaca City of a former teacher of the Santa Cruz school whom everyone adored and was very anxious to see. She was to accompany me to the hills, make arrangements for my stay, and she had long since contacted the villagers through the young men who came into the city selling charcoal. Hence, I really expected "the works" in the way of welcoming festivals. Arriving in an official school-department station wagon with mountain-climbing attach- ments, we found most of the townspeople in clean white clothes waiting on the school steps. But no president, no strawberry pop, no speech-making, no rockets! The people covered up their embarrassment over this lack by crowding around their pretty former teacher and her friend to tell them the news, first of Don Amado's death, and then of all the rest of the town. There were new children and grandchildren to be held up for inspection. There had been a marriage; did we remem- ber hearing about the betrothal party? One lovely girl we knew had died in childbirth. ;Qud ldstima! It was her first one, and it died, too, the little angelito. Don Fausto, of all people, a widower so long, had married a widow from over on the San Sebastian ridge. His mother, left alone and too old to care for herself, had brought her flock of turkeys and come to live with her daughter right below the schoolhouse. The new window frames for the school had come, ordered at a mixed-up meeting held by the young Esteban the year before; they had been brought up from Oaxaca City in an oxcart. Grown people were going to night school to learn to read and write-this was the campaign against illiteracy 45 DON BARTOLO of Don Martin and before the death of Don Amado, so that he had good guidance; but even so, Esteban's term was something of a failure and belongs in the story about the school. That after Este- ban's youthful bungling the town should turn to such a light- hearted, irresponsible, immature person as Don Bartolo-though he was then more than forty-is still to me one of the puzzles of Santa Cruz Etla politics. Perhaps the shock of Don Amado's death left the town unable to make any wiser choice that year. In 1945, when I decided to come and spend an entire summer to help teach in the campaign against illiteracy, I was already the guest in Oaxaca City of a former teacher of the Santa Cruz school whom everyone adored and was very anxious to see. She was to accompany me to the hills, make arrangements for my stay, and she had long since contacted the villagers through the young men who came into the city selling charcoal. Hence, I really expected "the works" in the way of welcoming festivals. Arriving in an official school-department station wagon with mountain-climbing attach- ments, we found most of the townspeople in clean white clothes waiting on the school steps. But no president, no strawberry pop, no speech-making, no rockets! The people covered up their embarrassment over this lack by crowding around their pretty former teacher and her friend to tell them the news, first of Don Amado's death, and then of all the rest of the town. There were new children and grandchildren to be held up for inspection. There had been a marriage; did we remem- ber hearing about the betrothal party? One lovely girl we knew had died in childbirth. ;Qud ldstima! It was her first one, and it died, too, the little angelito. Don Fausto, of all people, a widower so long, had married a widow from over on the San Sebastian ridge. His mother, left alone and too old to care for herself, had brought her flock of turkeys and come to live with her daughter right below the schoolhouse. The new window frames for the school had come, ordered at a mixed-up meeting held by the young Esteban the year before; they had been brought up from Oaxaca City in an oxcart. Grown people were going to night school to learn to read and write-this was the campaign against illiteracy 45 DON BARTOLO of Don Martin and before the death of Don Amado, so that he had good guidance; but even so, Esteban's term was something of a failure and belongs in the story about the school. That after Este- ban's youthful bungling the town should turn to such a light- hearted, irresponsible, immature person as Don Bartolo-though he was then more than forty-is still to me one of the puzzles of Santa Cruz Etla politics. Perhaps the shock of Don Amado's death left the town unable to make any wiser choice that year. In 1945, when I decided to come and spend an entire summer to help teach in the campaign against illiteracy, I was already the guest in Oaxaca City of a former teacher of the Santa Cruz school whom everyone adored and was very anxious to see. She was to accompany me to the hills, make arrangements for my stay, and she had long since contacted the villagers through the young men who came into the city selling charcoal. Hence, I really expected "the works" in the way of welcoming festivals. Arriving in an official school-department station wagon with mountain-climbing attach- ments, we found most of the townspeople in clean white clothes waiting on the school steps. But no president, no strawberry pop, no speech-making, no rockets! The people covered up their embarrassment over this lack by crowding around their pretty former teacher and her friend to tell them the news, first of Don Amado's death, and then of all the rest of the town. There were new children and grandchildren to be held up for inspection. There had been a marriage; did we remem- ber hearing about the betrothal party? One lovely girl we knew had died in childbirth. ;Que ldstima! It was her first one, and it died, too, the little angelito. Don Fausto, of all people, a widower so long, had married a widow from over on the San SebastiAn ridge. His mother, left alone and too old to care for herself, had brought her flock of turkeys and come to live with her daughter right below the schoolhouse. The new window frames for the school had come, ordered at a mixed-up meeting held by the young Esteban the year before; they had been brought up from Oaxaca City in an oxcart. Grown people were going to night school to learn to read and write-this was the campaign against illiteracy 45  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I was concerned about. The plot of school land had been planted to corn this year, while the public-land bean crop was being held for a higher price. One younger man had gone south of Oaxaca City to work on the Pan American Highway into the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, while another had gone on a contract to do farm work in the United States of the north. Spectacular news, these last two items, from a community where no one had ever gone away to work before. The women turned their attention to me, always curious at my hair graying so prematurely, puzzled as always how it could be some years so straight and other years so curly, pleased that I now spoke Spanish so much better than before, instead of that strange idioma, English, which I had preferred when my husband was with me. Then they must learn about the teacher's city job, must ask her personal questions why she didn't marry, and must argue among themselves as to whose home I was going to "honor" as a guest this time. All this without any president or speech of welcome. Then it came out that Don Bartolo was president, and that he had paludismo, which is malaria, the "sickness of hots and colds." This news threw the conscientious former teacher into such a dither-"This is a sano, a healthy town, there has never been malaria here, something must be done to stop it, the new Depart- ment of Health will help, they will be notified tomorrow!"-that neither of us stopped to think that everyone was really covering up for Don Bartolo; he simply had a bad hang-over from drinking and dancing too hard at a wedding in San Pablo the day before. The women decided among themselves where I should stay; the former teacher "called the meeting to order" so that she might make a formal speech and entrust me to everyone's care; and the crowd proceeded to follow us from house to house up and down the ravine while we made calls on old friends, without benefit of presidents, rockets, or pop at all. I had been in the village three days and was already helping organize an afternoon class for women illiterates when Don Bar- tolo came down the trail, pleased as punch to see me, the same 46 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I was concerned about. The plot of school land had been planted to corn this year, while the public-land bean crop was being held for a higher price. One younger man had gone south of Oaxaca City to work on the Pan American Highway into the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, while another had gone on a contract to do farm work in the United States of the north. Spectacular news, these last two items, from a community where no one had ever gone away to work before. The women turned their attention to me, always curious at my hair graying so prematurely, puzzled as always how it could be some years so straight and other years so curly, pleased that I now spoke Spanish so much better than before, instead of that strange idioma, English, which I had preferred when my husband was with me. Then they must learn about the teacher's city job, must ask her personal questions why she didn't marry, and must argue among themselves as to whose home I was going to "honor" as a guest this time. All this without any president or speech of welcome. Then it came out that Don Bartolo was president, and that he had paludismo, which is malaria, the "sickness of hots and colds." This news threw the conscientious former teacher into such a dither-"This is a sano, a healthy town, there has never been malaria here, something must be done to stop it, the new Depart- ment of Health will help, they will be notified tomorrow!"-that neither of us stopped to think that everyone was really covering up for Don Bartolo; he simply had a bad hang-over from drinking and dancing too hard at a wedding in San Pablo the day before. The women decided among themselves where I should stay; the former teacher "called the meeting to order" so that she might make a formal speech and entrust me to everyone's care; and the crowd proceeded to follow us from house to house up and down the ravine while we made calls on old friends, without benefit of presidents, rockets, or pop at all. I had been in the village three days and was already helping organize an afternoon class for women illiterates when Don Bar- tolo came down the trail, pleased as punch to see me, the same 46 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I was concerned about. The plot of school land had been planted to corn this year, while the public-land bean crop was being held for a higher price. One younger man had gone south of Oaxaca City to work on the Pan American Highway into the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, while another had gone on a contract to do farm work in the United States of the north. Spectacular news, these last two items, from a community where no one had ever gone away to work before. The women turned their attention to me, always curious at my hair graying so prematurely, puzzled as always how it could be some years so straight and other years so curly, pleased that I now spoke Spanish so much better than before, instead of that strange idioma, English, which I bad preferred when my husband was with me. Then they must learn about the teacher's cit job, must ask her personal questions why she didn't marrv, and must argue among themselves as to whose home I was going to "honor" as a guest this time. All this without any president or speech of welcome. Then it came out that Don Bartolo was president, and that he had paludismo, which is malaria, the "sickness of hots and colds." This news threw the conscientious former teacher into such a dither-"This is a sano, a healthy town, there has never been malaria here, something must be done to stop it, the new Depart- ment of Health will help, they will be notified tomorrow!"-that neither of us stopped to think that everyone was really covering up for Don Bartolo; he simply had a bad hang-over from drinking and dancing too hard at a wedding in San Pablo the day before. The women decided among themselves where I should stay; the former teacher "called the meeting to order" so that she might make a formal speech and entrust me to everyone's care; and the crowd proceeded to follow us from house to house up and down the ravine while we made calls on old friends, without benefit of presidents, rockets, or pop at all. I had been in the village three days and was already helping organize an afternoon class for women illiterates when Don Bar- tolo came down the trail, pleased as punch to see me, the same 46  DON BARTOLO old gay "wolf," the show-off with the big sense of humor and an eye for anything feminine, young or old, just as though no one had ever reported that he had the malaria at all. The long speech which should have been made on Sunday on the school steps was given to me now, for the benefit of the young women students, but Don Bartolo could only make a pretense of being pompous. How surprised he was the very next day when a station wagon from the Departimiento de Salubridad, one of the new mobile health units operating in Oaxaca Valley, came climbing up our hill, spewing out a doctor and three nurses who proceeded to interview him at length about the malaria and the unusual circum- stances about his catching it here in the high hillside community. Unable to locate more malaria cases, they proceeded to vaccinate everyone in town against the smallpox, which effort is really another part of this book. Don Bartolo was pleased with the health campaign, for the nurses were young and pretty. My own heart was sore for him at the way the citified, Spanish-blooded doctor, stand- ing nearly two feet taller than the little Indian in white pajamas and sandals, brushed him off as one of los pobrecitos, the poor little ones of the hills, and gave his long speech as welcoming president no attention whatsoever. Don Bartolo was really trying to act too important, anyway, hating to admit that this had all started with his fake story about malaria to cover his hang-over. His caricature of pomposity, carried out with a wink, was with him as he came to open the classes for the illiterates. He came and unlocked the school every night, lit candles, and stood in the door greeting everyone coming in. He always made a speech to start every Monday night's classes. Here he opened himself wide up for criticism, from the older women especially, who considered him the poorest excuse yet for a president. "Fine president, that Bartolo, why doesn't he learn to read himself?" I heard Dona Estefana snort to a visitor. "He should be an example to the others." When I kidded him about it, he always said: "How do I have time in the same year to learn to read and write and to be munici- pal president?" I remembered from other visits that he was the one who always asked questions about my country. He sat around 47 DON BARTOLO old gay "wolf," the show-off with the big sense of humor and an eye for anything feminine, young or old, just as though no one had ever reported that he had the malaria at all. The long speech which should have been made on Sunday on the school steps was given to me now, for the benefit of the young women students, but Don Bartolo could only make a pretense of being pompous. How surprised he was the very next day when a station wagon from the Departimiento de Salubridad, one of the new mobile health units operating in Oaxaca Valley, came climbing up our hill, spewing out a doctor and three nurses who proceeded to interview him at length about the malaria and the unusual circum- stances about his catching it here in the high hillside community. Unable to locate more malaria cases, they proceeded to vaccinate everyone in town against the smallpox, which effort is really another part of this book. Don Bartolo was pleased with the health campaign, for the nurses were young and pretty. My own heart was sore for him at the way the citified, Spanish-blooded doctor, stand- ing nearly two feet taller than the little Indian in white pajamas and sandals, brushed him off as one of los pobrecitos, the poor little ones of the hills, and gave his long speech as welcoming president no attention whatsoever. Don Bartolo was really trying to act too important, anyway, hating to admit that this had all started with his fake story about malaria to cover his hang-over. His caricature of pomposity, carried out with a wink, was with him as he came to open the classes for the illiterates. He came and unlocked the school every night, lit candles, and stood in the door greeting everyone coming in. He always made a speech to start every Monday night's classes. Here he opened himself wide up for criticism, from the older women especially, who considered him the poorest excuse yet for a president. "Fine president, that Bartolo, why doesn't he learn to read himself?" I heard Dona Estefana snort to a visitor. "He should be an example to the others." When I kidded him about it, he always said: "How do I have time in the same year to learn to read and write and to be munici- pal president?" I remembered from other visits that he was the one who always asked questions about my country. He sat around 47 DON BARTOLO old gay "wolf," the show-off with the big sense of humor and an eye for anything feminine, young or old, just as though no one had ever reported that he had the malaria at all. The long speech which should have been made on Sunday on the school steps was given to me now, for the benefit of the young women students, but Don Bartolo could only make a pretense of being pompous. How surprised he was the very next day when a station wagon from the Departimiento de Salubridad, one of the new mobile health units operating in Oaxaca Valley, came climbing up our hill, spewing out a doctor and three nurses who proceeded to interview him at length about the malaria and the unusual circum- stances about his catching it here in the high hillside community. Unable to locate more malaria cases, they proceeded to vaccinate everyone in town against the smallpox, which effort is really another part of this book. Don Bartolo was pleased with the health campaign, for the nurses were young and pretty. My own heart was sore for him at the way the citified, Spanish-blooded doctor, stand- ing nearly two feet taller than the little Indian in white pajamas and sandals, brushed him off as one of los pobrecitos, the poor little ones of the hills, and gave his long speech as welcoming president no attention whatsoever. Don Bartolo was really trying to act too important, anyway, hating to admit that this had all started with his fake story about malaria to cover his hang-over. His caricature of pomposity, carried out with a wink, was with him as he came to open the classes for the illiterates. He came and unlocked the school every night, lit candles, and stood in the door greeting everyone coming in. He always made a speech to start every Monday night's classes. Here he opened himself wide up for criticism, from the older women especially, who considered him the poorest excuse yet for a president. "Fine president, that Bartolo, why doesn't he learn to read himself?" I heard Do a Estefana snort to a visitor. "He should be an example to the others." When I kidded him about it, he always said: "How do I have time in the same year to learn to read and write and to be munici- pal president?" I remembered from other visits that he was the one who always asked questions about my country. He sat around 47  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS so much in the market place in Oaxaca City, talking and talking, that he really knew a great deal more about the world in general than many of the more serious hard workers. So I told him, just to spur him on: "You must learn to write if you ever want to come to my country." "Oh, no, Don Enrique el Alto, from San Pablo went there as a field hand, a bracero, and he cannot read at all either." Then he showered me with questions about my country. Why did my coun- try need the Mexican field hands? Were there no workers in my country? Were they gone off to a revolution as the men of Santa Cruz had gone in the days of his father in 1910? All the men had gone then; the women had plowed. Did the women in my country plow now? No? Then probably they went off to war, too. If American women could come alone to Oaxaca, they could certainly go to war. American women were brave and bold, valientes y bravos. Here he laughed in great glee, kidding me about my "brav- ery" in riding a borrowed horse up the sierra to visit the wood- cutters. And so we got way, way off the subject of how a municipal president should learn to read and write. We took up the subject again when I went with Dona Estdfana to make a formal call on Dona Sista, his wife. I have never heard the name "Sista" anywhere else in Mexico, and since Sista herself does not know how to write it down, I am just guessing at the spelling. Dona Sista was a very pretty-faced woman with a great sense of humor, developed possibly from seventeen years of mar- ried life with Don Bartolo. But when I asked her why Don Bartolo came to the school every night but would not write, she pretended to act out that she and Bartolo were in school. He came into the houseyard from the care of his goats to join in the fun. He would try to write in the sand, hold a stick like a candle to read his letters, call Doa Sista over as teacher to help him, mop his brow with the effort, pretend to sink into a coma because of the difficulty. Dona Estefana and I laughed till tears ran down our faces; they are great ones to joke and laugh, the people of Santa Cruz Etla. Don Bartolo laughed often with his chamaquita, his little tyke, as he called his six-year-old daughter, Luisa. They were often 48 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS so much in the market place in Oaxaca City, talking and talking, that he really knew a great deal more about the world in general than many of the more serious hard workers. So I told him, just to spur him on: "You must learn to write if you ever want to come to my country." "Oh, no, Don Enrique el Alto, from San Pablo went there as a field hand, a bracero, and he cannot read at all either." Then he showered me with questions about my country. Why did my coun- try need the Mexican field hands? Were there no workers in my country? Were they gone off to a revolution as the men of Santa Cruz had gone in the days of his father in 1910? All the men had gone then; the women had plowed. Did the women in my countnr plow now? No? Then probably they went off to war, too. If American women could come alone to Oaxaca, they could certainly go to war. American women were brave and bold, valientes y bravs. Here he laughed in great glee, kidding me about my "brav- ery" in riding a borrowed horse up the sierra to visit the wood- cutters. And so we got way, way off the subject of how a municipal president should learn to read and write. We took up the subject again when I went with Dona Estefana to make a formal call on Dona Sista, his wife. I have never heard the name "Sista" anywhere else in Mexico, and since Sista herself does not know how to write it down, I am just guessing at the spelling. Dona Sista was a very pretty-faced woman with a great sense of humor, developed possibly from seventeen years of mar- ried life with Don Bartolo. But when I asked her why Don Bartolo came to the school every night but would not write, she pretended to act out that she and Bartolo were in school. He came into the houseyard from the care of his goats to join in the fun. He would try to write in the sand, hold a stick like a candle to read his letters. call Dona Sista over as teacher to help him, mop his brow with the effort, pretend to sink into a coma because of the difficultv. Doa Estefana and I laughed till tears ran down our faces; they are great ones to joke and laugh, the people of Santa Cruz Etla. Don Bartolo laughed often with his chamaquita, his little tvke, as he called his six-year-old daughter, Luisa. They were often 48 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS so much in the market place in Oaxaca City, talking and talking, that he really knew a great deal more about the world in general than many of the more serious hard workers. So I told him, just to spur him on: "You must learn to write if you ever want to come to my country." "Oh, no, Don Enrique el Alto, from San Pablo went there as a field hand, a bracero, and he cannot read at all either." Then he showered me with questions about my country. Why did my coun- try need the Mexican field hands? Were there no workers in my country? Were they gone off to a revolution as the men of Santa Cruz had gone in the days of his father in 1910? All the men had gone then; the women had plowed. Did the women in my countrv plow now? No? Then probably they went off to war, too. If American women could come alone to Oaxaca, they could certainly go to war. American women were brave and bold, valientes y bravas. Here he laughed in great glee, kidding me about my "brav- ery" in riding a borrowed horse up the sierra to visit the wood- cutters. And so we got way, way off the subject of how a municipal president should learn to read and write. We took up the subject again when I went with Dona Estefana to make a formal call on Dona Sista, his wife. I have never heard the name "Sista" anywhere else in Mexico, and since Sista herself does not know how to write it down, I am just guessing at the spelling. Dona Sista was a very pretty-faced woman with a great sense of humor, developed possibly from seventeen years of mar- ried life with Don Bartolo. But when I asked her why Don Bartolo came to the school every night but would not write, she pretended to act out that she and Bartolo were in school. He came into the houseyard from the care of his goats to join in the fun. He would try to write in the sand, hold a stick like a candle to read his letters, call Dona Sista over as teacher to help him, mop his brow with the effort, pretend to sink into a coma because of the difficultv. Do a Estefana and I laughed till tears ran down our faces; they are great ones to joke and laugh, the people of Santa Cruz Etla. Don Bartolo laughed often with his chamaquita, his little take, as he called his six-year-old daughter, Luisa. They were often 48  DON BARTOLO together that summer around the municipal building. She had started to read in the primer class, and "one literate person in a family is enough." His only son, Timoteo, aged sixteen, had never been to the school and spent his days in the hills herding goats. Don Bartolo had so much time to talk and laugh and to run politics because he made his living from his goats. He did not have to plow in the rainy season, nor harvest in the dry. He and Dona Sista cared for the thirty or more young kids, while the son pastured the adult goats in the free mountain lands. Don Bartolo drove the goats ready for slaughter into the Oaxaca market for sale for meat, and often he sold a young one in the mountain vil- lages. Whenever there was a butchering at his own houseyard, he sent heart or kidneys down to me wherever I was staying. Perhaps he got elected president because of his friendly custom of caring for other families' goats and setting his son to watch the smaller herds of neighbors, mixed in with his own. Goats from other house- yards stopped off at their own houses as Timoteo drove the large flock home from the hills at night. I found little change in this whole, happy set-up in 1954. Timoteo, unmarried at twenty-five, was still the shy goatherd who saw few people and talked to fewer, evidently loving the hills more than he was attracted by any hopes for married life or lure of city jobs. Sista looked old and had lost her front teeth in the decade between visits. But she and Don Bartolo still cared for their own and other peoples' young goats, the price of goat meat stayed high, and Don Bartolo looked hardly a day older. The only new thing in his family or change in his way of life that I could notice was a new handguard made of bright red leather so he could "bat" for the winning team at Sunday afternoon pelota games. He seemed as lithe as ever, and a third generation of young players accepted him as the leader at the game, though he was already surely in his fifties. After his presidency, Don Bartolo continued to serve on the public works committee and in 1954 cheerfully helped to repair the road for us so our car could get through. Three different afternoons when I was at Don Martin's house he stopped by to chat, sitting each time 49 DON BARTOLO together that summer around the municipal building. She had started to read in the primer class, and "one literate person in a family is enough." His only son, Timoteo, aged sixteen, had never been to the school and spent his days in the hills herding goats. Don Bartolo had so much time to talk and laugh and to run politics because he made his living from his goats. He did not have to plow in the rainy season, nor harvest in the dry. He and Dona Sista cared for the thirty or more young kids, while the son pastured the adult goats in the free mountain lands. Don Bartolo drove the goats ready for slaughter into the Oaxaca market for sale for meat, and often he sold a young one in the mountain vil- lages. Whenever there was a butchering at his own houseyard, he sent heart or kidneys down to me wherever I was staying. Perhaps he got elected president because of his friendly custom of caring for other families' goats and setting his son to watch the smaller herds of neighbors, mixed in with his own. Goats from other house- yards stopped off at their own houses as Timoteo drove the large flock home from the hills at night. I found little change in this whole, happy set-up in 1954. Timoteo, unmarried at twenty-five, was still the shy goatherd who saw few people and talked to fewer, evidently loving the hills more than he was attracted by any hopes for married life or lure of city jobs. Sista looked old and had lost her front teeth in the decade between visits. But she and Don Bartolo still cared for their own and other peoples' young goats, the price of goat meat stayed high, and Don Bartolo looked hardly a day older. The only new thing in his family or change in his way of life that I could notice was a new handguard made of bright red leather so he could "bat" for the winning team at Sunday afternoon pelota games. He seemed as lithe as ever, and a third generation of young players accepted him as the leader at the game, though he was already surely in his fifties. After his presidency, Don Bartolo continued to serve on the public works committee and in 1954 cheerfully helped to repair the road for us so our car could get through. Three different afternoons when I was at Don Martin's house he stopped by to chat, sitting each time 49 DON BARTOLO together that summer around the municipal building. She had started to read in the primer class, and "one literate person in a family is enough." His only son, Timoteo, aged sixteen, had never been to the school and spent his days in the hills herding goats. Don Bartolo had so much time to talk and laugh and to run politics because he made his living from his goats. He did not have to plow in the rainy season, nor harvest in the dry. He and Donia Sista cared for the thirty or more young kids, while the son pastured the adult goats in the free mountain lands. Don Bartolo drove the goats ready for slaughter into the Oaxaca market for sale for meat, and often he sold a young one in the mountain vil- lages. Whenever there was a butchering at his own houseyard, he sent heart or kidneys down to me wherever I was staying. Perhaps he got elected president because of his friendly custom of caring for other families' goats and setting his son to watch the smaller herds of neighbors, mixed in with his own. Goats from other house- yards stopped off at their own houses as Timoteo drove the large flock home from the hills at night. I found little change in this whole, happy set-up in 1954. Timoteo, unmarried at twenty-five, was still the shy goatherd who saw few people and talked to fewer, evidently loving the hills more than he was attracted by any hopes for married life or lure of city jobs. Sista looked old and had lost her front teeth in the decade between visits. But she and Don Bartolo still cared for their own and other peoples' young goats, the price of goat meat stayed high, and Don Bartolo looked hardly a day older. The only new thing in his family or change in his way of life that I could notice was a new handguard made of bright red leather so he could "bat" for the winning team at Sunday afternoon pelota games. He seemed as lithe as ever, and a third generation of young players accepted him as the leader at the game, though he was already surely in his fifties. After his presidency, Don Bartolo continued to serve on the public works committee and in 1954 cheerfully helped to repair the road for us so our car could get through. Three different afternoons when I was at Don Martin's house he stopped by to chat, sitting each time 49  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS on the ground, though Don Martin's house had three rough chairs and a bench for guests, and for courtesy's sake I had to sit on the ground with him, since he was a former president and should not be sitting at my feet. But he had given up the idea of coming to the United States, or of going away to work at all, and was surely glad he had not bothered to learn to read and write. The "edu- cated" member of his family, that "little tyke" Luisa, having three years of schooling in Santa Cruz, had gone off the year before, at fifteen, to work under Don Julio's Susana, and was then kitchen- maid in a home for Jesuit priests. "How will she ever find a hus- band there, Dona Elena?" he moaned. "Far better that I had never sent her to school but had sent her off like a boy to herd the goats." Don Bartolo had served the community before he was presi- dent, or he could not have remained a respected householder. Every young man begins his public service in Santa Cruz Etla by being a member of Los Policias. Of course there is no one to police in Santa Cruz Etla, no infraction of order. Los Policias functions more like a young men's club; membership in it initiates the boys at twenty into the responsibilities of the town government. The summer my husband and I lived in the school building, two mem- bers of the Policias slept outside our room on the porch every night just to give us a feeling of security. Above the Policias are the town committees for school affairs and for public works. Chairmen of these committees, as well as two of the former presidents, serve as ayudantes or helpers on the president's council, the cabildo. When the election is called every alternate January first, all the grown men, down to the youngest policia, go to the town meeting. It is held in the afternoon on the ground outside the municipal building, and undoubtedly the women and children are on the outskirts looking on. No one who talked of these proceeding to me would ever admit that nominations were planned beforehand. Someone would rise and suggest Esteban or Don Martin, or Don Bartolo, or another man. Then all the men would vote by holding up their hands. I don't know whether the candidates "leave the room" or not. "As soon as the president was chosen, they knew whom they needed on the cabildo," the men 50 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS on the ground, though Don Martin's house had three rough chairs and a bench for guests, and for courtesy's sake I had to sit on the ground with him, since he was a former president and should not be sitting at my feet. But he had given up the idea of coming to the United States, or of going away to work at all, and was surely glad he had not bothered to learn to read and write. The "edu- cated" member of his family, that "little tyke" Luisa, having three years of schooling in Santa Cruz, had gone off the year before, at fifteen, to work under Don Julio's Susana, and was then kitchen- maid in a home for Jesuit priests. "How will she ever find a hus- band there, Dona Elena?" he moaned. "Far better that I had never sent her to school but had sent her off like a boy to herd the goats." Don Bartolo had served the community before he was presi- dent, or he could not have remained a respected householder. Every young man begins his public service in Santa Cruz Etla by being a member of Los Policias. Of course there is no one to police in Santa Cruz Etla, no infraction of order. Los Policias functions more like a young men's club; membership in it initiates the boys at twenty into the responsibilities of the town government. The summer my husband and I lived in the school building, two mem- bers of the Policias slept outside our room on the porch every night just to give us a feeling of security. Above the Policias are the town committees for school affairs and for public works. Chairmen of these committees, as well as two of the former presidents, serve as ayudantes or helpers on the president's council, the cabildo. When the election is called every alternate January first, all the grown men, down to the youngest policia, go to the town meeting. It is held in the afternoon on the ground outside the municipal building, and undoubtedly the women and children are on the outskirts looking on. No one who talked of these proceeding to me would ever admit that nominations were planned beforehand. Someone would rise and suggest Esteban or Don Martin, or Don Bartolo, or another man. Then all the men would vote by holding up their hands. I don't know whether the candidates 'leave the room" or not. "As soon as the president was chosen, they knew whom they needed on the cabildo," the men 50 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS on the ground, though Don Martin's house had three rough chairs and a bench for guests, and for courtesy's sake I had to sit on the ground with him, since he was a former president and should not be sitting at my feet. But he had given up the idea of coming to the United States, or of going away to work at all, and was surely glad he had not bothered to learn to read and write. The "edu- cated" member of his family, that "little tyke" Luisa, having three years of schooling in Santa Cruz, had gone off the year before, at fifteen, to work under Don Julio's Susana, and was then kitchen- maid in a home for Jesuit priests. "How will she ever find a hus- band there, Dona Elena?" he moaned. "Far better that I had never sent her to school but had sent her off like a boy to herd the goats." Don Bartolo had served the community before he was presi- dent, or he could not have remained a respected householder. Every young man begins his public service in Santa Cruz Etla by being a member of Los Policias. Of course there is no one to police in Santa Cruz Etla, no infraction of order. Los Policias functions more like a young men's club; membership in it initiates the boys at twenty into the responsibilities of the town government. The summer my husband and I lived in the school building, two mem- bers of the Policias slept outside our room on the porch every night just to give us a feeling of security. Above the Policias are the town committees for school affairs and for public works. Chairmen of these committees, as well as two of the former presidents, serve as ayudantes or helpers on the president's council, the cabildo. When the election is called every alternate January first, all the grown men, down to the youngest policia, go to the town meeting. It is held in the afternoon on the ground outside the municipal building, and undoubtedly the women and children are on the outskirts looking on. No one who talked of these proceeding to me would ever admit that nominations were planned beforehand. Someone would rise and suggest Esteban or Don Martin, or Don Bartolo, or another man. Then all the men would vote by holding up their hands. I don't know whether the candidates "leave the room" or not. "As soon as the president was chosen, they knew whom they needed on the cabildo," the men 50  DON BARTOLO told me concerning Don Bartolo's election. A good council would make up for an irresponsible president like Bartolo or for a too young president like Esteban. By the 1950's there were other elder statesmen besides Don Martin to serve on the council, Don Mar- ciano who had been president in 1947 and 1948 and Don larcelino, a conscientious farmer who sent his oxcart to San Pablo to get us when we came for a day's visit in 1951 and got stuck with our car in a mudhole near the plaza of that unappreciative town. Both Don Marciano and Don Marcelino had been chairmen of public works or of school affairs during other years when I was there. They used the Spanish word alcalde to describe these commit- tee chairmen. The school committee arranged for work on la parcela, the plot of public land belonging to the school, and usually was able to produce a fair-sized crop on it with which to buy school supplies or materials to repair the school building. It depended upon the makeup of the committee how much money was pro- duced on la parcela; sometimes the most illiterate committee did the best work for the school fund. The alcalde of public works and his four ayudantes had to maintain the oxcart trail, to repair the municipal building when the adobe crumbled away, to keep the cemetery free of weeds, and most important, to maintain the ditch system for the drinking-water supply. Whenever any bigger job was called for than the committee members could do, the commit- tee was empowered to "draft" workers. Everyone owed the munici- pality a week's labor a year, or three days' work with oxen and cart. The man who owned the largest cart could work off his taxes by making three trips to Oaxaca for cement or tile or a new bell. Thus they had built the walls for the Pantedn and, with a great deal of volunteer labor other than that required, had constructed the two public buildings, the school and the municipal center. The municipal building was at first one large adobe room facing the school, still incomplete in 1934 when we were first there. A year later the municipal porch was finished in stone; and under Don Esteban in 1943 and 1944, the building was separated into two rooms and the big meeting room was paved with tile and white- washed. One of the school boys, Perfecto, the son of Don Mar- 51 DON BARTOLO told me concerning Don Bartolo's election. A good council would make up for an irresponsible president like Bartolo or for a too young president like Esteban. By the 1950's there were other elder statesmen besides Don Martin to serve on the council, Don Mar- ciano who had been president in 1947 and 1948 and Don Marcelino, a conscientious farmer who sent his oxcart to San Pablo to get us when we came for a day's visit in 1951 and got stuck with our car in a mudhole near the plaza of that unappreciative town. Both Don Marciano and Don Marcelino had been chairmen of public works or of school affairs during other years when I was there. They used the Spanish word alcalde to describe these commit- tee chairmen. The school committee arranged for work on la parcela, the plot of public land belonging to the school, and usually was able to produce a fair-sized crop on it with which to buy school supplies or materials to repair the school building. It depended upon the makeup of the committee how much money was pro- duced on la parcela; sometimes the most illiterate committee did the best work for the school fund. The alcalde of public works and his four ayudantes had to maintain the oxcart trail, to repair the municipal building when the adobe crumbled away, to keep the cemetery free of weeds, and most important, to maintain the ditch system for the drinking-water supply. Whenever any bigger job was called for than the committee members could do, the commit- tee was empowered to "draft" workers. Everyone owed the munici- pality a week's labor a year, or three days' work with oxen and cart. The man who owned the largest cart could work off his taxes by making three trips to Oaxaca for cement or tile or a new bell. Thus they had built the walls for the Pantedn and, with a great deal of volunteer labor other than that required, had constructed the two public buildings, the school and the municipal center. The municipal building was at first one large adobe room facing the school, still incomplete in 1934 when we were first there. A year later the municipal porch was finished in stone; and under Don Esteban in 1943 and 1944, the building was separated into two rooms and the big meeting room was paved with tile and white- washed. One of the school boys, Perfecto, the son of Don Mar- 51 DON BARTOLO told me concerning Don Bartolo's election. A good council would make up for an irresponsible president like Bartolo or for a too young president like Esteban. By the 1950's there were other elder statesmen besides Don Martin to serve on the council, Don Mar- ciano who had been president in 1947 and 1948 and Don Marcelino, a conscientious farmer who sent his oxcart to San Pablo to get us when we came for a day's visit in 1951 and got stuck with our car in a mudhole near the plaza of that unappreciative town. Both Don Marciano and Don Marcelino had been chairmen of public works or of school affairs during other years when I was there. They used the Spanish word alcalde to describe these commit- tee chairmen. The school committee arranged for work on la parcela, the plot of public land belonging to the school, and usually was able to produce a fair-sized crop on it with which to buy school supplies or materials to repair the school building. It depended upon the makeup of the committee how much money was pro- duced on la parcela; sometimes the most illiterate committee did the best work for the school fund. The alcalde of public works and his four ayudantes had to maintain the oxcart trail, to repair the municipal building when the adobe crumbled away, to keep the cemetery free of weeds, and most important, to maintain the ditch system for the drinking-water supply. Whenever any bigger job was called for than the committee members could do, the commit- tee was empowered to "draft" workers. Everyone owed the munici- pality a week's labor a year, or three days' work with oxen and cart. The man who owned the largest cart could work off his taxes by making three trips to Oaxaca for cement or tile or a new bell. Thus they had built the walls for the Pantedn and, with a great deal of volunteer labor other than that required, had constructed the two public buildings, the school and the municipal center. The municipal building was at first one large adobe room facing the school, still incomplete in 1934 when we were first there. A year later the municipal porch was finished in stone; and under Don Esteban in 1943 and 1944, the building was separated into two rooms and the big meeting room was paved with tile and white- washed. One of the school boys, Perfecto, the son of Don Mar- 51  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS celino, had painted a blue and red border all around inside at eye level. This room is not open often. The current president keeps the key and so often calls a meeting on the spur of the moment, when he has forgotten the key, that most meetings are held outside in the portico or across on the school steps. But Don Bartolo, when he was president, opened the room specially to show me Perfecto's art work. The boy had contributed his labor for the sheer joy of the artistry, even though his father had put in his share of labor on the tiling. Purely incidentally, no doubt, the father was subse- quently elected president. In the municipal meeting room there were a table and two roughly made chairs for the president and his current secretary. Every illiterate president after Don Amado's death had to have a young boy who could read and write to help him keep records of taxes paid and expenses met and labor contributed and votes taken and arrangements made with the city and state authorities. Any others who came to committee meetings sat on the floor. There were steel pens, a bottle of ink, and several copy books full of the records, including those first started by Don Amado. The other room in the municipal building is the jail, la cricel. The door to the jail room is heavy with hand-carved wooden bars, but the room itself is really a storehouse. In 1945 it was full of chunks of lime to make whitewash for the school room next dry season, and of dry beans from the public land. In 1954, 1953 having been a good corn year, it was full to the rafters with ears of corn being held for a good price before the new harvest came in October, corn which was largely contributed by individual fami- lies toward the project of a new chapel. Though the president's room was always locked with a mammoth key, and the key care- fully guarded, there had never been a key made for the elaborate lock on the door of the jail. A mere wooden slip bolt was used on the outside. A friend of any unfortunate who was ever inside could easily free him in the night. Don Martin told me sadly in 1954 that the jail had been put in use during three fiesta seasons "since your last long visit with us, Dona Elena." So now every year, before the town's fiesta time in 52 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS celino, had painted a blue and red border all around inside at eye level. This room is not open often. The current president keeps the key and so often calls a meeting on the spur of the moment, when be has forgotten the key, that most meetings are held outside in the portico or across on the school steps. But Don Bartolo, when he was president, opened the room specially to show me Perfecto's art work. The boy had contributed his labor for the sheer joy of the artistry, even though his father had put in his share of labor on the tiling. Purely incidentally, no doubt, the father was subse- quently elected president. In the municipal meeting room there were a table and two roughly made chairs for the president and his current secretary. Every illiterate president after Don Amado's death had to have a young boy who could read and write to help him keep records of taxes paid and expenses met and labor contributed and votes taken and arrangements made with the city and state authorities. Any others who came to committee meetings sat on the floor. There were steel pens, a bottle of ink, and several copy books full of the records, including those first started by Don Amado. The other room in the municipal building is the jail, la cdricel. The door to the jail room is heavy with hand-carved wooden bars, but the room itself is really a storehouse. In 1945 it was full of chunks of lime to make whitewash for the school room next dr v season, and of dry beans from the public land. In 1954, 1953 having been a good corn year, it was full to the rafters with ears of corn being held for a good price before the new harvest came in October, corn which was largely contributed by individual fami- lies toward the project of a new chapel. Though the president's room was always locked with a mammoth key, and the key care- fully guarded, there had never been a key made for the elaborate lock on the door of the jail. A mere wooden slip bolt was used on the outside. A friend of any unfortunate who was ever inside could easily free him in the night. Don Martin told me sadly in 1954 that the jail had been put in use during three fiesta seasons "since your last long visit with us, Dona Elena." So now every year, before the town's fiesta time in 52 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS celino, had painted a blue and red border all around inside at eye level. This room is not open often. The current president keeps the key and so often calls a meeting on the spur of the moment, when he has forgotten the key, that most meetings are held outside in the portico or across on the school steps. But Don Bartolo, when he was president, opened the room specially to show me Perfecto's art work. The boy had contributed his labor for the sheer joy of the artistry, even though his father had put in his share of labor on the tiling. Purely incidentally, no doubt, the father was subse- quently elected president. In the municipal meeting room there were a table and two roughly made chairs for the president and his current secretary. Every illiterate president after Don Amado's death had to have a young boy who could read and write to help him keep records of taxes paid and expenses met and labor contributed and votes taken and arrangements made with the city and state authorities. Any others who came to committee meetings sat on the floor. There were steel pens, a bottle of ink, and several copy books full of the records, including those first started by Don Amado. The other room in the municipal building is the jail, la cdrcel. The door to the jail room is heavy with hand-carved wooden bars, but the room itself is really a storehouse. In 1945 it was full of chunks of lime to make whitewash for the school room next drv season, and of dry beans from the public land. In 1954, 1953 having been a good corn year, it was full to the rafters with ears of corn being held for a good price before the new harvest came in October, corn which was largely contributed by individual fami- lies toward the project of a new chapel. Though the presidents room was always locked with a mammoth key, and the key care- fully guarded, there had never been a key made for the elaborate lock on the door of the jail. A mere wooden slip bolt was used on the outside. A friend of any unfortunate who was ever inside could easily free him in the night. Don Martin told me sadly in 1954 that the jail had been put in use during three fiesta seasons "since your last long visit with us, Dona Elena." So now every year, before the town's fiesta time in 52  DON BARTOLO May, the beans or tile or building stones stored inside are piled out on the porch. The people of Santa Cruz Etla are never malo (bad) but only borracho (drunk) during their annual celebration. Certainly the jail was never built for thieves. Every house in Santa Cruz Etla is open all the time; every family is approximately as well off as every other family. Livestock are tied in every yard; goats, burros, and turkeys run free. Firewood is stacked on the dirt-level porches; cornneribs are behind the houses. Even when livestock are lost in the hill pastures, boys from other villages bring them back. "It is not a bad heart, but only a bottle of tequila which ever landed a one of my people in the careel," said Don Bartolo that day he showed me Perfecto's drawings on the wall. My first memory of Don Bartolo himself was his dance on one foot, swathed in a huge sarape, at the funeral fiesta of Don Martin's godchild in 1934. When I showed the movie I took of that pic- turesque occasion in front of crowds of Los Angeles city school- teachers, they would say: "What interesting primitive Indian dances!" They did not know that it was even then a bottle of te- quila inside a future municipal president which had produced the dance. I had to laugh eleven years later at Don Bartolo's smug criticism of tequila-filled fiesta dancers. The contribution of labor or oxcart service does not cover all the taxes which the householders of Santa Cruz Etla have to pay. They must pay in cash a tax to the government of the state of Oaxaca. In 1945 this was three pesos and a half, then seventy cents, for every family who owned two acres of land. The heads of the families go to Oaxaca to pay this tax right after the first of the year. I forgot to ask Don Martin in 1954 how much taxes had gone up with the decrease in value of the peso and the increase in value of his own property. "What happens if you don't pay the tax?" I once asked Donia Estdfana, who took care of all her family's land so well. "They have us all on long lists; they know our family names. If we don't pay, they will take away the land after five years," she said. Frankly, I never heard of anyone in Santa Cruz Etla, nor in San Pablo either, who lost his land this way; and there were many 53 DON BARTOLO May, the beans or tile or building stones stored inside are piled out on the porch. The people of Santa Cruz Etla are never malo (bad) but only borracho (drunk) during their annual celebration. Certainly the jail was never built for thieves. Every house in Santa Cruz Etla is open all the time; every family is approximately as well off as every other family. Livestock are tied in every yard; goats, burros, and turkeys run free. Firewood is stacked on the dirt-level porches; cornceribs are behind the houses. Even when livestock are lost in the hill pastures, boys from other villages bring them back. "It is not a bad heart, but only a bottle of tequila which ever landed a one of my people in the cdrcel," said Don Bartolo that day he showed me Perfecto's drawings on the wall. My first memory of Don Bartolo himself was his dance on one foot, swathed in a huge sarape, at the funeral fiesta of Don Martin's godchild in 1934. When I showed the movie I took of that pic- turesque occasion in front of crowds of Los Angeles city school- teachers, they would say: "What interesting primitive Indian dancesl" They did not know that it was even then a bottle of te- quila inside a future municipal president which had produced the dance. I had to laugh eleven years later at Don Bartolo's smug criticism of tequila-filled fiesta dancers. The contribution of labor oe oxcart service does not cover all the taxes which the householders of Santa Cruz Etla have to pay. They must pay in cash a tax to the government of the state of Oaxaca. In 1945 this was three pesos and a half, then seventy cents, for every family who owned two acres of land. The heads of the families go to Oaxaca to pay this tax right after the first of the year. I forgot to ask Don Martin in 1954 how much taxes had gone up with the decrease in value of the peso and the increase in value of his own property. "What happens if you don't pay the tax?" I once asked Donia Estefana, who took care of all her family's land so well. "They have us all on long lists; they know our family names. If we don't pay, they will take away the land after five years," she said. Frankly, I never heard of anyone in Santa Cruz Etla, nor in San Pablo either, who lost his land this way; and there were many 53 DON BARTOLO May, the beans or tile or building stones stored inside are piled out on the porch. The people of Santa Cruz Etla are never malo (bad) but only borracho (drunk) during their annual celebration. Certainly the jail was never built for thieves. Every house in Santa Cruz Etla is open all the time; every family is approximately as well off as every other family. Livestock are tied in every yard; goats, burros, and turkeys run free. Firewood is stacked on the dirt-level porches; corneribs are behind the houses. Even when livestock are lost in the hill pastures, boys from other villages bring them back. "It is not a bad heart, but only a bottle of tequila which ever landed a one of my people in the cdreel," said Don Bartolo that day he showed me Perfecto's drawings on the wall. My first memory of Don Bartolo himself was his dance on one foot, swathed in a huge sarape, at the funeral fiesta of Don Martin's godchild in 1934. When I showed the movie I took of that pic- turesque occasion in front of crowds of Los Angeles city school- teachers, they would say: "What interesting primitive Indian dances!" They did not know that it was even then a bottle of te- quila inside a future municipal president which had produced the dance. I had to laugh eleven years later at Don Bartolo's smug criticism of tequila-filled fiesta dancers. The contribution of labor or oxcart service does not cover all the taxes which the householders of Santa Cruz Etla have to pay. They must pay in cash a tax to the government of the state of Oaxaca. In 1945 this was three pesos and a half, then seventy cents, for every family who owned two acres of land. The heads of the families go to Oaxaca to pay this tax right after the first of the year. I forgot to ask Don Martin in 1954 how much taxes had gone up with the decrease in value of the peso and the increase in value of his own property. "What happens if you don't pay the tax?" I once asked Dona Estefana, who took care of all her family's land so well. "They have us all on long lists; they know our family names. If we don't pay, they will take away the land after five years," she said. Frankly, I never heard of anyone in Santa Cruz Etla, nor in San Pablo either, who lost his land this way; and there were many 53  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS hard years in which seventy cents would have seemed like a great deal of cash. In 1945 it was the equivalent of two burro-loads of firewood. Taxes, if you want to use that unpleasant term for money in- tended for such a pleasant purpose, are collected to pay for the fiestas. The saint's day of Santa Cruz Etla comes the first of May. Since the town is not named for any special saint, but celebrates the Holy Cross, the celebration just naturally runs on into a famous national holiday. After May 5, the Cinco de Mayo when all Mexico celebrates a military victory in 1862 over invading French troops, the people of Santa Cruz Etla finally go back to work. During the five days a hired band from some valley town comes up to play day and night. Chocolate, pulque, turkeys with hot mole (a chile sauce), pork, numberless tortillas, beans, squashes, and bottles of strawberry pop must be paid for. All the year's crop from working the public-school land, la parcela, would not pay for the strawberry pop alone. If a twenty-piece band comes from a town fifteen miles away, each member of it expects ten pesos and his food and drink for five days. There are two hundred pesos gone already. "Everyone but the poorest, youngest, newly married son pays," said Dofa Es- tefana. "And suppose they don't pay that tax?" I asked again. "Why, they would go to the fiesta, of course, Dofia Elena, but everyone always pays." There is also the custom called the mayordomfa. This is a sort of personal obligation to entertain in a big way. Often very re- ligious families will promise a saint a festival on the saint's day, if the saint will grant some requested favor. In Santa Cruz Etla such a favor is asked of "all the saints" on the understanding that, if the favor is granted, the family will pay half the expenses of the May fiesta. They may ask the saints for blessings many other times, but once in every man's lifetime he must be mayordomo for the fiesta. With thirty families in town, the cost of the fiesta gets spread around over about a third of a century. Then the town tax fund need only pay for the musicians. All food and fireworks are provided by the "honored" family. When there is no mayordomo, 54 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS hard years in which seventy cents would have seemed like a great deal of cash. In 1945 it was the equivalent of two burro-loads of firewood. Taxes, if you want to use that unpleasant term for money in- tended for such a pleasant purpose, are collected to pay for the fiestas. The saint's day of Santa Cruz Etla comes the first of May. Since the town is not named for any special saint, but celebrates the Holy Cross, the celebration just naturally runs on into a famous national holiday. After May 5, the Cinco de Mayo when all iexico celebrates a military victory in 1862 over invading French troops, the people of Santa Cruz Etla finally go back to work. During the five days a hired band from some valley town comes up to play day and night. Chocolate, pulque, turkeys with hot mole (a chile sauce), pork, numberless tortillas, beans, squashes, and bottles of strawberry pop must be paid for. All the year's crop from working the public-school land, la parcela, would not pay for the strawberry pop alone. If a twenty-piece band comes from a town fifteen miles away, each member of it expects ten pesos and his food and drink for five days. There are two hundred pesos gone already. "Everyone but the poorest, youngest, newly married son pays," said Dona Es- tefana. "And suppose they don't pay that tax?" I asked again. "Why, they would go to the fiesta, of course, Dofa Elena, but everyone always pays." There is also the custom called the mayordomia. This is a sort of personal obligation to entertain in a big way. Often very re- ligious families will promise a saint a festival on the saint's day, if the saint will grant some requested favor. In Santa Cruz Etla such a favor is asked of "all the saints" on the understanding that, if the favor is granted, the family will pay half the expenses of the May fiesta. They may ask the saints for blessings many other times, but once in every man's lifetime he must be mayordomo for the fiesta. With thirty families in town, the cost of the fiesta gets spread around over about a third of a century. Then the town tax fund need only pay for the musicians. All food and fireworks are provided by the "honored" family. When there is no mayordomo, 54 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS hard years in which seventy cents would have seemed like a great deal of cash. In 1945 it was the equivalent of two burro-loads of firewood. Taxes, if you want to use that unpleasant term for money in- tended for such a pleasant purpose, are collected to pay for the fiestas. The saint's day of Santa Cruz Etla comes the first of May. Since the town is not named for any special saint, but celebrates the Holy Cross, the celebration just naturally runs on into a famous national holiday. After May 5, the Cinco de Mayo when all iexico celebrates a military victory in 1862 over invading French troops, the people of Santa Cruz Etla finally go back to work. During the five days a hired band from some valley town comes up to play day and night. Chocolate, pulque, turkeys with hot mole (a chile sauce), pork, numberless tortillas, beans, squashes, and bottles of strawberry pop must be paid for. All the year's crop from working the public-school land, la parcela, would not pay for the strawberry pop alone. If a twenty-piece band comes from a town fifteen miles away, each member of it expects ten pesos and his food and drink for five days. There are two hundred pesos gone already. "Everyone but the poorest, youngest, newly married son pays," said Dofia Es- tefana. "And suppose they don't pay that tax?" I asked again. "Why, they would go to the fiesta, of course, Dona Elena, but everyone always pays." There is also the custom called the mayordomia. This is a sort of personal obligation to entertain in a big way. Often very re- ligious families will promise a saint a festival on the saint's day, if the saint will grant some requested favor. In Santa Cruz Etla such a favor is asked of "all the saints" on the understanding that, if the favor is granted, the family will pay half the expenses of the May fiesta. They may ask the saints for blessings many other times, but once in every man's lifetime he must be mayordomo for the fiesta. With thirty families in town, the cost of the fiesta gets spread around over about a third of a century. Then the town tax fund need only pay for the musicians. All food and fireworks are provided by the "honored" family. When there is no mayordomo, 54  ,t l l \-cd u= ht no \t 1 u \ . -, 1 I . . e . Jna , A .' _ -W " t lidlo a~d his t"o h nihcs l, -K'ithl-lnhtc' la\,- gram hied first it, D^-,t Fec m la, and h ' daug''., na 7 954 - \\-ith h~ ,, -1 \\ ifc Dona 11cfi'gio r I'd his n ,,, famih Doiijtd- and hi, t - f' n'li- 194.5 - \\ itl I i, c1a gl tct -mla\, ld, hct «itc Dona l> 'da, and 1 c dau 1, , It'll 19.51 itlt}n, ,c 'nd \\itc Data Rota _.o and hls n." Emil' Dt 7 lio and I to lamihc, 1945 \\'th hi lanthtct t I '-h 1, t Dona f ccundu and hi r di lit- s-ar a 1954l\';tl' hi' , tnd if, Doia llufnglo and hl, naw f: il, Fdt-&. to DonJnh,. ad i, fi hah, Edurdo 9 ,,  "Th scoo di g ill193. T De ma ntestr lt pp colIidigi t 1 I~D~~~ Jsho uligi 94 J' Publicorks "( mittec '"pain- tb" road m 19=49. Don FA, >i't, he i, th" on, m the l ak,4 onnd with th( h Pub i I-o ks o mt" 'eaf~ h oin 194I . Ploipt wok oittc D I F I Gist I, ix I, il, h t ho  DON BARTOLO the fiesta tax used to be four pesos, raised to ten by 1954; when a family takes the "honor," it was one and a half pesos, raised to five. Don Bartolo himself was "stuck" with the "honor" in 1946, the sec- ond year of his presidency. But he and Dona Sista did not have to provide all the young goats and turkeys and tortillas. Through the years, when any other family head was mayordomo, Don Bartolo would send a young kid or sometimes two, as his gasto. (Some words are so hard to trans- late; that one must mean a kind of gift contribution.) Thus, every family who had ever received Don Bartolo's young goats sent him pigs, or turkeys, or chickens, or ground corn, or purchased things like sugar and cocoa. He only had to borrow an oxcart (no use to own such expensive transportation in the goat business) and go down to Oaxaca for pop and beer and rockets. Dona Sista supervised all the cooking and made tortillas by the hundred, but Don Bartolo danced all day and made speeches all night. I know, though I wasn't there! I have never been in Santa Cruz Etla in September for the great political holiday, the sixteenth, Mexico's Independence Day; but the teachers and my friends among the women have described the local celebration for me many times. All over Mexico on the night of September 15, people ring bells to call whole townships together. Officials make speeches to act out Father Hidalgo's midnight war cry in the town of Dolores in 1810. In Santa Cruz Etla, the alcalde of public works rings the school bell. (How do they know it is twelve o'clock? There is no watch or clock of any kind in Santa Cruz Etla.) Everyone rushes to the municipal building as if the news were a great surprise to him. The municipal president, Don Bar- tolo or Don Martin or Don Marcelino, takes the flag of Mexico from the school, climbs on top of the municipal building where the school bell hangs, and makes a speech in the flare of pine torches. He ends up by crying jViva Libertad, viva Independencia, viva Mexico, viva Santa Cruz Etla! Surely, there is a great deal of true independence and liberty in Santa Cruz. Then the public works alcalde, and the school affairs alcalde, and all the president's wise old ayudantes on the council make speeches. Towards morning all 55 DON BARTOLO the fiesta tax used to be four pesos, raised to ten by 1954; when a family takes the "honor," it was one and a half pesos, raised to five. Don Bartolo himself was "stuck" with the "honor" in 1946, the sc- ond year of his presidency. But he and Dona Sista did not have to provide all the young goats and turkeys and tortillas. Through the years, when any other family head was mayordomo, Don Bartolo would send a young kid or sometimes two, as his gasto. (Some words are so hard to trans- late; that one must mean a kind of gift contribution.) Thus, every family who had ever received Don Bartolo's young goats sent him pigs, or turkeys, or chickens, or ground corn, or purchased things like sugar and cocoa. He only had to borrow an oxcart (no use to own such expensive transportation in the goat business) and go down to Oaxaca for pop and beer and rockets. Dona Sista supervised all the cooking and made tortillas by the hundred, but Don Bartolo danced all day and made speeches all night. I know, though I wasn't there! I have never been in Santa Cruz Etla in September for the great political holiday, the sixteenth, Mexico's Independence Day; but the teachers and my friends among the women have described the local celebration for me many times. All over Mexico on the night of September 15, people ring bells to call whole townships together. Officials make speeches to act out Father Hidalgo's midnight war cry in the town of Dolores in 1810. In Santa Cruz Etla, the alcalde of public works rings the school bell. (How do they know it is twelve o'clock? There is no watch or clock of any kind in Santa Cruz Etla.) Everyone rushes to the municipal building as if the news were a great surprise to him. The municipal president, Don Bar- tolo or Don Martin or Don Marcelino, takes the flag of Mexico from the school, climbs on top of the municipal building where the school bell hangs, and makes a speech in the flare of pine torches. He ends up by crying jViva Libertad, viva Independencia, viva Mdxico, viva Santa Cruz Etla! Surely, there is a great deal of true independence and liberty in Santa Cruz. Then the public works alcalde, and the school affairs alcalde, and all the president's wise old ayudantes on the council make speeches. Towards morning all 55 DON BARTOLO the fiesta tax used to be four pesos, raised to ten by 1954; when a family takes the "honor," it was one and a half pesos, raised to five. Don Bartolo himself was "stuck" with the "honor" in 1946, the see- ond year of his presidency. But he and Dona Sista did not have to provide all the young goats and turkeys and tortillas. Through the years, when any other family head was mayordomo, Don Bartolo would send a young kid or sometimes two, as his gasto. (Some words are so hard to trans- late; that one must mean a kind of gift contribution.) Thus, every family who had ever received Don Bartolo's young goats sent him pigs, or turkeys, or chickens, or ground corn, or purchased things like sugar and cocoa. He only had to borrow an oxcart (no use to own such expensive transportation in the goat business) and go down to Oaxaca for pop and beer and rockets. Dona Sista supervised all the cooking and made tortillas by the hundred, but Don Bartolo danced all day and made speeches all night. I know, though I wasn't there! I have never been in Santa Cruz Etla in September for the great political holiday, the sixteenth, Mexico's Independence Day; but the teachers and my friends among the women have described the local celebration for me many times. All over Mexico on the night of September 15, people ring bells to call whole townships together. Officials make speeches to act out Father Hidalgo's midnight war cry in the town of Dolores in 1810. In Santa Cruz Etla, the alcalde of public works rings the school bell. (How do they know it is twelve o'clock? There is no watch or clock of any kind in Santa Cruz Etla.) Everyone rushes to the municipal building as if the news were a great surprise to him. The municipal president, Don Bar- tolo or Don Martin or Don Marcelino, takes the flag of Mexico from the school, climbs on top of the municipal building where the school bell hangs, and makes a speech in the flare of pine torches. He ends up by crying jViva Libertad, viva Independencia, viva Mixico, viva Santa Cruz Etla! Surely, there is a great deal of true independence and liberty in Santa Cruz. Then the public works alcalde, and the school affairs alcalde, and all the president's wise old ayudantes on the council make speeches. Towards morning all 55  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS the torches have burned out, and everyone goes off home in the dark. When the people are up and around the next day, festivities be- gin all over again. Already the highest class in school, those few in the fourth grade, have chosen from among the three or four girls the prettiest and most popular to be La Patria, the motherland. This custom was started when the school was founded. and the first teacher had made a long pink China Oaxaqueta costume with green kerchief that the "spirit of the motherland" still wears. The dress and a paper crown are kept in a chest in the school room, and certainly they look a little shabby now after twenty-five years. But it was so important from the beginning to have a La Patria sep- arate from the one chosen in San Pablo Etla and to hold a purely local parade in her honor. La Patria rides standing up in an oxcart, Don Feliz Leon's when the municipal president lives below the school, Don Martin's, or recently Don Marcelino's, when he lives above. Roses and hibiscus are wound round the cart; the flag from the school and the portraits of Hidalgo and Benito Juirez are tacked on the cart. They probably look a little tired through the years, too. Bougainvillea is wreathed around the oxen's horns. Behind the cart all the school children march on foot, dressed in their best clean clothes. In front of the cart walk the president and the municipal council. The procession starts off with the ringing of the school bell. It goes up hill as far as the oxcart can travel on the path, then it turns off and goes over to the San Sebastian loma, or northern ridge. Finally, it turns back up to the main trail, past the schoolhouse, and on down to San Pablo Etla. There is, of course, a parade going on there too. Our council sets off many rockets on the edge of San Pablo, and our children keep singing, as loudly as possible, a song aimed at imperial Spain: jPor tres siglos, O patria querida, Quisimos libertad, libertad, libertad! (For three centuries, oh beloved nation, We desired liberty, liberty, liberty!) 56 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS the torches have burned out, and everyone goes off home in the dark. When the people are up and around the next day, festivities be- gin all over again. Already the highest class in school, those few in the fourth grade, have chosen from among the three or four girls the prettiest and most popular to be La Patria, the motherland. This custom was started when the school was founded, and the first teacher had made a long pink China Oaxaquea costume with green kerchief that the "spirit of the motherland" still wears. The dress and a paper crown are kept in a chest in the school room, and certainly they look a little shabby now after twenty-five years. But it was so important from the beginning to have a La Patria sep- arate from the one chosen in San Pablo Etla and to hold a purely local parade in her honor. La Patria rides standing up in an oxcart, Don Fliz Leon's when the municipal president lives below the school, Don Martin's, or recently Don Marcelino's, when he lives above. Roses and hibiscus are wound round the cart; the flag from the school and the portraits of Hidalgo and Benito Jurez are tacked on the cart. They probably look a little tired through the years, too. Bougainvillea is wreathed around the oxen's horns. Behind the cart all the school children march on foot, dressed in their best clean clothes. In front of the cart walk the president and the municipal council. The procession starts off with the ringing of the school bell. It goes up hill as far as the oxcart can travel on the path, then it turns off and goes over to the San SebastiAn loma, or northern ridge. Finally, it turns back up to the main trail, past the schoolhouse, and on down to San Pablo Etla. There is, of course, a parade going on there too. Our council sets off many rockets on the edge of San Pablo, and our children keep singing, as loudly as possible, a song aimed at imperial Spain: ;Por tres siglos, O patria querida, Quisimos libertad, libertad, libertad! (For three centuries, oh beloved nation, We desired liberty, liberty, liberty!) 56 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS the torches have burned out, and everyone goes off home in the dark. When the people are up and around the next day, festivities be- gin all over again. Already the highest class in school, those few in the fourth grade, have chosen from among the three or four girls the prettiest and most popular to be La Patria, the motherland. This custom was started when the school was founded, and the first teacher had made a long pink China Oaxaquena costume with green kerchief that the "spirit of the motherland" still wears. The dress and a paper crown are kept in a chest in the school room, and certainly they look a little shabby now after twenty-five years. But it was so important from the beginning to have a La Patria sep- arate from the one chosen in San Pablo Etla and to hold a purely local parade in her honor. La Patria rides standing up in an oxcart, Don Feliz Lson's when the municipal president lives below the school, Don Martin's, or recently Don Marcelino's, when he lives above. Roses and hibiscus are wound round the cart; the flag from the school and the portraits of Hidalgo and Benito Juirez are tacked on the cart. They probably look a little tired through the years, too. Bougainvillea is wreathed around the oxen's horns. Behind the cart all the school children march on foot, dressed in their best clean clothes. In front of the cart walk the president and the municipal council. The procession starts off with the ringing of the school bell. It goes up hill as far as the oxcart can travel on the path, then it turns off and goes over to the San Sebastian loma, or northern ridge. Finally, it turns back up to the main trail, past the schoolhouse, and on down to San Pablo Etla. There is, of course, a parade going on there too. Our council sets off many rockets on the edge of San Pablo, and our children keep singing, as loudly as possible, a song aimed at imperial Spain: ;Por tres siglos, O patria querida, Quisimos libertad, libertad, libertad! (For three centuries, oh beloved nation, We desired liberty, liberty, liberty!) 56  DON BARTOLO Undoubtedly the little children, pattering far in the rear of the pro- cession, are always two or three libertads behind on the chorus. I asked one La Patria, Chabella, later the daughter-in-law of Don Martin and a good friend of mine who is today a settled matron, what they did in San Pablo Etla. She now has six half-grown chil- dren, but she is still very pretty and seems more than ever the "spirit of the motherland.' "Our whole council made much better speeches than any San Pablo Etla politico," she laughingly remem- bered. "It was worth staying through the fourth grade just for the sixteenth of September." Mothers, who do not follow the procession to San Pablo, have a dinner on the school porch ready to honor the city council when it gets back. The portraits of Juarez and Hidalgo are taken off the cart and are banked in flowers on the porch, looking as fine as any angelito. The council, the public works committee, and the school affairs committee, which always include half the grown men in town-thirteen out of the thirty households-sit down to dinner at a long banquet table made of the school desks. Until there were chairs at Don Martin's, this would be the one occasion of the year when fathers of the community sat for dinner in chairs at a table; everyone in Santa Cruz Etla has always had to eat sitting on the hard ground in the porticos of the adobe huts or crouched inside in the dark around the charcoal fire. More speeches are made (how they do love long speeches!), more songs are sung. Unfortunately, this festival comes at a very busy season when the early summer beans are ready to harvest, and the festival can last only one day. Everyone has to be back in the fields in the morning. For Don Bartolo September 16 was a big day; he had had ridicule and criticism all year. That day he could hear speeches in his honor, and was able to make at least three long speeches himself-the one in the night, that at San Pablo Etla, and then at the dinner. This "government" of Santa Cruz Etla - how has it improved in the last two decades? How would it rate on that long list of things the Mexico City authorities wanted the educational missionaries to bring to the villages? I have the printed list before me as I write, and I check it against Don Bartolo's regime, and all those 57 DON BARTOLO Undoubtedly the little children, pattering far in the rear of the pro- cession, are always two or three libertads behind on the chorus. I asked one La Patria, Chabella, later the daughter-in-law of Don Martin and a good friend of mine who is today a settled matron, what they did in San Pablo Etla. She now has six half-grown chil- dren, but she is still very pretty and seems more than ever the "spirit of the motherland." "Our whole council made much better speeches than any San Pablo Etla politico," she laughingly remem- bered. "It was worth staying through the fourth grade just for the sixteenth of September." Mothers, who do not follow the procession to San Pablo, have a dinner on the school porch ready to honor the city council when it gets back. The portraits of Juarez and Hidalgo are taken off the cart and are banked in flowers on the porch, looking as fine as any angelito. The council, the public works committee, and the school affairs committee, which always include half the grown men in town-thirteen out of the thirty households-sit down to dinner at a long banquet table made of the school desks. Until there were chairs at Don Martin's, this would be the one occasion of the year when fathers of the community sat for dinner in chairs at a table; everyone in Santa Cruz Etla has always had to eat sitting on the hard ground in the porticos of the adobe huts or crouched inside in the dark around the charcoal fire. More speeches are made (bow they do love long speeches!), more songs are sung. Unfortunately, this festival comes at a very busy season when the early summer beans are ready to harvest, and the festival can last only one day. Everyone has to be back in the fields in the morning. For Don Bartolo September 16 was a big day; he had had ridicule and criticism all year. That day he could hear speeches in his honor, and was able to make at least three long speeches himself-the one in the night, that at San Pablo Etla, and then at the dinner. This "government" of Santa Cruz Etla - how has it improved in the last two decades? How would it rate on that long list of things the Mexico City authorities wanted the educational missionaries to bring to the villages? I have the printed list before me as I write, and I check it against Don Bartolo's regime, and all those 57 DON BARTOLO Undoubtedly the little children, pattering far in the rear of the pro- cession, are always two or three libertads behind on the chorus. I asked one La Patria, Chabella, later the daughter-in-law of Don Martin and a good friend of mine who is today a settled matron, what they did in San Pablo Etla. She now has six half-grown chil- dren, but she is still very pretty and seems more than ever the "spirit of the motherland." "Our whole council made much better speeches than any San Pablo Etla politico," she laughingly remem- bered. "It was worth staying through the fourth grade just for the sixteenth of September." Mothers, who do not follow the procession to San Pablo, have a dinner on the school porch ready to honor the city council when it gets back. The portraits of Juirez and Hidalgo are taken off the cart and are banked in flowers on the porch, looking as fine as any angelito. The council, the public works committee, and the school affairs committee, which always include half the grown men in town-thirteen out of the thirty households-sit down to dinner at a long banquet table made of the school desks. Until there were chairs at Don Martin's, this would be the one occasion of the year when fathers of the community sat for dinner in chairs at a table; everyone in Santa Cruz Etla has always had to eat sitting on the hard ground in the porticos of the adobe huts or crouched inside in the dark around the charcoal fire. More speeches are made (how they do love long speeches!), more songs are sung. Unfortunately, this festival comes at a very busy season when the early summer beans are ready to harvest, and the festival can last only one day. Everyone has to be back in the fields in the morning. For Don Bartolo September 16 was a big day; be had had ridicule and criticism all year. That day he could hear speeches in his honor, and was able to make at least three long speeches himself-the one in the night, that at San Pablo Etla, and then at the dinner. This "government" of Santa Cruz Etla - how has it improved in the last two decades? How would it rate on that long list of things the Mexico City authorities wanted the educational missionaries to bring to the villages? I have the printed list before me as I write, and I check it against Don Bartolo's regime, and all those 57  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS before or since. There is no clinic, though Don Bartolo's "malaria" brought on the vaccination campaign. The school and town au- thorities have brought no puppet theatre, no traveling library. "la- laria control" is hardly necessary, taxes are "equally laid," there is already an enormous "sense of public responsibility" (in what small Mexican town did that have to be taught?), and Santa Cruz has learned how to "vote intelligently for local officials." "Main- tenance of a pure water supply" is part of the account of another president, and "provision of well-kept roads," the big problem for us when we arrived in 1954, is in the cards for the near future. Santa Cruz Etla people have been their own cultural missionaries whent H comes to problems of local government. 45 IN 1934 I did not know Don Marciano, the 1945 chairman of public works, who was president in 1947 and 1948. He lived on the nar- row little trail that went to the San Sebastian, or north ridge. I remembered his face because he brought the only real rifle to the meeting about the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua; but I had never visited his house, and he had seldom passed the school because he did not go down to the valley by way of the central ridge. In 1945 he had come to the welcoming meeting from which Don Bartolo had absented himself, and he made an immediate impression on me then by being mounted on a peppy little bay horse with white ankles. Now, a horse in Oaxaca City is nothing for comment. Mounted horsemen in leather jackets, seated on their silver-studded saddles, are not so common in the south of Mexico as they are in Guadala- jara or Queretaro farther north. But they are often seen in Oaxaca on market and fiesta days, and there is a cavalry barracks in the older part of the town with a hundred horses going in and out of the area every day. A horse in the Etla Hills region is rarer. The finest way to see the whole hill country is on horseback; if I were 58 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS before or since. There is no clinic, though Don Bartolo's "malaria" brought on the vaccination campaign. The school and town au- thorities have brought no puppet theatre, no traveling library. "Ma- laria control" is hardly necessary, taxes are "equally laid," there is already an enormous "sense of public responsibility" (in what small Mexican town did that have to be taught?), and Santa Cruz has learned how to "vote intelligently for local officials." "Main- tenance of a pure water supply" is part of the account of another president, and "provision of well-kept roads," the big problem for us when we arrived in 1954, is in the cards for the near future. Santa Cruz Etla people have been their own cultural missionaries when it comes to problems of local government. -Z 5d IN 1934 I did not know Don Marciano, the 1945 chairman of public works, who was president in 1947 and 1948. He lived on the nar- row little trail that went to the San Sebastiin, or north ridge. I remembered his face because he brought the only real rifle to the meeting about the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua; but I had never visited his house, and he had seldom passed the school because he did not go down to the valley by way of the central ridge. In 1945 he had come to the welcoming meeting from which Don Bartolo had absented himself, and he made an immediate impression on me then by being mounted on a peppy little bay horse with white ankles. Now, a horse in Oaxaca City is nothing for comment. Mounted horsemen in leather jackets, seated on their silver-studded saddles, are not so common in the south of Mexico as they are in Guadala- jara or Queretaro farther north. But they are often seen in Oaxaca on market and fiesta days, and there is a cavalry barracks in the older part of the town with a hundred horses going in and out of the area every day. A horse in the Etla Hills region is rarer. The finest way to see the whole hill country is on horseback; if I were 58 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS before or since. There is no clinic, though Don Bartolo's "malaria" brought on the vaccination campaign. The school and town au- thorities have brought no puppet theatre, no traveling library. "Ma- laria control" is hardly necessary, taxes are "equally laid," there is already an enormous "sense of public responsibility" (in what small Mexican town did that have to be taught?), and Santa Cruz has learned how to "vote intelligently for local officials." "Main- tenance of a pure water supply" is part of the account of another president, and "provision of well-kept roads," the big problem for us when we arrived in 1954, is in the cards for the near future. Santa Cruz Etla people have been their own cultural missionaries when it comes to problems of local government. IN 1934 I did not know Don Marciano, the 1945 chairman of public works, who was president in 1947 and 1948. He lived on the nar- row little trail that went to the San Sebastiin, or north ridge. I remembered his face because he brought the only real rifle to the meeting about the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua; but I had never visited his house, and he had seldom passed the school because he did not go down to the valley by way of the central ridge. In 1945 he had come to the welcoming meeting from which Don Bartolo had absented himself, and he made an immediate impression on me then by being mounted on a peppy little bay horse with white ankles. Now, a horse in Oaxaca City is nothing for comment. Mounted horsemen in leather jackets, seated on their silver-studded saddles, are not so common in the south of Mexico as they are in Guadala- jara or Queretaro farther north. But they are often seen in Oaxaca on market and fiesta days, and there is a cavalry barracks in the older part of the town with a hundred horses going in and out of the area every day. A horse in the Etla Hills region is rarer. The finest way to see the whole hill country is on horseback; if I were 58  DON MARCIANO going to spend several months in Santa Cruz Etla, a horse would be a fine companion. The only horses I had ever seen there, how- ever, were those of installment collectors and forestry inspectors and others from the valley who hit the rough trails on business. Now here was Don Marciano on a horse, and he was the chair- man of public works, and in the absence of the president, the other officials were offering everything Santa Cruz had for my summer's comfort. No one thought to offer the horse, of course, since no woman ever rode such a thing in the Indian villages, not even down in the valley, and only Don Marciano himself ever rode this one. But afterward, when I was at Don Martin's on Sunday after- noon, Don Marciano came by to pay a respect call on his compadre, godfather to one of his children; and I put Don Martin up to asking him if I could use the horse sometimes during the summer. I think Don Marciano was surprised and delighted. He made a long speech on how dangerous the horse was, how no one could ride it, except himself, without mucha prdctica. Perhaps the Amer- ican senora could do anything. At any rate, he never rode the horse except to market on Saturdays or to make a paseo, a round of visits, on Sundays, or to go hunting in the hills. All week he was busy. Any time the senora americana wished to come to his house on a weekday morning, he would be glad to let her borrow the horse for the day. I don't think he really expected me, though. It was a week before I took advantage of his offer, anyway, as I had many friends to visit and much chatting to do the first few days, and then I got the "water sickness," which does not fit in well with horseback rides. One fine morning, in my second week, I started off with a child' from the school to guide me in finding Don Marciano's. My host- ess, Dona Patrocina, the cure woman, thought I should not do such a thing. A horse is muy feroz, muy bravo. Who could run along all day with me to protect me, when both her sons were busy in the fields? Besides, where could I go? To San Luis Ocotitlin ten miles along the foothills? To Etla back along the railroad? Surely I would not want to go to Oaxaca again so soon, with no market going on till Saturday, and no festival till the third Monday in July. 59 DON MARCIANO going to spend several months in Santa Cruz Etla, a horse would be a fine companion. The only horses I had ever seen there, how- ever, were those of installment collectors and forestry inspectors and others from the valley who hit the rough trails on business. Now here was Don Marciano on a horse, and he was the chair- man of public works, and in the absence of the president, the other officials were offering everything Santa Cruz had for my summer's comfort. No one thought to offer the horse, of course, since no woman ever rode such a thing in the Indian villages, not even down in the valley, and only Don Marciano himself ever rode this one. But afterward, when I was at Don Martin's on Sunday after- noon, Don Marciano came by to pay a respect call on his compadre, godfather to one of his children; and I put Don Martin up to asking him if I could use the horse sometimes during the summer. I think Don Marciano was surprised and delighted. He made a long speech on how dangerous the horse was, how no one could ride it, except himself, without mucha prdctica. Perhaps the Amer- ican senora could do anything. At any rate, he never rode the horse except to market on Saturdays or to make a paseo, a round of visits, on Sundays, or to go hunting in the hills. All week he was busy. Any time the senora americana wished to come to his house on a weekday morning, he would be glad to let her borrow the horse for the day. I don't think he really expected me, though. It was a week before I took advantage of his offer, anyway, as I had many friends to visit and much chatting to do the frst few days, and then I got the "water sickness," which does not fit in well with horseback rides. One fine morning, in my second week, I started off with a child from the school to guide me in finding Don Marciano's. My host- ess, Dona Patrocina, the cure woman, thought I should not do such a thing. A horse is muy feroz, muy bravo. Who could run along all day with me to protect me, when both her sons were busy in the fields? Besides, where could I go? To San Luis Ocotitlin ten miles along the foothills? To Etla back along the railroad? Surely I would not want to go to Oaxaca again so soon, with no market going on till Saturday, and no festival till the third Monday in July. 59 DON MARCIANO going to spend several months in Santa Cruz Etla, a horse would be a fine companion. The only horses I had ever seen there, how- ever, were those of installment collectors and forestry inspectors and others from the valley who hit the rough trails on business. Now here was Don Marciano on a horse, and he was the chair- man of public works, and in the absence of the president, the other officials were offering everything Santa Cruz had for my summer's comfort. No one thought to offer the horse, of course, since no woman ever rode such a thing in the Indian villages, not even down in the valley, and only Don Marciano himself ever rode this one. But afterward, when I was at Don Martin's on Sunday after- noon, Don Marciano came by to pay a respect call on his compadre, godfather to one of his children; and I put Don Martin up to asking him if I could use the horse sometimes during the summer. I think Don Marciano was surprised and delighted. He made a long speech on how dangerous the horse was, how no one could ride it, except himself, without mucha prdctica. Perhaps the Amer- ican seora could do anything. At any rate, he never rode the horse except to market on Saturdays or to make a paseo, a round of visits, on Sundays, or to go hunting in the hills. All week he was busy. Any time the senora americana wished to come to his house on a weekday morning, he would be glad to let her borrow the horse for the day. I don't think he really expected me, though. It was a week before I took advantage of his offer, anyway, as I had many friends to visit and much chatting to do the first few days, and then I got the "water sickness," which does not fit in well with horseback rides. One fine morning, in my second week, I started off with a child from the school to guide me in finding Don Marciano's. My host- ess, Dona Patrocina, the cure woman, thought I should not do such a thing. A horse is muy feroz, muy bravo. Who could run along all day with me to protect me, when both her sons were busy in the fields? Besides, where could I go? To San Luis Ocotitin ten miles along the foothills? To Etla back along the railroad? Surely I would not want to go to Oaxaca again so soon, with no market going on till Saturday, and no festival till the third Monday in July. 59  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "I want to go up the trails into the sierra, Dona Patrocina, to watch the woodcutters, to see the high mountains, to get the view, to see the 'divide' of the war with San Felipe-well, just to go, to ride around the hills many different days." Dona Patrocina shook her head sadly. Probably Dona Elena wasn't happy staying around talking. Well, the saints would protect her. But it was Patrocina who sent over to get a fourth-grade boy from the school to go along with me. I was a little hurt. I consid- ered myself quite a horsewoman and had merely planned to roam around the hills as I pleased. Now I could foresee all the village getting excited about it. I tried to explain to Geronomo, the fourth- grade "boy guide," as we walked down the hill behind the school and up the other side of the San Sebastiin ridge, that in the United States women went riding alone. "We will try to tell that to Don Marciano," said Gernomo seriously. I found Don Marciano's houseyard a poor, crowded place. His family had perhaps come late from Santa Cruz Salinas. He had very little land; what he had was far from the ditch on a rocky burro trail which no oxcart could travel. All three of his little shacks were made of straw and bamboo-one for his married daughter, one for sleeping quarters for himself, his wife, and his other children, and one for cooking and eating-with no adobe or tile construction in any of them. His land, most of it on a steep, bare hillside, had been planted to corn late in the season, and none of it was up. One of his daughters had just walked two hundred yards for water, down a steep path to a spring. On the face of it, Don Marciano was poverty-stricken. But he was really one of the prosperous men of Santa Cruz Etla. To be a town, Don Amado had said, Santa Cruz needed "men with more sons." Don Marciano had eight children, three girls and five boys. His oldest son, Panfilo, whom I remembered from 1934, had been working on the Pan American Highway south of Oaxaca City; he made two and a half pesos a day and sent his mother home a sewing machine. Don Marciano's youngest child was still sucking at the breast. Three in-between boys cared for a large herd of goats; two older girls went to the mill, made tortillas, and cared 60 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "I want to go up the trails into the sierra, Dona Patrocina, to watch the woodcutters, to see the high mountains, to get the view, to see the 'divide' of the war with San Felipe-well, just to go, to ride around the hills many different days." Dona Patrocina shook her head sadly. Probably Dona Elena wasn't happy staying around talking. Well, the saints would protect her. But it was Patrocina who sent over to get a fourth-grade boy from the school to go along with me. I was a little hurt. I consid- ered myself quite a horsewoman and had merely planned to roam around the hills as I pleased. Now I could foresee all the village getting excited about it. I tried to explain to Geronomo, the fourth- grade "boy guide," as we walked down the hill behind the school and up the other side of the San Sebastiin ridge, that in the United States women went riding alone. "We will try to tell that to Don Marciano," said Gernomo seriously. I found Don Marciano's houseyard a poor, crowded place. His family had perhaps come late from Santa Cruz Salinas. He had very little land; what he had was far from the ditch on a rocky burro trail which no oxcart could travel. All three of his little shacks were made of straw and bamboo-one for his married daughter, one for sleeping quarters for himself, his wife, and his other children, and one for cooking and eating-with no adobe or tile construction in any of them. His land, most of it on a steep, bare hillside, had been planted to corn late in the season, and none of it was up. One of his daughters had just walked two hundred yards for water, down a steep path to a spring. On the face of it, Don Marciano was poverty-stricken. But he was really one of the prosperous men of Santa Cruz Etla. To be a town, Don Amado had said, Santa Cruz needed "men with more sons." Don Marciano had eight children, three girls and five boys. His oldest son, Panfilo, whom I remembered from 1934, had been working on the Pan American Highway south of Oaxaca City; he made two and a half pesos a day and sent his mother home a sewing machine. Don Marciano's youngest child was still sucking at the breast. Three in-between boys cared for a large herd of goats; two older girls went to the mill, made tortillas, and cared 60 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "I want to go up the trails into the sierra, Dona Patrocina, to watch the woodcutters, to see the high mountains, to get the view, to see the 'divide' of the war with San Felipe-well, just to go, to ride around the hills many different days." Dona Patrocina shook her head sadly. Probably Dona Elena wasn't happy staying around talking. Well, the saints would protect her. But it was Patrocina who sent over to get a fourth-grade boy from the school to go along with me. I was a little hurt. I consid- ered myself quite a horsewoman and had merely planned to roam around the hills as I pleased. Now I could foresee all the village getting excited about it. I tried to explain to Gernomo, the fourth- grade "boy guide," as we walked down the hill behind the school and up the other side of the San Sebastiin ridge, that in the United States women went riding alone. "We will try to tell that to Don Marciano," said Gernomo seriously. I found Don Marciano's houseyard a poor, crowded place. His family had perhaps come late from Santa Cruz Salinas. He had very little land; what he had was far from the ditch on a rocky burro trail which no oxcart could travel. All three of his little shacks were made of straw and bamboo-one for his married daughter, one for sleeping quarters for himself, his wife, and his other children, and one for cooking and eating-with no adobe or tile construction in any of them. His land, most of it on a steep, bare hillside, had been planted to corn late in the season, and none of it was up. One of his daughters had just walked two hundred yards for water, down a steep path to a spring. On the face of it, Don Marciano was poverty-stricken. But he was really one of the prosperous men of Santa Cruz Etla. To be a town, Don Amado had said, Santa Cruz needed "men with more sons." Don Marciano had eight children, three girls and five boys. His oldest son, Panfilo, whom I remembered from 1934, had been working on the Pan American Highway south of Oaxaca City; he made two and a half pesos a day and sent his mother home a sewing machine. Don Marciano's youngest child was still sucking at the breast. Three in-between boys cared for a large herd of goats; two older girls went to the mill, made tortillas, and cared 60  DON MARCIANO for the younger children. How so many children happened to sur- vive is a mystery; perhaps it was because Don Marciano's family got water from a spring and not from the main ditch on the cen- tral ridge. Don Marciano himself was a strong, tall man, much bigger than Don Martin or Don Bartolo. His wife, Dona Clara, was a gaunt, rawboned woman, one of the homeliest in Santa Cruz Etla; she looked like our United States conception of a middle- aged Indian woman, a Blackfoot, Sioux, or Comanche. All the children looked like her. His oldest daughter was as homely as her mother, yet surpris- ingly Don Marciano prospered in her marriage. We had known a pleasant, handsome youngster at the school in 1934, Adolfo Soto. He and his mother lived then with a great-aunt who had sons of her own. When Adolfo's mother died, he was left at nineteen with- out a family. Don Marciano took him in, married him to the ugly daughter, built them a new bamboo shack, and gave Adolfo the responsibility of the corn land. Thus, Don Marciano had a son who sent home money, a son-in-law who did the plowing, young sons to tend the goats-while he himself became a man of luxury and rode a horse. He welcomed me enthusiastically as he got up from his break- fast. Had I come to take pictures? He had heard that the American sehora would take pictures of everyone. Did I know he was a grandfather? His grandchild was ten months old. If I would take one picture of that grandchild, his doll, his mufeca, anything he had was mine. The boy Geronomo shyly interrupted to tell him that Don Martin had made arrangements about the horse. Don Marciano threw back his head and laughed. What an idea! The poor seSora, she didn't know what she was asking. Why, this ferocious beast was no animal for any woman I saw the docile little horse eating his breakfast, tethered in the yard near the goat pen. I went over and patted him. 'Tm sure I'll get along with the horse," I told Don Marciano. "Would you like me to take photographs of all your family while the horse eats?" With such a deal the horse was mine for as many days as I would ever want it. But first I must sit awhile in the "parlor," the 61 DON MARCIANO for the younger children. How so many children happened to sur- vive is a mystery; perhaps it was because Don Marciano's family got water from a spring and not from the main ditch on the cen- tral ridge. Don Marciano himself was a strong, tall man, much bigger than Don Martin or Don Bartolo. His wife, Dona Clara, was a gaunt, rawboned woman, one of the homeliest in Santa Cruz Etla; she looked like our United States conception of a middle- aged Indian woman, a Blackfoot, Sioux, or Comanche. All the children looked like her. His oldest daughter was as homely as her mother, yet surpris- ingly Don Marciano prospered in her marriage. We had known a pleasant, handsome youngster at the school in 1934, Adolfo Soto. He and his mother lived then with a great-aunt who had sons of her own. When Adolfo's mother died, he was left at nineteen with- out a family. Don Marciano took him in, married him to the ugly daughter, built them a new bamboo shack, and gave Adolfo the responsibility of the corn land. Thus, Don Marciano had a son who sent home money, a son-in-law who did the plowing, young sons to tend the goats-while he himself became a man of luxury and rode a horse. He welcomed me enthusiastically as he got up from his break- fast. Had I come to take pictures? He had heard that the American senora would take pictures of everyone. Did I know he was a grandfather? His grandchild was ten months old. If I would take one picture of that grandchild, his doll, his mufieca, anything he had was mine. The boy Gerdnomo shyly interrupted to tell him that Don Martin had made arrangements about the horse. Don Marciano threw back his head and laughed. What an ideal The poor sesora, she didn't know what she was asking. Why, this ferocious beast was no animal for any woman! I saw the docile little horse eating his breakfast, tethered in the yard near the goat pen. I went over and patted him. "I'm sure I'll get along with the horse," I told Don Marciano. "Would you like me to take photographs of all your family while the horse eats?" With such a deal the horse was mine for as many days as I would ever want it. But first I must sit awhile in the "parlor," the 61 DON MARCIANO for the younger children. How so many children happened to sur- vive is a mystery; perhaps it was because Don Marciano's family got water from a spring and not from the main ditch on the cen- tral ridge. Don Marciano himself was a strong, tall man, much bigger than Don Martin or Don Bartolo. His wife, Dona Clara, was a gaunt, rawboned woman, one of the homeliest in Santa Cruz Etla; she looked like our United States conception of a middle- aged Indian woman, a Blackfoot, Sioux, or Comanche. All the children looked like her. His oldest daughter was as homely as her mother, yet surpris- ingly Don Marciano prospered in her marriage. We had known a pleasant, handsome youngster at the school in 1934, Adolfo Soto. He and his mother lived then with a great-aunt who had sons of her own. When Adolfo's mother died, he was left at nineteen with- out a family. Don Marciano took him in, married him to the ugly daughter, built them a new bamboo shack, and gave Adolfo the responsibility of the corn land. Thus, Don Marciano had a son who sent home money, a son-in-law who did the plowing, young sons to tend the goats-while he himself became a man of luxury and rode a horse. He welcomed me enthusiastically as he got up from his break- fast. Had I come to take pictures? He had heard that the American seoora would take pictures of everyone. Did I know he was a grandfather? His grandchild was ten months old. If I would take one picture of that grandchild, his doll, his muneca, anything he had was mine. The boy Geronomo shyly interrupted to tell him that Don Martin had made arrangements about the horse. Don Marciano threw back his head and laughed. What an idea! The poor senora, she didn't know what she was asking. Why, this ferocious beast was no animal for any woman! I saw the docile little horse eating his breakfast, tethered in the yard near the goat pen. I went over and patted him. "I'm sure I'll get along with the horse," I told Don Marciano. "Would you like me to take photographs of all your family while the horse eats?" With such a deal the horse was mine for as many days as I would ever want it. But first I must sit awhile in the "parlor," the 61  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS shack used as a kitchen, and chat with the family for formality's sake. In a "sociological report" I wrote once about Santa Cruz Etla, I described how little there was, in the way of material things, in the "front room," which is usually the only room in the house. But I would criticize Don Marciano rather for having too much in his front room. There was the sewing machine; there were the bridle and saddle for the horse; there was the ring of stones for the charcoal fire, and all the eating and cooking equipment - every- thing on the floor since there were no tables. There were two rifles, as Don Marciano had prospered enough to buy a second one for his hunting in the hills. There were dried pelts and half-dried pelts of fox and deer. Between the pelts, hanging on the bamboo walls, were bright calendars of Mexico City girls and aspirin advertise- ments showing highly colored pictures from the lives of the saints. Over everything was a layer of smoke and dust. I was glad to get out in the sun again, when I was told the grandchild was dressed in her christening robes and ready for the photographs. This baby girl looked more like her father, Adolfo Soto, and less like the high-cheekboned, eagle-nosed first generation. Per- haps this was why Don Marciano loved her so much. She was much cleaner, and had a fancier christening robe than Don Marciano's own two youngest children. No one else should hold his "doll" while he was around, but I finally persuaded him to let the little girl sit alone on a petate in the sun for a picture. But she cried for Don Marciano, and we did not have luck with the photos. For- tunately, I kept at it till she quieted down, for that one good picture is the only thing Don Marciano has now to remind him of his muneca. Adolfo Soto and his wife had no other children who sur- vived a week of life; and the "doll" herself died at three, in 1948, when an epidemic of the measles, the dread sarampidn so often fatal in the Indian villages, hit the children along the San Sebastian ridge. The poor little photo stands today on the altar in Don lar- ciano's new adobe house. Eventually I got photos of most of the family and two of Don Marciano himself on the horse. Then we all went down to the goat pen to watch Don Marciano saddle up. Here the children showed 62 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS shack used as a kitchen, and chat with the family for formality's sake. In a "sociological report" I wrote once about Santa Cruz Etla, I described how little there was, in the way of material things, in the "front room," which is usually the only room in the house. But I would criticize Don Marciano rather for having too much in his front room. There was the sewing machine; there were the bridle and saddle for the horse; there was the ring of stones for the charcoal fire, and all the eating and cooking equipment - every- thing on the floor since there were no tables. There were two rifles, as Don Marciano had prospered enough to buy a second one for his hunting in the hills. There were dried pelts and half-dried pelts of fox and deer. Between the pelts, hanging on the bamboo walls, were bright calendars of Mexico City girls and aspirin advertise- ments showing highly colored pictures from the lives of the saints. Over everything was a layer of smoke and dust. I was glad to get out in the sun again, when I was told the grandchild was dressed in her christening robes and ready for the photographs. This baby girl looked more like her father, Adolfo Soto, and less like the high-cheekboned, eagle-nosed first generation. Per- haps this was why Don Marciano loved her so much. She was much cleaner, and had a fancier christening robe than Don Marciano's own two youngest children. No one else should hold his "doll" while he was around, but I finally persuaded him to let the little girl sit alone on a petate in the sun for a picture. But she cried for Don Marciano, and we did not have luck with the photos. For- tunately, I kept at it till she quieted down, for that one good picture is the only thing Don Marciano has now to remind him of his muieca. Adolfo Soto and his wife had no other children who sur- vived a week of life; and the "doll" herself died at three, in 1948, when an epidemic of the measles, the dread sarampidn so often fatal in the Indian villages, hit the children along the San Sebastian ridge. The poor little photo stands today on the altar in Don Mar- ciano's new adobe house. Eventually I got photos of most of the family and two of Don Marciano himself on the horse. Then we all went down to the goat pen to watch Don Marciano saddle up. Here the children showed 62 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS shack used as a kitchen, and chat with the family for formality's sake. In a "sociological report" I wrote once about Santa Cruz Etla, I described how little there was, in the way of material things, in the "front room," which is usually the only room in the house. But I would criticize Don Marciano rather for having too much in his front room. There was the sewing machine; there were the bridle and saddle for the horse; there was the ring of stones for the charcoal fire, and all the eating and cooking equipment - every- thing on the floor since there were no tables. There were two rifles, as Don Marciano had prospered enough to buy a second one for his hunting in the hills. There were dried pelts and half-dried pelts of fox and deer. Between the pelts, hanging on the bamboo walls, were bright calendars of Mexico City girls and aspirin advertise- ments showing highly colored pictures from the lives of the saints. Over everything was a layer of smoke and dust. I was glad to get out in the sun again, when I was told the grandchild was dressed in her christening robes and ready for the photographs. This baby girl looked more like her father, Adolfo Soto, and less like the high-cheekboned, eagle-nosed first generation. Per- haps this was why Don Marciano loved her so much. She was much cleaner, and had a fancier christening robe than Don Marciano's own two youngest children. No one else should hold his "doll" while he was around, but I finally persuaded him to let the little girl sit alone on a petate in the sun for a picture. But she cried for Don Marciano, and we did not have luck with the photos. For- tunately, I kept at it till she quieted down, for that one good picture is the only thing Don Marciano has now to remind him of his mufeca. Adolfo Soto and his wife had no other children who sur- vived a week of life; and the "doll" herself died at three, in 1943, when an epidemic of the measles, the dread sarampidn so often fatal in the Indian villages, hit the children along the San Sebastian ridge. The poor little photo stands today on the altar in Don Mar- ciano's new adobe house. Eventually I got photos of most of the family and two of Don Marciano himself on the horse. Then we all went down to the goat pen to watch Don Marciano saddle up. Here the children showed 62  DON MARCIANO me another pet of theirs, a fawn which Don Marciano had captured alive in the mountains. It had been "adopted" by a mother goat and ran freely with the little kids, sucking on its new mother and com- ing up to the children when they called. It was already beginning to lose its baby spots. I asked the children what would happen to it when it grew older, and Don Marciano interrupted to say that it would be used for "pelt and meat." The children said not a thing, but merely looked sad and glanced uneasily at each other. "I am hunting in the hills on the horse many times in the month, senora. I have caught the wild fawns before and brought them home on the back of the saddle. This is not the first one we have raised, nor the last. The children will forget sadness," added the matter-of-fact Don Marciano. When I questioned him about the fawn, as I sat in the yard of his new house in 1954 and talked to him and Dofna Clara about the days when he was public works chairman and I used to ride his horse, he did not remember any one particular fawn. In the 1940's Don Marciano was the only hunter in the town. I had seen no pelts, nor guns, nor fawns in any other houseyard. "Don't other Santa Cruz men hunt in the hills?" I asked him. "How would that be possible, senora? They have no time, no gun, no horse," he answered, smiling at my stupidity as he brought out his saddle and bridle. The saddle had cost Don Marciano one hundred twenty-five pesos in the Oaxaca market. It would be many times that now, as even handmade things have leaped in value in the cities. It was not a fancy saddle, but smoothly made and of a fine piece of leather; it still hangs on the wall of Don Marciano's new house, covered with dust as were all his things in the little old shacks. The horse itself cost him, in 1942 when he had bought it, one hundred seventy-five pesos, or thirty-five dollars. Don Marciano had indulged himself when his daughter married; I am still puzzled how any Santa Cruz Etla man would have three hundred pesos to spend on himself personally, and why he should have chosen to spend it for horse and saddle. He had paid for the town fiesta as mayordomo in 1937; perhaps he used to get good money for the pelts. Now, with so much of the sierra cut down for firewood, the wild animals so far away in the hills, bullets and powder (those city- 63 DON MARCIANO me another pet of theirs, a fawn which Don Marciano had captured alive in the mountains. It had been "adopted" by a mother goat and ran freely with the little kids, sucking on its new mother and com- ing up to the children when they called. It was already beginning to lose its baby spots. I asked the children what would happen to it when it grew older, and Don Marciano interrupted to say that it would be used for "pelt and meat." The children said not a thing, but merely looked sad and glanced uneasily at each other. "I am hunting in the hills on the horse many times in the month, senora. I have caught the wild fawns before and brought them home on the back of the saddle. This is not the first one we have raised, nor the last. The children will forget sadness," added the matter-of-fact Don Marciano. When I questioned him about the fawn, as I sat in the yard of his new house in 1954 and talked to him and Dona Clara about the days when he was public works chairman and I used to ride his horse, he did not remember any one particular fawn. In the 1940's Don Marciano was the only hunter in the town. I had seen no pelts, nor guns, nor fawns in any other houseyard. "Don't other Santa Cruz men hunt in the hills?" I asked him. "How would that be possible, senora? They have no time, no gun, no horse," he answered, smiling at my stupidity as he brought out his saddle and bridle. The saddle had cost Don Marciano one hundred twenty-five pesos in the Oaxaca market. It would be many times that now, as even handmade things have leaped in value in the cities. It was not a fancy saddle, but smoothly made and of a fine piece of leather; it still hangs on the wall of Don Marciano's new house, covered with dust as were all his things in the little old shacks. The horse itself cost him, in 1942 when he had bought it, one hundred seventy-five pesos, or thirty-five dollars. Don Marciano had indulged himself when his daughter married; I am still puzzled how any Santa Cruz Etla man would have three hundred pesos to spend on himself personally, and why he should have chosen to spend it for horse and saddle. He had paid for the town fiesta as mayordomo in 1937; perhaps he used to get good money for the pelts. Now, with so much of the sierra cut down for firewood, the wild animals so far away in the hills, bullets and powder (those city- 63 DON MARCIANO me another pet of theirs, a fawn which Don Marciano had captured alive in the mountains. It had been "adopted" by a mother goat and ran freely with the little kids, sucking on its new mother and com- ing up to the children when they called. It was already beginning to lose its baby spots. I asked the children what would happen to it when it grew older, and Don Marciano interrupted to say that it would be used for "pelt and meat." The children said not a thing, but merely looked sad and glanced uneasily at each other. "I am hunting in the hills on the horse many times in the month, sefnora. I have caught the wild fawns before and brought them home on the back of the saddle. This is not the first one we have raised, nor the last. The children will forget sadness," added the matter-of-fact Don Marciano. When I questioned him about the fawn, as I sat in the yard of his new house in 1954 and talked to him and Doa Clara about the days when he was public works chairman and I used to ride his horse, he did not remember any one particular fawn. In the 1940's Don Marciano was the only hunter in the town. I had seen no pelts, nor guns, nor fawns in any other houseyard. "Don't other Santa Cruz men hunt in the hills?" I asked him. "How would that be possible, sefiora? They have no time, no gun, no horse," he answered, smiling at my stupidity as he brought out his saddle and bridle. The saddle had cost Don Marciano one hundred twenty-five pesos in the Oaxaca market. It would be many times that now, as even handmade things have leaped in value in the cities. It was not a fancy saddle, but smoothly made and of a fine piece of leather; it still hangs on the wall of Don Marciano's new house, covered with dust as were all his things in the little old shacks. The horse itself cost him, in 1942 when he had bought it, one hundred seventy-five pesos, or thirty-five dollars. Don Marciano had indulged himself when his daughter married; I am still puzzled how any Santa Cruz Etla man would have three hundred pesos to spend on himself personally, and why he should have chosen to spend it for horse and saddle. He had paid for the town fiesta as mayordomo in 1937; perhaps he used to get good money for the pelts. Now, with so much of the sierra cut down for firewood, the wild animals so far away in the hills, bullets and powder (those city- 63  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS made things) so expensive, the horse dead after twelve years of hunting with Don Marciano and a new horse so hard to buy, with Adolfo Soto and his childless wife gone to work in Oaxaca City, leaving more corn planting for the old man to do-well, times have changed, and Don Marciano is that much older himself. I know that in 1954 I did not myself have the same urge to ride a horse up and down the Etla Hills that I had had a decade before. He said he still hunted occasionally, but I saw no pelts in the house this last visit. That first morning in the houseyard I asked what the name of the horse was. Don Marciano had not thought a name necessary. "It is called el caballo. Why does it need any other name? It is the only horse in Santa Cruz Etla." So I got on el caballo, and Don Marciano adjusted the stirrups, and Dona Clara pressed my hand, and Adolfo Soto held up the grandchild, and the children held up the fawn. Then I set out, to ride "just anywhere," down the hill to the spring, back on the ox- cart road through to the San Sebastian ridge, and up to the main trail at Don Julio's mill. Ger6nomo could not keep up with me, so I waved him back to school. Dona Estefana and Dona Rufina were in the middle of the trail chatting, as I trotted by and heard their cries of admiration and surprise. "Where are you going, Dona Elena? How can you manage the horse? Take a boy with you. Do not fall in the mountains"-so everyone warned me as I passed. Thus began the first of many beautiful rides in the sierra. The people forgot to wonder why Ger6nomo or some other youngster never went with me and became accustomed to seeing me gallop by up and down the trails and oxcart roads. When we went to visit Santa Cruz for the day in 1951, one of the first things Dona Rufina told me was that el caballo had died of some horse sickness in Don Marciano's houseyard. Because of the horse, I was able to visit in San Pablo Etla, to see other valley towns, to go twice into Oaxaca-trips I could make in my own car in 1954. But mostly I took the horse into the wooded mountains behind the village, on trails I have never visited 64 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS made things) so expensive, the horse dead after twelve years of hunting with Don Marciano and a new horse so hard to buy, with Adolfo Soto and his childless wife gone to work in Oaxaca City, leaving more corn planting for the old man to do-well, times have changed, and Don Marciano is that much older himself. I know that in 1954 I did not myself have the same urge to ride a horse up and down the Etla Hills that I had had a decade before. He said he still hunted occasionally, but I saw no pelts in the house this last visit. That first morning in the houseyard I asked what the name of the horse was. Don Marciano had not thought a name necessary. "It is called el caballo. Why does it need any other name? It is the only horse in Santa Cruz Etla." So I got on el caballo, and Don Marciano adjusted the stirrups, and Dona Clara pressed my hand, and Adolfo Soto held up the grandchild, and the children held up the fawn. Then I set out, to ride "just anywhere," down the hill to the spring, back on the ox- cart road through to the San Sebastian ridge, and up to the main trail at Don Julio's mill. Geronomo could not keep up with me. so I waved him back to school. Dona Estefana and Dona Rufina were in the middle of the trail chatting, as I trotted by and heard their cries of admiration and surprise. "Where are you going, Dona Elena? How can you manage the horse? Take a boy with you. Do not fall in the mountains"-so everyone warned me as I passed. Thus began the first of many beautiful rides in the sierra. The people forgot to wonder why Ger6nomo or some other youngster never went with me and became accustomed to seeing me gallop by up and down the trails and oxcart roads. When we went to visit Santa Cruz for the day in 1951, one of the first things Dona Rufina told me was that el caballo had died of some horse sickness in Don Marciano's houseyard. Because of the horse, I was able to visit in San Pablo Etla, to see other valley towns, to go twice into Oaxaca-trips I could make in my own car in 1954. But mostly I took the horse into the wooded mountains behind the village, on trails I have never visited 64 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS made things) so expensive, the horse dead after twelve years of hunting with Don Marciano and a new horse so hard to buy, with Adolfo Soto and his childless wife gone to work in Oaxaca City, leaving more corn planting for the old man to do-well, times have changed, and Don Marciano is that much older himself. I know that in 1954 I did not myself have the same urge to ride a horse up and down the Etla Hills that I had had a decade before. He said he still hunted occasionally, but I saw no pelts in the house this last visit. That first morning in the houseyard I asked what the name of the horse was. Don Marciano had not thought a name necessary. "It is called el caballo. Why does it need any other name? It is the only horse in Santa Cruz Etla." So I got on el caballo, and Don Marciano adjusted the stirrups, and Dona Clara pressed my hand, and Adolfo Soto held up the grandchild, and the children held up the fawn. Then I set out, to ride "just anywhere," down the hill to the spring, back on the ox- cart road through to the San Sebastian ridge, and up to the main trail at Don Julio's mill. Ger6nomo could not keep up with me, so I waved him back to school. Dona Estefana and Dona Rufina were in the middle of the trail chatting, as I trotted by and heard their cries of admiration and surprise. "Where are you going, Dona Elena? How can you manage the horse? Take a boy with you. Do not fall in the mountains"-so everyone warned me as I passed. Thus began the first of many beautiful rides in the sierra. The people forgot to wonder why Ger6nomo or some other youngster never went with me and became accustomed to seeing me gallop by up and down the trails and oxcart roads. When we went to visit Santa Cruz for the day in 1951, one of the first things Dona Rufina told me was that el caballo had died of some horse sickness in Don Marciano's houseyard. Because of the horse, I was able to visit in San Pablo Etla, to see other valley towns, to go twice into Oaxaca-trips I could make in my own car in 1954. But mostly I took the horse into the wooded mountains behind the village, on trails I have never visited 64  DON MARCIANO since. I would take the central ridge to Don Martin's place, then turn up to the junction where the main trail went downhill to the Pantedn. It is a steep burro and horse trail from there up to the thick woods, a trail that goes up like stairsteps, rising quickly above the brook and hitting a level along another, higher ridge. The horse knew all the places where it was smooth enough to run. Although never used for such a plebeian, burro-type job as hauling wood, el caballo had often taken Don Marciano up this way to hunt. Way below me I could see the brook, clear and sparkling in the sun when it lives in the sierra, though sluggish and muddy when it gets down on the Santa Cruz ridges. In the floor of the wide canyon far below, where the trees had been cut and the grass was rich and green, two rival herds of goats spent their days. Two of Don Marciano's sons followed one herd around, Don Bartolo's boy the other. In 1954 one of Don Marciano's sons, then probably about seventeen, and Timoteo, Don Bartolo's shy introvert from an extrovert family, were still working the goat herds, though in canyons not so green, showing the in- fluence of ten more years of woodcutting and erosion in the sierra above. On the horse I sometimes took their sidetrail and went up into their little private valley. It winds in two or three miles, hardly a valley at all, narrowing to less than twenty feet at the top. Only the goats can get out of it at that end because the brook makes a series of falls and there is no way for the horse to scramble out and get on the through trail which passes a hundred yards above. The boys with the goats were very shy. They spent their days talking to no one but the goats, seldom seeing even each other. So they found little to say to the American senora who rode the high- stepping horse, sometimes running along the stream and scaring the goats, sometimes climbing the woodcutters' trail high above and hallooing down. They probably thought I was like some crazy, mountain spirit woman. These boys were gone from the village from dawn to dark, and I had no chance to make friends with them otherwise. When in 1954 I tried to visit and talk with every young person I had known well in 1945, to see what Santa Cruz Etla held 65 DON MARCIANO since. I would take the central ridge to Don Martin's place, then turn up to the junction where the main trail went downhill to the Pantedn. It is a steep burro and horse trail from there up to the thick woods, a trail that goes up like stairsteps, rising quickly above the brook and hitting a level along another, higher ridge. The horse knew all the places where it was smooth enough to run. Although never used for such a plebeian, burro-type job as hauling wood, el caballo had often taken Don Marciano up this way to hunt. Way below me I could see the brook, clear and sparkling in the sun when it lives in the sierra, though sluggish and muddy when it gets down on the Santa Cruz ridges. In the floor of the wide canyon far below, where the trees had been cut and the grass was rich and green, two rival herds of goats spent their days. Two of Don Marciano's sons followed one herd around, Don Bartolo's boy the other. In 1954 one of Don Marciano's sons, then probably about seventeen, and Timoteo, Don Bartolo's shy introvert from an extrovert family, were still working the goat herds, though in canyons not so green, showing the in- fluence of ten more years of woodcutting and erosion in the sierra above. On the horse I sometimes took their sidetrail and went up into their little private valley. It winds in two or three miles, hardly a valley at all, narrowing to less than twenty feet at the top. Only the goats can get out of it at that end because the brook makes a series of falls and there is no way for the horse to scramble out and get on the through trail which passes a hundred yards above. The boys with the goats were very shy. They spent their days talking to no one but the goats, seldom seeing even each other. So they found little to say to the American senora who rode the high- stepping horse, sometimes running along the stream and scaring the goats, sometimes climbing the woodcutters' trail high above and hallooing down. They probably thought I was like some crazy, mountain spirit woman. These boys were gone from the village from dawn to dark, and I had no chance to make friends with them otherwise. When in 1954 I tried to visit and talk with every young person I had known well in 1945, to see what Santa Cruz Etla held 65 DON MARCIANO since. I would take the central ridge to Don Martin's place, then turn up to the junction where the main trail went downhill to the Pantedn. It is a steep burro and horse trail from there up to the thick woods, a trail that goes up like stairsteps, rising quickly above the brook and hitting a level along another, higher ridge. The horse knew all the places where it was smooth enough to run. Although never used for such a plebeian, burro-type job as hauling wood, el caballo had often taken Don Marciano up this way to hunt. Way below me I could see the brook, clear and sparkling in the sun when it lives in the sierra, though sluggish and muddy when it gets down on the Santa Cruz ridges. In the floor of the wide canyon far below, where the trees had been cut and the grass was rich and green, two rival herds of goats spent their days. Two of Don Marciano's sons followed one herd around, Don Bartolo's boy the other. In 1954 one of Don Marciano's sons, then probably about seventeen, and Timoteo, Don Bartolo's shy introvert from an extrovert family, were still working the goat herds, though in canyons not so green, showing the in- fluence of ten more years of woodcutting and erosion in the sierra above. On the horse I sometimes took their sidetrail and went up into theft little private valley. It winds in two or three miles, hardly a valley at all, narrowing to less than twenty feet at the top. Only the goats can get out of it at that end because the brook makes a series of falls and there is no way for the horse to scramble out and get on the through trail which passes a hundred yards above. The boys with the goats were very shy. They spent their days talking to no one but the goats, seldom seeing even each other. So they found little to say to the American sehora who rode the high- stepping horse, sometimes running along the stream and scaring the goats, sometimes climbing the woodcutters' trail high above and hallooing down. They probably thought I was like some crazy, mountain spirit woman. These boys were gone from the village from dawn to dark, and I had no chance to make friends with them otherwise. When in 1954 I tried to visit and talk with every young person I had known well in 1945, to see what Santa Cruz Etla held 65  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for them in the future, I found the goatherds just as hard to reach and talk to as before. When I followed the goat trails into the canyon on el caballo, I would have to turn around and backtrack out more than a mile. I liked better to stay on the upper trail until it crossed the brook above the series of falls. There it went through thick vegetation for a hundred yards or so on both sides of the crossing. There was a pool at the crossing place, a foot deep and perhaps fifteen feet wide, with big ferns growing on each side. Right below the pool the stream narrowed and rushed downhill quickly in rapids, until it hit the falls two hundred yards below and came crashing down into the goat-pasture canyon. Perhaps the young goatherds were so silent and morose because they were constantly angry at the goats, who found all sorts of ways up the canyon walls around the falls where the poor boys could hardly climb. They probably never thought about the beauty of the falls, the rapids, the pool, or the trail crossing among the ferns. Since no one ever sees this beauti- ful place, except the goat vaqueros and the woodcutters, it seems all wasted. I described it enthusiastically to two young men who went up to cut wood twice a week, Dona Estefana's grandson Joel and Don Amado's son Cassiano. They couldn't remember any place like that. I explained the falls, la catarata, the ferns, the pool. I was afraid I was using the wrong words and was ready to get out the dictionary, when Joel suddenly said: "Oh, that place? Oh yes, we all like that place; there is always water there the year round, even in the driest years." I got the same reaction from Cassiano, who al- ways thought more deeply than the others. He said only: "It is a hard place to get the burros across, Dona Elena; then don't like the wide, slippery pool." It took an outsider, riding the trail for pleasure on a borrowed horse, to tell him how beautiful his own daily journey was. But I must have made some impression on him. When I saw Cassiano in 1954, in Mexico City, he mentioned the former beauty of the old trail himself, saying: "Heavy rains brought good corn years, Dofia Elena, but many more trees are now cut out, and you 66 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for them in the future, I found the goatherds just as hard to reach and talk to as before. When I followed the goat trails into the canyon on el caballo, I would have to turn around and backtrack out more than a mile. I liked better to stay on the upper trail until it crossed the brook above the series of falls. There it went through thick vegetation for a hundred yards or so on both sides of the crossing. There was a pool at the crossing place, a foot deep and perhaps fifteen feet wide, with big ferns growing on each side. Right below the pool the stream narrowed and rushed downhill quickly in rapids, until it hit the falls two hundred yards below and came crashing down into the goat-pasture canyon. Perhaps the young goatherds weere so silent and morose because they were constantly angry at the goats, who found all sorts of ways up the canyon walls around the falls where the poor boys could hardly climb. They probably never thought about the beauty of the falls, the rapids, the pool, or the trail crossing among the ferns. Since no one ever sees this beauti- ful place, except the goat vaqueros and the woodcutters, it seems all wasted. I described it enthusiastically to two young men who went up to cut wood twice a week, Dona Estffana's grandson Joel and Don Amado's son Cassiano. They couldn't remember any place like that. I explained the falls, la catarata, the ferns, the pool. I was afraid I was using the wrong words and was ready to get out the dictionary, when Joel suddenly said: "Oh, that place? Oh yes, we all like that place; there is always water there the year round, even in the driest years." I got the same reaction from Cassiano, who al- ways thought more deeply than the others. He said only: "It is a hard place to get the burros across, Dona Elena; they don't like the wide, slippery pool." It took an outsider, riding the trail for pleasure on a borrowed horse, to tell him how beautiful his own daily journey was. But I must have made some impression on him. When I saw Cassiano in 1954, in Mexico City, he mentioned the former beauty of the old trail himself, saying: "Heavy rains brought good corn years, Dona Elena, but many more trees are now cut out, and you 66 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for them in the future, I found the goatherds just as hard to reach and talk to as before. When I followed the goat trails into the canyon on el caballo, I would have to turn around and backtrack out more than a mile. I liked better to stay on the upper trail until it crossed the brook above the series of falls. There it went through thick vegetation for a hundred yards or so on both sides of the crossing. There was a pool at the crossing place, a foot deep and perhaps fifteen feet wide, with big ferns growing on each side. Right below the pool the stream narrowed and rushed downhill quickly in rapids, until it hit the falls two hundred yards below and came crashing down into the goat-pasture canyon. Perhaps the young goatherds were so silent and morose because they were constantly angry at the goats, who found all sorts of ways up the canyon walls around the falls where the poor boys could hardly climb. They probably never thought about the beauty of the falls, the rapids, the pool, or the trail crossing among the ferns. Since no one ever sees this beauti- ful place, except the goat vaqueros and the woodcutters, it seems all wasted. I described it enthusiastically to two young men who went up to cut wood twice a week, Dona Estefana's grandson Joel and Don Amado's son Cassiano. They couldn't remember any place like that. I explained the falls, la catarata, the ferns, the pool. I was afraid I was using the wrong words and was ready to get out the dictionary, when Joel suddenly said: "Oh, that place? Oh yes, we all like that place; there is always water there the year round, even in the driest years." I got the same reaction from Cassiano, who al- ways thought more deeply than the others. He said only: "It is a hard place to get the burros across, Dona Elena; they don't like the wide, slippery pool." It took an outsider, riding the trail for pleasure on a borrowed horse, to tell him how beautiful his own daily journey was. But I must have made some impression on him. When I saw Cassiano in 1954, in Mexico City, he mentioned the former beauty of the old trail himself, saying: "Heavy rains brought good com years, Dona Elena, but many more trees are now cut out, and yon 66  DON MARCIANO would be sad to see how muddy the falls always are during these years when the rains have been heavy." This depletion of the trees was one of a long series of reasons why Cassiano had to leave Santa Cruz. Beyond the pool the trail went up sharply again, and soon the brook was left as far below as the goat pasture had been left be- fore. Here the trees grew very thick, like scrub pine woods, mostly second growth from cut-off area during centuries of charcoal burn- ing under both Mixtecs and Spaniards. It was surprising to me in 1945 to see how little of the forest seemed badly cut over as I went on up into the deeper woods, twisting back and forth with the trail and going up stairsteps to climb even higher ridges. In the warmth and rain new growth springs up again, though modern forest authorities are concerned, as well as Cassiano, about the erosion in the whole Oaxaca area. Perhaps just now in this decade the "point of no return" is being reached; the woodcutters have outstripped the rate of regrowth. In 1945, when I tried to find them with el caballo, the wood- cutters were scattered all over the highest three ridges where the bigger trees are, so that it was just about impossible to find a particular woodcutter unless you knew exactly where he was go- ing. I seldom saw any friend of mine, probably because I did not go high enough. I would try to describe what I thought was surely the top of the divide made famous in the war with San Felipe, and my listeners would always laugh. I heard Cassiano tell his mother: "Doia Elena has never gone far enough to see any divide." But I did see piles of wood left by the cutters, and charcoal burners' stacks smouldering away. I had had the idea to go in to Oaxaca by way of the divide and really see the town of San Felipe de Agua on the other side; but I gave it up when it took me all day to get into Oaxaca and back by the regular direct road. I didn't want to worry Don Marciano by overworking the little horse. Coming down from the pool and falls I enjoyed even more than going up. On the ascent, my face was always toward the dark, wooded mountains. Descending, I faced always toward the valley. I never did reach a high enough divide on an open trail to look out 67 DON MARCIANO would be sad to see how muddy the falls always are during these years when the rains have been heavy." This depletion of the trees was one of a long series of reasons why Cassiano had to leave Santa Cruz. Beyond the pool the trail went up sharply again, and soon the brook was left as far below as the goat pasture had been left be- fore. Here the trees grew very thick, like scrub pine woods, mostly second growth from cut-off area during centuries of charcoal burn- ing under both Mixtecs and Spaniards. It was surprising to me in 1945 to see how little of the forest seemed badly cut over as I went on up into the deeper woods, twisting back and forth with the trail and going up stairsteps to climb even higher ridges. In the warmth and rain new growth springs up again, though modern forest authorities are concerned, as well as Cassiano, about the erosion in the whole Oaxaca area. Perhaps just now in this decade the "point of no return" is being reached; the woodcutters have outstripped the rate of regrowth. In 1945, when I tried to find them with el caballo, the wood- cutters were scattered all over the highest three ridges where the bigger trees are, so that it was just about impossible to find a particular woodcutter unless you knew exactly where he was go- ing. I seldom saw any friend of mine, probably because I did not go high enough. I would try to describe what I thought was surely the top of the divide made famous in the war with San Felipe, and my listeners would always laugh. I heard Cassiano tell his mother: "Dona Elena has never gone far enough to see any divide." But I did see piles of wood left by the cutters, and charcoal burners' stacks smouldering away. I had had the idea to go in to Oaxaca by way of the divide and really see the town of San Felipe de Agua on the other side; but I gave it up when it took me all day to get into Oaxaca and back by the regular direct road. I didn't want to worry Don Marciano by overworking the little horse. Coming down from the pool and falls I enjoyed even more than going up. On the ascent, my face was always toward the dark, wooded mountains. Descending, I faced always toward the valley. I never did reach a high enough divide on an open trail to look out 67 DON MARCIANO would be sad to see how muddy the falls always are during these years when the rains have been heavy." This depletion of the trees was one of a long series of reasons why Cassiano had to leave Santa Cruz. Beyond the pool the trail went up sharply again, and soon the brook was left as far below as the goat pasture had been left be- fore. Here the trees grew very thick, like scrub pine woods, mostly second growth from cut-off area during centuries of charcoal burn- ing under both Mixtecs and Spaniards. It was surprising to me in 1945 to see how little of the forest seemed badly cut over as I went on up into the deeper woods, twisting back and forth with the trail and going up stairsteps to climb even higher ridges. In the warmth and rain new growth springs up again, though modern forest authorities are concerned, as well as Cassiano, about the erosion in the whole Oaxaca area. Perhaps just now in this decade the "point of no return" is being reached; the woodcutters have outstripped the rate of regrowth. In 1945, when I tried to find them with el caballo, the wood- cutters were scattered all over the highest three ridges where the bigger trees are, so that it was just about impossible to find a particular woodcutter unless you knew exactly where he was go- ing. I seldom saw any friend of mine, probably because I did not go high enough. I would try to describe what I thought was surely the top of the divide made famous in the war with San Felipe, and my listeners would always laugh. I heard Cassiano tell his mother: "Doffa Elena has never gone far enough to see any divide." But I did see piles of wood left by the cutters, and charcoal burners' stacks smouldering away. I had had the idea to go in to Oaxaca by way of the divide and really see the town of San Felipe de Agua on the other side; but I gave it up when it took me all day to get into Oaxaca and back by the regular direct road. I didn't want to worry Don Marciano by overworking the little horse. Coming down from the pool and falls I enjoyed even more than going up. On the ascent, my face was always toward the dark, wooded mountains. Descending, I faced always toward the valley. I never did reach a high enough divide on an open trail to look out 67  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and see the city of Oaxaca, as well as our end of the valley; but I could see up to the town of Etla and all the towns between. Santa Cruz Etla is so small and so spread out that all I could see of it from any point on the trail was the school, looking insignificant in its little clearing. But only the church showed even in San Pablo. I suppose the woodcutters never see the beauty of the view of the valley, coming home always loaded and tired and late. At least I could get a permanent memory of it on Kodachrome film, whenever el caballo would stand still long enough for me to adjust the camera. And the valley itself, in spite of many good wet years in between, is much, much drier than it was in 1934. In the long struggle to outstrip San Pablo Etla in being a town, Santa Cruz has the forces of nature on its side. The first things I noticed in driving our own family car up to San Pablo in 1954 were the many abandoned fields, the eroded hillsides, the broad, new gullies. San Pablo, farther than Santa Cruz from the sierra, on a steeper, last incline of the foot- hills leading down to the valley floor, with no trees planted in the houseyards as has always been the custom in the Santa Cruz muni- cipality-San Pablo is surely one of those towns the conservationists are worrying about, a town losing its agricultural fields, a town whose people have to turn to work elsewhere. A few houseyards seemed abandoned, we thought, as we drove up the badly eroded "truck road" which has been "navigable" for years up as far as San Pablo; and I heard in Santa Cruz that the San Pablo school had been reduced to one teacher. Though Cassiano, Adolfo Soto, Don Bartolo's Luisa, Miguelito and his family, and several others have left Santa Cruz, erosion of agricultural land was not the major force which drove them away. Another thing I had to thank Don Marciano for, and his loan of el caballo, was the intimacy with the birds. Few birds came down into the cleared corn land, but up there in the hills I rode with them. There was one like a linnet, with an even brighter red chest and head, another like the big orioles I have seen in Panama, a third black and white like a magpie, a fourth like a sparrow with a peach-colored breast. I asked Don Marciano about the birds, be- cause he, a hunter and not a prosaic woodcutter, might be more 68 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and see the city of Oaxaca, as well as our end of the valley; but I could see up to the town of Etla and all the towns between. Santa Cruz Etla is so small and so spread out that all I could see of it from any point on the trail was the school, looking insignificant in its little clearing. But only the church showed even in San Pablo. I suppose the woodcutters never see the beauty of the view of the valley, coming home always loaded and tired and late. At least I could get a permanent memory of it on Kodachrome film, whenever el caballo would stand still long enough for me to adjust the camera. And the valley itself, in spite of many good wet years in between, is much, much drier than it was in 1934. In the long struggle to outstrip San Pablo Etla in being a town, Santa Cruz has the forces of nature on its side. The first things I noticed in driving our own family car up to San Pablo in 1954 were the many abandoned fields, the eroded hillsides, the broad, new gullies. San Pablo, farther than Santa Cruz from the sierra, on a steeper, last incline of the foot- hills leading down to the valley floor, with no trees planted in the houseyards as has always been the custom in the Santa Cruz muni- cipality-San Pablo is surely one of those towns the conservationists are worrying about, a town losing its agricultural fields, a town whose people have to turn to work elsewhere. A few houseyards seemed abandoned, we thought, as we drove up the badly eroded "truck road" which has been "navigable" for years up as far as San Pablo; and I heard in Santa Cruz that the San Pablo school had been reduced to one teacher. Though Cassiano, Adolfo Soto, Don Bartolo's Luisa, Miguelito and his family, and several others have left Santa Cruz, erosion of agricultural land was not the major force which drove them away. Another thing I had to thank Don Marciano for, and his loan of el caballo, was the intimacy with the birds. Few birds came down into the cleared corn land, but up there in the hills I rode with them. There was one like a linnet, with an even brighter red chest and head, another like the big orioles I have seen in Panama, a third black and white like a magpie, a fourth like a sparrow with a peach-colored breast. I asked Don Marciano about the birds, be- cause he, a hunter and not a prosaic woodcutter, might be more 68 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and see the city of Oaxaca, as well as our end of the valley; but I could see up to the town of Etla and all the towns between. Santa Cruz Etla is so small and so spread out that all I could see of it from any point on the trail was the school, looking insignificant in its little clearing. But only the church showed even in San Pablo. I suppose the woodcutters never see the beauty of the view of the valley, coming home always loaded and tired and late. At least I could get a permanent memory of it on Kodachrome film, whenever el caballo would stand still long enough for me to adjust the camera. And the valley itself, in spite of many good wet years in between, is much, much drier than it was in 1934. In the long struggle to outstrip San Pablo Etla in being a town, Santa Cruz has the forces of nature on its side. The first things I noticed in driving our own family car up to San Pablo in 1954 were the many abandoned fields, the eroded hillsides, the broad, new gullies. San Pablo, farther than Santa Cruz from the sierra, on a steeper, last incline of the foot- hills leading down to the valley floor, with no trees planted in the houseyards as has always been the custom in the Santa Cruz muni- cipality-San Pablo is surely one of those towns the conservationists are worrying about, a town losing its agricultural fields, a town whose people have to turn to work elsewhere. A few houseyards seemed abandoned, we thought, as we drove up the badly eroded "truck road" which has been "navigable" for years up as far as San Pablo; and I heard in Santa Cruz that the San Pablo school had been reduced to one teacher. Though Cassiano, Adolfo Soto, Don Bartolo's Luisa, Miguelito and his family, and several others have left Santa Cruz, erosion of agricultural land was not the major force which drove them away. Another thing I had to thank Don Marciano for, and his loan of el caballo, was the intimacy with the birds. Few birds came down into the cleared corn land, but up there in the hills I rode with them. There was one like a linnet, with an even brighter red chest and head, another like the big orioles I have seen in Panama, a third black and white like a magpie, a fourth like a sparrow with a peach-colored breast. I asked Don Marciano about the birds, be- cause he, a hunter and not a prosaic woodcutter, might be more 68  DON MARCIANO apt to know their names. He answered at once. "Don't you know? The large ones are pdjaros [the common Spanish word for birds], and the small ones are pajaritos." What I did learn from the horseback rides that everyone in Santa Cruz Etla does know about was the system of water supply for the town, Don Marciano's civic responsibility that year. The supply depends on two streams and two ditches. Above Don Mar- ciano's house a small stream comes out of its own canyon, making the ravine which separates the San Sebastian ridge from the "cen- ter of town." This stream is called el rio, although it is much smaller than my stream of the falls and the pool. It is allowed to meander down its course without ever being tapped, and families in the ra- vine and on the San Sebastian ridge get their water from it. In the middle of the rainy season it runs about eighteen inches deep and three feet wide; I went to bathe in pools along it in 1934, 1945, and 1954 (and of these only 1954 was a good wet year in the Etla Hills). Don Marcian's spring runs into it above the biggest pool; only near such springs does it have water in the dry season. There is no long trail beside it, though Don Marciano used to take el caballo up along it to hunt. (The end leaf map will help.) My brook from the woodcutters' sierra is called merely el arroyo. Before Don Amado's grandfather harnessed and deflected it, it created that ravine between the school and the southern, or San Lorenzo, ridge; and the old arroyo bed is now the dry floor of the ravine. Here are still a few wells, including the one below the old Cooperativa from which four children and I all got sick one time in 1945 when the ditch ran dry. Bamboo, the common building material for the house walls, grows all along the dry arroyo bed in the ravine. The water from my pools and falls becomes la zanja, the ditch, the giver of life to the main houses of Santa Cruz Etla. Where the central ridge and the San Lorenzo ridge join to become foothills at the opening of the goatherders' canyon, Don Amado's grandfather built a rock obstruction and turned el arroyo's water from the ravine to run down the central ridge. In a canalized bed two feet wide and a foot deep, the water rushes down past Don Bartolo's, Don Martin's, Dona Estdfana's, and on to the school. It 69 DON MARCIANO apt to know their names. He answered at once. "Don't you know? The large ones are pdjaros [the common Spanish word for birds], and the small ones are pajaritos." What I did learn from the horseback rides that everyone in Santa Cruz Etla does know about was the system of water supply for the town, Don Marciano's civic responsibility that year. The supply depends on two streams and two ditches. Above Don Mar- ciano's house a small stream comes out of its own canyon, making the ravine which separates the San Sebastiin ridge from the "cen- ter of town." This stream is called el ro, although it is much smaller than my stream of the falls and the pool. It is allowed to meander down its course without ever being tapped, and families in the ra- vine and on the San Sebastian ridge get their water from it. In the middle of the rainy season it runs about eighteen inches deep and three feet wide; I went to bathe in pools along it in 1934, 1945, and 1954 (and of these only 1954 was a good wet year in the Etla Hills). Don Marciano's spring runs into it above the biggest pool; only near such springs does it have water in the dry season. There is no long trail beside it, though Don Marciano used to take el caballo up along it to hunt. (The end leaf map will help.) My brook from the woodcutters' sierra is called merely el arroyo. Before Don Amado's grandfather harnessed and deflected it, it created that ravine between the school and the southern, or San Lorenzo, ridge; and the old arroyo bed is now the dry floor of the ravine. Here are still a few wells, including the one below the old Cooperativa from which four children and I all got sick one time in 1945 when the ditch ran dry. Bamboo, the common building material for the house walls, grows all along the dry arroyo bed in the ravine. The water from my pools and falls becomes la zanja, the ditch, the giver of life to the main houses of Santa Cruz Etla. Where the central ridge and the San Lorenzo ridge join to become foothills at the opening of the goatherders' canyon, Don Amado's grandfather built a rock obstruction and turned el arroyo's water from the ravine to run down the central ridge. In a canalized bed two feet wide and a foot deep, the water rushes down past Don Bartolo's, Don Martin's, Dona Estefana's, and on to the school. It 69 DON MARCIANO apt to know their names. He answered at once. "Don't you know? The large ones are pdjaros {the common Spanish word for birds], and the small ones are pajaritos." What I did learn from the horseback rides that everyone in Santa Cruz Etla does know about was the system of water supply for the town, Don Marciano's civic responsibility that year. The supply depends on two streams and two ditches. Above Don Mar- ciano's house a small stream comes out of its own canyon, making the ravine which separates the San Sebastian ridge from the "cen- ter of town." This stream is called el rio, although it is much smaller than my stream of the falls and the pool. It is allowed to meander down its course without ever being tapped, and families in the ra- vine and on the San Sebastiin ridge get their water from it. In the middle of the rainy season it runs about eighteen inches deep and three feet wide; I went to bathe in pools along it in 1934, 1945, and 1954 (and of these only 1954 was a good wet year in the Etla Hills). Don Marciano's spring runs into it above the biggest pool; only near such springs does it have water in the dry season. There is no long trail beside it, though Don Marciano used to take el caballo up along it to hunt. (The end leaf map will help.) My brook from the woodcutters' sierra is called merely el arroyo. Before Don Amado's grandfather harnessed and deflected it, it created that ravine between the school and the southern, or San Lorenzo, ridge; and the old arroyo bed is now the dry floor of the ravine. Here are still a few wells, including the one below the old Cooperativa from which four children and I all got sick one time in 1945 when the ditch ran dry. Bamboo, the common building material for the house walls, grows all along the dry arroyo bed in the ravine. The water from my pools and falls becomes la zanja, the ditch, the giver of life to the main houses of Santa Cruz Etla. Where the central ridge and the San Lorenzo ridge join to become foothills at the opening of the goatherders' canyon, Don Amado's grandfather built a rock obstruction and turned el arroyo's water from the ravine to run down the central ridge. In a canalized bed two feet wide and a foot deep, the water rushes down past Don Bartolo's, Don Martin's, Dona Estefana's, and on to the school. It 69  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS runs parallel with the oxcart trail, except behind the school build- ing, where it is sidetracked through the school garden. There are places, of course, where la zanja runs through housevards in which cattle are tethered, and many places where goats, burros, oxen, and barefoot people cross it. Santa Cruz Etla does not mind this and does not connect the recurrent dysentery, the "water sickness," with it, but cares only when the stream runs dry. The six families below the Pantesn, who are called to gente del San Lorenzo lado, also get their water from el arroyo, tapping it to feed their own little ditch at a place above the dam which makes our zanja. I was sorry for the San Lorenzo people; their hills are so steep that their land always has been drier and more eroded than the sloping fields near the main ridge, and their corn crop always gets in late. Many of their children come to the school; the families are a part of the community; but scorn is heaped upon them when- ever anything goes wrong with the water system. WVhen the main zanja runs dry, or low, or muddy, it is those tontos, those ignorant San Lorenzo people again. They aren't really ignorant; they just beat us to the water. But I can see how, if they were to irrigate just the least bit in the dry season, there would be no water at all in the main Santa Cruz Eda ditch. In dry season or wet, and in spite of all the families involved in the use of the water, Santa Cruz can always feel smugly superior to San Pablo about the water system. La zanja runs on down to make the water supply there, too, and is piped into the schoolhouse of San Pablo and into a fountain in the center of the little cobbled plaza; but in dry years what water there is always reaches Santa Cruz first. Years ago there were two fine natural springs in the ra- vines on each side of San Pablo, but they were already dry most of the year by 1945. In any year of average rainfall there is water in the mountain brook the year round; though, as Cassiano says, with more and more erosion up above, it is increasingly muddy. The flower gardens, the vegetables in the school garden, and small plots to grow green corn for elotes, corn on the cob, can be irrigated by hand in the dry season, October through May, if the wet season of the summer 70 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS runs parallel with the oxcart trail, except behind the school build- ing, where it is sidetracked through the school garden. There are places, of course, where to zanja runs through houseyards in which cattle are tethered, and many places where goats, burros, oxen, and barefoot people cross it. Santa Cruz Ella does not mind this and does not connect the recurrent dysentery, the "water sickness," with it, but cares only when the stream runs dry. The six families below the Pantedn, who are called to gente del San Lorenzo lado, also get their water from el arroyo, tapping it to feed their own little ditch at a place above the dam which makes our zanja. I was sorry for the San Lorenzo people; their hills are so steep that their land always has been drier and more eroded than the sloping fields near the main ridge, and their corn crop always gets in late. Many of their children come to the school; the families are a part of the community; but scorn is heaped upon them when- ever anything goes wrong with the water system. When the main zanja runs dry, or low, or muddy, it is those tontos, those ignorant San Lorenzo people again. They aren't really ignorant; they just beat us to the water. But I can see how, if they were to irrigate just the least bit in the dry season, there would be no water at all in the main Santa Cruz Etla ditch. In dry season or wet, and in spite of all the families involved in the use of the water, Santa Cruz can always feel smugly superior to San Pablo about the water system. La zanja runs on down to make the water supply there, too, and is piped into the schoolhouse of San Pablo and into a fountain in the center of the little cobbled plaza; but in dry years what water there is always reaches Santa Cruz first. Years ago there were two fine natural springs in the ra- vines on each side of San Pablo, but they were already dry most of the year by 1945. In any year of average rainfall there is water in the mountain brook the year round; though, as Cassiano says, with more and more erosion up above, it is increasingly muddy. The flower gardens, the vegetables in the school garden, and small plots to grow green corn for elotes, corn on the cob, can be irrigated by hand in the dry season, October through May, if the wet season of the summer 70 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS runs parallel with the oxcart trail, except behind the school build- ing, where it is sidetracked through the school garden. There are places, of course, where la zanja runs through houseyards in which cattle are tethered, and many places where goats, burros, oxen, and barefoot people cross it. Santa Cruz Etla does not mind this and does not connect the recurrent dysentery, the "water sickness," with it, but cares only when the stream runs dry. The six families below the Pantedn, who are called to gente del San Lorenzo lado, also get their water from el arroyo, tapping it to feed their own little ditch at a place above the dam which makes our zanja. I was sorry for the San Lorenzo people; their hills are so steep that their land always has been drier and more eroded than the sloping fields near the main ridge, and their corn crop always gets in late. Many of their children come to the school; the families are a part of the community; but scorm is heaped upon them when- ever anything goes wrong with the water system. When the main zanja runs dry, or low, or muddy, it is those tontos, those ignorant San Lorenzo people again. They aren't really ignorant; they just beat us to the water. But I can see how, if they were to irrigate just the least bit in the dry season, there would be no water at all in the main Santa Cruz Etla ditch. In dry season or wet, and in spite of all the families involved in the use of the water, Santa Cruz can always feel smugly superior to San Pablo about the water system. La zanja runs on down to make the water supply there, too, and is piped into the schoolhouse of San Pablo and into a fountain in the center of the little cobbled plaza; but in dry years what water there is always reaches Santa Cruz first. Years ago there were two fine natural springs in the ra- vines on each side of San Pablo, but they were already dry most of the year by 1945. In any year of average rainfall there is water in the mountain brook the year round; though, as Cassiano says, with more and more erosion up above, it is increasingly muddy. The flower gardens, the vegetables in the school garden, and small plots to grow green corn for elotes, corn on the cob, can be irrigated by hand in the dry season, October through May, if the wet season of the summer 70  DON MARCIANO has been good and wet. Irrigation is an important item on the cul- tural missions list; but even rural schoolteachers and cultural mis- sions can't start dry season irrigation projects when there isn't enough dry season water. There is always drinking water, though, either in the brook or in the springs or in the river wells. Only twice in thirty-five years, Don Marciano told me, has there been no water in the brook at the dividing place. Then the woodcutters brought back skin-bags of water from higher points in the hills and sold the water to other families. "When there are two dry years in succession, then we have suffered, all of us," he said. Though he lived over on San Sebastiin, two ridges away from San Lorenzo and a good half-mile from the central zanja, Don Mar- ciano, as chairman of the public works committee, still had re- sponsibility for the whole water system, as well as the road and the Pantedn. He did a good job, too, though the central ditch was really no personal concern of his. Perhaps he hoped that this service would be a step up toward the presidency; if so, his hopes came true when he was elected for the 1947-1948 term. Twice when I was present during his term of chairmansh$, he was called on to do something about obstructions in the ditch. Raised as I was on irrigated farm land in central California, hear- ing the ditch committee called out in the night made me feel right at home. The day the ditch ran dry and I got the water sickness from the bad well, Don Marciano had been "called" from his hunt- ing or his goat tending and had spent the day up at the San Lorenzo ditch. It wasn't really the San Lorenzo people's fault, he told me. A large tree limb had dammed up the main mountain stream and sent a torrent down through San Lorenzo, flooding two houseyards. On a Sunday later in the summer, I was sitting under Dona Patrocina's mango tree watching Don Marciano play cards with the other council members; a dignified man, he never played ball. Sud- denly one of the boys in the ball game noticed that the zanja was running dry. It was a lark for the young fellows to chase off the mile or so up to the head of the zanja to see what had happened. The council went right on playing cards. The boys found that the ditch had broken through its wall in a heavy rain the night before, one 71 DON MARCIANO has been good and wet. Irrigation is an important item on the cul- tural missions list; but even rural schoolteachers and cultural mis- sions can't start dry season irrigation projects when there isn't enough dry season water. There is always drinking water, though, either in the brook or in the springs or in the river wells. Only twice in thirty-five years, Don Marciano told me, has there been no water in the brook at the dividing place. Then the woodcutters brought back skin-bags of water from higher points in the hills and sold the water to other families. "When there are two dry years in succession, then we have suffered, all of us," he said. Though he lived over on San Sebastian, two ridges away from San Lorenzo and a good half-mile from the central zanja, Don Mar- ciano, as chairman of the public works committee, still had re- sponsibility for the whole water system, as well as the road and the Pantedn. He did a good job, too, though the central ditch was really no personal concern of his. Perhaps he hoped that this service would be a step up toward the presidency; if so, his hopes came true when he was elected for the 1947-1948 term. Twice when I was present during his term of chairmansh$, he was called on to do something about obstructions in the ditch. Raised as I was on irrigated farm land in central California, hear- ing the ditch committee called out in the night made me feel right at home. The day the ditch ran dry and I got the water sickness from the bad well, Don Marciano had been "called" from his hunt- ing or his goat tending and had spent the day up at the San Lorenzo ditch. It wasn't really the San Lorenzo people's fault, he told me. A large tree limb had dammed up the main mountain stream and sent a torrent down through San Lorenzo, flooding two houseyards. On a Sunday later in the summer, I was sitting under Dona Patrocina's mango tree watching Don Marciano play cards with the other council members; a dignified man, he never played ball. Sud- denly one of the boys in the ball game noticed that the zanja was running dry. It was a lark for the young fellows to chase off the mile or so up to the head of the zanja to see what had happened. The council went right on playing cards. The boys found that the ditch had broken through its wall in a heavy rain the night before, one 71 DON MARCIANO has been good and wet. Irrigation is an important item on the cul- tural missions list; but even rural schoolteachers and cultural mis- sions can't start dry season irrigation projects when there isn't enough dry season water. There is always drinking water, though, either in the brook or in the springs or in the river wells. Only twice in thirty-five years, Don Marciano told me, has there been no water in the brook at the dividing place. Then the woodcutters brought back skin-bags of water from higher points in the hills and sold the water to other families. "When there are two dry years in succession, then we have suffered, all of us," he said. Though he lived over on San SebastiAn, two ridges away from San Lorenzo and a good half-mile from the central zanja, Don Mar- ciano, as chairman of the public works committee, still had re- sponsibility for the whole water system, as well as the road and the Pantedn. He did a good job, too, though the central ditch was really no personal concern of his. Perhaps he hoped that this service would be a step up toward the presidency; if so, his hopes came true when he was elected for the 1947-1948 term. Twice when I was present during his term of chairmanshiie, he was called on to do something about obstructions in the ditch. Raised as I was on irrigated farm land in central California, hear- ing the ditch committee called out in the night made me feel right at home. The day the ditch ran dry and I got the water sickness from the bad well, Don Marciano had been "called" from his hunt- ing or his goat tending and had spent the day up at the San Lorenzo ditch. It wasn't really the San Lorenzo people's fault, he told me. A large tree limb had dammed up the main mountain stream and sent a torrent down through San Lorenzo, flooding two houseyards. On a Sunday later in the summer, I was sitting under Dona Patrocina's mango tree watching Don Marciano play cards with the other council members; a dignified man, he never played ball. Sud- denly one of the boys in the ball game noticed that the zanja was running dry. It was a lark for the young fellows to chase off the mile or so up to the head of the zanja to see what had happened. The council went right on playing cards. The boys found that the ditch had broken through its wall in a heavy rain the night before, one 71  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS of the few good rains in the very dry year of 1945. All the brook water was running down the dry arroyo bed, giving the bamboos a good drenching and flooding out all the wells. The young fel- lows were willing enough, too, to go back and help fix it afterward. I remember Dona Estefana's grandson Joel, one of my good friends among the younger generation and an outstanding ballplayer, cheerfully giving up the game to help-experience which served him well, since he has recently been chairman of public works himself. But on that earlier occasion the responsibility and the planning had to be assumed by Don Marciano. In a grave manner he excused himself from the card game and went back up the ridge with the boys. In two hours' time the water was running again down the zanja as merrily as ever. If this occurrence had happened on a day when I had the horse, I could have followed along, watched the "committee" fix things up, and no one would have been the wiser. But on Sunday-every Sunday in Santa Cruz-I did what the women did. I sat on the ground beneath the mango trees chatting in my most formal man- ner, while Don Marciano rode his own horse to visit his compadres, tied it to the school peach tree while he played cards, or took it out patrolling ditches. Though his horse was dead and he no longer hunted regularly, though he had served as president and felt himself "through with a career of public service," Don Marciano was still a virile, erect, dig- nified man in 1954. His material condition had even improved by then, good as it had seemed in 1945. Following on foot some of the paths I had known on horseback in 1945, I went down the ravine on my last visit in 1954, across the pools in el rio and up to Don Marciano's house. I wouldn't have known it, if I hadn't been pretty sure of the trail. Two of the little shacks were gone, and the third, which had been the "front room," was used to house the youngest goats. Surrounded by peach-bearing trees stood one of the largest adobe houses in Santa Cruz Etla. Cut into two rooms, one for living and one for sleeping and storage, it had a tile floor, and while it was not whitewashed, its stone door frame and cement steps were as good as those which Don Martin built before he died. 72 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS of the few good rains in the very dry year of 1945. All the brook water was running down the dry arroyo bed, giving the bamboos a good drenching and flooding out all the wells. The young fel- lows were willing enough, too, to go back and help fix it afterward. I remember Dona Estefana's grandson Joel, one of my good friends among the younger generation and an outstanding ballplaver, cheerfully giving up the game to help-experience which served him well, since he has recently been chairman of public works himself. But on that earlier occasion the responsibility and the planning had to be assumed by Don Marciano. In a grave manner he excused himself from the card game and went back up the ridge with the boys. In two hours' time the water was running again down the zanja as merrily as ever. If this occurrence had happened on a day when I had the horse, I could have followed along, watched the "committee" fix things up, and no one would have been the wiser. But on Sunday-every Sunday in Santa Cruz-I did what the women did. I sat on the ground beneath the mango trees chatting in my most formal man- ner, while Don Marciano rode his own horse to visit his compadres, tied it to the school peach tree while he played cards, or took it out patrolling ditches. Though his horse was dead and he no longer hunted regularly, though he had served as president and felt himself "through with a career of public service," Don Marciano was still a virile, erect, dig- nified man in 1954. His material condition had even improved by then, good as it had seemed in 1945. Following on foot some of the paths I had known on horseback in 1945, I went down the ravine on my last visit in 1954, across the pools in el rio and up to Don Marciano's house. I wouldn't have known it, if I hadn't been pretty sure of the trail. Two of the little shacks were gone, and the third, which had been the "front room," was used to house the youngest goats. Surrounded by peach-bearing trees stood one of the largest adobe houses in Santa Cruz Etla. Cut into two rooms, one for living and one for sleeping and storage, it had a tile floor, and while it was not whitewashed, its stone door frame and cement steps were as good as those which Don Martin built before he died. 72 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS of the few good rains in the very dry year of 1945. All the brook water was running down the dry arroyo bed, giving the bamboos a good drenching and flooding out all the wells. The young fel- lows were willing enough, too, to go back and help fix it afterward. I remember Dona Estfana's grandson Joel, one of my good friends among the younger generation and an outstanding ballplayer, cheerfully giving up the game to help-experience which served him well, since he has recently been chairman of public works himself. But on that earlier occasion the responsibility and the planning had to be assumed by Don Marciano. In a grave manner he excused himself from the card game and went back up the ridge with the boys. In two hours' time the water was running again down the zanja as merrily as ever. If this occurrence had happened on a day when I had the horse, I could have followed along, watched the "committee" fix things up, and no one would have been the wiser. But on Sunday-every Sunday in Santa Cruz-I did what the women did. I sat on the ground beneath the mango trees chatting in my most formal man- ner, while Don Marciano rode his own horse to visit his compadres, tied it to the school peach tree while he played cards, or took it out patrolling ditches. Though his horse was dead and he no longer hunted regularly, though he had served as president and felt himself "through with a career of public service," Don Marciano was still a virile, erect, dig- nified man in 1954. His material condition had even improved by then, good as it had seemed in 1945. Following on foot some of the paths I had known on horseback in 1945, I went down the ravine on my last visit in 1954, across the pools in el rio and up to Don Marciano's house. I wouldn't have known it, if I hadn't been pretty sure of the trail. Two of the little shacks were gone, and the third, which had been the "front room," was used to house the youngest goats. Surrounded by peach-bearing trees stood one of the largest adobe houses in Santa Cruz Etla. Cut into two rooms, one for living and one for sleeping and storage, it had a tile floor, and while it was not whitewashed, its stone door frame and cement steps were as good as those which Don Martin built before he died. 72  DON FELIZ Dofa Clara proudly showed me the inscription scratched into the cement step while it was wet, an inscription she knew by heart although she could not read. It said: "The house of Marciano Ji- menez, built by his sons Juanito and Panfilo, December, 1952." Juanito still herded the goats in 1954, but Panfilo, who had already left home to work on the highway in 1945, was working for a con- struction company in Oaxaca City. He had learned to build staunch houses on cement foundations and was something of a hero in Santa Cruz at that time for his expert help on the new chapel. In front of the well-constructed doorway, Dona Clara had put up a trellis which was covered with red rambler roses. In the con- fusion and dirt of Don Marciano's houseyard in the days of el caballo, I had never noticed the view from there. But that last time, sitting under the rambler roses and discussing old times with my dignified, aging friends, I saw that Don Marciano bad really the finest view in Santa Cruz Etla. He saw all the bamboo-filled ravines, the mango trees, and the "public buildings" of Santa Cruz Etla be- low him, as well as the valley farther below. He could look at al- most the whole course of the water supply. Though he said to me: "Thanks to the saints, the zanja yonder has long since been the responsibility of younger men," he and all those committee chair- men before and since him have preserved the water for Santa Cruz Etla. Mr. Ximello, that rural school director under whose sponsorship we first came to Santa Cruz in 1934, had told us that he chose that town because of "its fruits and gardens, its fine new school, and its good water supply." As water supplies go in Mexico, Santa Cruz has one of the best, probably more water per capita than has Mexico City. .-. 6 ~ I REMEMBER wTr SPECIAL PLEASURE the men who raised gardens," I wrote in the diary notes I kept of a two weeks' visit to Santa Cruz Etla in 1944. "Don F6liz Jimenez is a gardener." This was the Don EFtiz who was municipal president in 1954, a decade later, though 73 DON FALIZ Doa Clara proudly showed me the inscription scratched into the cement step while it was wet, an inscription she knew by heart although she could not read. It said: "The house of Marciano Ji- mnez, built by his sons Juanito and Panfilo, December, 1952." Juanito still herded the goats in 1954, but Panfilo, who had already left home to work on the highway in 1945, was working for a con- struction company in Oaxaca City. He had learned to build staunch houses on cement foundations and was something of a hero in Santa Cruz at that time for his expert help on the new chapel. In front of the well-constructed doorway, Doa Clara had put up a trellis which was covered with red rambler roses. In the con- fusion and dirt of Don Marciano's houseyard in the days of el caballo, I had never noticed the view from there. But that last time, sitting under the rambler roses and discussing old times with my dignified, aging friends, I saw that Don Marciano had really the finest view in Santa Cruz Etla. He saw all the bamboo-filled ravines, the mango trees, and the "public buildings" of Santa Cruz Etla be- low him, as well as the valley farther below. He could look at al- most the whole course of the water supply. Though he said to me: "Thanks to the saints, the zanja yonder has long since been the responsibility of younger men," he and all those committee chair- men before and since him have preserved the water for Santa Cruz Etla. Mr. Ximello, that rural school director under whose sponsorship we first came to Santa Cruz in 1934, had told us that he chose that town because of "its fruits and gardens, its fine new school, and its good water supply." As water supplies go in Mexico, Santa Cruz has one of the best, probably more water per capita than has Mexico City. I REMEMBER wrrH SPECIAL PLEASURE the men who raised gardens," I wrote in the diary notes I kept of a two weeks' visit to Santa Cruz Etla in 1944. "Don Fdliz Jimenez is a gardener." This was the Don Fliz who was municipal president in 1954, a decade later, though 73 DON FLLIZ Doa Clara proudly showed me the inscription scratched into the cement step while it was wet, an inscription she knew by heart although she could not read. It said: "The house of Marciano Ji- menez, built by his sons Juanito and Panfilo, December, 1952." Juanito still herded the goats in 1954, but Panfilo, who had already left home to work on the highway in 1945, was working for a con- struction company in Oaxaca City. He had learned to build staunch houses on cement foundations and was something of a hero in Santa Cruz at that time for his expert help on the new chapel. In front of the well-constructed doorway, Dona Clara had put up a trellis which was covered with red rambler roses. In the con- fusion and dirt of Don Marciano's houseyard in the days of el caballo, I had never noticed the view from there. But that last time, sitting under the rambler roses and discussing old times with my dignified, aging friends, I saw that Don Marciano had really the finest view in Santa Cruz Etla. He saw all the bamboo-filled ravines, the mango trees, and the "public buildings" of Santa Cruz Etla be- low him, as well as the valley farther below. He could look at al- most the whole course of the water supply. Though he said to me: "Thanks to the saints, the zanja yonder has long since been the responsibility of younger men," he and all those committee chair- men before and since him have preserved the water for Santa Cruz Etla. Mr. Ximello, that rural school director under whose sponsorship we first came to Santa Cruz in 1934, had told us that he chose that town because of "its fruits and gardens, its fine new school, and its good water supply." As water supplies go in Mexico, Santa Cruz has one of the best, probably more water per capita than has Mexico City. I REMEMBER wrrH SPECIAL PLEASURE the men who raised gardens," I wrote in the diary notes I kept of a two weeks' visit to Santa Cruz Etla in 1944. "Don Feliz Jimenez is a gardener." This was the Don Feliz who was municipal president in 1954, a decade later, though 73  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS there were two other older men in the community named Felz. Don Fliz Leon owned the only oxcart below the school, and he had two sons of his old age who figured in the history of the school. Don Feliz Mendoza from the San Sebastiin ridge came to council meetings I attended on school problems; and he always provided a strident note against work on the public land, although Fdliz ac- tually means "happy." But Don Felz, the gardener, was happy in his garden and not much in the public eye in earlier decades, al- though I notice him now in group pictures I took of discussion meetings in both 1944 and 1945. Perhaps he came into the "public works" picture because of his great interest in irrigation water. In 1944 I jotted down in my notes an account of my visit to his little shack on the dry San Lorenzo hillside. A hard worker, planting corn up and down his steep acres, he had saved enough in the good corn year of 1942 to buy a half- acre of land in that part of the dry arroyo bed near the dry season wells where he could irrigate the year around. He urged me to come and see his garden; one package of the seeds he had used had been accompanied by an English description and his older son, then in the third grade, had told him I could read it. When I went down into the ravine, I saw the "American" plants right away, Ken- tucky Wonder string beans, not just Mexican frijoles, but green beans whose seeds he had purchased at a real store in Oaxaca. Al- ready the vines were outgrowing him, and I could only look at the Ferry-Morse seed packet he had so carefully saved and translate for him the instructions telling how he could tie the beans up. He also had lettuce and spinach planted, in this community where no one else plants anything but corn, beans, squashes, chiles, onions, and tomatoes. He was even more interested in the flowers and had purchased lily bulbs in the same Oaxaca store. These store purchases were themselves unusual in Santa Cruz; no one else there buys things in stores, but in the open market, from other Indians if possible. Don Feliz had zinnias, cosmos, and daisies. There were tuberoses in bloom along the arroyo bed. Most of his vocabulary in talking about all this was beyond me; his garden and his scientific attitude 74 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS there were two other older men in the community named Fhz. Don F6iz Leon owned the only oxcart below the school, and he had two sons of his old age who figured in the history of the school. Don Fliz Mendoza from the San Sebastiin ridge came to council meetings I attended on school problems; and he always provided a strident note against work on the public land, although FEliz ac- tually means "happy." But Don F6liz, the gardener, was happy in his garden and not much in the public eye in earlier decades, al- though I notice him now in group pictures I took of discussion meetings in both 1944 and 1945. Perhaps he came into the "public works" picture because of his great interest in irrigation water. In 1944 I jotted down in my notes an account of my visit to his little shack on the dry San Lorenzo hillside. A hard worker, planting corn up and down his steep acres, he had saved enough in the good corn year of 1942 to buy a half- acre of land in that part of the dry arroyo bed near the dry season wells where he could irrigate the year around. He urged me to come and see his garden; one package of the seeds he had used had been accompanied by an English description and his older son, then in the third grade, had told him I could read it. When I went down into the ravine, I saw the "American" plants right away, Ken- tucky Wonder string beans, not just Mexican frijoles, but green beans whose seeds he had purchased at a real store in Oaxaca. Al- ready the vines were outgrowing him, and I could only look at the Ferry-Morse seed packet he had so carefully saved and translate for him the instructions telling how he could tie the beans up. He also had lettuce and spinach planted, in this community where no one else plants anything but corn, beans, squashes, chiles, onions, and tomatoes. He was even more interested in the flowers and had purchased lily bulbs in the same Oaxaca store. These store purchases were themselves unusual in Santa Cruz; no one else there buys things in stores, but in the open market, from other Indians if possible. Don Feliz had zinnias, cosmos, and daisies. There were tuberoses in bloom along the arroyo bed. Most of his vocabulary in talking about all this was beyond me; his garden and his scientific attitude 74 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS there were two other older men in the community named Feliz. Don Fliz Leon owned the only oxcart below the school, and he had two sons of his old age who figured in the history of the school. Don Fliz Mendoza from the San Sebastidn ridge came to council meetings I attended on school problems; and he always provided a strident note against work on the public land, although Fdliz ac- tually means "happy." But Don Feliz, the gardener, was happy in his garden and not much in the public eye in earlier decades, al- though I notice him now in group pictures I took of discussion meetings in both 1944 and 1945. Perhaps he came into the "public works" picture because of his great interest in irrigation water. In 1944 I jotted down in my notes an account of my visit to his little shack on the dry San Lorenzo hillside. A hard worker, planting corn up and down his steep acres, he had saved enough in the good corn year of 1942 to buy a half- acre of land in that part of the dry arroyo bed near the dry season wells where he could irrigate the year around. He urged me to come and see his garden; one package of the seeds he had used had been accompanied by an English description and his older son, then in the third grade, had told him I could read it. When I went down into the ravine, I saw the "American" plants right away, Ken- tucky Wonder string beans, not just Mexican frijoles, but green beans whose seeds he had purchased at a real store in Oaxaca. Al- ready the vines were outgrowing him, and I could only look at the Ferry-Morse seed packet he had so carefully saved and translate for him the instructions telling how he could tie the beans up. He also had lettuce and spinach planted, in this community where no one else plants anything but corn, beans, squashes, chiles, onions, and tomatoes. He was even more interested in the flowers and had purchased lily bulbs in the same Oaxaca store. These store purchases were themselves unusual in Santa Cruz; no one else there buys things in stores, but in the open market, from other Indians if possible. Don Feliz had zinnias, cosmos, and daisies. There were tuberoses in bloom along the arroyo bed. Most of his vocabulary in talking about all this was beyond me; his garden and his scientific attitude 74  DON FiLIZ toward it seemed so foreign to his house, his cornfield, his illiteracy, and his "barefooted-Indian" appearance. When I asked if he sold the green beans for enough to pay back eventually the cost of the land, he seemed surprised. "How can I pay back the cost of the land?" he asked. "I spent the money when I decided to spend it. It is my pleasure. [Just like el caballo to Don Marciano.] Who would buy the green beans? My wife herself does not like to cook these green things. Let me give you a basket of them to take home with you to Dofia Estefana's." It was the love of experimenting and growing which pleased Don Feliz so much about the whole gardening business. But it did not please his wife. Though I never met her to talk to, I heard undercurrents which made me think she had little sympathy with Don Frliz' ideas. The year 1945 was an especially bad one for water, and Don Frliz had to let a lot of the garden plot go on- planted; that year also his little girl died, she for whom the angelita was given at which I danced so often with the bass-viol player. Then his younger son died the year of the measles epidemic; and soon after, his wife. To get a woman in the house, his older son married very early for a hill man and brought a shy sixteen-year- old San Pablo girl into the house to make tortillas for both of them. Then it was that Don Frliz, no longer finding refuge from his wife's nagging tongue by working in his garden, went into politics. For two terms, from 1949 to 1952, he ran the public works committee, supervising all use of water, and in 1953 he was Don Martin's candidate for the presidency, and so naturally the winner. Thus, it was Don Frliz, already indebted to me because I showed him how to string up Kentucky Wonder beans, who was president in 1954 during our last visit. We had driven up as far as San Pablo during a one-day visit in 1951 and had been picked up there in an oxcart by the artist Perfecto, whose father, Don Marcelino, was then president. But roads throughout Mexico had been improved spectac- ularly in the intervening three years; surely, we thought, the road up beyond the San Pablo church should be passable in 1954. Of course, the thing to remember is that, while Santa Cruz needed the water supply for its very life and felt civic pride in the public 75 DON FELIZ toward it seemed so foreign to his house, his cornfield, his illiteracy, and his "barefooted-Indian" appearance. When I asked if he sold the green beans for enough to pay back eventually the cost of the land, he seemed surprised. "How can I pay back the cost of the land?" he asked. "I spent the money when I decided to spend it. It is my pleasure. [Just like el caballo to Don Marciano.] Who would buy the green beans? My wife herself does not like to cook these green things. Let me give you a basket of them to take home with you to Dona Estefana's." It was the love of experimenting and growing which pleased Don Feliz so much about the whole gardening business. But it did not please his wife. Though I never met her to talk to, I heard undercurrents which made me think she had little sympathy with Don Frliz' ideas. The year 1945 was an especially bad one for water, and Don F4liz had to let a lot of the garden plot go un- planted; that year also his little girl died, she for whom the angelita was given at which I danced so often with the bass-viol player. Then his younger son died the year of the measles epidemic; and soon after, his wife. To get a woman in the house, his older son married very early for a hill man and brought a shy sixteen-year- old San Pablo girl into the house to make tortillas for both of them. Then it was that Don Frliz, no longer finding refuge from his wife's nagging tongue by working in his garden, went into politics. For two terms, from 1949 to 1952, he ran the public works committee, supervising all use of water, and in 1953 he was Don Martin's candidate for the presidency, and so naturally the winner. Thus, it was Don Frliz, already indebted to me because I showed him how to string up Kentucky Wonder beans, who was president in 1954 during our last visit. We had driven up as far as San Pablo during a one-day visit in 1951 and had been picked up there in an oxcart by the artist Perfecto, whose father, Don Marcelino, was then president. But roads throughout Mexico had been improved spectac- ularly in the intervening three years; surely, we thought, the road up beyond the San Pablo church should be passable in 1954. Of course, the thing to remember is that, while Santa Cruz needed the water supply for its very life and felt civic pride in the public 75 DON FfLIZ toward it seemed so foreign to his house, his cornfield, his illiteracy, and his "barefooted-Indian" appearance. When I asked if he sold the green beans for enough to pay back eventually the cost of the land, he seemed surprised. "How can I pay back the cost of the land?" he asked. "I spent the money when I decided to spend it. It is my pleasure. [Just like el caballo to Don Marciano.] Who would buy the green beans? My wife herself does not like to cook these green things. Let me give you a basket of them to take home with you to Dona Estdfana's." It was the love of experimenting and growing which pleased Don Feliz so much about the whole gardening business. But it did not please his wife. Though I never met her to talk to, I heard undercurrents which made me think she had little sympathy with Don Fliz' ideas. The year 1945 was an especially bad one for water, and Don Feliz had to let a lot of the garden plot go un- planted; that year also his little girl died, she for whom the angelita was given at which I danced so often with the bass-viol player. Then his younger son died the year of the measles epidemic; and soon after, his wife. To get a woman in the house, his older son married very early for a hill man and brought a shy sixteen-year- old San Pablo girl into the house to make tortillas for both of them. Then it was that Don Fliz, no longer finding refuge from his wife's nagging tongue by working in his garden, went into politics. For two terms, from 1949 to 1952, he ran the public works committee, supervising all use of water, and in 1953 he was Don Martin's candidate for the presidency, and so naturally the winner. Thus, it was Don Fliz, already indebted to me because I showed him how to string up Kentucky Wonder beans, who was president in 1954 during our last visit. We had driven up as far as San Pablo during a one-day visit in 1951 and had been picked up there in an oxcart by the artist Perfecto, whose father, Don Marcelino, was then president. But roads throughout Mexico had been improved spectac- ularly in the intervening three years; surely, we thought, the road up beyond the San Pablo church should be passable in 1954. Of course, the thing to remember is that, while Santa Cruz needed the water supply for its very life and felt civic pride in the public 75  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS buildings, the people really saw no need for an automobile road at all. Keep the road wide enough for the oxcarts, fill the worst gullies when the storms are heavy so that the ox teams will never sink down or the carts be damaged-and what hill village in southern Mexico needs to do more? "Better wagon roads" is on the cultural missions list, but Santa Cruz Etla did not feel the importance of them. I cannot make a success story of my 1954 visit by saying that Don Fdliz' regime improved the main ridge ox trail to such an extent that it was a "better wagon road"; but I do know from bitter personal experience that it was a better trail in August, 1954, than it was in June, 1954. Station wagons with special low gears bringing school super- visors and health officials, and even a big truck with tractor wheels delivering flour and small merchandise to Don Martin's store, got up to Santa Cruz Etla in the early 1950's. "Why not us?" I assured my skeptical husband. I did not want to bother the people with details of my coming, although their former teacher, then in Miexico City and in constant correspondence with me, had written to Don Martin's literate daughter-in-law that we were on our way. I want- ed simply to arrive without bother, on a regular school day and workday, to ask Don Martin or Dona Patrocina if I could stay a while, send my husband back to the nice Oaxaca Courts Hotel for a couple of weeks by the swimming pool, and have him come up to get me when I was ready to leave. I knew the trouble every family would go to, the clean clothes that would have to be ironed. white outfits for the children and pink and orange shirts for the men. if the time of our coming were known. This time we would make no trouble about our arrival in Santa Cruz. Oh, wouldn't we? A half-mile beyond the San Pablo church we slithered on the edge of a mudhole, tried to find the main wheel ruts, and went down above the hubs on both front and back wheels of the right side, down into the rich adobe mud. There was no backing nor forwarding, no up or down; we were in an inextricable situation; there we sat while my husband strongly wished that there had been a little more progress in my village. Along came the old Don F41iz Ledn, closest Santa Cruz householder to the mudhole. 76 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS buildings, the people really saw no need for an automobile road at all. Keep the road wide enough for the oxcarts, fill the worst gullies when the storms are heavy so that the ox teams will never sink down or the carts be damaged-and what hill village in southern Mexico needs to do more? "Better wagon roads" is on the cultural missions list, but Santa Cruz Etla did not feel the importance of them. I cannot make a success story of my 1954 visit by saying that Don Feliz' regime improved the main ridge ox trail to such an extent that it was a "better wagon road"; but I do know from bitter personal experience that it was a better trail in August, 1954, than it was in June, 1954. Station wagons with special low gears bringing school super- visors and health oficials, and even a big truck with tractor wheels delivering flour and small merchandise to Don Martin's store, got up to Santa Cruz Etla in the early 1950's. "Why not us?" I assured my skeptical husband. I did not want to bother the people with details of my coming, although their former teacher, then in Mexico City and in constant correspondence with me, had written to Don Martin's literate daughter-in-law that we were on our way. I want- ed simply to arrive without bother, on a regular school day and workday, to ask Don Martin or Dona Patrocina if I could stay a while, send my husband back to the nice Oaxaca Courts Hotel for a couple of weeks by the swimming pool, and have him come up to get me when I was ready to leave. I knew the trouble evers family would go to, the clean clothes that would have to be ironed. white outfits for the children and pink and orange shirts for the men. if the time of our coming were known. This time we would make no trouble about our arrival in Santa Cruz. Oh, wouldn't we? A half-mile beyond the San Pablo church we slithered on the edge of a mudhole, tried to find the main wheel ruts, and went down above the hubs on both front and back wheels of the right side, down into the rich adobe mud. There was no backing nor forwarding, no up or down; we were in an inextricable situation; there we sat while my husband strongly wished that there had been a little more progress in my village. Along came the old Don Feliz Ledn, closest Santa Cruz householder to the mudhole. 76 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS buildings, the people really saw no need for an automobile road at all. Keep the road wide enough for the oxcarts, fill the worst gullies when the storms are heavy so that the ox teams will never sink down or the carts be damaged-and what hill village in southern Mexico needs to do more? "Better wagon roads" is on the cultural missions list, but Santa Cruz Etla did not feel the importance of them. I cannot make a success story of my 1954 visit by saying that Don FEliz' regime improved the main ridge ox trail to such an extent that it was a "better wagon road"; but I do know from bitter personal experience that it was a better trail in August, 1954, than it was in June, 1954. Station wagons with special low gears bringing school super- visors and health officials, and even a big truck with tractor wheels delivering flour and small merchandise to Don Martin's store, got up to Santa Cruz Etla in the early 1950's. "Why not us?" I assured my skeptical husband. I did not want to bother the people with details of my coming, although their former teacher, then in Mexico City and in constant correspondence with me, had written to Don Martin's literate daughter-in-law that we were on our way. I want- ed simply to arrive without bother, on a regular school day and workday, to ask Don Martin or Dona Patrocina if I could stay a while, send my husband back to the nice Oaxaca Courts Hotel for a couple of weeks by the swimming pool, and have him come up to get me when I was ready to leave. I knew the trouble every family would go to, the clean clothes that would have to be ironed. white outfits for the children and pink and orange shirts for the men. if the time of our coming were known. This time we would make no trouble about our arrival in Santa Cruz. Oh, wouldn't we? A half-mile beyond the San Pablo church we slithered on the edge of a mudhole, tried to find the main wheel ruts, and went down above the hubs on both front and back wheels of the right side, down into the rich adobe mud. There was no backing nor forwarding, no up or down; we weere in an inextricable situation; there we sat while my husband strongly wished that there had been a little more progress in my village. Along came the old Don Filiz Ledn, closest Santa Cruz householder to the mudhole. 76  DON FSLIZ Immediately he recognized us and went out into his fields to get his sons. They tried an old roof beam, bunches of boughs, big stones under the wheels-all to no avail. Felicito, the oldest son, went up the trail to get Joel, then thirty-two, grandson of Doa Estffana and public works chairman. On the way he evidently called out at every houseyard that Doa Elena and her husband were trying to drive a car up-no, not a horse, a car!-and the road had not been worked on since the dry season. Now came Don F61iz Jimenez of the Kentucky Wonder beans, introducing himself as president in a much more polished fashion than ever he had used talking about gardens. He sent the Le6n boys for their team of oxen and the yoke. Twenty men were there to hitch the team, la yunta, onto our front bumper when finally the oxen arrived. One strong sting at the oxen with an iron goad, and they lunged forward, pulling the car up out of the hole and well on the way toward the Santa Cruz school. Then with Don Feliz riding up front in style, we came to Don Martin's bakery and store. Having left their work for the day, standing around in their muddy everyday clothes while their outfits for celebrity greeting lay packed in the clothes chests at home, the men of Santa Cruz Etla could at least have the pleasure of speech making. So Don Feliz welcomed me; Don Martin told us how his house was our house; I made a speech; my husband made a speech which I trans- lated. Don Bartolo was on hand this time, quick to leave his houseyard full of young goats when he heard of our coming; and he made a speech, too, as my old friend who was president when I stayed so long before. It made up for his absence that time with "malaria." Never since 1934 had we been so warmly welcomed. Fortunately, we could thank them for their help with the car in a better way than with speeches because of Don Martin's new store full of strawberry pop. We also bought two quarts of tequila, that strong Mexican brandy made of century plants. Since Don Martin had only two small glasses, I went round the circle of men pouring the tequila drinks one by one. It was the first time we had ever been able to buy treats for them as a group, or to provide them with any kind of party. 77 DON FALIZ Immediately he recognized us and went out into his fields to get his sons. They tried an old roof beam, bunches of boughs, big stones under the wheels-all to no avail. Felicito, the oldest son, went up the trail to get Joel, then thirty-two, grandson of Doa Estefana and public works chairman. On the way he evidently called out at every houseyard that Dona Elena and her husband were trying to drive a car up-no, not a horse, a car!-and the road had not been worked on since the dry season. Now came Don Feliz Jimfnez of the Kentucky Wonder beans, introducing himself as president in a much more polished fashion than ever he had used talking about gardens. He sent the Le6n boys for their team of oxen and the yoke. Twenty men were there to hitch the team, la yunta, onto our front bumper when finally the oxen arrived. One strong sting at the oxen with an iron goad, and they lunged forward, pulling the car up out of the hole and well on the way toward the Santa Cruz school. Then with Don Feliz riding up front in style, we came to Don Martin's bakery and store. Having left their work for the day, standing around in their muddy everyday clothes while their outfits for celebrity greeting lay packed in the clothes chests at home, the men of Santa Cruz Etla could at least have the pleasure of speech making. So Don Feliz welcomed me; Don Martin told us how his house was our house; I made a speech; my husband made a speech which I trans- lated. Don Bartolo was on hand this time, quick to leave his houseyard full of young goats when he heard of our coming; and he made a speech, too, as my old friend who was president when I stayed so long before. It made up for his absence that time with "malaria." Never since 1934 had we been so warmly welcomed. Fortunately, we could thank them for their help with the car in a better way than with speeches because of Don Martin's new store full of strawberry pop. We also bought two quarts of tequila, that strong Mexican brandy made of century plants. Since Don Martin had only two small glasses, I went round the circle of men pouring the tequila drinks one by one. It was the first time we had ever been able to buy treats for them as a group, or to provide them with any kind of party. 77 DON FfLIZ Immediately he recognized us and went out into his fields to get his sons. They tried an old roof beam, bunches of boughs, big stones under the wheels-all to no avail. Felicito, the oldest son, went up the trail to get Joel, then thirty-two, grandson of Doa Estdfana and public works chairman. On the way he evidently called out at every houseyard that Dona Elena and her husband were trying to drive a car up-no, not a horse, a car!-and the road had not been worked on since the dry season. Now came Don Feliz Jimenez of the Kentucky Wonder beans, introducing himself as president in a much more polished fashion than ever he had used talking about gardens. He sent the Le6n boys for their team of oxen and the yoke. Twenty men were there to hitch the team, la yunta, onto our front bumper when finally the oxen arrived. One strong sting at the oxen with an iron goad, and they lunged forward, pulling the car up out of the hole and well on the way toward the Santa Cruz school. Then with Don Feliz riding up front in style, we came to Don Martin's bakery and store. Having left their work for the day, standing around in their muddy everyday clothes while their outfits for celebrity greeting lay packed in the clothes chests at home, the men of Santa Cruz Etla could at least have the pleasure of speech making. So Don FEliz welcomed me; Don Martin told us how his house was our house; I made a speech; my husband made a speech which I trans- lated. Don Bartolo was on hand this time, quick to leave his houseyard full of young goats when he heard of our coming; and he made a speech, too, as my old friend who was president when I stayed so long before. It made up for his absence that time with "malaria." Never since 1934 had we been so warmly welcomed. Fortunately, we could thank them for their help with the car in a better way than with speeches because of Don Martin's new store full of strawberry pop. We also bought two quarts of tequila, that strong Mexican brandy made of century plants. Since Don Martin had only two small glasses, I went round the circle of men pouring the tequila drinks one by one. It was the first time we had ever been able to buy treats for them as a group, or to provide them with any kind of party. 77  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS The car was in Santa Cruz, parked in the school yard; my hus- band was drinking in the good companionship of his old friends. The hole was still there in the road above San Pablo; the twilight was coming on. With the twilight, in a good corn year, comes a heavy shower that often drops an inch of rain in an evening, and 1954 was a good corn year. My husband's plans certainly did not include staying in Santa Cruz himself until the next dry season. But Don Fdliz anticipated all this. Profuse in expressing his vergienza, his shame that the road had not been improved, he sent for another team of oxen. Then with one team hitched in front and another hitched behind to provide moral support and push, the car traveled slowly back downhill after the last speech, made the mudhole before the rain came, and was hauled through it by the oxen without incident, sn novedades as they say in Mexico. Don Feliz promised my husband that if Doia Elena would stay in Santa Cruz ten days, the road would be in good enough condition for any car to get through by the following Sunday. Then my husband, Don Enrique, could come to get me, the public works committee would stand by to see him get through the mudhole, and we could all have a real dressed-up, speech-making fiesta. Four times during the next ten days I walked by the mudhole on my rounds of visits. The first day I circumvented the mud by sticking to the cornfields, for I did not want to take off my shoes and wade. All day the second and third days, the public works committee, led by the tireless, wiry little Don Feliz himself, worked over the mudhole. They took oxcarts as high as they could drive them up the rocky arroyo bed and filled them with large rocks, bringing down five loads of rocks altogether, two days' work for three men. Ten other men worked in shifts putting the rocks deep in the muddy hole and filling sand in around them, until the road at that place was in better condition than it had ever been before. Then they must needs repair it near the school, too, so that the car might turn around. Later in the week two very heavy evening rains fell, so on the last Saturday Don F6liz was himself hard at work again with the oxcarts full of more rocks. July is a busy time for weeding and plowing the young corn, but I don't think one day's 78 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS The car was in Santa Cruz, parked in the school yard; my hus- band was drinking in the good companionship of his old friends. The hole was still there in the road above San Pablo; the twilight was coming on. With the twilight, in a good corn year, comes a heavy shower that often drops an inch of rain in an evening, and 1954 was a good corn year. My husband's plans certainly did not include staying in Santa Cruz himself until the next dry season. But Don Fdliz anticipated all this. Profuse in expressing his verguenza, his shame that the road had not been improved, he sent for another team of oxen. Then with one team hitched in front and another hitched behind to provide moral support and push, the car traveled slowly back downhill after the last speech, made the mudhole before the rain came, and was hauled through it by the oxen without incident, sin novedades as they say in Mexico. Don Fleiz promised my husband that if Dona Elena would stay in Santa Cruz ten days, the road would be in good enough condition for any car to get through by the following Sunday. Then my husband, Don Enrique, could come to get me, the public works committee would stand by to see him get through the mudhole, and we could all have a real dressed-up, speech-making fiesta. Four times during the next ten days I walked by the mudhole on my rounds of visits. The first day I circumvented the mud by sticking to the cornfields, for I did not want to take off my shoes and wade. All day the second and third days, the public works committee, led by the tireless, wiry little Don F6liz himself, worked over the mudhole. They took oxcarts as high as they could drive them up the rocky arroyo bed and filled them with large rocks, bringing down five loads of rocks altogether, two days' work for three men. Ten other men worked in shifts putting the rocks deep in the muddy hole and filling sand in around them, until the road at that place was in better condition than it had ever been before. Then they must needs repair it near the school, too, so that the car might turn around. Later in the week two very heavy evening rains fell, so on the last Saturday Don Fliz was himself hard at work again with the oxcarts full of more rocks. July is a busy time for weeding and plowing the young corn, but I don't think one day's 78 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS The car was in Santa Cruz, parked in the school yard; my hus- band was drinking in the good companionship of his old friends. The hole was still there in the road above San Pablo; the twilight was coming on. With the twilight, in a good corn year, comes a heavy shower that often drops an inch of rain in an evening, and 1954 was a good corn year. My husband's plans certainly did not include staying in Santa Cruz himself until the next dry season. But Don Feiz anticipated all this. Profuse in expressing his verguenza, his shame that the road had not been improved, he sent for another team of oxen. Then with one team hitched in front and another hitched behind to provide moral support and push, the car traveled slowly back downhill after the last speech, made the mudhole before the rain came, and was hauled through it by the oxen without incident, sin novedades as they say in Mexico. Don Feiz promised my husband that if Dona Elena would stay in Santa Cruz ten days, the road would be in good enough condition for any car to get through by the following Sunday. Then my husband, Don Enrique, could come to get me, the public works committee would stand by to see him get through the mudhole, and we could all have a real dressed-up, speech-making fiesta. Four times during the next ten days I walked by the mudhole on my rounds of visits. The first day I circumvented the mud by sticking to the cornfields, for I did not want to take off my shoes and wade. All day the second and third days, the public works committee, led by the tireless, wiry little Don Feiz himself, worked over the mudhole. They took oxcarts as high as they could drive them up the rocky arroyo bed and filled them with large rocks, bringing down five loads of rocks altogether, two days' work for three men. Ten other men worked in shifts putting the rocks deep in the muddy hole and filling sand in around them, until the road at that place was in better condition than it had ever been before. Then they must needs repair it near the school, too, so that the car might turn around. Later in the week two very heavy evening rains fell, so on the last Saturday Don Fdliz was himself hard at work again with the oxcarts full of more rocks. July is a busy time for weeding and plowing the young corn, but I don't think one day's 78  DON FELIZ work was done in the fields by any full-grown Santa Cruz man the ten days I was there. Never before had there been so much road repair; every bad chuckhole was filled, every rut smoothed out. I understand that Don Martin's delivery-truck driver spoke of the Santa Cruz road with enthusiasm for the first time in his career. Mr. Ximello's driver in 1934 had said: "Christ himself couldn't drive on this road." Inspired by Don Feliz' work, other presidents will keep at the road until anyone can drive into the village. Santa Cruz Etla is only a few miles from the Pan American Highway, the Carretera Internacional, down which heavy traffic comes from Mexico City every day of the year. When the Santa Cruz Etla road is really passable, it will be a crossroad on one of the main highways of the world. Actually, better transportation into Oaxaca City had already come in 1945 by a "backdoor" route. How surprised the central ridge dwellers had been in the spring of that year when a bus company began running one of the converted trucks called camiones, which carry passengers and freight all mixed up, every Saturday morning up to the San Lorenzo ridge-of all places! There was no actual road there at all, but the slope was gradual. A lot of the land on the far side of the ridge, belonging to another township nearer the city, was used as community cattle pasture, and the camin just slowly crawled up the slope until it cleared the ridge and its driver could look across the ravine below the San Lorenzo houses and honk at the Santa Cruz people. At six o'clock on the Oaxaca City market day, or probably as much later as the driver gets around to it, a rickety Ford truck, with seats running the length of the covered part in back, is up on that ridge honking loudly enough to be heard on the Santa Cruz Etla ridge a half-mile away. If they have not already started from home, families from the central ridge hurry out at the sound of the horn, come panting through the school- yard and down into the deep ravine, then up the side of the other loma through Don Feliz' garden and down the San Lorenzo ridge to the waiting bus. There will be seats on the bus for perhaps twenty, and forty people from all the hills around will get on. Then ad- ditional tens will climb on top, five or six will sit on the fenders, 79 DON FILIZ work was done in the fields by any full-grown Santa Cruz man the ten days I was there. Never before had there been so much road repair; every bad chuckhole was filled, every rut smoothed out. I understand that Don Martin's delivery-truck driver spoke of the Santa Cruz road with enthusiasm for the first time in his career. Mr. Ximello's driver in 1934 had said: "Christ himself couldn't drive on this road." Inspired by Don FEliz' work, other presidents will keep at the road until anyone can drive into the village. Santa Cruz Etla is only a few miles from the Pan American Highway, the Carretera Internacional, down which heavy traffic comes from Mexico City every day of the year. When the Santa Cruz Etla road is really passable, it will be a crossroad on one of the main highways of the world. Actually, better transportation into Oaxaca City had already come in 1945 by a "backdoor" route. How surprised the central ridge dwellers had been in the spring of that year when a bus company began running one of the converted trucks called camiones, which carry passengers and freight all mixed up, every Saturday morning up to the San Lorenzo ridge-of all places! There was no actual road there at all, but the slope was gradual. A lot of the land on the far side of the ridge, belonging to another township nearer the city, was used as community cattle pasture, and the camion just slowly crawled up the slope until it cleared the ridge and its driver could look across the ravine below the San Lorenzo houses and honk at the Santa Cruz people. At six o'clock on the Oaxaca City market day, or probably as much later as the driver gets around to it, a rickety Ford truck, with seats running the length of the covered part in back, is up on that ridge honking loudly enough to be heard on the Santa Cruz Etla ridge a half-mile away. If they have not already started from home, families from the central ridge hurry out at the sound of the horn, come panting through the school- yard and down into the deep ravine, then up the side of the other loma through Don Feliz' garden and down the San Lorenzo ridge to the waiting bus. There will be seats on the bus for perhaps twenty, and forty people from all the hills around will get on. Then ad- ditional tens will climb on top, five or six will sit on the fenders, 79 DON FiLIZ work was done in the fields by any full-grown Santa Cruz man the ten days I was there. Never before had there been so much road repair; every bad chuckhole was filled, every rut smoothed out. I understand that Don Martin's delivery-truck driver spoke of the Santa Cruz road with enthusiasm for the first time in his career. Mr. Ximello's driver in 1934 had said: "Christ himself couldn't drive on this road." Inspired by Don Fliz' work, other presidents will keep at the road until anyone can drive into the village. Santa Cruz Etla is only a few miles from the Pan American Highway, the Carretera Internacional, down which heavy traffic comes from Mexico City every day of the year. When the Santa Cruz Etla road is really passable, it will be a crossroad on one of the main highways of the world. Actually, better transportation into Oaxaca City had already come in 1945 by a "backdoor" route. How surprised the central ridge dwellers bad been in the spring of that year when a bus company began running one of the converted trucks called camiones, which carry passengers and freight all mixed up, every Saturday morning up to the San Lorenzo ridge-of all places! There was no actual road there at all, but the slope was gradual. A lot of the land on the far side of the ridge, belonging to another township nearer the city, was used as community cattle pasture, and the camidn just slowly crawled up the slope until it cleared the ridge and its driver could look across the ravine below the San Lorenzo houses and honk at the Santa Cruz people. At six o'clock on the Oaxaca City market day, or probably as much later as the driver gets around to it, a rickety Ford truck, with seats running the length of the covered part in back, is up on that ridge honking loudly enough to be heard on the Santa Cruz Etla ridge a half-mile away. If they have not already started from home, families from the central ridge hurry out at the sound of the horn, come panting through the school- yard and down into the deep ravine, then up the side of the other loma through Don Feliz' garden and down the San Lorenzo ridge to the waiting bus. There will be seats on the bus for perhaps twenty, and forty people from all the hills around will get on. Then ad- ditional tens will climb on top, five or six will sit on the fenders, 79  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and four in with the driver. Everyone has a large pannier in which to carry produce. Any live chickens for the market are carried under the women's rebozos. Live turkeys are more of a problem, how- ever, and have to be held upside down, feet tied together, in the laps of the people sitting down. I never made the trip on that bus. I abhor turkeys anvwa (the ones at Dona Patrocina's fought with me all one summer), and there was no point in my getting up before dawn to get a first chance at a seat and then being asked to hold a couple of the hated turkeys on my lap all the way to town. I have ridden on just such buses too often in other parts of Mexico. What with the crowds, the chuck- holes in the road, the people on your feet, the babies to hold, the young pigs, legs tied together, on the floor, the diffculty of breath- ing with everybody packed so closely-well, I had el caballo in 1945 and planned to have the family car there with me in 1954, so I was not the one to worry about getting to market. I would have gone to market in Don Martin's oxcort any time before I would take the bus ride. For Santa Cruz people, however, the bus ride was a new and exhilarating experience, the first ride in an automobile for most of the women and children. The trip costs ten centavos each way. If you miss the bus when it decides to leave the charcoal sellers' street of the Oaxaca market, that congregating point for Santa Cruz people, on its return trip in the late afternoon, you walk the seventeen miles home. But few miss it. The bus just comes squawk- ing down the market street, never coming to a dead stop, and it at- tracts the hill people like a magnet picking up iron filings. Every- one seems to arrive at the San Lorenzo ridge alive and whole; the driver sorts out the baskets and the produce and the new clay grid- dles that belong to each family; then the people file back across the ravine through Don F6iz' place and up to the main trail again at the school. It would surely be an exciting mark of progress and independ- ence for Santa Cruz if such an important development as a weekly bus route could be considered the "Santa Cruz Etla bus" instead of the "Santa Maria Seminario-San Lorenzo bus." But Don F61iz' 80 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and four in with the driver. Everyone has a large pannier in which to carry produce. Any live chickens for the market are carried under the women's rebozos. Live turkeys are more of a problem, how- ever, and have to be held upside down, feet tied together, in the laps of the people sitting down. I never made the trip on that bus. I abhor turkeys anvway (the ones at Dona Patrocina's fought with me all one summer), and there was no point in my getting up before dawn to get a first chance at a seat and then being asked to hold a couple of the hated turkeys on my lap all the way to town. I have ridden on just such buses too often in other parts of Mexico. What with the crowds, the chuck- holes in the road, the people on your feet, the babies to hold, the young pigs, legs tied together, on the floor, the difficulty of breath- ing with everybody packed so closely-well, I had el caballo in 1945 and planned to have the family car there with me in 1954, so I was not the one to worry about getting to market. I would have gone to market in Don Martin's oxcart any time before I would take the bus ride. For Santa Cruz people, however, the bus ride was a new and exhilarating experience, the first ride in an automobile for most of the women and children. The trip costs ten centavos each way. If you miss the bus when it decides to leave the charcoal sellers' street of the Oaxaca market, that congregating point for Santa Cruz people, on its return trip in the late afternoon, you walk the seventeen miles home. But few miss it. The bus just comes squawk- ing down the market street, never coming to a dead stop, and it at- tracts the hill people like a magnet picking up iron filings. Every- one seems to arrive at the San Lorenzo ridge alive and whole; the driver sorts out the baskets and the produce and the new clay grid- dles that belong to each family; then the people file back across the ravine through Don Feliz' place and up to the main trail again at the school. It would surely be an exciting mark of progress and independ- ence for Santa Cruz if such an important development as a weekly bus route could be considered the "Santa Cruz Etla bus" instead of the "Santa Maria Seminario-San Lorenzo bus." But Don Fe1iz' 80 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and four in with the driver. Everyone has a large pannier in which to carry produce. Any live chickens for the market are carried under the women's rebozos. Live turkeys are more of a problem, how- ever, and have to be held upside down, feet tied together, in the laps of the people sitting down. I never made the trip on that bus. I abhor turkeys anyway (the ones at Dona Patrocina's fought with me all one summer), and there was no point in my getting up before dawn to get a first chance at a seat and then being asked to hold a couple of the hated turkeys on my lap all the way to town. I have ridden on just such buses too often in other parts of Mexico. What with the crowds, the chuck- holes in the road, the people on your feet, the babies to hold, the young pigs, legs tied together, on the floor, the difficulty of breath- ing with everybody packed so closely-well, I had el caballo in 1945 and planned to have the family car there with me in 1954. so I was not the one to worry about getting to market. I would have gone to market in Don Martin's oxcart any time before I would take the bus ride. For Santa Cruz people, however, the bus ride was a new and exhilarating experience, the first ride in an automobile for most of the women and children. The trip costs ten centavos each way. If you miss the bus when it decides to leave the charcoal sellers' street of the Oaxaca market, that congregating point for Santa Cruz people, on its return trip in the late afternoon, you walk the seventeen miles home. But few miss it. The bus just comes squawk- ing down the market street, never coming to a dead stop, and it at- tracts the hill people like a magnet picking up iron filings. Everv- one seems to arrive at the San Lorenzo ridge alive and whole; the driver sorts out the baskets and the produce and the new clay grid- dles that belong to each family; then the people file back across the ravine through Don F6iz' place and up to the main trail again at the school. It would surely be an exciting mark of progress and independ- ence for Santa Cruz if such an important development as a weekly bus route could be considered the "Santa Cruz Etla bus" instead of the "Santa Maria Seminario-San Lorenzo bus." But Don F61iz' 80  DON FLIZ regime did not establish such a bus route, and so far as I have heard, no other regime since has done so. Don Feliz' regime will be remembered for many years in Santa Cruz Etla, however, for the project of the chapel. Though not on the cultural missions list as a needed town improvement, a chapel in Santa Cruz Etla would mean independence forever from any activities in San Pablo. Don Martin had started such a project, had laid a rough foundation near the schoolhouse just before World War II, but had to abandon it when prices went too high. Dofna Estefana, who was quite religious, thought Don Bartolo should have finished the chapel with locally made bricks. "Don Bartolo will never do this," she told me in 1945. "He is just a talker, not a doer. If a chapel were here, the priest would come to Santa Cruz Ella once a month as well as to San Pablo. What a great honor!" Don Bartolo, who was not at all religious, answered me slyly when I asked him about it. "Oh, we could not finish the chapel with plain adobe bricks; that would be disrespectful to the saints." He would let it wait until the price of cement went down or until he was no longer president. Sometime before 1951 the crude foun- dation, so much in the way of the school children at play, had been removed chunk by chunk, to reinforce the dam across la zanja and the canalized sides on down the ridge, so they said; and the schoolyard was as hardpacked as ever, the whole chapel project evidently forgotten. I was surely surprised in 1954, then, as our poor old car rolled up behind the ox team, to see a brick church standing in what used to be the school garden, as if a fairy had waved a wand and set it there. This church had been the joint idea of Don Martin and Don Fdliz, on the basis of which Don Feliz got elected president in 1953. I suppose the school was a bigger project, when the people were less experienced; but it had been there before I ever came, and I had accepted it as a natural part of the community. Besides, it was made out of adobe, and it was always sagging at one end or the other, or was in need of new beams or windows or something for which I had myself often been agitating. The chapel, though, was all made out of city-bought bricks and newfangled hollow tile laid 81 DON FLLIZ regime did not establish such a bus route, and so far as I have heard, no other regime since has done so. Don FEliz' regime will be remembered for many years in Santa Cruz Etla, however, for the project of the chapel. Though not on the cultural missions list as a needed town improvement, a chapel in Santa Cruz Etla would mean independence forever from any activities in San Pablo. Don Martin had started such a project, had laid a rough foundation near the schoolhouse just before World War II, but had to abandon it when prices went too high. Dona Estdfana, who was quite religious, thought Don Bartolo should have finished the chapel with locally made bricks. "Don Bartolo will never do this," she told me in 1945. "He is just a talker, not a doer. If a chapel were here, the priest would come to Santa Cruz Etla once a month as well as to San Pablo. What a great honor!" Don Bartolo, who was not at all religious, answered me slyly when I asked him about it. "Oh, we could not finish the chapel with plain adobe bricks; that would be disrespectful to the saints." He would let it wait until the price of cement went down or until he was no longer president. Sometime before 1951 the crude foun- dation, so much in the way of the school children at play, had been removed chunk by chunk, to reinforce the dam across la zanja and the canalized sides on down the ridge, so they said; and the schoolyard was as hardpacked as ever, the whole chapel project evidently forgotten. I was surely surprised in 1954, then, as our poor old car rolled up behind the ox team, to see a brick church standing in what used to be the school garden, as if a fairy had waved a wand and set it there. This church had been the joint idea of Don Martin and Don Feliz, on the basis of which Don Feliz got elected president in 1953. I suppose the school was a bigger project, when the people were less experienced; but it had been there before I ever came, and I had accepted it as a natural part of the community. Besides, it was made out of adobe, and it was always sagging at one end or the other, or was in need of new beams or windows or something for which I had myself often been agitating. The chapel, though, was all made out of city-bought bricks and newfangled hollow tile laid 81 DON FLLIZ regime did not establish such a bus route, and so far as I have heard, no other regime since has done so. Don Feliz' regime will be remembered for many years in Santa Cruz Etla, however, for the project of the chapel. Though not on the cultural missions list as a needed town improvement, a chapel in Santa Cruz Etla would mean independence forever from any activities in San Pablo. Don Martin had started such a project, had laid a rough foundation near the schoolhouse just before World War II, but had to abandon it when prices went too high. Dona Estefana, who was quite religious, thought Don Bartolo should have finished the chapel with locally made bricks. "Don Bartolo will never do this," she told me in 1945. "He is just a talker, not a doer. If a chapel were here, the priest would come to Santa Cruz Etla once a month as well as to San Pablo. What a great honor!" Don Bartolo, who was not at all religious, answered me slyly when I asked him about it. "Oh, we could not finish the chapel with plain adobe bricks; that would be disrespectful to the saints." He would let it wait until the price of cement went down or until he was no longer president. Sometime before 1951 the crude foun- dation, so much in the way of the school children at play, had been removed chunk by chunk, to reinforce the dam across la zanja and the canalized sides on down the ridge, so they said; and the schoolyard was as hardpacked as ever, the whole chapel project evidently forgotten. I was surely surprised in 1954, then, as our poor old car rolled up behind the ox team, to see a brick church standing in what used to be the school garden, as if a fairy had waved a wand and set it there. This church had been the joint idea of Don Martin and Don FMliz, on the basis of which Don Feliz got elected president in 1953. I suppose the school was a bigger project, when the people were less experienced; but it had been there before I ever came, and I had accepted it as a natural part of the community. Besides, it was made out of adobe, and it was always sagging at one end or the other, or was in need of new beams or windows or something for which I had myself often been agitating. The chapel, though, was all made out of city-bought bricks and newfangled hollow tile laid 81  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS in alternate rows to make a pattern. It has an arched roof made of bricks and cement over reinforcing beams. At each side of the big front door-still unfilled by the carved wooden door Don Martin had planned-there is a little cupola for a bell, and on the rear roof there is a dome about four feet across. The whole building measures about twenty-five by thirty feet, larger than Don Mar- ciano's new house, half as big and much better made than the school building. Don Amado had obtained plans for the school from Mexico City; this streamlined little church they had con- structed all by themselves, without help or even interest from the bishop or from the Oaxaca State diocese. The vote to build it had been taken at the election meeting of January, 1953. Every family had pledged one hundred pesos of cash money for the current year alone (what if it hadn't been a good corn year?); ten years earlier a hundred pesos was more cash than many a Santa Cruz family had in its possession in any one whole year. In addition, sixty grown men, grandfathers, fathers, and grown sons, had pledged to work on the church during the entire dry season, a time when they are usually cutting wood for more cash, or preparing the land for planting, or whittling out new farm implements, or repairing plows. They would work on the church until they finished it; they would have a better church than San Pablo; young priests just finishing training in the new seminary on the ridge south of San Lorenzo would come there to say mass every week. And they had finished it! Don Marcelino's Perfecto, then twenty-three, had drawn a view of how the church should look in front. Don Marciano's PanSilo, home between his construction jobs, had shown the literate younger men, with crude drawings made on wrapping paper, how the foundation should be set, the brick walls laid, the arches set up, the bell cupolas and dome constructed. No homeowner in the United States building a garage for himself would dare start with such crudely drawn, eighth-grade-ish sort of "plans." The Santa Cruz people thought them fine plans. They hired the flour-delivering truck to bring up two loads of the bricks in October, as soon as the crops were in. They constructed the church simply by putting one 82 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS in alternate rows to make a pattern. It has an arched roof made of bricks and cement over reinforcing beams. At each side of the big front door-still unfilled by the carved wooden door Don Martin had planned-there is a little cupola for a bell, and on the rear roof there is a dome about four feet across. The whole building measures about twenty-five by thirty feet, larger than Don Mar- ciano's new house, half as big and much better made than the school building. Don Amado had obtained plans for the school from Mexico City; this streamlined little church they had con- structed all by themselves, without help or even interest from the bishop or from the Oaxaca State diocese. The vote to build it had been taken at the election meeting of January, 1953. Every family had pledged one hundred pesos of cash money for the current year alone (what if it hadn't been a good corn year?); ten years earlier a hundred pesos was more cash than many a Santa Cruz family had in its possession in any one whole year. In addition, sixty grown men, grandfathers, fathers, and grown sons, had pledged to work on the church during the entire dry season, a time when they are usually cutting wood for more cash, or preparing the land for planting, or whittling out new farm implements, or repairing plows. They would work on the church until they finished it; they would have a better church than San Pablo; young priests just finishing training in the new seminary on the ridge south of San Lorenzo would come there to say mass everv week. And they had finished it! Don Marcelino's Perfecto, then twenty-three, had dravn a view of how the church should look in front. Don Marciano's Panfilo, home between his construction jobs, had shown the literate younger men, with crude drawings made on wrapping paper, how the foundation should be set, the brick walls laid, the arches set up, the bell cupolas and dome constructed. No homeowner in the United States building a garage for himself would dare start with such crudely drawn, eighth-grade-ish sort of "plans." The Santa Cruz people thought them fine plans. They hired the flour-delivering truck to bring up two loads of the bricks in October, as soon as the crops were in. They constructed the church simply by putting one 82 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS in alternate rows to make a pattern. It has an arched roof made of bricks and cement over reinforcing beams. At each side of the big front door-still unfilled by the carved wooden door Don Martin had planned-there is a little cupola for a bell, and on the rear roof there is a dome about four feet across. The whole building measures about twenty-five by thirty feet, larger than Don Mar- ciano's new house, half as big and much better made than the school building. Don Amado had obtained plans for the school from Mexico City; this streamlined little church they had con- structed all by themselves, without help or even interest from the bishop or from the Oaxaca State diocese. The vote to build it had been taken at the election meeting of January, 1953. Every family had pledged one hundred pesos of cash money for the current year alone (what if it hadn't been a good corn year?); ten years earlier a hundred pesos was more cash than many a Santa Cruz family had in its possession in any one whole year. In addition, sixty grown men, grandfathers, fathers, and grown sons, had pledged to work on the church during the entire dry season, a time when they are usually cutting wood for more cash, or preparing the land for planting, or whittling out new farm implements, or repairing plows. They would work on the church until they finished it; they would have a better church than San Pablo; young priests just finishing training in the new seminary on the ridge south of San Lorenzo would come there to say mass every week. And they had finished it! Don Marcelino's Perfecto, then twenty-three, had drawn a view of bow the church should look in front. Don Marciano's Panfilo, home between his construction jobs, had shown the literate younger men, with crude drawings made on wrapping paper, how the foundation should be set, the brick walls laid, the arches set up, the bell cupolas and dome constructed. No homeowner in the United States building a garage for himself would dare start with such crudely drawn, eighth-grade-ish sort of "plans" The Santa Cruz people thought them fine plans. They hired the flour-delivering truck to bring up two loads of the bricks in October, as soon as the crops were in. They constructed the church simply by putting one 82  DON FLIZ brick to another, one shovelful of cement on top of another, with a full crew working every day in an old-fashioned barn-raising spirit that lasted for months. The annual fiesta is in May; they must have the church ready by the spring. Running out of funds, they could not put in any kind of flooring; and doors and bells worthy of such a church are expensive, in terms of dollars as well as of pesos. Rough planks used in the cement pouring were cleaned off to make a door that swings open and shut and can be locked with a padlock. The school bell, donated to the school by the Mexican federal gov- ernment back in 1931 and ensconced all this time on top of the municipal building, serves triple duty now, calling to worship as well as to school and to emergency. A hillside seminary, a four-mile walk away through the fields, began to take an interest in the earnest little community's brave new church, and it sent a young priest there to say mass for the May fiesta. The last of the funds were used to buy a large crucifix; families donated a Virgin of Guadalupe and various lesser saints; all these were set up inside the nave of the little church, the only part of it then whitewashed inside. Palm leaves from the valley and streamers of white crepe paper decorated the rest of the church. I was deeply touched when Don Feliz took me inside it, although I am a non-Catholic and have no strong religious convictions. Don Feliz had hoped for my approval, and he hinted that there was something that I, and I alone, could do to help them. Surely he did not mean to give advice about planting vegetables-then what? I had forgotten the enthusiasm of the whole village over sketches I had made in Santa Cruz in other years. In fact, interest in making little water colors of the huts and of the view had been one of the excuses I had given the people for staying and staying on other occasions. I am an artist of the Winston Churchill type, without the Churchill ability, but I loved to sketch the Etla landscapes, and the people loved to watch me do it. On Dona Patrocina's portico in 1945 I had worked up some of the sketches into two oils, twenty by twenty-four inches, in the hope of having something from my Mexican hills to enter in amateur shows back home. Nine years and many amateur sketches later, I had forgotten that one of these was 83 DON FALIZ brick to another, one shovelful of cement on top of another, with a full crew working every day in an old-fashioned barn-raising spirit that lasted for months. The annual fiesta is in May; they must have the church ready by the spring. Running out of funds, they could not put in any kind of flooring; and doors and bells worthy of such a church are expensive, in terms of dollars as well as of pesos. Rough planks used in the cement pouring were cleaned off to make a door that swings open and shut and can be locked with a padlock. The school bell, donated to the school by the Mexican federal gov- ernment back in 1931 and ensconced all this time on top of the municipal building, serves triple duty now, calling to worship as well as to school and to emergency. A hillside seminary, a four-mile walk away through the fields, began to take an interest in the earnest little community's brave new church, and it sent a young priest there to say mass for the May fiesta. The last of the funds were used to buy a large crucifix; families donated a Virgin of Guadalupe and various lesser saints; all these were set up inside the nave of the little church, the only part of it then whitewashed inside. Palm leaves from the valley and streamers of white crepe paper decorated the rest of the church. I was deeply touched when Don Ffliz took me inside it, although I am a non-Catholic and have no strong religious convictions. Don Fliz had hoped for my approval, and he hinted that there was something that I, and I alone, could do to help them. Surely he did not mean to give advice about planting vegetables-then what? I had forgotten the enthusiasm of the whole village over sketches I had made in Santa Cruz in other years. In fact, interest in making little water colors of the huts and of the view had been one of the excuses I had given the people for staying and staying on other occasions. I am an artist of the Winston Churchill type, without the Churchill ability, but I loved to sketch the Etla landscapes, and the people loved to watch me do it. On Dona Patrocina's portico in 1945 I had worked up some of the sketches into two oils, twenty by twenty-four inches, in the hope of having something from my Mexican hills to enter in amateur shows back home. Nine years and many amateur sketches later, I had forgotten that one of these was 83 DON FRLIZ brick to another, one shovelful of cement on top of another, with a full crew working every day in an old-fashioned barn-raising spirit that lasted for months. The annual fiesta is in May; they must have the church ready by the spring. Running out of funds, they could not put in any kind of flooring; and doors and bells worthy of such a church are expensive, in terms of dollars as well as of pesos. Rough planks used in the cement pouring were cleaned off to make a door that swings open and shut and can be locked with a padlock. The school bell, donated to the school by the Mexican federal gov- ernment back in 1931 and ensconced all this time on top of the municipal building, serves triple duty now, calling to worship as well as to school and to emergency. A hillside seminary, a four-mile walk away through the fields, began to take an interest in the earnest little community's brave new church, and it sent a young priest there to say mass for the May fiesta. The last of the funds were used to buy a large crucifix; families donated a Virgin of Guadalupe and various lesser saints; all these were set up inside the nave of the little church, the only part of it then whitewashed inside. Palm leaves from the valley and streamers of white crepe paper decorated the rest of the church. I was deeply touched when Don Fliz took me inside it, although I am a non-Catholic and have no strong religious convictions. Don Feliz had hoped for my approval, and he hinted that there was something that I, and I alone, could do to help them. Surely he did not mean to give advice about planting vegetables-then what? I had forgotten the enthusiasm of the whole village over sketches I had made in Santa Cruz in other years. In fact, interest in making little water colors of the huts and of the view had been one of the excuses I had given the people for staying and staying on other occasions. I am an artist of the Winston Churchill type, without the Churchill ability, but I loved to sketch the Etla landscapes, and the people loved to watch me do it. On Dona Patrocina's portico in 1945 I had worked up some of the sketches into two oils, twenty by twenty-four inches, in the hope of having something from my Mexican hills to enter in amateur shows back home. Nine years and many amateur sketches later, I had forgotten that one of these was 83  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS of the church in San Pablo Etla, bright in the sulight against the dark hills of the sierra and a glowering eastern sky. I remembered that the devout older women had often stopped by to see it, and that the men were only politely interested in a San Pablo picture, preferring an overcolored valley view I had done. Now Don Fliz was asking me to make a painting of their own church. Though I admired its clean new brick lines, there was really nothing picturesque or charming about the bare little modern building itself. I could paint it only as one would paint a warehouse or a store front to please an advertising company-blue sky, red- brick front, brown-wood doors, white-cement roof. I could not fake in too much of the valley beyond it nor the woods behind it; it was set at an angle where such a view was impossible, and they did not want it faked at all. "Absolutamente natural, Dona Elena," said Don Feliz firmly. He knew I had a large paint kit with me, left up at Don Martin's. I could not say no. Two afternoons I spent on the mediocre picture. There is nothing I have done worse than this, with less artistic grace, in ten years; but nothing I have ever done has been more rapturously appreciated. I spent the rest of the ten days visiting the school, chatting in the houseyards, and hiking over as much of the old trails as my forty-five-year-old bones wanted. On the Sunday my husband and the car came back, Don Fdliz and the public works committee got the car easily up the trail. We sat down to dinner with Don Fliiz and Don Martin, in Don Martin's houseyard, at a real table on real benches. Already Don Feliz had the painting above his desk in the muncipal building. Now he said he was going to accept it as my gift to Santa Cruz in front of everybody on the school steps after dinner. Everyone in town had already seen it, stopping by on their trips to and fro to watch me paint it. I felt it was so poor, I didn't even want my husband to see it. Hoping to forestall Don F6liz' ceremony, I quickly suggested a further gift. Don Martin had told me that they could not put any floor in the church because unglazed flooring tile cost a hundred pesos a thousand. It would take two thousand tiles, and there would be no more money in the "building fund" until a crop 84 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS of the church in San Pablo Etla, bright in the sunlight against the dark hills of the sierra and a glowering eastern sky. I remembered that the devout older women had often stopped by to see it, and that the men were only politely interested in a San Pablo picture, preferring an overcolored valley view I had done. Now Don Feliz was asking me to make a painting of their own church. Though I admired its clean new brick lines, there was really nothing picturesque or charming about the bare little modern building itself. I could paint it only as one would paint a warehouse or a store front to please an advertising company-blue sky, red- brick front, brown-wood doors, white-cement roof. I could not fake in too much of the valley beyond it nor the woods behind it; it was set at an angle where such a view was impossible, and they did not want it faked at all. "Absolutamente natural, Dona Elena," said Don FEliz firmly. He knew I had a large paint kit with me, left up at Don Martin's. I could not say no. Two afternoons I spent on the mediocre picture. There is nothing I have done worse than this, with less artistic grace, in ten years; but nothing I have ever done has been more rapturously appreciated. I spent the rest of the ten days visiting the school, chatting in the houseyards, and hiking over as much of the old trails as my forty-five-year-old bones wanted. On the Sunday my husband and the car came back, Don Feliz and the public works committee got the car easily up the trail. We sat down to dinner with Don Feliz and Don Martin, in Don Martin's houseyard, at a real table on real benches. Already Don Feliz had the painting above his desk in the muncipal building. Now he said he was going to accept it as my gift to Santa Cruz in front of everybody on the school steps after dinner. Everyone in town had already seen it, stopping by on their trips to and fro to watch me paint it. I felt it was so poor, I didn't even want my husband to see it. Hoping to forestall Don Fdliz' ceremony, I quickly suggested a further gift. Don Martin had told me that they could not put any floor in the church because unglazed flooring tile cost a hundred pesos a thousand. It would take two thousand tiles, and there would be no more money in the "building fund" until a crop 84 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS of the church in San Pablo Etla, bright in the sunlight against the dark bills of the sierra and a glowering eastern sky. I remembered that the devout older women had often stopped by to see it, and that the men were only politely interested in a San Pablo picture, preferring an overcolored valley view I had done. Now Don Fdliz was asking me to make a painting of their own church. Though I admired its clean new brick lines, there was really nothing picturesque or charming about the bare little modern building itself. I could paint it only as one would paint a warehouse or a store front to please an advertising company-blue sky, red- brick front, brown-wood doors, white-cement roof. I could not fake in too much of the valley beyond it nor the woods behind it; it was set at an angle where such a view was impossible, and they did not want it faked at all. "Absolutamente natural, Dona Elena," said Don Feliz firmly. He knew I had a large paint kit with me, left up at Don Martin's. I could not say no. Two afternoons I spent on the mediocre picture. There is nothing I have done worse than this, with less artistic grace, in ten years; but nothing I have ever done has been more rapturously appreciated. I spent the rest of the ten days visiting the school, chatting in the houseyards, and hiking over as much of the old trails as my forty-five-year-old bones wanted. On the Sunday my husband and the car came back, Don Feliz and the public works committee got the car easily up the trail. We sat down to dinner with Don Feliz and Don Martin, in Don Martin's houseyard, at a real table on real benches. Already Don Fdliz had the painting above his desk in the muncipal building. Now he said he was going to accept it as my gift to Santa Cruz in front of everybody on the school steps after dinner. Everyone in town had already seen it, stopping by on their trips to and fro to watch me paint it. I felt it was so poor, I didn't even want my husband to see it. Hoping to forestall Don Fdliz' ceremony, I quickly suggested a further gift. Don Martin had told me that they could not put any floor in the church because unglazed flooring tile cost a hundred pesos a thousand. It would take two thousand tiles, and there would be no more money in the "building fund" until a crop 84  DON FNLIZ should come in again. Even when it should, the families had bled themselves white for their contributions in 1953 and 1954. My hus- band and I have always traveled in Mexico on a very limited budget, forcing ourselves to think and plan purely in terms of pesos, not dollars-and two hundred pesos are two hundred pesos. But ac- tually that was only sixteen dollars. If I had stayed in the nice Oaxaca hotel with my husband for the ten days and had eaten three meals a day there, I would surely have spent sixteen dollars. Life at Don Martin's had cost me nothing but a twenty-by-twenty- four-inch canvas, a little oil paint and turpentine, and a good car- wash job. So when Don Filiz gathered the council in the municipal building portico, preparatory to going out on the steps with the "masterpiece" of the church, I intervened to offer two hundred pesos to put in the tile floor. This unexpected donation made the painting fade into insignificance. Fortunately my husband had four fifty-peso bills with him. We arranged photographs of the ceremony-Don Feliz taking the money from me, the public works committee posing with me and the money, the crowd in general. This was a larger cash contribution than any other family had made; I hope it has not caused everyone to go to greater effort and sacrifice in later years to outdo me and provide carved doors or an altar, on a two hundred pesos per family contribution! Then the painting had to be brought out after all, while I apologized, asked what value it had for them anyway, and re- marked that what the church would really need was a mural painting inside, not a smallish oil of the outside. Always so inadequate, my Spanish had grown exceedingly rusty, and Don Feliz misunderstood me. He though I was suggesting that I could paint the walls in- side with religious murals of some kind. I, the painter of pallid little water-color landscapes! I, the lax in religion, with little knowledge of saints and holy things, much less the ability to paint them! I could only offer a second gift of two hundred pesos, sent them subsequently through the schoolteacher, with which they could paint the walls inside a soft rose color with calcimine, showing them in my paint box the color I would like it to be. 85 DON FELIZ should come in again. Even when it should, the families had bled themselves white for their contributions in 1953 and 1954. My hus- band and I have always traveled in Mexico on a very limited budget, forcing ourselves to think and plan purely in terms of pesos, not dollars-and two hundred pesos are two hundred pesos. But ac- tually that was only sixteen dollars. If I had stayed in the nice Oaxaca hotel with my husband for the ten days and had eaten three meals a day there, I would surely have spent sixteen dollars. Life at Don Martin's had cost me nothing but a twenty-by-twenty- four-inch canvas, a little oil paint and turpentine, and a good car- wash job. So when Don Feliz gathered the council in the municipal building portico, preparatory to going out on the steps with the "masterpiece" of the church, I intervened to offer two hundred pesos to put in the tile floor. This unexpected donation made the painting fade into insignificance. Fortunately my husband had four fifty-peso bills with him. We arranged photographs of the ceremony-Don Feliz taking the money from me, the public works committee posing with me and the money, the crowd in general. This was a larger cash contribution than any other family had made; I hope it has not caused everyone to go to greater effort and sacrifice in later years to outdo me and provide carved doors or an altar, on a two hundred pesos per family contributionl Then the painting had to be brought out after all, while I apologized, asked what value it had for them anyway, and re- marked that what the church would really need was a mural painting inside, not a smallish oil of the outside. Always so inadequate, my Spanish had grown exceedingly rusty, and Don Feliz misunderstood me. He though I was suggesting that I could paint the walls in- side with religious murals of some kind. I, the painter of pallid little water-color landscapesl I, the lax in religion, with little knowledge of saints and holy things, much less the ability to paint them! I could only offer a second gift of two hundred pesos, sent them subsequently through the schoolteacher, with which they could paint the walls inside a soft rose color with calcimine, showing them in my paint box the color I would like it to be. 85 DON FLIZ should come in again. Even when it should, the families had bled themselves white for their contributions in 1953 and 1954. My hus- band and I have always traveled in Mexico on a very limited budget, forcing ourselves to think and plan purely in terms of pesos, not dollars-and two hundred pesos are two hundred pesos. But ac- tually that was only sixteen dollars. If I had stayed in the nice Oaxaca hotel with my husband for the ten days and had eaten three meals a day there, I would surely have spent sixteen dollars. Life at Don Martin's had cost me nothing but a twenty-by-twenty- four-inch canvas, a little oil paint and turpentine, and a good car- wash job. So when Don Feliz gathered the council in the municipal building portico, preparatory to going out on the steps with the "masterpiece" of the church, I intervened to offer two hundred pesos to put in the tile floor. This unexpected donation made the painting fade into insignificance. Fortunately my husband had four fifty-peso bills with him. We arranged photographs of the ceremony-Don Feliz taking the money from me, the public works committee posing with me and the money, the crowd in general. This was a larger cash contribution than any other family had made; I hope it has not caused everyone to go to greater effort and sacrifice in later years to outdo me and provide carved doors or an altar, on a two hundred pesos per family contributionl Then the painting had to be brought out after all, while I apologized, asked what value it had for them anyway, and re- marked that what the church would really need was a mural painting inside, not a smallish oil of the outside. Always so inadequate, my Spanish had grown exceedingly rusty, and Don F4liz misunderstood me. He though I was suggesting that I could paint the walls in- side with religious murals of some kind. I, the painter of pallid little water-color landscapesl I, the lax in religion, with little knowledge of saints and holy things, much less the ability to paint them! I could only offer a second gift of two hundred pesos, sent them subsequently through the schoolteacher, with which they could paint the walls inside a soft rose color with calcimine, showing them in my paint box the color I would like it to be. 85  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I thought that they were displeased when I said I could not stay to make a mural painting, and that the gift of the rose color seemed a poor substitute. They were all so still. Then I noticed that Don Feliz' eyes were filled with tears, and Don Martin was blowing his nose into a big red handkerchief. To clear the air of emotion, my husband urged us all to get down the trail past the bad place in the road before it should start to rain. So we set off, he driving at snail's pace and I walking with all the people; they bade me long good-byes and seemed undaunted that I had refused to be their Michelangelo. I have never seen the chapel or the village since that day. Don Feliz would have no place to put me up; the schoolrooms are all in use all the time; and Don Martin is dead, his family in Oaxaca Citv. The younger generation of Santa Cruz still left in the town are friendly enough to welcome the gray-haired visitor, now nearly fifty, whom they first knew when they were in the first or second grade; but I feel shy about asking them for hospitality. So I don't know if the chapel is rose-colored inside today or not. The school affairs committee used to re-calcimine the school often in a different color. But I do know that the chapel is finished and that it is a great source of pride to those who still write to me. SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I thought that they were displeased when I said I could not stay to make a mural painting, and that the gift of the rose color seemed a poor substitute. They were all so still. Then I noticed that Don Feliz' eyes were filled with tears, and Don Martin was blowing his nose into a big red handkerchief. To clear the air of emotion, my husband urged us all to get down the trail past the bad place in the road before it should start to rain. So we set off, he driving at snail's pace and I walking with all the people; they bade me long good-byes and seemed undaunted that I had refused to be their Michelangelo. I have never seen the chapel or the village since that day. Don Feliz would have no place to put me up; the schoolrooms are all in use all the time; and Don Martin is dead, his family in Oaxaca Citv. The younger generation of Santa Cruz still left in the town are friendly enough to welcome the gray-haired visitor, now nearly fifty, whom they first knew when they were in the first or second grade; but I feel shy about asking them for hospitality. So I don't know if the chapel is rose-colored inside today or not. The school affairs committee used to re-calcimine the school often in a different color. But I do know that the chapel is finished and that it is a great source of pride to those who still write to me. SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I thought that they were displeased when I said I could not stay to make a mural painting, and that the gift of the rose color seemed a poor substitute. They were all so still. Then I noticed that Don Feliz' eyes were filled with tears, and Don Martin was blowing his nose into a big red handkerchief. To clear the air of emotion, my husband urged us all to get down the trail past the bad place in the road before it should start to rain. So we set off, he driving at snail's pace and I walking with all the people; they bade me long good-byes and seemed undaunted that I had refused to be their Michelangelo. I have never seen the chapel or the village since that day. Don Fliz would have no place to put me up; the schoolrooms are all in use all the time; and Don Martin is dead, his family in Oaxaca Cite. The younger generation of Santa Cruz still left in the town are friendly enough to welcome the gray-haired visitor, now nearly fifty, whom they first knew when they were in the first or second grade; but I feel shy about asking them for hospitality. So I don't know if the chapel is rose-colored inside today or not. The school affairs committee used to re-calcimine the school often in a different color. But I do know that the chapel is finished and that it is a great source of pride to those who still write to me. 86 86 86  PART TWO PART TWO PART TWO Women, Also, Make a Town 1. Do&tA ESTAFANA: This dignified land-owner symbolized the posi- tion of women. 2. DotA PATROCINA: Through the "cure-woman" I learned of domesticity. 8. LA ABUELITA: The little grandmother who had lived the longest was the most religious. 4. LAs OTsAs: The others among the women were friends of mine in many ways. Women, Also, Make a Town 1. DoFA EsT FANA: This dignified land-owner symbolized the posi- tion of women. 2. DOOA PATROCINA: Through the "cure-woman" I learned of domesticity. 8. LA AsUELITA: The little grandmother who had lived the longest was the most religious. 4. LAs OTsAS: The others among the women were friends of mine in many ways. Women, Also, Make a Town 1. Do&A ESTFANA: This dignified land-owner symbolized the posi- tion of women. 2. DoRA PATaoCINA: Through the "cure-woman" I learned of domesticity. 2. LA AsUELITA: The little grandmother who had lived the longest was the most religious. 4. LAs OTnAs: The others among the women were friends of mine in many ways.  -21 I di TuE CULTURAL MISSIONS LIST says also that rural improvement pro- grams must "dignify the position of rural women." I don't think Santa Cruz Etla needs help along that line; the women held prop- erty, managed fiestas, and ran family affairs long before there was any "rural improvement" program in Mexico. When the school as founded, a mothers' club was organized immediately. Dona Este- fana, its president, had grandchildren, not children, in the school, but she was the only woman who could write, having also been taught by that grandfather she shared with Don Amado. She her- self was the most "dignified rural woman" I ever knew-her round. wrinkled little face, thin braids of gray hair wrapped around her head, and her motherly smile only added to her dignity-and she dignified everyone else's position through a lifetime. Dear Dofna Estefana! I will always be one of her ninas, her chil- 88 _Z I A-0 TotE CULTURAL MISSIONS LIST says also that rural improvement pro- grams must "dignify the position of rural women." I don't think Santa Cruz Etla needs help along that line; the women held prop- erty, managed fiestas, and ran family affairs long before there was any "rural improvement" program in Mexico. When the school was founded, a mothers' club was organized immediately. Dona Este- fana, its president, had grandchildren, not children, in the school, but she was the only woman who could write, having also been taught by that grandfather she shared with Don Amado. She her- self was the most "dignified rural woman" I ever knew-her round, wrinkled little face, thin braids of gray hair wrapped around her head, and her motherly smile only added to her dignity-and she dignified everyone else's position through a lifetime. Dear Dona Estefana! I will always be one of her nilias, her chil- 88 -I I Sfi THE CULTURAL MISSIONS LIST says also that rural improvement pro- grams must "dignify the position of rural women." I don't think Santa Cruz Etla needs help along that line; the women held prop- erty, managed fiestas, and ran family affairs long before there was any "rural improvement" program in Mexico. When the school was founded, a mothers' club was organized immediately. Dona Esta- fana, its president, had grandchildren, not children, in the school, but she was the only woman who could write, having also been taught by that grandfather she shared with Don Amado. She her- self was the most "dignified rural woman" I ever knew-her round, wrinkled little face, thin braids of gray hair srapped around her head, and her motherly smile only added to her dignity-and she dignified everyone else's position through a lifetime. Dear Dona Estefana! I will always be one of her ninas, her chil- 88  DORA ESTEFANA dren. Her house is my house. She told me so everytime I came. Es to casa (it is thy house), even the last time when she was too old and feeble to come out and greet me. She was so little, coming barely to my shoulder, that if I didn't mind being disrespectful, I could have returned her embrace of greeting by picking her right up off the ground. But that would have hurt her dignity. At eighty, she was still the head of a household; her son, her son-in-law, her grown grand- sons, and her three tiny great-grandchildren respected her every word. She owned eight hectares of land, almost twenty acres, more than any other family in Santa Cruz Etla. Her grandfather had been the first to clear the land and settle in the pueblo. Only one of her grandsons had ever gone to cut wood in the mountains; there was always so much work to do on the land. Throughout the last fifty years, it has been Dona Estffana's land which has provided corn for sale during bad seasons. In the driest year Dona Estfana had a surplus; she made all the cash she ever needed by selling corn. She could trade it to Don Bartolo for a tender young goat, to an- other neighbor for a side of beef during a butchering. No other family has ever quite as much corn as it needs, for tortillas, for seed, for cash sales, or for the levy for the church building. By 1950 she was no longer the "wealthiest" person in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Martin made many pesos a month cash on his bread, Don Eduardo on the gasoline mill. These "newfangled" ways of acquiring wealth did not disturb Dona Estffana's position in the community. She could never serve on the town council, no woman could, but she certainly could influence the choice of candidates for it. Don Bartolo, asking me in 1945 about the abandonment of the old church project, said: "What did Dona Estefana say to you about my ideas as president?" Scorn of "newfangled" things kept her very old-fashioned. She wore long, sweeping, full skirts, all hand-sewn-no sewing machine in her home. Although her house, one of the largest in town, was always "my house," and I once spent two weeks in it, I preferred in 1954 to live at Don Martin's where there were chairs. I am ashamed of seeking bodily comfort above comfort of the heart, 89 DOiA ESTEFANA dren. Her house is my house. She told me so everytime I came. Es to casa (it is thy house), even the last time when she was too old and feeble to come out and greet me. She was so little, coming barely to my shoulder, that if I didn't mind being disrespectful, I could have returned her embrace of greeting by picking her right up off the ground. But that would have hurt her dignity. At eighty, she was still the head of a household; her son, her son-in-law, her grown grand- sons, and her three tiny great-grandchildren respected her every word. She owned eight hectares of land, almost twenty acres, more than any other family in Santa Cruz Etla. Her grandfather had been the first to clear the land and settle in the pueblo. Only one of her grandsons had ever gone to cut wood in the mountains; there was always so much work to do on the land. Throughout the last fifty years, it has been Dona Estafana's land which has provided corn for sale during bad seasons. In the driest year Dona Estefana had a surplus; she made all the cash she ever needed by selling corn. She could trade it to Don Bartolo for a tender young goat, to an- other neighbor for a side of beef during a butchering. No other family has ever quite as much corn as it needs, for tortillas, for seed, for cash sales, or for the levy for the church building. By 1950 she was no longer the "wealthiest" person in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Martin made many pesos a month cash on his bread, Don Eduardo on the gasoline mill. These "newfangled" ways of acquiring wealth did not disturb Dona Estefana's position in the community. She could never serve on the town council, no woman could, but she certainly could influence the choice of candidates for it. Don Bartolo, asking me in 1945 about the abandonment of the old church project, said: "What did Dofna Estefana say to you about my ideas as president?" Scorn of "newfangled" things kept her very old-fashioned. She wore long, sweeping, full skirts, all hand-sewn-no sewing machine in her home. Although her house, one of the largest in town, was always "my house," and I once spent two weeks in it, I preferred in 1954 to live at Don Martin's where there were chairs. I am ashamed of seeking bodily comfort above comfort of the heart, 89 DORA ESTEFANA dren. Her house is my house. She told me so everytime I came. Es to casa (it is thy house), even the last time when she was too old and feeble to come out and greet me. She was so little, coming barely to my shoulder, that if I didn't mind being disrespectful, I could have returned her embrace of greeting by picking her right up off the ground. But that would have hurt her dignity. At eighty, she was still the head of a household; her son, her son-in-law, her grown grand- sons, and her three tiny great-grandchildren respected her every word. She owned eight hectares of land, almost twenty acres, more than any other family in Santa Cruz Etla. Her grandfather had been the first to clear the land and settle in the pueblo. Only one of her grandsons had ever gone to cut wood in the mountains; there was always so much work to do on the land. Throughout the last fifty years, it has been Dona Estafana's land which has provided corn for sale during bad seasons. In the driest year Dona Estfana had a surplus; she made all the cash she ever needed by selling corn. She could trade it to Don Bartolo for a tender young goat, to an- other neighbor for a side of beef during a butchering. No other family has ever quite as much corn as it needs, for tortillas, for seed, for cash sales, or for the levy for the church building. By 1950 she was no longer the "wealthiest" person in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Martin made many pesos a month cash on his bread, Don Eduardo on the gasoline mill. These "newfangled" ways of acquiring wealth did not disturb Dona Estffana's position in the community. She could never serve on the town council, no woman could, but she certainly could influence the choice of candidates for it. Don Bartolo, asking me in 1945 about the abandonment of the old church project, said: "What did Dofna Estefana say to you about my ideas as president?" Scorn of "newfangled" things kept her very old-fashioned. She wore long, sweeping, full skirts, all hand-sewn-no sewing machine in her home. Although her house, one of the largest in town, was always "my house," and I once spent two weeks in it, I preferred in 1954 to live at Don Martin's where there were chairs. I am ashamed of seeking bodily comfort above comfort of the heart, 89  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for I have happy memories of Dona Estfana's house from the first. Here is what I wrote of her in my 1934 notes: I walked out this morning to visit the home of the president of the Mothers' Club, who lives in a large, two-room adobe house up the hill. We sat down to chat with her and her widowed daughter Dona Sofia, a woman about thirty, who was making tortillas over a wood fire in a little bamboo-and-mud kitchen room off the portico. The glow on the tortillas, the woman's pretty face, and the many col- orful clay pots hanging on the mud walls impressed me as a fine sub- ject for an oil. [I considered myself a much better artist in 1934 than I did in 1954.] I asked Dona Sofia if she would pose, and then rushed back to the school for my sketching materials. When I re- turned, they had cleaned up the houseyard, borrowed a bench across the trail, and were waiting to greet me as company. Dona Sofia had done up her hair and had quit making tortillas. With difficulty, I persuaded her to go back to work. [I had more trouble with Spanish then.] When a preliminary sketch was done, they gave me two fresh eggs as souvenirs. I finished the picture, as I remember; a large, splashy, chromo- type oil with poor perspective on the house beams. The 1954 painting of the new church was surely twenty years better than that. But people have always asked me about this picture, every visit since, and I do not remember where it is. Dona Sofia herself has been very disappointed that I do not carry it around with me. On one occasion, in that summer of 1934, Dona Estefana loaned me a burro for a trip to the Oaxaca City market, and she laughed delightedly at my awkwardness in getting on it. A Oaxaca-type market burro always has a large pannier hanging on each side, be- fore any passenger embarks. It is best approached from the top, by climbing on the school porch rail above it, for instance. One of our best movie sequences taken that summer is of Dona Estdfana's face as she watched me do this. When I came for a two weeks' visit ten years later, Dona Estefana's house was the logical choice for my stay, since I was not sponsored by the school and there was no longer an empty room in the school building, anyway. "You have such a fine house, 90 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for I have happy memories of Doa Estffana's house from the first. Here is what I wrote of her in my 1934 notes: I walked out this morning to visit the home of the president of the Mothers' Club, who lives in a large, two-room adobe house up the hill. We sat down to chat with her and her widowed daughter Dona Sofia, a woman about thirty, who was making tortillas over a wood fire in a little bamboo-and-mud kitchen room off the portico. The glow on the tortillas, the woman's pretty face, and the many col- orful clay pots hanging on the mud walls impressed me as a fine sub- ject for an oil. [I considered myself a much better artist in 19:34 than I did in 1954.] I asked Dona Sofia if she would pose, and then rushed back to the school for my sketching materials. When I re- turned, they had cleaned up the houseyard, borrowed a bench across the trail, and were waiting to greet me as company. Dona Sofia had done up her hair and had quit making tortillas. With difficulty, I persuaded her to go back to work. [I had more trouble with Spanish then.] When a preliminary sketch was done, they gave me two fresh eggs as souvenirs. I finished the picture, as I remember; a large, splashy, chromo- type oil with poor perspective on the house beams. The 1954 painting of the new church was surely twenty years better than that. But people have always asked me about this picture, every visit since, and I do not remember where it is. Dona Sofia herself has been very disappointed that I do not carry it around with me. On one occasion, in that summer of 1934, Dona Estefana loaned me a burro for a trip to the Oaxaca City market, and she laughed delightedly at my awkwardness in getting on it. A Oaxaca-type market burro always has a large pannier hanging on each side, be- fore any passenger embarks. It is best approached from the top, by climbing on the school porch rail above it, for instance. One of our best movie sequences taken that summer is of Dona Estefana's face as she watched me do this. When I came for a two weeks' visit ten years later, Dona Estdfana's house was the logical choice for my stay, since I was not sponsored by the school and there was no longer an empty room in the school building, anyway. "You have such a fine house, 90 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS for I have happy memories of Dona Estefana's house from the rst. Here is what I wrote of her in my 1934 notes: I walked out this morning to visit the home of the president of the Mothers' Club, who lives in a large, two-room adobe house up the hill. We sat down to chat with her and her widowed daughter Dona Sofia, a woman about thirty, who was making tortillas over a wood fire in a little bamboo-and-mud kitchen room off the portico. The glow on the tortillas, the woman's pretty face, and the many col- orful clay pots hanging on the mud walls impressed me as a fine sub- ject for an oil. [I considered myself a much better artist in 1934 than I did in 1954.] I asked Dona Sofia if she would pose, and then rushed back to the school for my sketching materials. When I re- turned, they had cleaned up the houseyard, borrowed a bench across the trail, and were waiting to greet me as company. Dona Sofia had done up her hair and had quit making tortillas. With difficulty, I persuaded her to go back to work. [I had more trouble with Spanish then.] When a preliminary sketch was done, they gave me two fresh eggs as souvenirs. I finished the picture, as I remember; a large, splashy, chromo- type oil with poor perspective on the house beams. The 1954 painting of the new church was surely twenty years better than that. But people have always asked me about this picture, every visit since, and I do not remember where it is. Dona Sofia herself has been very disappointed that I do not carry it around with me. On one occasion, in that summer of 1934, Dona Estafana loaned me a burro for a trip to the Oaxaca City market, and she laughed delightedly at my awkwardness in getting on it. A Oaxaca-type market burro always has a large pannier hanging on each side, be- fore any passenger embarks. It is best approached from the top, by climbing on the school porch rail above it, for instance. One of our best movie sequences taken that summer is of Dona Estifana's face as she watched me do this. When I came for a two weeks' visit ten years later, Dona Estdfana's house was the logical choice for my stay, since I was not sponsored by the school and there was no longer an empty room in the school building, anyway. "You have such a fine house, 90  DORA ESTEFANA with a real bed," I told her in accepting her hospitality, that first time that I actually lived in one of the community's homes. "Every- one will come to see me if I live with you, and will tell me how the ten years have passed." The first "way the ten years had passed" was news about Dona Sofia, subject of the painting. Tinier even than her mother, Dofaa Sofia had a pretty little face which made her seem younger than her years. She had married at eighteen, and had borne a son, Joel. Two months after her husband had died of the "water sickness," she had borne her second son, Inocencio. In 1934 Inocencio, then two, had been the pet of Doa Estefana's household. Our movie shows him pattering along the school trail after his mother or playing with the baby chickens in Dona Estdfana's houseyard. Of course, we asked about Inocencio as soon as we arrived in 1944. Dona Estefana gravely told us that he was an angelito, that he died of the "stomach sickness," mal de estdmago, and that his godfather had given a wonderful party at his funeral. Happily for Doa Sofia, Dona Estdfana's acreage had attracted a youngish widower, Don Pablo Bautista, who was later to go to work in the United States. Doaa Sofia had married him in 1938, at thirty-three, and had borne him a son, Leopoldo, who was five years old in 1944. Don Pablo built a house for her on Doda Estafana's house lot, so that Dona Es- tefana still had a small, spoiled grandson around her doorstep. Dona Estdfana was not so happy about her only son, Ignacio. He had married a woman from San Pablo Etla, big-mouthed and freckle-faced. Everyone knows how common and homely those San Pablo Etla women are. Don Ignacio, when Doa Sofia's first hus- band had died and she had come home to live, had removed him- self and his wife to the in-laws in San Pablo Etla, taking with him his little son Aurelio, the age of Joel. He had agreed to work his mother's land, a big job then with no grown boys and no strong brother-in-law to help, but his wife refused to be dominated any longer by Dona Estfana. The old lady cried whenever she spoke about it. The moving of Sofia to Don Pablo's new house had made it possible for Ignacio to live at home again, and they had evidently tried it; but the women couldn't get along. This time they left Au- 91 DORA ESTEFANA with a real bed," I told her in accepting her hospitality, that first time that I actually lived in one of the community's homes. "Every- one will come to see me if I live with you, and will tell me how the ten years have passed." The first "way the ten years had passed" was news about Dona Sofia, subject of the painting. Tinier even than her mother, Doaa Sofia had a pretty little face which made her seem younger than her years. She had married at eighteen, and had borne a son, Joel. Two months after her husband had died of the "water sickness," she had borne her second son, Inocencio. In 1934 Inocencio, then two, had been the pet of Doa Estefana's household. Our movie shows him pattering along the school trail after his mother or playing with the baby chickens in Dona Estefana's houseyard. Of course, we asked about Inocencio as soon as we arrived in 1944. Dona Estafana gravely told us that he was an angelito, that he died of the "stomach sickness," msal de estomago, and that his godfather had given a wonderful party at his funeral. Happily for Dona Sofia, Doaa Estefana's acreage had attracted a youngish widower, Don Pablo Bautista, who was later to go to work in the United States. Doaa Sofia had married him in 1935, at thirty-three, and had borne him a son, Leopoldo, who was five years old in 1944. Don Pablo built a house for her on Dona Est6fana's house lot, so that Doa Es- tefana still had a small, spoiled grandson around her doorstep. Dona Estefana was not so happy about her only son, Ignacio. He had married a woman from San Pablo Etla, big-mouthed and freckle-faced. Everyone knows how common and homely those San Pablo Etla women are. Don Ignacio, when Dona Sofia's first hus- band had died and she had come home to live, had removed him- self and his wife to the in-laws in San Pablo Etla, taking with him his little son Aurelio, the age of Joel. He had agreed to work his mother's land, a big job then with no grown boys and no strong brother-in-law to help, but his wife refused to be dominated any longer by Dona Estafana. The old lady cried whenever she spoke about it. The moving of Sofia to Don Pablo's new house had made it possible for Ignacio to live at home again, and they had evidently tried it; but the women couldn't get along. This time they left Au- 91 DORA ESTEFANA with a real bed," I told her in accepting her hospitality, that first time that I actually lived in one of the community's homes. "Every- one will come to see me if I live with you, and will tell me how the ten years have passed." The first "way the ten years had passed" was news about Doda Sofia, subject of the painting. Tinier even than her mother, Doaa Sofia had a pretty little face which made her seem younger than her years. She had married at eighteen, and had borne a son, Joel. Two months after her husband had died of the "water sickness," she had borne her second son, Inocencio. In 1934 Inocencio, then two, had been the pet of Doa Estafana's household. Our movie shows him pattering along the school trail after his mother or playing with the baby chickens in Dona Estefana's houseyard. Of course, we asked about Inocencio as soon as we arrived in 1944. Doaa Estefana gravely told us that he was an angelito, that he died of the "stomach sickness," mal de estdmago, and that his godfather had given a wonderful party at his funeral. Happily for Dona Sofia, Dona Estefana's acreage had attracted a youngish widower, Don Pablo Bautista, who was later to go to work in the United States. Doda Sofia had married him in 1938, at thirty-three, and had borne him a son, Leopoldo, who was five years old in 1944. Don Pablo built a house for her on Dona Estefana's house lot, so that Doa Es- tIfana still had a small, spoiled grandson around her doorstep. Doa Estefana was not so happy about her only son, Ignacio. He had married a woman from San Pablo Etla, big-mouthed and freckle-faced. Everyone knows how common and homely those San Pablo Etla women are. Don Ignacio, when Doa Sofia's first hus- band had died and she had come home to live, had removed him- self and his wife to the in-laws in San Pablo Etla, taking with him his little son Aurelio, the age of Joel. He had agreed to work his mother's land, a big job then with no grown boys and no strong brother-in-law to help, but his wife refused to be dominated any longer by Dona Estefana. The old lade cried whenever she spoke about it. The moving of Sofia to Don Pablo's new house had made it possible for Ignacio to live at home again, and they had evidently tried it; but the women couldn't get along. This time they left Au- 91  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS relio, by then fourteen and in the school's fourth class, to live with his grandmother. Even this did not satisfy Dona Estefana. Three times in those two weeks I lived with her, she said: "Mothers do all the suffering in the world, and after twenty years have nothing to show for it." Aurelio, now an important young man of the community, is happily married to a girl of whom Dona Estefana approved highly. and his little son was the pet around the house in 1954. The family had only one favor to ask of me then: Would I take a photo of this two-year-old child in his baptismal dress? They had waited to have him baptised until the young priest came to the new church built in Santa Cruz, on which Ignacio and Aurelio had both worked long hours. This child, as the only son of the only son, will inherit Dona Estefana's house and yard, and probably a full half of the farm land, since Sofia's half will go to her two sons. In so doing, Aurelio's baby will inherit the largest house built in Santa Cruz Etla before Don Marciano's Panfilo learned how to build his father such a fine one. Although Dona Estefana's house was all one room, with the lean-to kitchen, and was old and musty and dark inside, it was honored also as the first house built on the Santa Cruz Etla site. On its adobe altar, built in as a solid "bench" at the end of the room, was a picture of the Virgin of Soledad, patroness of Oaxaca City. Six other saints surrounded her. framed in dusty lace. Wreaths of paper and bouquets of faded paper flowers dating from Doa Sofia's second wedding were still on the altar in 1944. At the other end of the room was the "real bed" I had spoken of so hopefully. It was made of three boards nailed to a head and a foot. The head was carved in a Spanish colonial style, and it had been brought by Dona Estdfana's grandfather to the house when it was built. On top of the boards was the usual straw mat. The carved head was the only thing which made the bed any different from any other "bed" in Santa Cruz Etla. Since the three boards had been slept on so long, and had helped wear out so many straw mats, they were the home of various insects by the hundreds. Once when Dona Estefana came to visit me at Doa Patrocina's in 1945, she asked: "Are those bites on your legs chinches [bed- 92 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS relio, by then fourteen and in the school's fourth class, to live with his grandmother. Even this did not satisfy Dona Estefana. Three times in those two weeks I lived with her, she said: "Mothers do all the suffering in the world, and after twenty years have nothing to show for it." Aurelio, now an important young man of the community, is happily married to a girl of whom Dona Estdfana approved highly, and his little son was the pet around the house in 1954. The family had only one favor to ask of me then: Would I take a photo of this two-year-old child in his baptismal dress? They had waited to have him baptised until the young priest came to the new church built in Santa Cruz, on which Ignacio and Aurelio had both worked long hours. This child, as the only son of the only son, will inherit Dona Estefana's house and yard, and probably a full half of the farm land, since Sofia's half will go to her two sons. In so doing, Aurelio's baby will inherit the largest house built in Santa Cruz Etla before Don Marciano's Panfilo learned how to build his father such a fine one. Although Dona Estefana's house was all one room, with the lean-to kitchen, and was old and musty and dark inside, it was honored also as the first house built on the Santa Cruz Etla site. On its adobe altar, built in as a solid "bench" at the end of the room, was a picture of the Virgin of Soledad, patroness of Oaxaca City. Six other saints surrounded her. framed in dusty lace. Wreaths of paper and bouquets of faded paper flowers dating from Dona Sofia's second wedding were still on the altar in 1944. At the other end of the room was the "real bed" I had spoken of so hopefully. It was made of three boards nailed to a head and a foot. The head was carved in a Spanish colonial style, and it had been brought by Dona Estefana's grandfather to the house when it was built. On top of the boards was the usual straw mat. The carved head was the only thing which made the bed any different from any other "bed" in Santa Cruz Etla. Since the three boards had been slept on so long, and had helped wear out so many straw mats, they were the home of various insects by the hundreds. Once when Dona Estefana came to visit me at Dona Patrocina's in 1945, she asked: "Are those bites on your legs chinches [bed- 92 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS relio, by then fourteen and in the school's fourth class, to live with his grandmother. Even this did not satisfy Dona Est6fana. Three times in those two weeks I lived with her, she said: "Mothers do all the suffering in the world, and after twenty years have nothing to show for it." Aurelio, now an important young man of the community, is happily married to a girl of whom Dona Estdfana approved highly. and his little son was the pet around the house in 1954. The family had only one favor to ask of me then: Would I take a photo of this two-year-old child in his baptismal dress? They had waited to have him baptised until the young priest came to the new church built in Santa Cruz, on which Ignacio and Aurelio had both worked long hours. This child, as the only son of the only son, will inherit Dona Estefana's house and yard, and probably a full half of the farm land, since Sofia's half will go to her two sons. In so doing, Aurelio's baby will inherit the largest house built in Santa Cruz Etla before Don Marciano's Panfilo learned how to build his father such a fine one. Although Dona Estefana's house was all one room, with the lean-to kitchen, and was old and musty and dark inside, it was honored also as the first house built on the Santa Cruz Etla site. On its adobe altar, built in as a solid "bench" at the end of the room, was a picture of the Virgin of Soledad, patroness of Oaxaca City. Six other saints surrounded her, framed in dusty lace. Wreaths of paper and bouquets of faded paper flowers dating from Dona Sofia's second wedding were still on the altar in 1944. At the other end of the room was the "real bed" I had spoken of so hopefully. It was made of three boards nailed to a head and a foot. The head was carved in a Spanish colonial style, and it had been brought by Dona Estifana's grandfather to the house when it was built. On top of the boards was the usual straw mat. The carved head was the only thing which made the bed any different from any other "bed" in Santa Cruz Etla. Since the three boards had been slept on so long, and had helped wear out so many straw mats, they were the home of various insects by the hundreds. Once when Doa Estafana came to visit me at Dona Patrocina's in 1945, she asked: "Are those bites on your legs chinches [bed- 92  DORA ESTRFANA bugs]? You did not get bedbugs at my house. Do they have bedbugs in the United States? There are very few here because bedbugs do not like a petate, but only a mattress. When a petate gets full of bed- bugs, it can be used for burro-pack pads, or charcoal brazier fans, and you can buy a new petate. You can never get the bedbugs out of a mattress, and people can afford only one mattress in a life- time." By a mattress, Dona Estdfana meant a pad as thin as a sleeping bag; I had no such pad on Dona Estefana's ancestral bed. So it was probably not bedbugs I had there, but fleas, those elusive disturbers of the night which can never be found in the morning. The bed, fleas or no, gave a distinction to Dona Estefana's house. She had also an unusually fine carved chest, perhaps older than she was. It always held her clothes, her neatly ironed pink and yellow Oaxa- quena-style skirts, two yards around the bottom and gored at the top, her white blouses with lace yokes, her petticoats edged in lace, as were no others in Santa Cruz Etla. Behind the chest, when I lived there, were strange things to be side by side: one a bright 1944 calendar showing luscious young Mexico City girls in the red, white, and green China Poblana costume practically unknown in Santa Cruz Etla; the other, a dusty dancer's mask of the ancient Indian dances. Sometimes there is dancing in costume at the May flesta, but such a crude animal's face mask has not been used in Santa Cruz Etla since Dona Sofia was a little girl. One night, when we lighted two candles for me to eat my cena (which is what they call supper) sitting on an upturned log at the adobe altar shelf, the flickering light lit up the tiger mask and re- flected back from many glazed Oaxaca-ware pots hung on pegs among the cobwebs against the bare adobe. Dona Estifana's house was not whitewashed inside and would never be in her lifetime. It was inconvenient to live there, but I loved it anyway. The carved bed and the chest represented the integrity and the changelessness of Santa Cruz Etla. And I had a white drawn-work altar cloth made by Dona Estdfana's mother, as finely worked as lace made by a Spanish grandame, to serve as a tablecoth at the altar. It was here, after these suppers, that Don Amado came to his cousin's house to 93 DORA ESTAFANA bugs]? You did not get bedbugs at my house. Do they have bedbugs in the United States? There are very few here because bedbugs do not like a petate, but only a mattress. When a petate gets full of bed- bugs, it can be used for burro-pack pads, or charcoal brazier fans, and you can buy a new petate. You can never get the bedbugs out of a mattress, and people can afford only one mattress in a life- time." By a mattress, Dona Estefana meant a pad as thin as a sleeping bag; I had no such pad on Dona Estefana's ancestral bed. So it was probably not bedbugs I had there, but fleas, those elusive disturbers of the night which can never be found in the morning. The bed, fleas or no, gave a distinction to Dona Estdfana's house. She had also an unusually fine carved chest, perhaps older than she was. It always held her clothes, her neatly ironed pink and yellow Oaxa- quena-style skirts, two yards around the bottom and gored at the top, her white blouses with lace yokes, her petticoats edged in lace, as were no others in Santa Cruz Etla. Behind the chest, when I lived there, were strange things to be side by side: one a bright 1944 calendar showing luscious young Mexico City girls in the red, white, and green China Poblana costume practically unknown in Santa Cruz Etla; the other, a dusty dancer's mask of the ancient Indian dances. Sometimes there is dancing in costume at the May fiesta, but such a crude animal's face mask has not been used in Santa Cruz Etla since Dona Sofia was a little girl. One night, when we lighted two candles for me to eat my cena (which is what they call supper) sitting on an upturned log at the adobe altar shelf, the flickering light lit up the tiger mask and re- flected back from many glazed Oaxaca-ware pots hung on pegs among the cobwebs against the bare adobe. Dona Estefana's house was not whitewashed inside and would never be in her lifetime. It was inconvenient to live there, but I loved it anyway. The carved bed and the chest represented the integrity and the changelessness of Santa Cruz Etla. And I had a white drawn-work altar cloth made by Dona Estsfana's mother, as finely worked as lace made by a Spanish grandame, to serve as a tablecoth at the altar. It was here, after these suppers, that Don Amado came to his cousin's house to 93 DORA ESTREFANA bugs]? You did not get bedbugs at my house. Do they have bedbugs in the United States? There are very few here because bedbugs do not like a petate, but only a mattress. When a petate gets full of bed- bugs, it can be used for burro-pack pads, or charcoal brazier fans, and you can buy a new petate. You can never get the bedbugs out of a mattress, and people can afford only one mattress in a life- time." By a mattress, Dona Estdfana meant a pad as thin as a sleeping bag; I had no such pad on Dona Estefana's ancestral bed. So it was probably not bedbugs I had there, but fleas, those elusive disturbers of the night which can never be found in the morning. The bed, fleas or no, gave a distinction to Dona Estafana's house. She had also an unusually fine carved chest, perhaps older than she was. It always held her clothes, her neatly ironed pink and yellow Oaxa- quena-style skirts, two yards around the bottom and gored at the top, her white blouses with lace yokes, her petticoats edged in lace, as were no others in Santa Cruz Etla. Behind the chest, when I lived there, were strange things to be side by side: one a bright 1944 calendar showing luscious young Mexico City girls in the red, white, and green China Poblana costume practically unknown in Santa Cruz Etla; the other, a dusty dancer's mask of the ancient Indian dances. Sometimes there is dancing in costume at the May fiesta, but such a crude animal's face mask has not been used in Santa Cruz Etla since Doua Sofia was a little girl. One night, when we lighted two candles for me to eat my cena (which is what they call supper ) sitting on an upturned log at the adobe altar shelf, the flickering light lit up the tiger mask and re- flected back from many glazed Oaxaca-ware pots hung on pegs among the cobwebs against the bare adobe. Dona Estefana's house was not whitewashed inside and would never be in her lifetime. It was inconvenient to live there, but I loved it anyway. The carved bed and the chest represented the integrity and the changelessness of Santa Cruz Etla. And I had a white drawn-work altar cloth made by Dona Estufana's mother, as finely worked as lace made by a Spanish grandame, to serve as a tablecoth at the altar. It was here, after these suppers, that Don Amado came to his cousin's house to 93  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS tell me all the history of the Santa Cruz community, and to inspire me to try sometime to write about it. I had no complaint about the food at Dona Estefana's that year. She had half a small goat from Don Bartolo's and served it three days with rice, like mutton stew. Full of tomatoes, chiles, and onions, it was very tasty and fairly fresh, since the goat had just been butchered. Fresh rice was cooked every day. The fourth day we went back to beans; but Dona Estefana had many chickens, and we always had eggs. Two that I ate were laid right up on my bed, for the chickens came in the house as soon as we got out in the morning. After the egg breakfast, I would watch women who came to buy corn, as it was just before the harvest when the last year's corn was gone. If Doia Estdfana did not have it shucked, the women would stop to husk the dry ears and to shell off the kernels. Dona Estefana, as a matter of family pride, kept the pure white ears and sold the ears mottled with black. Thus, her tortillas would aloays be pure white, while those of the families who had to buy her corn would be streaked blue-gray. No one seemed to resent this, and Dona Estefana always did it. The women chatted with me about my previous visit, about the days when the school was first founded, about its years of success under its first teacher. "They were good years for corn, too," said Sofia. The last morning of the 1944 visit, I sat in the middle of the ox- cart trail and made a water-color sketch of Dona Estefana's house, much better work than my ambitious attempt at the interior ten years earlier. Her porch, with its red-brick columns against the dark of the doorway, made a contrast of light and shadow. (Where did her grandfather get the red brick? it occurs to me to wonder as I write this. There was no other red brick in Santa Cruz Etla until Don Feliz built the church.) Soon a crowd had gathered as I painted. Don Pablo, Dona Estefana's son-in-law, talked to the crowd for me, as he had seen me sketch before. The sedora used only brook water to mix the paint; the little tubes and cakes were full of color; those dark green splotches were supposed to be the trees. With all this help, my drawing prospered. Doda Estefana was delighted with it be- 94 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS tell me all the history of the Santa Cruz community, and to inspire me to try sometime to write about it. I had no complaint about the food at Dona Estefana's that year. She had half a small goat from Don Bartolo's and served it three days with rice, like mutton stew. Full of tomatoes, chiles, and onions, it was very tasty and fairly fresh, since the goat had just been butchered. Fresh rice was cooked every day. The fourth day we went back to beans; but Doda Estefana had many chickens, and we always had eggs. Two that I ate were laid right up on my bed, for the chickens came in the house as soon as we got out in the morning. After the egg breakfast, I would watch women who came to buy corn, as it was just before the harvest when the last year's corn was gone. If Dona Estefana did not have it shucked, the women would stop to husk the dry ears and to shell off the kernels. Dona Estefana, as a matter of family pride, kept the pure white ears and sold the ears mottled with black. Thus, her tortillas would always be pure white, while those of the families who had to buy her corn would be streaked blue-gray. No one seemed to resent this, and Doda Estdfana always did it. The women chatted with me about my previous visit, about the days when the school was first founded, about its years of success under its first teacher. "They were good years for corn, too," said Sofia. The last morning of the 1944 visit, I sat in the middle of the ox- cart trail and made a water-color sketch of Dona Estdfana's house, much better work than my ambitious attempt at the interior ten years earlier. Her porch, with its red-brick columns against the dark of the doorway, made a contrast of light and shadow. (Where did her grandfather get the red brick? it occurs to me to wonder as I write this. There was no other red brick in Santa Cruz Etla until Don F6liz built the church.) Soon a crowd had gathered as I painted. Don Pablo, Dona Estffana's son-in-law, talked to the crowd for me, as he had seen me sketch before. The sedora used only brook water to mix the paint; the little tubes and cakes were full of color; those dark green splotches were supposed to be the trees. With all this help, my drawing prospered. Doda Estefana was delighted with it be- 94 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS tell me all the history of the Santa Cruz community, and to inspire me to try sometime to write about it. I had no complaint about the food at Dona Estefana's that year. She had half a small goat from Don Bartolo's and served it three days with rice, like mutton stew. Full of tomatoes, chiles, and onions, it was very tasty and fairly fresh, since the goat had just been butchered. Fresh rice was cooked every day. The fourth day we went back to beans; but Dona Estdfana had many chickens, and we always had eggs. Two that I ate were laid right up on my bed, for the chickens came in the house as soon as we got out in the morning. After the egg breakfast, I would watch women who came to buy corn, as it was just before the harvest when the last year's corn was gone. If Doda Estefana did not have it shucked, the women would stop to husk the dry ears and to shell off the kernels. Dona Estdfana, as a matter of family pride, kept the pure white ears and sold the ears mottled with black. Thus, her tortillas would always be pure white, while those of the families who had to buy her corn would be streaked blue-gray. No one seemed to resent this, and Dona Estefana always did it. The women chatted with me about my previous visit, about the days when the school was first founded, about its years of success under its first teacher. "They weere good years for corn, too," said Sofia. The last morning of the 1944 visit, I sat in the middle of the ox- cart trail and made a water-color sketch of Dona Estffana's house, much better work than my ambitious attempt at the interior ten years earlier. Her porch, with its red-brick columns against the dark of the doorway, made a contrast of light and shadow. (Where did her grandfather get the red brick? it occurs to me to wonder as I write this. There was no other red brick in Santa Cruz Etla until Don Feliz built the church.) Soon a crowd had gathered as I painted. Don Pablo, Doa Estefana's son-in-law, talked to the crowd for me, as he had seen me sketch before. The sendora used only brook water to mix the paint; the little tubes and cakes were full of color; those dark green splotches were supposed to be the trees. With all this help, my drawing prospered. Dona Estefana was delighted with it be- 94  DORA ESTRFANA cause it showed her, a vague figure in the doorway. Her spirit must have cast a charm on it, because it is one of the few water colors I have ever successfully entered in a competition. When I tried to tell the people about it during the next visit, bragging of the success I achieved with the painting of Dona Estefana's house, I could not explain to them what a water-color competition was. When I left Santa Ella after that 1944 visit in Dona Estefana's house, the director of rural education in Oaxaca sent his young man secretary in a station wagon to get me. It was a Saturday market day, and everyone was going on foot or on burro to the Oaxaca market, this being before the dramatic coming of the San Lorenzo bus. I was loaded with the usual presents of fruit and eggs which the people always gave me at parting. My husband, who had been staying in Oaxaca, came along with the secretary to see his old friends, as he has done since in our own car. I had bidden a lin- gering good-bye to Dona Estefana and Doa Sofia and the rest of the family when the camioneta called for me, far up the ridge. Then we stopped below the school to say many more good-byes, and the camioneta bumped slowly down the trail, while I leaned out to shake hands and to receive more presents. Still, a station wagon is pretty big, and there was room for one more. Then down below on the trail we espied Doa Estefana; she had evidently left for market right after my departure and was walking briskly along carrying a huge donkey pannier. "Pick up my friend and hostess, will you please, senor?" I asked the secretary. Undoubtedly he was surprised. Although the director was in charge of rural schools in Indian villages and was a fine man who had done a great deal for the people, they were los pobrecitos, the poor little ones, to him, and doubtlessly to his sea- retary also. Los pobrecitos did not ride in official station wagons; they walked. They had always done so, and undoubtedly always would. Still, to honor the request of the visitor from the United States, the secretary stopped and Dona Estefana got in. It was her first ride in a private car. If she was thrilled, she did not show it. She knew the secretary considered her a pobrecita. Perhaps she almost considered herself one, as we reached the bet- 95 DORA ESTPFANA cause it showed her, a vague figure in the doorway. Her spirit must have cast a charm on it, because it is one of the few water colors I have ever successfully entered in a competition. When I tried to tell the people about it during the next visit, bragging of the success I achieved with the painting of Dona Estefana's house, I could not explain to them what a water-color competition was. When I left Santa Etla after that 1944 visit in Dona Estefana's house, the director of rural education in Oaxaca sent his young man secretary in a station wagon to get me. It was a Saturday market day, and everyone was going on foot or on burro to the Oaxaca market, this being before the dramatic coming of the San Lorenzo bus. I was loaded with the usual presents of fruit and eggs which the people always gave me at parting. My husband, who had been staying in Oaxaca, came along with the secretary to see his old friends, as he has done since in our own car. I had bidden a lin- gering good-bye to Doa Estafana and Doa Sofia and the rest of the family when the camioneta called for me, far up the ridge. Then we stopped below the school to say many more good-byes, and the camioneta bumped slowly down the trail, while I leaned out to shake hands and to receive more presents. Still, a station wagon is pretty big, and there was room for one more. Then down below on the trail we espied Dona Estefana; she had evidently left for market right after my departure and was walking briskly along carrying a huge donkey pannier. "Pick up my friend and hostess, will you please, senor?" I asked the secretary. Undoubtedly he was surprised. Although the director was in charge of rural schools in Indian villages and was a fine man who had done a great deal for the people, they were los pobrecitos, the poor little ones, to him, and doubtlessly to his sec- retary also. Los pobrecitos did not ride in official station wagons; they walked. They had always done so, and undoubtedly always would. Still, to honor the request of the visitor from the United States, the secretary stopped and Doa Estefana got in. It was her first ride in a private car. If she was thrilled, she did not show it. She knew the secretary considered her a pobrecita. Perhaps she almost considered herself one, as we reached the bet- 95 DORA ESTdFANA cause it showed her, a vague figure in the doorway. Her spirit must have cast a charm on it, because it is one of the few water colors I have ever successfully entered in a competition. When I tried to tell the people about it during the next visit, bragging of the success I achieved with the painting of Dona Estefana's house, I could not explain to them what a water-color competition was. When I left Santa Etla after that 1944 visit in Dona Estefana's house, the director of rural education in Oaxaca sent his young man secretary in a station wagon to get me. It was a Saturday market day, and everyone was going on foot or on burro to the Oaxaca market, this being before the dramatic coming of the San Lorenzo bus. I was loaded with the usual presents of fruit and eggs which the people always gave me at parting. My husband, who had been staying in Oaxaca, came along with the secretary to see his old friends, as he has done since in our own car. I had bidden a lin- gering good-bye to Dona Estefana and Doa Sofia and the rest of the family when the camioneta called for me, far up the ridge. Then we stopped below the school to say many more good-byes, and the camioneta bumped slowly down the trail, while I leaned out to shake hands and to receive more presents. Still, a station wagon is pretty big, and there was room for one more. Then down below on the trail we espied Dona Estefana; she had evidently left for market right after my departure and was walking briskly along carrying a huge donkey pannier. "Pick up my friend and hostess, will you please, senor?" I asked the secretary. Undoubtedly he was surprised. Although the director was in charge of rural schools in Indian villages and was a fine man who had done a great deal for the people, they were los pobrecitos, the poor little ones, to him, and doubtlessly to his sec- retary also. Los pobrecitos did not ride in official station wagons; they walked. They had always done so, and undoubtedly always would. Still, to honor the request of the visitor from the United States, the secretary stopped and Doa Estefana got in. It was her first ride in a private car. If she was thrilled, she did not show it. She knew the secretary considered her a pobrecita. Perhaps she almost considered herself one, as we reached the bet- 95  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ter-traveled road and sped on into the modernized city. She had nothing to say, while I chattered to my husband in the back seat, relieved to let out a torrent of English for the first time in many days. I did not mean to neglect her, but I stopped first to thank the driver when he let us off at the inn door. When I turned to embrace Dona Estefana once more and to tell her my good-bye and heart- felt thanks all over again, she was gone. She had vanished into the crowds of the Oaxaca market, just another poor old Indian woman in from the hills on market day. The next year, at the age of seventy, she was still able to walk with me halfway to the bus road when I left, tears running down her face. "When you come again, Dona Elena, perhaps I, like Don Amado, will no longer be here," she said. In 1954 this was so nearly true that I have tears running down my face now writing about her. Helpless with arthritis, her mind wandering from her eights-year- old body, she lay in the dark in Dona Sofia's house. Her "bed" had been brought over there, because Aurelio's busy young wife could not give her the constant care she needed. Surely Sofia would never admit that she was waiting for the old woman to die; but it is true that the rest of Sofia's family, Don Pablo her second husband and Leopoldo her youngest son, were both in Mexico City, and they told me later in the same summer that they could not send for Sofia because she had to stay with the old lady. Dona Estefana called me by name, even there in the dim adobe room, and embraced me, and held my hand all the time I staved. But I am sure she did not know what I was saying. I came in three other times during my ten-day visit at Don Martin's; every time she greeted me afresh as if I had just come to Santa Cruz after long absence. Don Ignacio, coming up from San Pablo to see me the day of Don Fdliz' little ceremony, had wondered why I did not go to visit his mother. She had begun to whimper when he mentioned the fiesta dinner for me and had said: "How long has Dona Elena been in Santa Cruz? She has never been to see me one time. How could she have neglected me so?" So I went again just an hour before I left, and she was surprised all over again, saying, "I must tell Ignacio you are here; he will be 96 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ter-traveled road and sped on into the modernized city. She had nothing to say, while I chattered to my husband in the back seat, relieved to let out a torrent of English for the first time in many days. I did not mean to neglect her, but I stopped first to thank the driver when he let us off at the inn door. When I turned to embrace Dofna Estefana once more and to tell her my good-bye and heart- felt thanks all over again, she was gone. She had vanished into the crowds of the Oaxaca market, just another poor old Indian woman in from the hills on market day. The next year, at the age of seventy, she was still able to walk with me halfway to the bus road when I left, tears running down her face. "When you come again, Doia Elena, perhaps I, like Don Amado, will no longer be here," she said. In 1954 this sas so nearly true that I have tears running down my face now writing about her. Helpless with arthritis, her mind wandering from her eighty-year- old body, she lay in the dark in Dona Sofia's house. Her "bed" had been brought over there, because Aurelio's busy young wife could not give her the constant care she needed. Surely Sofia would never admit that she was waiting for the old woman to die; but it is true that the rest of Sofia's family, Don Pablo her second husband and Leopoldo her youngest son, were both in Mexico City, and they told me later in the same summer that they could not send for Sofia because she had to stay with the old lady. Dona Estefana called me by name, even there in the dim adobe room, and embraced me, and held my hand all the time I stayed. But I am sure she did not know what I was saying. I came in three other times during my ten-day visit at Don Martin's; every time she greeted me afresh as if I had just come to Santa Cruz after long absence. Don Ignacio, coning up from San Pablo to see me the day of Don F6liz' little ceremony, had wondered why I did not go to visit his mother. She had begun to whimper when he mentioned the fiesta dinner for me and had said: "How long has Dona Elena been in Santa Cruz? She has never been to see me one time. How could she have neglected me so?" So I went again just an hour before I left, and she was surprised all over again, saying, "I must tell Ignacio you are heere; he will be 96 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ter-traveled road and sped on into the modernized city. She had nothing to say, while I chattered to my husband in the back seat, relieved to let out a torrent of English for the first time in many days. I did not mean to neglect her, but I stopped first to thank the driver when he let us off at the inn door. When I turned to embrace Dona Estefana once more and to tell her my good-bye and heart- felt thanks all over again, she was gone. She had vanished into the crowds of the Oaxaca market, just another poor old Indian woman in from the hills on market day. The next year, at the age of seventy, she was still able to walk with me halfway to the bus road when I left, tears running down her face. "When you come again, Dona Elena, perhaps I, like Don Amado, will no longer be here," she said. In 1954 this was so nearly true that I have tears running down my face now writing about her. Helpless with arthritis, her mind wandering from her eights-sear- old body, she lay in the dark in Dona Sofia's house. Her "bed" had been brought over there, because Aurelio's busy young wife could not give her the constant care she needed. Surely Sofia would never admit that she was waiting for the old woman to die; but it is true that the rest of Sofia's family, Don Pablo her second husband and Leopoldo her youngest son, were both in Mexico Cite, and they told me later in the same summer that they could not send for Sofia because she had to stay with the old lady. Dona Estefana called me by name, even there in the dim adobe room, and embraced me, and held my hand all the time I stayed. But I am sure she did not know what I was saying. I came in three other times during my ten-day visit at Don Martin's; every time she greeted me afresh as if I had just come to Santa Cruz after long absence. Don Ignacio, coming up from San Pablo to see me the day of Don Feliz' little ceremony, had wondered why I did not go to visit his mother. She had begun to whimper when he mentioned the fiesta dinner for me and had said: "How long has Doa Elena been in Santa Cruz? She has never been to see me one time. How could she have neglected me so?" So I went again just an hour before I left, and she was surprised all over again, saying, "I must tell Ignacio you are here; he will be 96  DORA PATROCINA so pleased when he comes up from San Pablo." I hoped then that Dona Estefana, she who had done so much to "dignify the position of rural women," would not have to linger long in such indignity. Only a few months later the son of Sofia and Don Pablo, the boy Leopoldo who now works in Mexico City, wrote me of her quiet death and of the fine funeral Don Martin, himself still alive and in fine fettle, arranged in order to honor her in the eyes of all Santa Cruz Etla. I REALLY LEARNED the ways of life in Santa Cruz by living for a summer in Dona Patrocina's house. In 1945 when I knew I would be making a longer visit and there was still no room for me in the school building, I decided to live with Dona Patrocina, midwife and cure woman for simple little ills in the town. There were two rooms at her house. I could have a little privacy there, or so I thought. Dona Patrocina's son went back and forth oftener to market; they all lived a little more "modern" life there than at Dona Estefana's. I gave Dona Estefana the excuse that I wanted to "visit around," that Patrocina's was closer to the school where I hoped to help in the campaign against illiteracy. Dona Estefana was satisfied, if I would visit her often. So I took all the things I had brought with me and moved into Patrocina's house for a long stay. I had purchased staple foods in Oaxaca City-sugar and cocoa, rice and macaroni, onions and cheese, tomatoes, and many candles. I knew the people of Santa Cruz could not afford to buy these staples in any quantity, and I did not want to be a burden. I took no bedding (we had taken blankets and mattresses to the school in 1934) since I was to be a house guest this year and did not want to offend my hostess. I was sorry for this many chill nights at that al- titude, when I was wrapped only in one old flea-infested sarape, lying on a hard petate, night after night; but Patrocina's family made sacrifices to give me that one blanket. As for clothes, I had 97 DORA PATROCINA so pleased when he comes up from San Pablo." I hoped then that Dona Estefana, she who had done so much to "dignify the position of rural women," would not have to linger long in such indignity. Only a few months later the son of Sofia and Don Pablo, the boy Leopoldo who now works in Mexico City, wrote me of her quiet death and of the fine funeral Don Martin, himself still alive and in fine fettle, arranged in order to honor her in the eyes of all Santa Cruz Etla. I REALLY LEARNED the ways of life in Santa Cruz by living for a summer in Dona Patrocina's house. In 1945 when I knew I would be making a longer visit and there was still no room for me in the school building, I decided to live with Dona Patrocina, midwife and cure woman for simple little ills in the town. There were two rooms at her house. I could have a little privacy there, or so I thought. Dona Patrocina's son went back and forth oftener to market; they all lived a little more "modern" life there than at Dona Estfana's. I gave Dona Estefana the excuse that I wanted to "visit around," that Patrocina's was closer to the school where I hoped to help in the campaign against illiteracy. Dona Estdfana was satisfied, if I would visit her often. So I took all the things I had brought with me and moved into Patrocina's house for a long stay. I had purchased staple foods in Oaxaca City-sugar and cocoa, rice and macaroni, onions and cheese, tomatoes, and many candles. I knew the people of Santa Cruz could not afford to buy these staples in any quantity, and I did not want to be a burden. I took no bedding (we had taken blankets and mattresses to the school in 1934) since I was to be a house guest this year and did not want to offend my hostess. I was sorry for this many chill nights at that al- titude, when I was wrapped only in one old flea-infested sarape, lying on a hard petate, night after night; but Patrocina's family made sacrifices to give me that one blanket. As for clothes, I had 97 DORA PATROCINA so pleased when he comes up from San Pablo." I hoped then that Dona Estdfana, she who had done so much to "dignify the position of rural women," would not have to linger long in such indignity. Only a few months later the son of Sofia and Don Pablo, the boy Leopoldo who now works in Mexico City, wrote me of her quiet death and of the fine funeral Don Martin, himself still alive and in fine fettle, arranged in order to honor her in the eyes of all Santa Cruz Etla. "yta 2 c I REALLY LEARNED the ways of life in Santa Cruz by living for a summer in Dona Patrocina's house. In 1945 when I knew I would be making a longer visit and there was still no room for me in the school building, I decided to live with Dona Patrocina, midwife and cure woman for simple little ills in the town. There were two rooms at her house. I could have a little privacy there, or so I thought. Dona Patrocina's son went back and forth oftener to market; they all lived a little more "modern" life there than at Dona Estdfana's. I gave Dona Estefana the excuse that I wanted to "visit around," that Patrocina's was closer to the school where I hoped to help in the campaign against illiteracy. Dona Estefana was satisfied, if I would visit her often. So I took all the things I had brought with me and moved into Patrocina's house for a long stay. I had purchased staple foods in Oaxaca City-sugar and cocoa, rice and macaroni, onions and cheese, tomatoes, and many candles. I knew the people of Santa Cruz could not afford to buy these staples in any quantity, and I did not want to be a burden. I took no bedding (we had taken blankets and mattresses to the school in 1934) since I was to be a house guest this year and did not want to offend my hostess. I was sorry for this many chill nights at that al- titude, when I was wrapped only in one old flea-infested sarape, lying on a hard petate, night after night; but Patrocina's family made sacrifices to give me that one blanket. As for clothes, I had 97  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS three khaki shirts, a divided riding skirt (the good ladies of Santa Cruz Etla would be offended at a woman in pants), and one change of underclothes. I had also some simple first-aid supplies, water-color and oil sketching equipment, a Spanish dictionary and grammar, a camera and films. All but the sketching things were fitted into one suitcase. In 1954 I wore dark, little, crinkled nylon dresses, so easy to wash in the brook below Don Martin's, but they were not yet for sale in 1945. The suitcase, the first-aid container, the oil paint box, all have now been to Santa Cruz Etla four times. Dona Patrocina, my hostess, was more than a friend; she was practically my foster mother. Busy as she was with her routine of daily tasks the year round, she concentrated on my comfort and happiness all summer. There is a "Song of the Mixtecs" which is sung everwhere in the Oaxaca Valley. Qui lejos estoy, del cielo donde he nacido (How far I am from the skies under which I was born). It has a ver sad tune and ends tragically-"I long to cry, I wish I might die, from sentimental feeling." I had heard this song when visiting schools in Oaxaca City just the week before, and it was still running in my head. The first days at Dona Patrocina's I sang it over and over under my breath. On the third day I came into her little kitchen portico to find her standing looking at me with tears in her eves. She opened her arms and took me in a great ahrazo, or embrace. "Poor Dona Elena, we have not made her happy. She is longing for her own country. She is so far away and alone. Don Enrique is at the ocean; she is worrying about him," she said, speaking of me in the third person, as she patted my shoulder. "Whatever makes you think that, Doia Patrocina? I have never been among better friends in my life," I retorted. "But you are singing the 'Song of the Mixtees'! You keep singing it every day. The little grandmother here in the house heard you yesterday singing 'I wish I might die." It was very hard to convince her that I merely liked the tune and couldn't get it out of my head. Since so many Spanish or Mfexi- can folk tunes are concerned with the same general theme-the sad- ness of parting, the longing for home and sweetheart, the tragedy 98 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS three khaki shirts, a divided riding skirt (the good ladies of Santa Cruz Etla would be offended at a woman in pants), and one change of underclothes. I had also some simple first-aid supplies, a-ater-color and oil sketching equipment, a Spanish dictionary and grammar, a camera and films. All but the sketching things were fitted into one suitcase. In 1954 I wore dark, little, crinkled nylon dresses, so easy to wash in the brook below Don Martin's, but they were not yet for sale in 1945. The suitcase, the first-aid container, the oil paint box, all have now been to Santa Cruz Etla four times. Dona Patrocina, my hostess, was more than a friend; she was practically my foster mother. Busy as she was with her routine of daily tasks the year round, she concentrated on my comfort and happiness all summer. There is a "Song of the Mixtees" which is sung everwhere in the Oaxaca Valley. Qui lejos estoy, del cielo donde he nacido (Hose far I am from the skies under which I was born). It has a verv sad tune and ends tragically-"I long to cry, I wish I might die, from sentimental feeling." I had heard this song when visiting schools in Oaxaca City just the week before, and it was still running in my head. The first days at Dofia Patrocina's I sang it over and over under my breath. On the third day I came into her little kitchen portico to find her standing looking at me with tears in her eves. She opened her arms and took me in a great abrazo, or embrace. "Poor Dofna Elena, we have not made her happy. She is longing for her own country. She is so far away and alone. Don Enrique is at the ocean; she is worrying about him," she said, speaking of me in the third person, as she patted my shoulder. "Whatever makes you think that, Dofna Patrocina? I have never been among better friends in my life," I retorted. "But you are singing the 'Song of the Mixtees'! You keep singing it every day. The little grandmother here in the house heard you yesterday singing 'I wish I might die.'" It was very hard to convince her that I merely liked the tune and couldn't get it out of my head. Since so many Spanish or Mexi- can folk tunes are concerned with the same general theme-the sad- ness of parting, the longing for home and sweetheart, the tragedy 98 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS three khaki shirts, a divided riding skirt (the good ladies of Santa Cruz Etla would be offended at a woman in pants), and one change of underclothes. I had also some simple first-aid supplies, water-color and oil sketching equipment, a Spanish dictionary and grammar, a camera and films. All but the sketching things were fitted into one suitcase. In 1954 I wore dark, little, crinkled nylon dresses, so easy to wash in the brook below Don Martin's, but they were not yet for sale in 1945. The suitcase, the first-aid container, the oil paint box, all have now been to Santa Cruz Etla four times. Dofia Patrocina, my hostess, was more than a friend; she was practically my foster mother. Busy as she was with her routine of daily tasks the year round, she concentrated on my comfort and happiness all summer. There is a "Song of the Mixtees" which is sung everwhere in the Oaxaca Valley. Qua lejos estoy, del cielo donde he nacido (How far I am from the skies under which I was born). It has a very sad tune and ends tragically-"I long to cry, I wish I might die, from sentimental feeling." I had heard this song when visiting schools in Oaxaca City just the week before, and it was still running in my head. The first days at Dofna Patrocina's I sang it over and over under my breath. On the third day I came into her little kitchen portico to find her standing looking at me with tears in her eves. She opened her arms and took me in a great abrazo, or embrace. "Poor Donfia Elena, we have not made her happy. She is longing for her own country. She is so far away and alone. Don Enrique is at the ocean; she is worrying about him," she said, speaking of me in the third person, as she patted my shoulder. "Whatever makes you think that, Dona Patrocina? I have never been among better friends in my life," I retorted. "But you are singing the 'Song of the Mixtecs'! You keep singing it every day. The little grandmother here in the house heard you yesterday singing 'I wish I might die.'" It was very hard to convince her that I merely liked the tune and couldn't get it out of my head. Since so many Spanish or Mlexi- can folk tunes are concerned with the same general theme-the sad- ness of parting, the longing for home and sweetheart, the tragedy 98  DORA PATROCINA of being exiled-I had to be careful what I was singing the rest of the summer. It was best to hum American tunes so Dona Patrocina would not worry about my homesickness. Dona Patrocina herself had had a life of tragedy. She was mar- ried at eighteen into the house of Don Pedro Lopez. It was a fine house on the central ridge, and her husband was in possession of five acres of land. Soon her husband's parents died, and he was in possession of the house also. They seemed destined for a happy life together. Chico, who was really named Francisco, was born to them. Then followed tragedy. Three children in succession were born dead, or died before their brst birthdays. Nice (Nicolas, twenty-three in 1945) was the only other child who had lived. When he was eight years old, and two other children had been born and had died, the father himself died in an accident. I never quite understood about it, some sort of mishap while cutting timber. All such accidents, falls, or axe blows are described by the single word golpe; un golpe en la sierra is never explained further. This golpe left Dona Patrocina desperate. Chico was fourteen, a young vaquero for his mother's goats before any school came to Santa Cruz Etla. Dona Patrocina sold her few goats and her cow to pay for her husband's funeral fiesta. Chico drove the oxen to plow, while Dona Patrocina herself went on foot to town in the valley, every day for months, to visit with an old medicine woman. There she learned to be herself a curandera, a healer. She could prescribe herbs or hot packs for small ills, and serve as midwife at births. For this she would get a few eggs, or in the case of births, a chicken or even a young pig. So they managed to live. Nice was the best boy student in school when we lived in the school building in 1934; Chico, working in fields in the daytime, learned to read and write in evening classes that were held the first few years after the school was founded. At one time he wrote the best hand in Santa Cruz Etla, after Don Amado died and before Cassiano and Perfecto grew up. From his mother's brother, Don Fausto, one of the town's musicians, he learned to play the violin. When Nice was old enough to plow and care for the stock, Chico became a lenador, a woodcutter. By 1944 99 DORVA PATROCINA of being exiled-I had to be careful what I was singing the rest of the summer. It was best to hum American tunes so Dona Patrocina would not worry about my homesickness. Dona Patrocina herself had had a life of tragedy. She was mar- ried at eighteen into the house of Don Pedro Lopez. It was a fine house on the central ridge, and her husband was in possession of five acres of land. Soon her husband's parents died, and he was in possession of the house also. They seemed destined for a happy life together. Chico, who was really named Francisco, was born to them. Then followed tragedy. Three children in succession were born dead, or died before their first birthdays. Nice (Nicolas, twenty-three in 1945) was the only other child who had lived. When he was eight years old, and two other children had been born and had died, the father himself died in an accident. I never quite understood about it, some sort of mishap while cutting timber. All such accidents, falls, or axe blows are described by the single word golpe; un golpe en la sierra is never explained further. This golpe left Dona Patrocina desperate. Chico was fourteen, a young vaquero for his mother's goats before any school came to Santa Cruz Etla. Dona Patrocina sold her few goats and her cow to pay for her husband's funeral fiesta. Chico drove the oxen to plow, while Dona Patrocina herself went on foot to town in the valley, every day for months, to visit with an old medicine woman. There she learned to be herself a curandera, a healer. She could prescribe herbs or hot packs for small ills, and serve as midwife at births. For this she would get a few eggs, or in the case of births, a chicken or even a young pig. So they managed to live. Nico was the best boy student in school when we lived in the school building in 1934; Chico, working in fields in the daytime, learned to read and write in evening classes that were held the first few years after the school was founded. At one time he wrote the best hand in Santa Cruz Etla, after Don Amado died and before Cassiano and Perfecto grew up. From his mother's brother, Don Fausto, one of the town's musicians, he learned to play the violin. When Nice was old enough to plow and care for the stock, Chico became a lenador, a woodcutter. By 1944 99 DOiRA PATROCINA of being exiled-I had to be careful what I was singing the rest of the summer. It was best to hum American tunes so Dona Patrocina would not worry about my homesickness. Dona Patrocina herself had had a life of tragedy. She was mar- ried at eighteen into the house of Don Pedro Lopez. It was a fine house on the central ridge, and her husband was in possession of five acres of land. Soon her husband's parents died, and he was in possession of the house also. They seemed destined for a happy life together. Chico, who was really named Francisco, was born to them. Then followed tragedy. Three children in succession were born dead, or died before their first birthdays. Nice (Nicolis, twenty-three in 1945) was the only other child who had lived. When he was eight years old, and two other children had been born and had died, the father himself died in an accident. I never quite understood about it, some sort of mishap while cutting timber. All such accidents, falls, or axe blows are described by the single word golpe; un golpe en la sierra is never explained further. This golpe left Dona Patrocina desperate. Chico was fourteen, a young vaquero for his mother's goats before any school came to Santa Cruz Etla. Dona Patrocina sold her few goats and her cow to pay for her husband's funeral fiesta. Chico drove the oxen to plow, while Dona Patrocina herself went on foot to town in the valley, every day for months, to visit with an old medicine woman. There she learned to be herself a curandera, a healer. She could prescribe herbs or hot packs for small ills, and serve as midwife at births. For this she would get a few eggs, or in the case of births, a chicken or even a young pig. So they managed to live. Nice was the best boy student in school when we lived in the school building in 1934; Chico, working in fields in the daytime, learned to read and write in evening classes that were held the first few years after the school was founded. At one time he wrote the best hand in Santa Cruz Etla, after Don Amado died and before Cassiano and Perfecto grew up. From his mother's brother, Don Fausto, one of the town's musicians, he learned to play the violin. When Nice was old enough to plow and care for the stock, Chico became a leador, a woodcutter. By 1944 99  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he could make three pesos a day, any day he went to the sierra, and so he had recently married and brought his bride home. Dona Patrocina's household was again one of the important families of Santa Cruz Etla. Doa Patrocina held her own mother and brother together as well as her sons. When her widowed mother could no longer live alone, she too came to Dona Patrocina's. Don Fausto, the musician, Dona Patrocina's only brother, took as second wife a widow with land, and she would not care for the little grandmother who had been keeping Don Fausto's house for him. So she came to Patro- cinas and brought her flock of turkeys with her; Fausto told me he had "all respect and gratitude to Patrocina for taking the little grand- mother." By 1954 the little grandmother was dead, and Don Fausto's new wife, on some kind of an arrangement like Don Julio's and Dona Fecunda's, had left him. So the kindhearted Dona Patrocina, her house now overflowing with daughters-in-law and grandchildren, had taken Fausto in also, and thus he was able to play the fiddle with Chico every night. Dona Patrocina was lean and lithe, though she must have been sixty, as light on her feet as her young daughter-in-law. She wore long full dresses, originally like those worn by Dona Estefana, but the few she owned were ragged and patched and faded out to a dull grayish-white. She had never worn shoes; she had few prettv things in her house; but she was always very clean and was a very good cook. You have to be busy all day to be a good cook in any iexican Indian family. The mainstay, the "staff of life" is the humble corn tortilla, that flat cake made of ground corn and water and patted out by hand. Dona Patrocina's family, small in 1945, ate sixty or seventy a day. In that year Esperanza, the new little bride, made them, as befits any young daughter-in-law. But think of the years Dona Patrocina did it, probably thirty-one years at least when she was the only one to make them for growing boys, fifty tortillas a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, for thirty-one years, and most of those years before any gasoline mill in the village did half the corn grinding. 100 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he could make three pesos a day, any day he went to the sierra, and so he had recently married and brought his bride home. Dona Patrocina's household was again one of the important families of Santa Cruz Etla. Dona Patrocina held her own mother and brother together as well as her sons. When her widowed mother could no longer live alone, she too came to Dofna Patrocina's. Don Fausto, the musician, Dofla Patrocina's only brother, took as second wife a widow with land, and she would not care for the little grandmother who had been keeping Don Fausto's house for him. So she came to Patro- cina's and brought her flock of turkeys with her; Fausto told me he had "all respect and gratitude to Patrocina for taking the little grand- mother." By 1954 the little grandmother was dead, and Don Fausto's new wife, on some kind of an arrangement like Don Julio's and Dofia Fecunda's, had left him. So the kindhearted Dona Patrocina, her house now overflowing with daughters-in-law and grandchildren, had taken Fausto in also, and thus he was able to play the fiddle with Chico every night. Dona Patrocina was lean and lithe, though she must have been sixty, as light on her feet as her young daughter-in-law. She wore long full dresses, originally like those worn by Dona Estdfana, but the few she owned were ragged and patched and faded out to a dull grayish-white. She had never worn shoes; she had few pretty things in her house; but she was always very clean and was a very good cook. You have to be busy all day to be a good cook in any iexican Indian family. The mainstay, the "staff of life" is the humble corn tortilla, that flat cake made of ground corn and water and patted out by hand. Dofna Patrocina's family, small in 1945, ate sixty or seventy a day. In that year Esperanza, the new little bride, made them, as befits any young daughter-in-law. But think of the years Doia Patrocina did it, probably thirty-one years at least when she was the only one to make them for growing boys, fifty tortillas a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, for thirty-one years, and most of those years before any gasoline mill in the village did half the corn grinding. 100 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he could make three pesos a day, any day he went to the sierra, and so he had recently married and brought his bride home. Dona Patrocina's household was again one of the important families of Santa Cruz Etla. Dona Patrocina held her own mother and brother together as well as her sons. When her widowed mother could no longer live alone, she too came to Dofia Patrocina's. Don Fausto, the musician, Dona Patrocina's only brother, took as second wife a widow with land, and she would not care for the little grandmother who had been keeping Don Fausto's house for him. So she came to Patro- cinas and brought her flock of turkeys with her; Fausto told me he had "all respect and gratitude to Patrocina for taking the little grand- mother." By 1954 the little grandmother was dead, and Don Fausto's new wife, on some kind of an arrangement like Don Julio's and Dona Fecunda's, had left him. So the kindhearted Dona Patrocina, her house now overflowing with daughters-in-law and grandchildren, had taken Fausto in also, and thus he was able to play the fiddle with Chico every night. Dona Patrocina was lean and lithe, though she must have been sixty, as light on her feet as her young daughter-in-law. She wore long full dresses, originally like those worn by Dofna Estefana, but the few she owned were ragged and patched and faded out to a dull grayish-white. She had never worn shoes; she had few pretty things in her house; but she was always very clean and was a very good cook. You have to be busy all day to be a good cook in any Iexican Indian family. The mainstay, the "staff of life" is the humble corn tortilla, that flat cake made of ground corn and water and patted out by hand. Dona Patrocina's family, small in 1945, ate sixtv or seventy a day. In that year Esperanza, the new little bride, made them, as befits any young daughter-in-law. But think of the years Dofna Patrocina did it, probably thirty-one years at least when she was the only one to make them for growing boys, fifty tortillas a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, for thirty-one years, and most of those years before any gasoline mill in the village did half the corn grinding. 100  DORA PATROCINA To make her tortillas, she put a large cooking jar, an olla, on the charcoal fire burning in a little pit hole in the floor of the earth- packed portico, and filled the olla with whole kernels of corn mixed with salt and a pinch of lye. She let the corn cook soft like hominy. Next morning Esperanza took the cooked corn to Don Julio's mill when she first got up, and it came back a moist mass like cooked corn meal. Even then it was not ground fine enough for any Santa Cruz Etla housewife. Everyone of them felt that she must al- ways grind it again to a paste, working it back and forth under the "rolling-pin stone," up and down the metate, which is the three- legged stone grinder that they use. Then with a quick movement, Dona Patrocina, who after those thirty years was much better at it than Esperanza, picked up a little pat of corn paste. In a twinkling it was patted out expertly between her hands into a broad thin flat pancake. This is not as easy as it looks. My husband took a movie of me trying it myself, that summer at the school in 1934, and a sorry mess I made of it, ending up with a great hole in the center where most of the tortilla should be. Tortillas in Santa Cruz Etla are very large, anyway, probably eight or ten inches in diameter; anyone could make the four-inch tortillas of the Mexican west coast. When I asked Dona Patrocina about the size, she was surprised that I thought her tortillas were large. "You should see the large ones made by the primitivos [the non-Spanish-speaking Indians from the high sierra]. They are big enough to use as a petate," she exagger- ated. Tortillas are cooked on the greaseless, flat, clay griddle, two at a time. Most women use kindling wood instead of charcoal to make the griddle really hot. At just the right moment, Dofia Patrocina would flip the tortillas over. Sometime I would like to try one hot from Dona Patrocina's griddle, filled with melted butter-a thought I also had in connection with Don Martin's bread hot from the oven-but it would be impossible in a town where all milk is either drunk fresh, boiled for "coffee with milk," or curdled for cheese, and never allowed to set for cream to be churned for butter. When twenty or so tortillas were made and packed under an 101 DOtA PATROCINA To make her tortillas, she put a large cooking jar, an olla, on the charcoal fire burning in a little pit hole in the floor of the earth- packed portico, and filled the olla with whole kernels of corn mixed with salt and a pinch of lye. She let the corn cook soft like hominy. Next morning Esperanza took the cooked corn to Don Julio's mill when she first got up, and it came back a moist mass like cooked corn meal. Even then it was not ground fine enough for any Santa Cruz Etla housewife. Everyone of them felt that she must al- ways grind it again to a paste, working it back and forth under the "rolling-pin stone," up and down the metate, which is the three- legged stone grinder that they use. Then with a quick movement, Doia Patrocina, who after those thirty years was much better at it than Esperanza, picked up a little pat of corn paste. In a twinkling it was patted out expertly between her hands into a broad thin flat pancake. This is not as easy as it looks. My husband took a movie of me trying it myself, that summer at the school in 1934, and a sorry mess I made of it, ending up with a great hole in the center where most of the tortilla should be. Tortillas in Santa Cruz Etla are very large, anyway, probably eight or ten inches in diameter; anyone could make the four-inch tortillas of the Mexican west coast. When I asked Dofia Patrocina about the size, she was surprised that I thought her tortillas were large. "You should see the large ones made by the primitivos [the non-Spanish-speaking Indians from the high sierra]. They are big enough to use as a petate," she exagger- ated. Tortillas are cooked on the greaseless, flat, clay griddle, two at a time. Most women use kindling wood instead of charcoal to make the griddle really hot. At just the right moment, Dona Patrocina would flip the tortillas over. Sometime I would like to try one hot from Dona Patrocina's griddle, filled with melted butter-a thought I also had in connection with Don Martin's bread hot from the oven-but it would be impossible in a town where all milk is either drunk fresh, boiled for "coffee with milk," or curdled for cheese, and never allowed to set for cream to be churned for butter. When twenty or so tortillas were made and packed under an 101 DONA PATROCINA To make her tortillas, she put a large cooking jar, an olla, on the charcoal fire burning in a little pit hole in the floor of the earth- packed portico, and filled the olla with whole kernels of corn mixed with salt and a pinch of lye. She let the corn cook soft like hominy. Next morning Esperanza took the cooked corn to Don Julio's mill when she first got up, and it came back a moist mass like cooked corn meal. Even then it was not ground fine enough for any Santa Cruz Etla housewife. Everyone of them felt that she must al- ways grind it again to a paste, working it back and forth under the "rolling-pin stone," up and down the metate, which is the three- legged stone grinder that they use. Then with a quick movement, Dona Patrocina, who after those thirty years was much better at it than Esperanza, picked up a little pat of corn paste. In a twinkling it was patted out expertly between her hands into a broad thin flat pancake. This is not as easy as it looks. My husband took a movie of me trying it myself, that summer at the school in 1934, and a sorry mess I made of it, ending up with a great hole in the center where most of the tortilla should be. Tortillas in Santa Cruz Etla are very large, anyway, probably eight or ten inches in diameter; anyone could make the four-inch tortillas of the Mexican west coast. When I asked Dona Patrocina about the size, she was surprised that I thought her tortillas were large. "You should see the large ones made by the primitivos [the non-Spanish-speaking Indians from the high sierra]. They are big enough to use as a petate," she exagger- ated. Tortillas are cooked on the greaseless, flat, clay griddle, two at a time. Most women use kindling wood instead of charcoal to make the griddle really hot. At just the right moment, Dona Patrocina would flip the tortillas over. Sometime I would like to try one hot from Dona Patrocina's griddle, filled with melted butter-a thought I also had in connection with Don Martin's bread hot from the oven-but it would be impossible in a town where all milk is either drunk fresh, boiled for "coffee with milk," or curdled for cheese, and never allowed to set for cream to be churned for butter. When twenty or so tortillas were made and packed under an 101  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS embroidered tortilla cloth in the bottom of a basket to keep warm, then we all knew it was time for breakfast. There is no "time" in all Santa Cruz, not clock time. The women get up and take the corn to mill; the men care for the stock; the women make twenty tortillas, and it is breakfast time. Nico and Chico came in from the house- yard; they sat with Dona Patrocina and the little grandmother on the floor of the "kitchen," the outside portico. Esperanza sersed them hot tortillas, beans warmed from the day before, and black coffee without sugar, made from home-ground coffee berries. Unfortunately, I was seldom allowed to eat with them this way. Knowing that I ate at the "altar" at Doffa Estdfana's, and at a school desk when staying in the school building, Dona Patrocina was deter- mined to have me eating at a table. Her only table, which usually held ollas for cooking and baskets of onions and Chico's fiddle and some candles and the curing herbs, was taken from the dark, inside room and set out on the porch. The articles from it were piled on the floor next to my petate. Three tortilla-warming cloths served in turn as tablecloth. I sat in stiff formality on a homemade chair to eat my breakfast and my dinner. It was the preparation of my dinner which made the most trouble for Dofa Patrocina. She had asked me what I would eat, there all summer so alone, so far "from the skies under which I was born." "Oh, eggs, tomatoes, avocados, and cheese," I told her, showing her also the rice and macaroni I had brought. "Don't worry about me." The tomatoes and cheese I brought myself were gone the first night; I had asked so many people in for supper. Chico brought more cheese when he went to market. A family in San Pablo sent up tomatoes, which were cut up with onions like a salad. Dona Patrocina boiled the macaroni in plain water; I eased it down with bites of avocados and white goat's-milk cheese spread on tortillas. This lasted five days. I got sick from the water. I got better. I looked with longing at the beans and the little green-corn tamales the family had for dinner the sixth day. Would Dona Elena just try the green-corn tamales; a special 102 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS embroidered tortilla cloth in the bottom of a basket to keep warm, then we all knew it was time for breakfast. There is no "time" in all Santa Cruz, not clock time. The women get up and take the corn to mill; the men care for the stock; the women make twenty tortillas, and it is breakfast time. Nico and Chico came in from the house- yard; they sat with Dona Patrocina and the little grandmother on the floor of the "kitchen," the outside portico. Esperanza served them hot tortillas, beans warmed from the day before, and black coffee without sugar, made from home-ground coffee berries. Unfortunately, I was seldom allowed to eat with them this way. Knowing that I ate at the "altar" at Dona Estefana's, and at a school desk when staying in the school building, Dona Patrocina was deter- mined to have me eating at a table. Her only table, which usually held ollas for cooking and baskets of onions and Chico's fiddle and some candles and the curing herbs, was taken from the dark, inside room and set out on the porch. The articles from it weere piled on the floor next to my petate. Three tortilla-warming cloths served in turn as tablecloth. I sat in stiff formality on a homemade chair to eat my breakfast and my dinner. It was the preparation of my dinner which made the most trouble for Doffa Patrocina. She had asked me what I would eat, there all summer so alone, so far "from the skies under which I was born." "Oh, eggs, tomatoes, avocados, and cheese," I told her, showing her also the rice and macaroni I had brought. "Don't worry about me." The tomatoes and cheese I brought myself were gone the first night; I had asked so many people in for supper. Chico brought more cheese when he went to market. A family in San Pablo sent up tomatoes, which were cut up with onions like a salad. Doffa Patrocina boiled the macaroni in plain water; I eased it down with bites of avocados and white goat's-milk cheese spread on tortillas. This lasted five days. I got sick from the water. I got better. I looked with longing at the beans and the little green-corn tamales the family had for dinner the sixth day. Would Dona Elena just try the green-corn tamales; a special 102 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS embroidered tortilla cloth in the bottom of a basket to keep warm, then we all knew it was time for breakfast. There is no "time" in all Santa Cruz, not clock time. The women get up and take the corn to mill; the men care for the stock; the women make twenty tortillas, and it is breakfast time. Nico and Chico came in from the house- yard; they sat with Dona Patrocina and the little grandmother on the floor of the "kitchen," the outside portico. Esperanza served them hot tortillas, beans warmed from the day before, and black coffee without sugar, made from home-ground coffee berries. Unfortunately, I was seldom allowed to eat with them this way. Knowing that I ate at the "altar" at Doffa Estefana's, and at a school desk when staying in the school building, Dona Patrocina was deter- mined to have me eating at a table. Her only table, which usually held ollas for cooking and baskets of onions and Chico's fiddle and some candles and the curing herbs, was taken from the dark, inside room and set out on the porch. The articles from it were piled on the floor next to my petate. Three tortilla-warming cloths served in turn as tablecloth. I sat in stiff formality on a homemade chair to eat my breakfast and my dinner. It was the preparation of my dinner which made the most trouble for Doffa Patrocina. She had asked me what I would eat, there all summer so alone, so far "from the skies under which I was born." "Oh, eggs, tomatoes, avocados, and cheese," I told her, showing her also the rice and macaroni I had brought. "Don't worry about me." The tomatoes and cheese I brought myself were gone the first night; I had asked so many people in for supper. Chico brought more cheese when he went to market. A family in San Pablo sent up tomatoes, which were cut up with onions like a salad. Dona Patrocina boiled the macaroni in plain water; I eased it down with bites of avocados and white goat's-milk cheese spread on tortillas. This lasted five days. I got sick from the water. I got better. I looked with longing at the beans and the little green-corn tamales the family had for dinner the sixth day. Would Dona Elena just try the green-corn tamales; a special 102  k 4  a b fl t La Al"Mit, 1, ouk,< . Thee she swould be off with the coca to the mdll down in Soc Pablo Etla, foe Hoa's mother wanted she coce grond eacly 10 the day and these was 00 mill eer Shan See Pablo thee. Itswould be too hooss be- face she would be back, and we would basely have got op. Thecrest of bee day was ausS as busy. She neverccas able so go So school cn the days when Dada Rafaela stashed. She had so stacd byevery minutetaoentohe brookformoe wate, and she alwaoes helped to wring oat the clashes, slay as bee hoods ssese. On othser deys Doa Rafaelaor Rosita cc I would comb out hoc halo, ocd she would sit withEl Mestrospimary class, chantingsthe numshers to fifty and learning to write bee came. Hot she hod to leave class early to help Rosita's mother get oor diner. She spent an hourefanning the charcoal, bringinsg more swoter foe the cooking, setting op a school sable Ice as et the cod of the school porch, and making the sala. IShave mocies of bee golnd- ingstomatesfosalsa,tureing tortillas onthe griddle, and ssaslsisg off the metat aftec the toctillas were finished. She seeoss so bosy end efficient that it is heed to cealize that she is now a grown pee- son wocking wish glees tortillas, and 00 longeraneight-ya-old. After each meal she washed the dishes. As we hod hod she dysentery qoite badly, we had all sorts of ideas aboot boiling all the watec, sioce 00 oe hod suggested oange-leaf lea to us then. The ideas seemed hopeless when we swetched Augustina sseshing ace dishes io the stream, sitting 00 the little stone bridge thas cossed the hooh and tilting herself upside down to wash each 150 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Rosita seldom had time to comb bee bong braids of bale. Augostia was the second gilbina afamily of woacers op at the head of elbri, people wham ISnevecheoad called by nasme. Hee father seas spoken of only as the woodcutte, el lenadore, padre sic la Augustina dle Rosita. Duety and ovecmarhed as she was, Augustina stas better off undec Rosita's kindly eye thee as home; and she got twso years of schoolieg, which none of the rest of hoc family esec had. Wbhile we lived at the school, she weot evecy macclog at deco to Dada Estdfaas to get a pitcher of milk foe as. She swould celight the chaccoal fice feosm last eight's embers by vigorous fanning, and pot on the milk to boil so that it wcould beep all do>. Thee she would be adf with the coca to the mdll deo in See Pablo Etla, foe Rasitas mothewanted the corn grond early 10 She day and these wasenomllneaccrctheanfSanPalothe. Itsswould be too hoots he- foce shewold beback, andwe wold baely have got op. Therest of bee day was just as has>. She nevecc was able so go to school on the days whoa Doa Rofacla washed. She hod to stood byevery minute taoentohebookhformoe swatec, and she alssays helped so wriag oat she clothes, tiny as bee hoods swere. fOn othec days Doa Rafaelaor Rsita orIwouldecomb eat hoer haic, and she wold sitsvith El Mastrospimary class, chantissgsbhe nousbess to fifty and learning to write bee ae Bat she bad to leave class early to help Rosita's mothee get ocr diner. She spent an hour fanning the charcool, bciaging mote water foe the cooking, setting op a school table foe as at she end of the school porch, and making the sals. IShove movies of hoc griod- issg toatoes forcsalsa, turning tortillasoncthegiddle, and ssashinog off the motatc after she tortillas wese finished. Sbhe sceess so hosy and efficient that it is hood to realize that she is now' a grown pee- ton orkciag wdth giant tortillas, and no longer 00 eight-cear-old. After each meal she washed the dishes. As we had bed the dysentery qoite badly, we hod all tactt of ideas aboot boiling all the water, since 00 000 hod suggested oange-leof tee to os then. The ideas seemed hopeless whoa we watched Augustina swashing our dishes in the stleam, sitting 00 the little stoe bridge that crossed the brook and tilting herself upside downa to w'ash each 1501  ;W i ;  Themet, abir p, Iem i 114 Leftw tight. iDn 1.u a la d I dr Itr Chi Lo - I.t '14, tiII :,,9 541,pI, II .i ,,1944 4 A. A R'~'  AUGUSTINA individual object back and forth in the water. Her afternoons were freer than those of the children who lived at home, because Rosita took two hours off after dinner before she rang the midafter- noon school bell. Often she had time then to play with, and talk to, Augustina, sewing up rents in her clothes or making her new ones. Sometimes she would take the girl alone into the primary room and have her count or write on the piece of oilcloth used as a blackboard, for Augustina was so shy she would never recite when the other children were there. She would do it for Rosita only be- cause she loved Rosita so much. She was like some wild little mountain spirit who had never before been caged. Until her seventh year she had doubtless never gone beyond the head of the ravine where she lived and had seen no other children except her own brothers and sisters. The school at Santa Cruz Etla must have seemed the whole outside world to her. She was still afraid even to talk out loud. Without talking at all, she was able to help me a great deal when I first came in 1934. I had come to Santa Cruz Etla deter- mined that my husband and I would not be any bother to the teacher or her family. We had told Mr. Ximello that we would care for and cook for ourselves. We had brought dishes and cooking pots and staple things with us, a long list of things purchased in Oaxaca. Rosita fell in with our plan right away and "assigned" Augustina to help us. When I think of those hectic first days during which I tried to do the cooking, my later visits at Dona Patrocina's or at Don Martin's seem restful periods of bliss. "The tiny little Indian who lives with the teacher was sent in all directions to buy eggs, milk, white cheese, onions, peppers, and squash for me," I wrote in my diary of that first day. As I remember, we did not have many five- or ten-centavo pieces, and we sent Augustina out with silver pesos and five-peso bills, which she had never seen before. I marvel now at how she bought things, but then I was impatient at my difficulty with the small amounts of things and the limited variety. When Augustina was not running around trying to buy me things, she crouched on the floor and fanned the charcoal. Whatever made me think I was less bother to them when I did 151 AUGUSTINA individual object back and forth in the water. Her afternoons were freer than those of the children who lived at home, because Rosita took two hours off after dinner before she rang the midafter- noon school bell. Often she had time then to play with, and talk to, Augustina, sewing up rents in her clothes or making her new ones. Sometimes she would take the girl alone into the primary room and have her count or write on the piece of oilcloth used as a blackboard, for Augustina was so shy she would never recite when the other children were there. She would do it for Rosita only be- cause she loved Rosita so much. She was like some wild little mountain spirit who had never before been caged. Until her seventh year she had doubtless never gone beyond the head of the ravine where she lived and had seen no other children except her own brothers and sisters. The school at Santa Cruz Etla must have seemed the whole outside world to her. She was still afraid even to talk out loud. Without talking at all, she was able to help me a great deal when I first came in 1934. I had come to Santa Cruz Etla deter- mined that my husband and I would not be any bother to the teacher or her family. We had told Mr. Ximello that we would care for and cook for ourselves. We had brought dishes and cooking pots and staple things with us, a long list of things purchased in Oaxaca. Rosita fell in with our plan right away and "assigned" Augustina to help us. When I think of those hectic first days during which I tried to do the cooking, my later visits at Dona Patrocina's or at Don Martin's seem restful periods of bliss. "The tiny little Indian who lives with the teacher was sent in all directions to buy eggs, milk, white cheese, onions, peppers, and squash for me," I wrote in my diary of that first day. As I remember, we did not have many five- or ten-centavo pieces, and we sent Augustina out with silver pesos and five-peso bills, which she had never seen before. I marvel now at how she bought things, but then I was impatient at my difficulty with the small amounts of things and the limited variety. When Augustina was not running around trying to buy me things, she crouched on the floor and fanned the charcoal. Whatever made me think I was less bother to them when I did 151 AUGUSTINA individual object back and forth in the water. Her afternoons were freer than those of the children who lived at home, because Rosita took two hours off after dinner before she rang the midafter- noon school bell. Often she had time then to play with, and talk to, Augustina, sewing up rents in her clothes or making her new ones. Sometimes she would take the girl alone into the primary room and have her count or write on the piece of oilcloth used as a blackboard, for Augustina was so shy she would never recite when the other children were there. She would do it for Rosita only be- cause she loved Rosita so much. She was like some wild little mountain spirit who had never before been caged. Until her seventh year she had doubtless never gone beyond the head of the ravine where she lived and had seen no other children except her own brothers and sisters. The school at Santa Cruz Etla must have seemed the whole outside world to her. She was still afraid even to talk out loud. Without talking at all, she was able to help me a great deal when I first came in 1934. I had come to Santa Cruz Etla deter- mined that my husband and I would not be any bother to the teacher or her family. We had told Mr. Ximello that we would care for and cook for ourselves. We had brought dishes and cooking pots and staple things with us, a long list of things purchased in Oaxaca. Rosita fell in with our plan right away and "assigned" Augustina to help us. When I think of those hectic first days during which I tried to do the cooking, my later visits at Dona Patrocina's or at Don Martin's seem restful periods of bliss. "The tiny little Indian who lives with the teacher was sent in all directions to buy eggs, milk, white cheese, onions, peppers, and squash for me," I wrote in my diary of that first day. As I remember, we did not have many five- or ten-centavo pieces, and we sent Augustina out with silver pesos and five-peso bills, which she had never seen before. I marvel now at how she bought things, but then I was impatient at my difficulty with the small amounts of things and the limited variety. When Augustina was not running around trying to buy me things, she crouched on the floor and fanned the charcoal. Whatever made me think I was less bother to them when I did 151  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS the cooking, I don't know. Dona Rafaela not only had to loan me Augustina all the time, but she had to "translate" for me when I made purchases from visitors, repeating slowly to me how much the squash cost, or how soon I would be able to buy a chicken. Augus- tina went down the ridge to buy more charcoal for me when I ran out, and we delayed dinner endlessly, taking up Dona Rafaela's kitchen and cooking space all the while. Augustina would patter back, her bare feet hitting the road in a sort of dogtrot; we would get more charcoal on the flre, fan it into a blaze, and start the squash cooking again. Surely Dona Rafaela and Rosita were laugh- ing at me all the while. But not Augustina. She would look wistfully at me as we crouched together on the dirt floor trying to get the charcoal lighted. When it finally glowed she would flash me a shy smile of triumph. And she so loved the glazed ware, the knives, the forks, and the glasses which we had brought with us that she washed them over and over for fun. We were kindred spirits, two strangers in Dona Rafaela's kitchen in Santa Cruz Etla; I because I had never cooked under such difficulties and the things seemed so primitive, Augustina because she had never cooked in such splen- dor and the things seemed so sophisticated. After a week of this I went to Saturday market along with Ro- sita and Dona Estefana in a burro caravan. Dona Rafaela and Au- gustina were to take care of my husband's midday meal while I was gone. When I came back in the evening, he was enthusiastic about the dinner and had even saved some of it to be warmed over for supper. He wondered why what Dona Rafaela fixed was so much better than anything I had been able to cook, when I seemed to work so bard at it. I apologized for the "bother" it had been to Dona Rafaela to cook for him. She hastened to assure me it had been less "bother" than usual. Only she and Augustina had been in the kitchen! After that we gave her one peso fifty a day, and she purchased and prepared everything for us. Augustina ran the er- rands, made the purchases, and served the meal. Augustina remained our good friend after I was thus "eased out" of the kitchen. My husband won her, and several other chil- dren who hung around the school all day, by making them pin- 152 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS the cooking, I don't know. Dona Rafaela not only had to loan me Augustina all the time, but she had to "translate" for me when I made purchases from visitors, repeating slowly to me how much the squash cost, or how soon I would be able to buy a chicken. Augus- tina went down the ridge to buy more charcoal for me when I ran out, and we delayed dinner endlessly, taking up Dona Rafaela's kitchen and cooking space all the while. Augustina would patter back, her bare feet hitting the road in a sort of dogtrot; we would get more charcoal on the flre, fan it into a blaze, and start the squash cooking again. Surely Dona Rafaela and Rosita were laugh- ing at me all the while. But not Augustina. She would look wistfully at me as we crouched together on the dirt floor trying to get the charcoal lighted. When it finally glowed she would flash me a shy smile of triumph. And she so loved the glazed ware, the knives, the forks, and the glasses which we had brought with us that she washed them over and over for fun. We were kindred spirits, two strangers in Dona Rafaela's kitchen in Santa Cruz Etla; I because I had never cooked under such difficulties and the things seemed so primitive, Augustina because she had never cooked in such splen- dor and the things seemed so sophisticated. After a week of this I went to Saturday market along with Ro- sita and Dona Estefana in a burro caravan. Dona Rafaela and Au- gustina were to take care of my husband's midday meal while I was gone. When I came back in the evening, he was enthusiastic about the dinner and had even saved some of it to be warmed over for supper. He wondered why what Dona Rafaela fixed was so much better than anything I had been able to cook, when I seemed to work so hard at it. I apologized for the "bother" it had been to Dona Rafaela to cook for him. She hastened to assure me it had been less "bother" than usual. Only she and Augustina had been in the kitchen! After that we gave her one peso fifty a day, and she purchased and prepared everything for us. Augustina ran the er- rands, made the purchases, and served the meal. Augustina remained our good friend after I was thus "eased out" of the kitchen. My husband won her, and several other chil- dren who hung around the school all day, by making them pin- 152 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS the cooking, I don't know. Dona Rafaela not only had to loan me Augustina all the time, but she had to "translate" for me when I made purchases from visitors, repeating slowly to me how much the squash cost, or how soon I would be able to buy a chicken. Augus- tina went down the ridge to buy more charcoal for me when I ran out, and we delayed dinner endlessly, taking up Dona Rafaela's kitchen and cooking space all the while. Augustina would patter back, her bare feet hitting the road in a sort of dogtrot; we would get more charcoal on the flre, fan it into a blaze, and start the squash cooking again. Surely Dona Rafaela and Rosita were laugh- ing at me all the while. But not Augustina. She would look wistfully at me as we crouched together on the dirt floor trying to get the charcoal lighted. When it finally glowed she would flash me a shy smile of triumph. And she so loved the glazed ware, the knives, the forks, and the glasses which we had brought with us that she washed them over and over for fun. We were kindred spirits, two strangers in Doina Rafaela's kitchen in Santa Cruz Etla; I because I had never cooked under such difficulties and the things seemed so primitive, Augustina because she had never cooked in such splen- dor and the things seemed so sophisticated. After a week of this I went to Saturday market along with Ro- sita and Dona Estefana in a burro caravan. Dona Rafaela and Au- gustina were to take care of my husband's midday meal while I was gone. When I came back in the evening, he was enthusiastic about the dinner and had even saved some of it to be warmed over for supper. He wondered why what Dona Rafaela fixed was so much better than anything I had been able to cook, when I seemed to work so hard at it. I apologized for the "bother" it had been to Donia Rafaela to cook for him. She hastened to assure me it had been less "bother" than usual. Only she and Augustina had been in the kitchen! After that we gave her one peso fifty a day, and she purchased and prepared everything for us. Augustina ran the er- rands, made the purchases, and served the meal. Augustina remained our good friend after I was thus "eased out" of the kitchen. My husband won her, and several other chil- dren who hung around the school all day, by making them pin- 152  AUGUSTINA wheels. She would have time to watch him make only one, and then she would dart off like a wood sprite for more water or milk or corn for Dona Rafaela. Sometimes she would be watching me sketch- ing or writing. I would feel her presence and look up. She would whisper, Con permiso, and slip quietly away. Augustina began afterwards to call me the lady of the dolls, la senora de las muecas. I wanted to take something back to the Los Angeles schools as an international friendship exchange, and I had been disappointed when I first came to my pueblecito because no sarapes were woven there and no pottery was made. Rosita helped me by suggesting that I buy dolls, and she and the children would dress them in costumes of the Oaxaca region. She told the lit- tle girls of the sewing class about the project, and they were enthu- siastic. Augustina, who seldom had time to sew, listened from her hiding place behind Rosita's chair. That first trip I made to the market on burros (the time Doia Estefana laughed as I climbed onto the burro between the baskets, and the time my husband got his first good Santa Cruz dinner), Rosita and I went to buy dolls to dress. It was not as easy as it sounds. No dolls were for sale in Oaxaca in 1934, at least not what we would call modern dolls. Today, since the Pan American Highway has been opened, there are many shops around the plaza which sell all kinds of factory-made articles, including toys. But twenty-five years ago we looked in vain. A peddler in the open market, wan- dering without a stall, displaying wooden monkeys on sticks, found eight little doll bodies for us in his big sack-doll bodies made of cloth, with painted tin heads, the type of doll the little girls of 1849 brought to California with them in covered wagons. Rosita was very pleased with these dolls, and I thought them so quaint and old fashioned that the project took on renewed interest. Then the big problem was to buy cloth for the dresses, a quarter of a yard of this, a half-yard of that. We had to buy much more goods than we needed. We bought so many pieces of things that I really could not visualize how Rosita thought the costumes were going to look. We were nearly all day doing the buying. At three-thirty we wearily loaded dolls and finery into the burro pan- 153 AUGUSTINA wheels. She would have time to watch him make only one, and then she would dart off like a wood sprite for more water or milk or corn for Dona Rafaela. Sometimes she would be watching me sketch- ing or writing. I would feel her presence and look up. She would whisper, Con permiso, and slip quietly away. Augustina began afterwards to call me the lady of the dolls, la senora de las mufecas. I wanted to take something back to the Los Angeles schools as an international friendship exchange, and I had been disappointed when I first came to my pueblecito because no sarapes were woven there and no pottery was made. Rosita helped me by suggesting that I buy dolls, and she and the children would dress them in costumes of the Oaxaca region. She told the lit- tle girls of the sewing class about the project, and they were enthu- siastic. Augustina, who seldom had time to sew, listened from her hiding place behind Rosita's chair. That first trip I made to the market on burros (the time Dofia Estefana laughed as I climbed onto the burro between the baskets, and the time my husband got his first good Santa Cruz dinner), Rosita and I went to buy dolls to dress. It was not as easy as it sounds. No dolls were for sale in Oaxaca in 1934, at least not what we would call modern dolls. Today, since the Pan American Highway has been opened, there are many shops around the plaza which sell all kinds of factory-made articles, including toys. But twenty-five years ago we looked in vain. A peddler in the open market, wan- dering without a stall, displaying wooden monkeys on sticks, found eight little doll bodies for us in his big sack-doll bodies made of cloth, with painted tin heads, the type of doll the little girls of 1849 brought to California with them in covered wagons. Rosita was very pleased with these dolls, and I thought them so quaint and old fashioned that the project took on renewed interest. Then the big problem was to buy cloth for the dresses, a quarter of a yard of this, a half-yard of that. We had to buy much more goods than we needed. We bought so many pieces of things that I really could not visualize how Rosita thought the costumes were going to look. We were nearly all day doing the buying. At three-thirty we wearily loaded dolls and finery into the burro pan- 153 AUGUSTINA wheels. She would have time to watch him make only one, and then she would dart off like a wood sprite for more water or milk or corn for Dona Rafaela. Sometimes she would be watching me sketch- ing or writing. I would feel her presence and look up. She would whisper, Con permiso, and slip quietly away. Augustina began afterwards to call me the lady of the dolls, la senora de las munecas. I wanted to take something back to the Los Angeles schools as an international friendship exchange, and I had been disappointed when I first came to my pueblecito because no sarapes were woven there and no pottery was made. Rosita helped me by suggesting that I buy dolls, and she and the children would dress them in costumes of the Oaxaca region. She told the lit- tle girls of the sewing class about the project, and they were enthu- siastic. Augustina, who seldom had time to sew, listened from her hiding place behind Rosita's chair. That first trip I made to the market on burros (the time Doia Estefana laughed as I climbed onto the burro between the baskets, and the time my husband got his first good Santa Cruz dinner), Rosita and I went to buy dolls to dress. It was not as easy as it sounds. No dolls were for sale in Oaxaca in 1934, at least not what we would call modern dolls. Today, since the Pan American Highway has been opened, there are many shops around the plaza which sell all kinds of factory-made articles, including toys. But twenty-five years ago we looked in vain. A peddler in the open market, wan- dering without a stall, displaying wooden monkeys on sticks, found eight little doll bodies for us in his big sack-doll bodies made of cloth, with painted tin heads, the type of doll the little girls of 1849 brought to California with them in covered wagons. Rosita was very pleased with these dolls, and I thought them so quaint and old fashioned that the project took on renewed interest. Then the big problem was to buy cloth for the dresses, a quarter of a yard of this, a half-yard of that. We had to buy much more goods than we needed. We bought so many pieces of things that I really could not visualize how Rosita thought the costumes were going to look. We were nearly all day doing the buying. At three-thirty we wearily loaded dolls and finery into the burro pan- 153  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS niers, piled ourselves on top, and started the long trek back uphill. Doa Estefana had gone on long before us, and we did not pull in till after sunset. The little girls came on Sunday to ask if we had been able to purchase dolls. Most of them, like Augustina, had never seen an dolls before, and these primitive ones delighted them. The bright silk and wool, the six colors of embroidery thread, the bands of lace were theirs to look at, to feast their eyes on, but not to touch until Rosita made the plans on Monday afternoon. There was a record attendance of little girls at school on Monday. Only eight girls actually sewed; Don Julio's pretty little daughter Juanita whom he married off so early into San Pablo, Chabella who married Don Martin's only son Miguelito, Carmita who was after- wards so unkind to her old deaf mother, a Domitila from the San Sebastiin ridge who has died since, the Rafaela who is married to Don Julio's Eduardo, the Refugio who is married to Don Julio him- self, and two others of the older girls whose names I don't remember. Augustina counted as a ninth. Although she took no permanent stitches, she did the basting, picked up all the scraps, and held the dolls while Rosita tried the clothes on them. She made friends with the other girls and quite blossomed out during the sewing of the doll costumes. The women of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, who are sometimes seen in full regalia at Oaxaca markets and fiestas, wear the most beautiful costumes in Mexico. A full, bright skirt of silk, red or green or blue, is covered with heavy floral embroidery in all colors; around the bottom is pleated a white lace flounce ten or twelve inches deep. A square, straight blouse, or huipil, hangs sleeveless from the shoulders and is even more elaborately embroidered than the skirt. On the head is worn a sort of wide halo cap made of many yards of pleated white lace. Our two dolls dressed as Tehuanas were the most beautiful ones. Chabella did all the embroiderv on these Tehuana dresses, making half-inch flowers of blue and yellow on the red silk of the dresses. Lace intended to decorate the white panties of rich little city girls had been purchased for the flounce and the headdress. Chabella was chosen not only because 154 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS niers, piled ourselves on top, and started the long trek back uphill. Doa Estdfana had gone on long before us, and we did not pull in till after sunset. The little girls came on Sunday to ask if we had been able to purchase dolls. Most of them, like Augustina, had never seen any dolls before, and these primitive ones delighted them. The bright silk and wool, the six colors of embroidery thread, the bands of lace were theirs to look at, to feast their eyes on, but not to touch until Rosita made the plans on Monday afternoon. There was a record attendance of little girls at school on Monday. Only eight girls actually sewed; Don Julio's pretty little daughter Juanita whom he married off so early into San Pablo, Chabella who married Don Martin's only son Miguelito, Carmita who was after- wards so unkind to her old deaf mother, a Domitila from the San Sebastidn ridge who has died since, the Rafaela who is married to Don Julio's Eduardo, the Refugio who is married to Don Julio him- self, and two others of the older girls whose names I don't remember. Augustina counted as a ninth. Although she took no permanent stitches, she did the basting, picked up all the scraps, and held the dolls while Rosita tried the clothes on them. She made friends with the other girls and quite blossomed out during the sewing of the doll costumes. The women of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, who are sometimes seen in full regalia at Oaxaca markets and fiestas, wear the most beautiful costumes in Mexico. A full, bright skirt of silk. red or green or blue, is covered with heavy floral embroidery in all colors; around the bottom is pleated a white lace flounce ten or twelve inches deep. A square, straight blouse, or huipil, hangs sleeveless from the shoulders and is even more elaborately embroidered than the skirt. On the head is worn a sort of wide halo cap made of many yards of pleated white lace. Our two dolls dressed as Tehuanas were the most beautiful ones. Chabella did all the embroidery on these Tehuana dresses, making half-inch flowers of blue and yellow on the red silk of the dresses. Lace intended to decorate the white panties of rich little city girls had been purchased for the flounce and the headdress. Chabella was chosen not onlr because 154 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS niers, piled ourselves on top, and started the long trek back uphill. Doa Estefana had gone on long before us, and we did not pull in till after sunset. The little girls came on Sunday to ask if we had been able to purchase dolls. Most of them, like Augustina, had never seen an dolls before, and these primitive ones delighted them. The bright silk and wool, the six colors of embroidery thread, the bands of lace were theirs to look at, to feast their eyes on, but not to touch until Rosita made the plans on Monday afternoon. There was a record attendance of little girls at school on Monday. Only eight girls actually sewed; Don Julio's pretty little daughter Juanita whom he married off so early into San Pablo, Chabella who married Don Martin's only son Miguelito, Carmita who was after- wards so unkind to her old deaf mother, a Domitila from the San Sebastiin ridge who has died since, the Rafaela who is married to Don Julio's Eduardo, the Refugio who is married to Don Julio him- self, and two others of the older girls whose names I don't remember. Augustina counted as a ninth. Although she took no permanent stitches, she did the basting, picked up all the scraps, and held the dolls while Rosita tried the clothes on them. She made friends with the other girls and quite blossomed out during the sewing of the doll costumes. The women of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, who are sometimes seen in full regalia at Oaxaca markets and fiestas, wear the most beautiful costumes in Mexico. A full, bright skirt of silk. red or green or blue, is covered with heavy floral embroidery in all colors: around the bottom is pleated a white lace flounce ten or twelve inches deep. A square, straight blouse, or huipil, hangs sleeveless from the shoulders and is even more elaborately embroidered than the skirt. On the head is worn a sort of wide halo cap made of many yards of pleated white lace. Our two dolls dressed as Tehuanas were the most beautiful ones. Chabella did all the embroider on these Tehuana dresses, making half-inch flowers of blue and yellow on the red silk of the dresses. Lace intended to decorate the white panties of rich little city girls had been purchased for the flounce and the headdress. Chabella was chosen not only because 154  AUGUSTINA she was one of the best seamstresses, but also because she had actually seen a Tehuana once in the market at Oaxaca. Domitila, as I remember, had been to the great Oaxaca July fiesta, the Lunes del Cerro, and had seen resplendent Tehuanas there, but she could not sew as well as Chabella. The traditional Mexican fiesta dress, called a China Poblana, which appears on all the gaudy, pretty-girl calendars, is seen in Oaxaca occasionally, but only on that July fiesta day; it is not con- sidered the custom in Oaxaca. But I knew Los Angeles students would expect such dresses, and I insisted on having two dolls in the Poblana dress. I had to help with the sewing of them myself, as Rosita had seldom seen such a costume. It has the heavy, red-wool skirt covered with spangles, the green, pointed insets of silk in the top of the skirt, the wide sash made from a rebozo, and the em- broidered, white-silk blouse with a Mexican eagle in front and flowers on the sleeves. Two dolls were to be Indians from the sierra, Yalaltecs from the country of El Maestro. He superintended their preparation himself. They were dressed in long loose sacks of unbleached muslin, hung at the shoulders with black cord (we used shoestrings on the dolls), and embroidered with lines of blue and red around the bottom and around the neck. We wrapped black shoestrings around their heads to satisfy El Maestro's demand for the heavy wool turbans of his mother's people. The three older girls who had been in the market had often seen these Yalalteca people there. They come on foot and on burro-back from fifty and sixty miles away. Though Oaxaca City is now very sophisticated and fewer and fewer Indian types are seen there today, I saw a whole family of Yalaltecs, still in the cos- tumes of the dolls, walk nonchalantly across the plaza on a market day in 1954. Everyone knew the China Oaxaqueha costume. Rosita had made one for La Patria to wear on September 16. Most Santa Cruz mothers had that style of dress, a full-gored skirt set into a white, lace-trimmed blouse, with a rebozo crossed on the chest. Rosita had one made of silk which she later brought with her to Los An- geles, knotting her rebozo on her head in true Oaxaca Indian 155 AUGUSTINA she was one of the best seamstresses, but also because she had actually seen a Tehuana once in the market at Oaxaca. Domitila, as I remember, had been to the great Oaxaca July fiesta, the Lunes del Cerro, and had seen resplendent Tehuanas there, but she could not sew as well as Chabella. The traditional Mexican fiesta dress, called a China Poblana, which appears on all the gaudy, pretty-girl calendars, is seen in Oaxaca occasionally, but only on that July fiesta day; it is not con- sidered the custom in Oaxaca. But I knew Los Angeles students would expect such dresses, and I insisted on having two dolls in the Poblana dress. I had to help with the sewing of them myself, as Rosita had seldom seen such a costume. It has the heavy, red-wool skirt covered with spangles, the green, pointed insets of silk in the top of the skirt, the wide sash made from a rebozo, and the em- broidered, white-silk blouse with a Mexican eagle in front and flowers on the sleeves. Two dolls were to be Indians from the sierra, Yalaltecs from the country of El Maestro. He superintended their preparation himself. They were dressed in long loose sacks of unbleached muslin, hung at the shoulders with black cord (we used shoestrings on the dolls), and embroidered with lines of blue and red around the bottom and around the neck. We wrapped black shoestrings around their heads to satisfy El Maestro's demand for the heavy wool turbans of his mother's people. The three older girls who had been in the market had often seen these Yalalteca people there. They come on foot and on burro-back from fifty and sixty miles away. Though Oaxaca City is now very sophisticated and fewer and fewer Indian types are seen there today, I saw a whole family of Yalaltecs, still in the cos- tumes of the dolls, walk nonchalantly across the plaza on a market day in 1954. Everyone knew the China Oaxaqueia costume. Rosita had made one for La Patria to wear on September 16. Most Santa Cruz mothers had that style of dress, a full-gored skirt set into a white, lace-trimmed blouse, with a rebozo crossed on the chest. Rosita had one made of silk which she later brought with her to Los An- geles, knotting her rebozo on her head in true Oaxaca Indian 155 AUGUSTINA she was one of the best seamstresses, but also because she had actually seen a Tehuana once in the market at Oaxaca. Domitila, as I remember, had been to the great Oaxaca July fiesta, the Lanes del Cerro, and had seen resplendent Tehuanas there, but she could not sew as well as Chabella. The traditional Mexican fiesta dress, called a China Poblana, which appears on all the gaudy, pretty-girl calendars, is seen in Oaxaca occasionally, but only on that July fiesta day; it is not con- sidered the custom in Oaxaca. But I knew Los Angeles students would expect sudh dresses, and I insisted on having two dolls in the Poblana dress. I had to help with the sewing of them myself, as Rosita had seldom seen such a costume. It has the heavy, red-wool skirt covered with spangles, the green, pointed insets of silk in the top of the skirt, the wide sash made from a rebozo, and the em- broidered, white-silk blouse with a Mexican eagle in front and flowers on the sleeves. Two dolls were to be Indians from the sierra, Yalaltecs from the country of El Maestro. He superintended their preparation himself. They were dressed in long loose sacks of unbleached muslin, hung at the shoulders with black cord (we used shoestrings on the dolls), and embroidered with lines of blue and red around the bottom and around the neck. We wrapped black shoestrings around their heads to satisfy El Maestro's demand for the heavy wool turbans of his mother's people. The three older girls who had been in the market had often seen these Yalalteca people there. They come on foot and on burro-back from fifty and sixty miles away. Though Oaxaca City is now very sophisticated and fewer and fewer Indian types are seen there today, I saw a whole family of Yalaltecs, still in the cos- tumes of the dolls, walk nonchalantly across the plaza on a market day in 1954. Everyone knew the China Oaxaquea costume. Rosita had made one for La Patria to wear on September 16. Most Santa Cruz mothers had that style of dress, a full-gored skirt set into a white, lace-trimmed blouse, with a rebozo crossed on the chest. Rosita had one made of silk which she later brought with her to Los An- geles, knotting her rebozo on her head in true Oaxaca Indian 155  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS fashion whenever she wore it. Our doll dresses were made of pink and lavender silk. I think all the little girls loved those two dolls the most; their dresses were easy to sew, and the dolls looked like Ro- sita when the dresses were finished. We had taken many movies of the preparation of the costumes. Then, to accompany the dolls to the Los Angeles schools, we took a posed shot of the dolls and the girls who had worked on them, though I had only a Brownie camera and one roll of film for it. We let Augustina be in the picture and hold a Yalalteca doll, since she had been so enthusiastic and had worked so hard. Even in the pic- ture she seems so shy; she would not look up into the camera. To conclude the saga of the dolls, they were brought to Los Angeles and packed in a fancy chest, with the story of their prepara- tion and this picture of the girls pasted in the lid. Thousands of Los Angeles school children, both of Anglo-Saxon and of Mexican ancestry, saw and touched them and looked at the picture of the Indian girls who had sewed the dresses, with Augustina standing with downcast eyes in the front row. The dolls went on tour with Rosita to schools in California in 1937. A home-economics class in Los Angeles dressed eight beautiful little china dolls in American clothes, play clothes and school clothes, packed them in another chest, and sent them back to Mr. Ximello for the children of Santa Cruz Etla. But a year and a half passed before they arrived. Mr. Ximello was no longer director; Rosita did not know of their whereabouts when we were with her at Don Julio's in 1938. I hope only that some little Indian girls in some Oaxaca village had a chance to love them. At least Augustina got a doll. I was determined to buy her one and dress it for her myself, after all the costume dolls were finished. I intended to make the purchase on our last trip that summer to the Oaxaca market, the time we went in Don Martin's oxcart. My husband and I, Rosita, Dona Rafaela, all went. There was room to squeeze in Augustina, too-Augustina who had never seen a paved street, nor a glass window, nor a two-story house. She sat crouched at Doia Rafaela's feet without saying a word all through the trip, even though the oxen ran the cart into a ditch near the city when 156 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS fashion whenever she wore it. Our doll dresses were made of pink and lavender silk. I think all the little girls loved those two dolls the most; their dresses were easy to sew, and the dolls looked like Ro- sita when the dresses were finished. We had taken many movies of the preparation of the costumes. Then, to accompany the dolls to the Los Angeles schools, we took a posed shot of the dolls and the girls who had worked on them, though I had only a Brownie camera and one roll of film for it. We let Augustina be in the picture and hold a Yalalteca doll, since she had been so enthusiastic and had worked so hard. Even in the pic- ture she seems so shy; she would not look up into the camera. To conclude the saga of the dolls, they were brought to Los Angeles and packed in a fancy chest, with the story of their prepara- tion and this picture of the girls pasted in the lid. Thousands of Los Angeles school children, both of Anglo-Saxon and of Mexican ancestry, saw and touched them and looked at the picture of the Indian girls who had sewed the dresses, with Augustina standing with downcast eyes in the front row. The dolls went on tour with Rosita to schools in California in 1937. A home-economics class in Los Angeles dressed eight beautiful little china dolls in American clothes, play clothes and school clothes, packed them in another chest, and sent them back to Mr. Ximello for the children of Santa Cruz Etla. But a year and a half passed before they arrived. Mr. Ximello was no longer director; Rosita did not know of their whereabouts when we were with her at Don Julio's in 1938. I hope only that some little Indian girls in some Oaxaca village had a chance to love them. At least Augustina got a doll. I was determined to buy her one and dress it for her myself, after all the costume dolls were finished. I intended to make the purchase on our last trip that summer to the Oaxaca market, the time we went in Don Martin's oxcart. My husband and I, Rosita, Doa Rafaela, all went. There was room to squeeze in Augustina, too-Augustina who had never seen a paved street, nor a glass window, nor a two-story house. She sat crouched at Doda Rafaela's feet without saying a word all through the trip, even though the oxen ran the cart into a ditch near the city when 156 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS fashion whenever she wore it. Our doll dresses were made of pink and lavender silk. I think all the little girls loved those two dolls the most; their dresses were easy to sew, and the dolls looked like Ro- sita when the dresses were finished. We had taken many movies of the preparation of the costumes. Then, to accompany the dolls to the Los Angeles schools, we took a posed shot of the dolls and the girls who had worked on them, though I had only a Brownie camera and one roll of film for it. We let Augustina be in the picture and hold a Yalalteca doll, since she had been so enthusiastic and had worked so hard. Even in the pic- ture she seems so shy; she would not look up into the camera. To conclude the saga of the dolls, they were brought to Los Angeles and packed in a fancy chest, with the story of their prepara- tion and this picture of the girls pasted in the lid. Thousands of Los Angeles school children, both of Anglo-Saxon and of Mexican ancestry, saw and touched them and looked at the picture of the Indian girls who had sewed the dresses, with Augustina standing with downcast eyes in the front row. The dolls went on tour with Rosita to schools in California in 1937. A home-economics class in Los Angeles dressed eight beautiful little china dolls in American clothes, play clothes and school clothes, packed them in another chest, and sent them back to Mr. Ximello for the children of Santa Cruz Etla. But a year and a half passed before they arrived. Mr. Ximello was no longer director; Rosita did not know of their whereabouts when we were with her at Don Julio's in 1938. I hope only that some little Indian girls in some Oaxaca village had a chance to love them. At least Augustina got a doll. I was determined to buy her one and dress it for her myself, after all the costume dolls were finished. I intended to make the purchase on our last trip that summer to the Oaxaca market, the time we went in Don Martin's oxcart. My husband and I, Rosita, Dofia Rafaela, all went. There was room to squeeze in Augustina, too-Augustina who had never seen a paved street, nor a glass window, nor a two-story house. She sat crouched at Dona Rafaela's feet without saying a word all through the trip, even though the oxen ran the cart into a ditch near the city when 156  AUGUSTINA the train went by. She pattered along behind us at the market and sat swinging her legs from a high bench in the big Oaxaca plaza. She was most fascinated with the automobiles. Even then there were ten or twelve taxis in Oaxaca, and a bus which ran all around the residential district on the outskirts of town. My husband, sitting in the park with Augustina while Rosita and I finished shopping, had the great idea for the climax to Au- gustina's day. When the bus came next to the plaza, he paid four fares and took her on the three-mile trip all round the town, twice. Still she had nothing to say. Words were inadequate for the wood- land sprite. The only doll I could find her, since we had already bought up the town supply, was a ten-inch celluloid kewpie doll, with a turnip-top knot and little blue wings at the shoulders. It was very fat and was, of course, completely naked. I was embar- rassed for it in Santa Cruz Etla. I wrote in the diary about it the next day: "It is a wiser purchase than I thought, for everyone is so delighted with it. I promised to make some clothes for it, as its nakedness shocks even its most enthusiastic admirers. I explained that it is neither a boy nor a girl, and is supposed to be a sort of an angel. I spent all morning making it two little dresses out of the rest of the scraps and helping Augustina put them on and off." A week later I wrote: "Dona Eneiqueta wanted to know in what part of the United States the babies looked like Augustina's kewpie, and I have to explain again that it is an angelito." Perhaps Santa Cruz Etla people still think today that when babies die they go happily to a heaven full of kewpies. But the Augustina story does not end happily. We asked for her in 1938, that day at Don Julio's, when Rosita had already been gone from the school a year; and we were told that she had been living with her father for the past two years, and that no one ever saw her pass on the trails. She had vanished from sight. I inquired in vain about her many times during the days I spent at Doffa Este- fana's in 1944. When Rosita was with me for a week end the follow- ing year at Dona Patrocina's, a shy young Indian mother slipped from behind the mango trees. Rosita recognized her immediately. "It is Augustina," she called out. 157 AUGUSTINA the train went by. She pattered along behind us at the market and sat swinging her legs from a high bench in the big Oaxaca plaza. She was most fascinated with the automobiles. Even then there were ten or twelve taxis in Oaxaca, and a bus which ran all around the residential district on the outskirts of town. My husband, sitting in the park with Augustina while Rosita and I finished shopping, had the great idea for the climax to Au- gustina's day. When the bus came next to the plaza, he paid four fares and took her on the three-mile trip all round the town, twice. Still she had nothing to say. Words were inadequate for the wood- land sprite. The only doll I could find her, since we had already bought up the town supply, was a ten-inch celluloid kewpie doll, with a turnip-top knot and little blue wings at the shoulders. It was very fat and was, of course, completely naked. I was embar- rassed for it in Santa Cruz Etla. I wrote in the diary about it the next day: "It is a wiser purchase than I thought, for everyone is so delighted with it. I promised to make some clothes for it, as its nakedness shocks even its most enthusiastic admirers. I explained that it is neither a boy nor a girl, and is supposed to be a sort of an angel. I spent all morning making it two little dresses out of the rest of the scraps and helping Augustina put them on and off." A week later I wrote: "Dona Enriqueta wanted to know in what part of the United States the babies looked like Augustina's kewpie, and I have to explain again that it is an angelito." Perhaps Santa Cruz Etla people still think today that when babies die they go happily to a heaven full of kewpies. But the Augustina story does not end happily. We asked for her in 1938, that day at Don Julio's, when Rosita had already been gone from the school a year; and we were told that she had been living with her father for the past two years, and that no one ever saw her pass on the trails. She had vanished from sight. I inquired in vain about her many times during the days I spent at Dofia Este- fana's in 1944. When Rosita was with me for a week end the follow- ing year at Dofia Patrocina's, a shy young Indian mother slipped from behind the mango trees. Rosita recognized her immediately. "It is Augustina," she called out. 157 AUGUSTINA the train went by. She pattered along behind us at the market and sat swinging her legs from a high bench in the big Oaxaca plaza. She was most fascinated with the automobiles. Even then there were ten or twelve taxis in Oaxaca, and a bus which ran all around the residential district on the outskirts of town. My husband, sitting in the park with Augustina while Rosita and I finished shopping, had the great idea for the climax to Au- gustina's day. When the bus came next to the plaza, he paid four fares and took her on the three-mile trip all round the town, twice. Still she had nothing to say. Words were inadequate for the wood- land sprite. The only doll I could find her, since we had already bought up the town supply, was a ten-inch celluloid kewpie doll, with a turnip-top knot and little blue wings at the shoulders. It was very fat and was, of course, completely naked. I was embar- rassed for it in Santa Cruz Etla. I wrote in the diary about it the next day: "It is a wiser purchase than I thought, for everyone is so delighted with it. I promised to make some clothes for it, as its nakedness shocks even its most enthusiastic admirers. I explained that it is neither a boy nor a girl, and is supposed to be a sort of an angel. I spent all morning making it two little dresses out of the rest of the scraps and helping Augustina put them on and off." A week later I wrote: "Doffa Enriqueta wanted to know in what part of the United States the babies looked like Augustina's kewpie, and I have to explain again that it is an angelito." Perhaps Santa Cruz Etla people still think today that when babies die they go happily to a heaven full of kewpies. But the Augustina story does not end happily. We asked for her in 1938, that day at Don Julio's, when Rosita had already been gone from the school a year; and we were told that she had been living with her father for the past two years, and that no one ever saw her pass on the trails. She had vanished from sight. I inquired in vain about her many times during the days I spent at Dofa Est- fana's in 1944. When Rosita was with me for a week end the follow- ing year at Dofia Patrocina's, a shy young Indian mother slipped from behind the mango trees. Rosita recognized her immediately. "It is Augustina," she called out. 157  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Augustina had been married at fifteen to a Juan Lopez, a third son in a crowded family on the San Sebastian ridge, near Don NIar- ciano's. It would have been following the custom for Augustina to bring a bridal chest and a metate and to move into the one-room Ldpez shack. But she and Juan Ldpez had decided otherwise. They had gone above the highest woodcutter's hut on the trail up to the sierra, where they had built a thatch and bamboo shack. When we saw her at Dona Patrocina's she had a sickly son about two years old who was still sucking at the breast. She was willing to pose for a Kodachrome picture with the baby, but she had very little to say to Rosita, and nothing but shy smiles for me. Afterwards I tried to find her little house up the sierra when I was out on el caballAo, but I could not locate it. In 1951 Dona Patrocina, who knew I had always been inter- ested in Augustina, volunteered for me the information that the baby had died. Augustina had brought it to Dona Patrocina for treat- ment; the cure woman had told her to bring lard and alcohol, and to come back the next day. These things weere luxuries to Augustina, no doubt, and she had never come back. Members of the Lopez fam- ily, always unfriendly to people on the central ridge, told Dona Patrocina that the baby had died "doubtless because that foreign woman had taken its picture," a very distressing comment for Dcoa Patrocina, who hesitated to pass it along to me. In 1952, however, the cure woman went up the sierra on burro-back to deliver another, healthier child, a girl this time; and as far as she or anyone knew. this child thrived. I asked all the people, especially the woodcut- ters, to get word up to Augustina in 1954 that I was there at Don Martin's and wanted to see her for more photos, a mistake perhaps, for she did not come near and never exposed this new baby to "the evil eye." Neither Doa Patrocisa nor I ever saw her husband. Since they own no corn land and must depend on the woodcutting, he is always gone from dawn to dark, even depending on others in his family to market his wood for him in the city. How lonesome Augustina must be up there, four miles above the school and the mill. On the face of it, she seems the only pitiful one, now, of all the children whom I 158 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Augustina had been married at fifteen to a Juan Lopez, a third son in a crowded family on the San Sebastian ridge, near Don lar- ciano's. It would have been following the custom for Augustina to bring a bridal chest and a metate and to move into the one-room Ldpez shack. But she and Juan Lipez had decided otherwise. Thee had gone above the highest woodcutter's hut on the trail up to the sierra, where they had built a thatch and bamboo shack. When we saw her at Dona Patrocina's she had a sickly son about two years old who was still sucking at the breast. She was willing to pose for a Kodachrome picture with the baby, but she had very little to say to Rosita, and nothing but shy smiles for me. Afterwards I tried to find her little house up the sierra when I was out on el cabalao, but I could not locate it. In 1951 Dona Patrocina, who knew I had always been inter- ested in Augustina, volunteered for me the information that the baby had died. Augustina had brought it to Dona Patrocina for treat- ment; the cure woman had told her to bring lard and alcohol, and to come back the next day. These things were luxuries to Augustina, no doubt, and she had never come back. Members of the Lopez fam- ily, always unfriendly to people on the central ridge, told Dona Patrocina that the baby had died "doubtless because that foreign woman had taken its picture," a very distressing comment for Dcna Patrocina, who hesitated to pass it along to me. In 1952, however, the cure woman went up the sierra on burro-back to deliver another, healthier child, a girl this time; and as far as she or anyone knew, this child thrived. I asked all the people, especially the woodcut- ters, to get word up to Augustina in 1954 that I was there at Don Martin's and wanted to see her for more photos, a mistake perhaps, for she did not come near and never exposed this new baby to "the evil eye." Neither Dona Patrocina nor I ever saw her husband. Since they own no corn land and must depend on the woodcutting, he is always gone from dawn to dark, even depending on others in his family to market his wood for him in the city. How lonesome Augustina must be up there, four miles above the school and the mill. On the face of it, she seems the only pitiful one, now, of all the children whom I 158 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Augustina had been married at fifteen to a Juan Ldpez, a third son in a crowded family on the San Sebastian ridge, near Don lar- ciano's. It would have been following the custom for Augustina to bring a bridal chest and a metate and to move into the one-room Lopez shack. But she and Juan Lopez had decided otherwise. They had gone above the highest woodcutter's hut on the trail up to the sierra, where they had built a thatch and bamboo shack. When we saw her at Dona Patrocina's she had a sickly son about two years old who was still sucking at the breast. She was willing to pose for a Kodachrome picture with the baby, but she had very little to say to Rosita, and nothing but shy smiles for me. Afterwards I tried to find her little house up the sierra when I was out on el caballo, but I could not locate it. In 1951 Dona Patrocina, who knew I had always been inter- ested in Augustina, volunteered for me the information that the baby had died. Augustina had brought it to Dona Patrocina for treat- ment; the cure woman had told her to bring lard and alcohol, and to come back the next day. These things were luxuries to Augustina, no doubt, and she had never come back. Members of the Lopez fam- ily, always unfriendly to people on the central ridge, told Dona Patrocina that the baby had died "doubtless because that foreign woman had taken its picture," a very distressing comment for Defa Patrocina, who hesitated to pass it along to me. In 1952, however, the cure woman went up the sierra on burro-back to deliver another, healthier child, a girl this time; and as far as she or anyone knew, this child thrived. I asked all the people, especially the woodcut- ters, to get word up to Augustina in 1954 that I was there at Don Martin's and wanted to see her for more photos, a mistake perhaps, for she did not come near and never exposed this new baby to "the evil eye." Neither Dona Patrocina nor I ever saw her husband. Since they own no corn land and must depend on the woodcutting, he is always gone from dawn to dark, even depending on others in his family to market his wood for him in the city. How lonesome Augustina must be up there, four miles above the school and the mill. On the face of it, she seems the only pitiful one, now, of all the children whom I 158  CRESCENCIO knew in 1934. She has probably forgotten how to read; she has never again had a glimpse of that outside world she saw when she washed our dishes, dressed the dolls, rode the bus in Oaxaca City, and owned a kewpie. In comparison to Chabella, she is no credit to Rosita's program. But she is independent. She runs no errands for a mother-in-law. Her house is her own house; no one tells her anything. She has lost a baby, but she has another, and she is barely thirty. Who knows but that she is happier than Esperanza or Juanita? At any rate, she is a mountain sprite who still lives on the mountain. 44A WE wERE GIvEN a big send-off fiesta when we left the happy life of the school in 1934, that fiesta at which we were donated all the flowers left over from the baby's funeral the day before. In connec- tion with that celebration we always will remember one child, Crescencio, the youngest of Dona Paula's three very ragged and neglected sons, and the "bad-boy" comic character around the school porch all that summer, twenty-five years ago. The internal conflict between his shyness and refusal to speak on the one hand, and his large bump of curiosity on the other, was always getting him into difficulties. He was one of the first children whom we had known by name during our stay at the school. I wrote in the third day's entry of my 1934 diary: "There is a child named Crescencio, the neighborhood comedian, who climbs mango trees when he has only a rag or two on, and who simply lives off mangoes." He looked like the poorest city beggar, his hair an uncombed shock, his face always dirty, his shirt and pants blackened and tattered shreds. When we woke up in the morning, his seven-year-old face would be peering around the school door. He was five or ten feet behind us everywhere we went. When Rosita spoke to him, he would dart away like a frightened animal; but he always came back. My hus- band won his confidence by making him paper pinwheels, and since 159 CRESCENCIO knew in 1934. She has probably forgotten how to read; she has never again had a glimpse of that outside world she saw when she washed our dishes, dressed the dolls, rode the bus in Oaxaca City, and owned a kewpie. In comparison to Chabella, she is no credit to Rosita's program. But she is independent. She runs no errands for a mother-in-law. Her house is her own house; no one tells her anything. She has lost a baby, but she has another, and she is barely thirty. Who knows but that she is happier than Esperanza or Juanita? At any rate, she is a mountain sprite who still lives on the mountain. +4A WE wERE GIVEN a big send-off fiesta when we left the happy life of the school in 1934, that fiesta at which we were donated all the flowers left over from the baby's funeral the day before. In connec- tion with that celebration we always will remember one child, Crescencio, the youngest of Dona Paula's three very ragged and neglected sons, and the "bad-boy" comic character around the school porch all that summer, twenty-five years ago. The internal conflict between his shyness and refusal to speak on the one hand, and his large bump of curiosity on the other, was always getting him into difficulties. He was one of the first children whom we had known by name during our stay at the school. I wrote in the third day's entry of my 1934 diary: "There is a child named Crescencio, the neighborhood comedian, who climbs mango trees when he has only a rag or two on, and who simply lives off mangoes." He looked like the poorest city beggar, his hair an uncombed shock, his face always dirty, his shirt and pants blackened and tattered shreds. When we woke up in the morning, his seven-year-old face would be peering around the school door. He was five or ten feet behind us everywhere we went. When Rosita spoke to him, he would dart away like a frightened animal; but he always came back. My hus- band won his confidence by making him paper pinwheels, and since 159 CRESCENCIO knew in 1934. She has probably forgotten how to read; she has never again had a glimpse of that outside world she saw when she washed our dishes, dressed the dolls, rode the bus in Oaxaca City, and owned a kewpie. In comparison to Chabella, she is no credit to Rosita's program. But she is independent. She runs no errands for a mother-in-law. Her house is her own house; no one tells her anything. She has lost a baby, but she has another, and she is barely thirty. Who knows but that she is happier than Esperanza or Juanita? At any rate, she is a mountain sprite who still lives on the mountain. m4 A WE wERE GIvEN a big send-off fiesta when we left the happy life of the school in 1934, that fiesta at which we were donated all the flowers left over from the baby's funeral the day before. In connec- tion with that celebration we always will remember one child, Crescencio, the youngest of Dona Paula's three very ragged and neglected sons, and the "bad-boy" comic character around the school porch all that summer, twenty-five years ago. The internal conflict between his shyness and refusal to speak on the one hand, and his large bump of curiosity on the other, was always getting him into dificulties. He was one of the first children whom we had known by name during our stay at the school. I wrote in the third day's entry of my 1934 diary: "There is a child named Crescencio, the neighborhood comedian, who climbs mango trees when he has only a rag or two on, and who simply lives off mangoes." He looked like the poorest city beggar, his hair an uncombed shock, his face always dirty, his shirt and pants blackened and tattered shreds. When we woke up in the morning, his seven-year-old face would be peering around the school door. He was five or ten feet behind us everywhere we went. When Rosita spoke to him, he would dart away like a frightened animal; but he always came back. My hus- band won his confidence by making him paper pinwheels, and since 159  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he could not understand Crescencio's words anyway, they got along splendidly without talking. He is in every movie shot we took at the school in 1934, his mouth full of mangoes, his stomach protruding. Show a picture of an oxcart loaded with firewood for the market, Crescencio is seen hanging on behind as the the cart passes the camera. Show a sequence of school classes, children busily taking drawing lessons from me on the school porch, Crescencio is seen eating mangoes under the table. In a sequence in which Rosita is di- recting work in the garden, Crescencio is climbing up a tree in the background. In such a purely feminine activity as the sewing for the dolls, Crescencio peers between two girls' heads as they work. But actually studying in classes, never! He was supposed to have been registered in the primary class, and he listened outside on the porch while the children learned to count out loud up to fifty. This was done in a singsong way, in unison, and seemed to Crescencio like a tune. Through this song he found his voice and went around singing "thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, forty-one, forty-two, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty," which really sounds much more musical in Spanish than in English. He had a nice voice for a little boy, and his song pleased Rosita. Soon we were all singing cuarenta y ocho, cuarenta y nuece, cincuenta. He never learned to write down the figures, though. He had every excuse to be around the school. Dona Paula's old mother lived with her then, though she died in the early winter of 1934. That summer she was helping augment the little money the widowed Dona Paula could get from selling flowers by making the tortillas for the teacher's family-for Rosita herself, Uncle Octaviano who spent months at a time up in Santa Cruz, Dona Rafaela, and then for us. Crescencio was expected to carry the water, collect the wood, and make the fire for old Dona Nobarra's work. It was Dona Nobarra who tried to teach me to make tortillas, a thing I have not mastered to this day. Dona Nobarra hardly figures in this book, for she never exchanged conversation with anyone, not even during a lesson in tortilla making; she was as shy as Crescencio and as much a recluse as Dona Paula. But she did provide the excuse for Cres- cencio's being always around the school. 160 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he could not understand Crescencio's words anyway, they got along splendidly without talking. He is in every movie shot we took at the school in 1934, his mouth full of mangoes, his stomach protruding. Show a picture of an oxcart loaded with firewood for the market, Crescencio is seen hanging on behind as the the cart passes the camera. Show a sequence of school classes, children busily taking drawing lessons from me on the school porch, Crescencio is seen eating mangoes under the table. In a sequence in which Rosita is di- recting work in the garden, Crescencio is climbing up a tree in the background. In such a purely feminine activity as the sewing for the dolls, Crescencio peers between two girls' heads as they work. But actually studying in classes, never! He was supposed to have been registered in the primary class, and he listened outside on the porch while the children learned to count out loud up to fifty. This was done in a singsong way, in unison, and seemed to Crescencio like a tune. Through this song he found his voice and went around singing "thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, forty-one, forty-two, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty," which really sounds much more musical in Spanish than in English. He had a nice voice for a little boy, and his song pleased Rosita. Soon we were all singing cuarenta y ocho, cuarenta y nuee, cincuenta. He never learned to write down the figures, though. He had every excuse to be around the school. Dona Paula's old mother lived with her then, though she died in the early winter of 1934. That summer she was helping augment the little money the widowed Dona Paula could get from selling flowers by making the tortillas for the teacher's family-for Rosita herself, Uncle Octaviano who spent months at a time up in Santa Cruz, Dona Rafaela, and then for us. Crescencio was expected to carry the water, collect the wood, and make the fire for old Dona Nobarra's work. It was Dona Nobarra who tried to teach me to make tortillas, a thing I have not mastered to this day. Dona Nobarra hardly figures in this book, for she never exchanged conversation with anyone, not even during a lesson in tortilla making; she was as shy as Crescencio and as much a recluse as Dona Paula. But she did provide the excuse for Cres- cencio's being always around the school. 160 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he could not understand Crescencio's words anyway, they got along splendidly without talking. He is in every movie shot we took at the school in 1934, his mouth full of mangoes, his stomach protruding. Show a picture of an oxcart loaded with firewood for the market, Crescencio is seen hanging on behind as the the cart passes the camera. Show a sequence of school classes, children busily taking drawing lessons from me on the school porch, Crescencio is seen eating mangoes under the table. In a sequence in which Rosita is di- recting work in the garden, Crescencio is climbing up a tree in the background. In such a purely feminine activity as the sewing for the dolls, Crescencio peers between two girls' heads as they work. But actually studying in classes, never! He was supposed to have been registered in the primary class, and he listened outside on the porch while the children learned to count out loud up to fifty. This was done in a singsong way, in unison, and seemed to Crescencio like a tune. Through this song he found his voice and went around singing "thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, forty-one, forty-two, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty," which really sounds much more musical in Spanish than in English. He had a nice voice for a little boy, and his song pleased Rosita. Soon we were all singing cuarenta y ocho, cuarenta y nueoe, cincuenta. He never learned to write down the figures, though. He had every excuse to be around the school. Dona Paula's old mother lived with her then, though she died in the early winter of 1934. That summer she was helping augment the little money the widowed Dona Paula could get from selling flowers by making the tortillas for the teacher's family-for Rosita herself, Uncle Octaviano who spent months at a time up in Santa Cruz, Dona Rafaela, and then for us. Crescencio was expected to carry the water, collect the wood, and make the fire for old Dona Nobarra's work. It was Dona Nobarra who tried to teach me to make tortillas, a thing I have not mastered to this day. Dona Nobarra hardly figures in this book, for she never exchanged conversation with anyone, not even during a lesson in tortilla making; she was as shy as Crescencio and as much a recluse as Dona Paula. But she did provide the excuse for Cres- cencio's being always around the school. 160  CRESCENCIO Rosita decided that the whole school and grounds should be cleaned for our farewell fiesta. She set the children to pulling the weeds out of the brook, sandpapering off the tops of the desks, sweeping dead weeds off the open place between the school and the municipio. Crescencio was everywhere very much in evidence, changing jobs very two or three minutes. I was working on the porch with the members of Los Policias, helping make wreaths of the greens which had been cut down at el rio in the morning. Rosita and the children were pruning the rosebushes, throwing away wilted flowers, and even some good ones. It was Crescencio who thought of sticking the flowers around in the wreaths. He kept at one job after that, running back and forth from the porch to the garden. The wreaths were tacked up all round the arcade, and the silent Crescencio himself was moved to exclaim over the beautiful effect. I was greatly flattered then, and I still am to this day, when I thought of Rosita's fancy preparation and decoration for our fiesta of that year. I understand that the school porch has been decorated with rose wreaths on only that one occasion in its nearly thirty years as center of the town. Then, too, we had all those flowers from the angelito at Don Martin's. The fiesta began after the midday meal the day after the angelito and lasted well into the night. Night affairs were quite the thing in the days of Rosita because she owned a beautiful Coleman light. I would have given a new Cole- man light to the school as a present long ago, but only Uncle Octa- viano ever knew how to pump it up and generate it. It made a wonderful light for the fiesta; everyone called it la luz; even the faded roses in the wreaths showed up in its reflection. My husband and I sat surrounded by the banks of flowers, as fine as any two angelitos. This was where we first got a taste of how well Rosita herself could dance and sing the songs of Oaxaca for the students and teachers of Los Angeles. All the Santa Cruz musicians were there to help her; the children did group dances in time to the town musicians. Nico and Juanita, both then about twelve, did the jarabe, which is the national dance of Mexico. Children very seldom get a chance to take a major part in an official Santa Cruz fiesta, 161 CRESCENCIO Rosita decided that the whole school and grounds should be cleaned for our farewell fiesta. She set the children to pulling the weeds out of the brook, sandpapering off the tops of the desks, sweeping dead weeds off the open place between the school and the municipio. Crescencio was everywhere very much in evidence, changing jobs very two or three minutes. I was working on the porch with the members of Los Policias, helping make wreaths of the greens which had been cut down at el rio in the morning. Rosita and the children were pruning the rosebushes, throwing away wilted flowers, and even some good ones. It was Crescencio who thought of sticking the flowers around in the wreaths. He kept at one job after that, running back and forth from the porch to the garden. The wreaths were tacked up all round the arcade, and the silent Crescencio himself was moved to exclaim over the beautiful effect. I was greatly flattered then, and I still am to this day, when I thought of Rosita's fancy preparation and decoration for our fiesta of that year. I understand that the school porch has been decorated with rose wreaths on only that one occasion in its nearly thirty years as center of the town. Then, too, we had all those flowers from the angelito at Don Martin's. The fiesta began after the midday meal the day after the angelito and lasted well into the night. Night affairs were quite the thing in the days of Rosita because she owned a beautiful Coleman light. I would have given a new Cole- man light to the school as a present long ago, but only Uncle Octa- viano ever knew how to pump it up and generate it. It made a wonderful light for the fiesta; everyone called it la luz; even the faded roses in the wreaths showed up in its reflection. My husband and I sat surrounded by the banks of flowers, as fine as any two angelitos. This was where we first got a taste of how well Rosita herself could dance and sing the songs of Oaxaca for the students and teachers of Los Angeles. All the Santa Cruz musicians were there to help her; the children did group dances in time to the town musicians. Nico and Juanita, both then about twelve, did the jarabe, which is the national dance of Mexico. Children very seldom get a chance to take a major part in an official Santa Cruz fiesta, 161 CRESCENCIO Rosita decided that the whole school and grounds should be cleaned for our farewell fiesta. She set the children to pulling the weeds out of the brook, sandpapering off the tops of the desks, sweeping dead weeds off the open place between the school and the municipio. Crescencio was everywhere very much in evidence, changing jobs very two or three minutes. I was working on the porch with the members of Los Policias, helping make wreaths of the greens which had been cut down at el rio in the morning. Rosita and the children were pruning the rosebushes, throwing away wilted flowers, and even some good ones. It was Crescencio who thought of sticking the flowers around in the wreaths. He kept at one job after that, running back and forth from the porch to the garden. The wreaths were tacked up all round the arcade, and the silent Crescencio himself was moved to exclaim over the beautiful effect. I was greatly flattered then, and I still am to this day, when I thought of Rosita's fancy preparation and decoration for our fiesta of that year. I understand that the school porch has been decorated with rose wreaths on only that one occasion in its nearly thirty years as center of the town. Then, too, we had all those flowers from the angelito at Don Martin's. The fiesta began after the midday meal the day after the angelito and lasted well into the night. Night affairs were quite the thing in the days of Rosita because she owned a beautiful Coleman light. I would have given a new Cole- man light to the school as a present long ago, but only Uncle Octa- viano ever knew how to pump it up and generate it. It made a wonderful light for the fiesta; everyone called it la luz; even the faded roses in the wreaths showed up in its reflection. My husband and I sat surrounded by the banks of flowers, as fine as any two angelitos. This was where we first got a taste of how well Rosita herself could dance and sing the songs of Oaxaca for the students and teachers of Los Angeles. All the Santa Cruz musicians were there to help her; the children did group dances in time to the town musicians. Nico and Juanita, both then about twelve, did the jarabe, which is the national dance of Mexico. Children very seldom get a chance to take a major part in an official Santa Cruz fiesta, 161  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS as they did that night; in fact, this is the only time a fiesta in con- nection with our coming or going has ever been "school-centered." All these performances by the children were followed by the usual adult speechmaking. I remember Rosita giving us a build-up. "They are teachers in schools with thousands of students. [We had both been teaching in Los Angeles' big city high schools.] They could have stayed all summer to dance in their own country. But they came to live with us, to help teach our children, to dance at our funerals." This brought rousing cheers. Don Martin was acting as master of ceremonies. He introduced the school numbers and Rosita's dances. El Maestro recited a long historic poem about Benito Juirez. Then Don Martin unexpectedly said: "The next number will be a song by Crescencio." Everyone clapped and laughed. We all knew, the whole town knew, just what it was that Crescencio could sing; and we appreci- ated Rosita's little joke. She had put Don Martin up to asking Crescencio as a last comic touch to the serious program. Crescencio the Show-off climbed to the pile of adobe bricks used as the school stage, still in his ragged clothes, stomach bare. Rosita had that very day shaved his head clean to kill the lice, and his face looked more comical than ever. He planted his feet apart, smiled at the crowd, and opened his mouth to sing cuarenta y uno, cuarento y dos. But Crescencio the Shy One suddenly backed down. His more timid personality won out, and he fell to his hands and knees, scurrying off the platform like a frightened rabbit. The crowd urged him and urged him to come back out from under the stage, and he finally consented to try once more. The same thing happened again. Rosita gave up the idea of presenting him on the program, and the musicians tuned up for a dance. Late into the night we danced, the children all still up watcing us. Finally three of the musicians went home. The town-council members, who had been freely passing around the tequila, were determined not to let the party break up. They made a second round of lengthy and dignified speeches, thanking us for spending the summer with them. They offered five-centavo pieces to any school child who could sing. Chabella, Juanita, and two little girls I don't 162 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS as they did that night; in fact, this is the only time a fiesta in con- nection with our coming or going has ever been "school-centered." All these performances by the children were followed by the usual adult speechmaking. I remember Rosita giving us a build-up. "They are teachers in schools with thousands of students. [We had both been teaching in Los Angeles' big city high schools.] They could have stayed all summer to dance in their own country. But they came to live with us, to help teach our children, to dance at our funerals." This brought rousing cheers. Don Martin was acting as master of ceremonies. He introduced the school numbers and Rosita's dances. El Maestro recited a long historic poem about Benito Juhrez. Then Don Martin unexpectedly said: "The next number will be a song by Crescencio." Everyone clapped and laughed. We all knew, the whole town knew, just what it was that Crescencio could sing; and we appreci- ated Rosita's little joke. She had put Don Martin up to asking Crescencio as a last comic touch to the serious program. Crescencio the Show-off climbed to the pile of adobe bricks used as the school stage, still in his ragged clothes, stomach bare. Rosita had that very day shaved his head clean to kill the lice, and his face looked more comical than ever. He planted his feet apart, smiled at the crowd, and opened his mouth to sing cuarenta y uno, cuarento y dos. But Crescencio the Shy One suddenly backed down. His more timid personality won out, and he fell to his hands and knees, scurrying off the platform like a frightened rabbit. The crowd urged him and urged him to come back out from under the stage, and he finally consented to try once more. The same thing happened again. Rosita gave up the idea of presenting him on the program, and the musicians tuned up for a dance. Late into the night we danced, the children all still up watching us. Finally three of the musicians went home. The town-council members, who had been freely passing around the tequila, were determined not to let the party break up. They made a second round of lengthy and dignified speeches, thanking us for spending the summer with them. They offered five-centavo pieces to any school child who could sing. Chabella, Juanita, and two little girls I don't 162 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS as they did that night; in fact, this is the only time a fiesta in con- nection with our coming or going has ever been "school-centered." All these performances by the children were followed by the usual adult speechmaking. I remember Rosita giving us a build-up. "They are teachers in schools with thousands of students. [We had both been teaching in Los Angeles' big city high schools.] They could have stayed all summer to dance in their own country. But they came to live with us, to help teach our children, to dance at our funerals." This brought rousing cheers. Don Martin was acting as master of ceremonies. He introduced the school numbers and Rosita's dances. El Maestro recited a long historic poem about Benito Juirez. Then Don Msartin unexpectedly said: "The next number will be a song by Crescencio." Everyone clapped and laughed. We all knew, the whole town knew, just what it was that Crescencio could sing; and we appreci- ated Rosita's little joke. She had put Don Martin up to asking Crescencio as a last comic touch to the serious program. Crescencio the Show-off climbed to the pile of adobe bricks used as the school stage, still in his ragged clothes, stomach bare. Rosita had that very day shaved his head clean to kill the lice. and his face looked more comical than ever. He planted his feet apart, smiled at the crowd, and opened his mouth to sing cuarenta y uno, cuarento y dos. But Crescencio the Shy One suddenly backed down. His more timid personality won out, and he fell to his hands and knees, scurrying off the platform like a frightened rabbit. The crowd urged him and urged him to come back out from under the stage, and he finally consented to try once more. The same thing happened again. Rosita gave up the idea of presenting him on the program, and the musicians tuned up for a dance. Late into the night we danced, the children all still up watching us. Finally three of the musicians went home. The town-council members, who had been freely passing around the tequila, were determined not to let the party break up. They made a second round of lengthy and dignified speeches, thanking us for spending the summer with them. They offered five-centavo pieces to any school child who could sing. Chabella, Juanita, and two little girls I don't 162  CRESCENCIO remember had the courage to do so, to the tune of Rosita's guitar. They were loudly applauded. Then someone remembered Crescencio. He was found sitting in a fork of his mother's mango tree, looking down from the dark onto the lighted festivities. Someone held up a five-centavo piece so he could see it in the light; a second man held up another. I am sure Crescencio had never had a five-centavo piece in his life. He climbed down out of the mango tree and up onto the stage again. But two failures had made him even more scared than before. He began to tremble and stood still as if glued to the spot. The audience was with him. More five-centavo pieces were offered, until every man left on the school porch had put up money to hear Crescencio sing. The money amounted to more than a peso. In those days he could have purchased a new shirt with it to cover his bare little brown stomach. Alas, no words, no numbers would come out. Finally, he "unfroze" and was able to get down off the stage, only to run home in tears at the struggle between his two personalities. He was as much in evidence as ever the next day. I was packing our stuff while Rosita and some members of her Mothers' Club watched me. I was giving things away right and left, brushes and paint and paper to the school, mattress pads and dishes and knives and forks to Doia Rafaela, and to members of the Mothers' Club. For Rosita to use in the community I left all the first-aid supplies we had, some cotton, some needles, some scissors, and three cakes of Life Buoy soap. I have never been able to give so much away again, because I have always brought less in the first place and have always used more of it up. Perhaps the people have often been disappointed. But to Crescencio that day, Crescencio who stood around so hopefully while I packed in public, I suddenly decided to give a whole package of safety pins. I held him still while my husband pulled his rags together and pinned them in four different places. He was so pleased with this gift, which we meant as a joke, that my hus- band felt ashamed of making fun of the child and gave him his jack- knife. No man carried such a thing in the Etla Hills; everyone had 163 CRESCENCIO remember had the courage to do so, to the tune of Rosita's guitar. They were loudly applauded. Then someone remembered Crescencio. He was found sitting in a fork of his mother's mango tree, looking down from the dark onto the lighted festivities. Someone held up a five-centavo piece so he could see it in the light; a second man held up another. I am sure Crescencio had never had a five-centavo piece in his life. He climbed down out of the mango tree and up onto the stage again. But two failures had made him even more scared than before. He began to tremble and stood still as if glued to the spot. The audience was with him. More five-centavo pieces were offered, until every man left on the school porch had put up money to hear Crescencio sing. The money amounted to more than a peso. In those days he could have purchased a new shirt with it to cover his bare little brown stomach. Alas, no words, no numbers would come out. Finally, he "unfroze" and was able to get down off the stage, only to run home in tears at the struggle between his two personalities. He was as much in evidence as ever the next day. I was packing our stuff while Rosita and some members of her Mothers' Club watched me. I was giving things away right and left, brushes and paint and paper to the school, mattress pads and dishes and knives and forks to Dona Rafaela, and to members of the Mothers' Club. For Rosita to use in the community I left all the first-aid supplies we had, some cotton, some needles, some scissors, and three cakes of Life Buoy soap. I have never been able to give so much away again, because I have always brought less in the first place and have always used more of it up. Perhaps the people have often been disappointed. But to Crescencio that day, Crescencio who stood around so hopefully while I packed in public, I suddenly decided to give a whole package of safety pins. I held him still while my husband pulled his rags together and pinned them in four different places. He was so pleased with this gift, which we meant as a joke, that my hus- band felt ashamed of making fun of the child and gave him his jack- knife. No man carried such a thing in the Etla Hills; everyone had 163 CRESCENCIO remember had the courage to do so, to the tune of Rosita's guitar. They were loudly applauded. Then someone remembered Crescencio. He was found sitting in a fork of his mother's mango tree, looking down from the dark onto the lighted festivities. Someone held up a five-centavo piece so he could see it in the light; a second man held up another. I am sure Crescencio had never had a five-centavo piece in his life. He climbed down out of the mango tree and up onto the stage again. But two failures had made him even more scared than before. He began to tremble and stood still as if glued to the spot. The audience was with him. More five-centavo pieces were offered, until every man left on the school porch had put up money to hear Crescencio sing. The money amounted to more than a peso. In those days he could have purchased a new shirt with it to cover his bare little brown stomach. Alas, no words, no numbers would come out. Finally, he "unfroze" and was able to get down off the stage, only to run home in tears at the struggle between his two personalities. He was as much in evidence as ever the next day. I was packing our stuff while Rosita and some members of her Mothers' Club watched me. I was giving things away right and left, brushes and paint and paper to the school, mattress pads and dishes and knives and forks to Dona Rafaela, and to members of the Mothers' Club. For Rosita to use in the community I left all the first-aid supplies we had, some cotton, some needles, some scissors, and three cakes of Life Buoy soap. I have never been able to give so much away again, because I have always brought less in the first place and have always used more of it up. Perhaps the people have often been disappointed. But to Crescencio that day, Crescencio who stood around so hopefully while I packed in public, I suddenly decided to give a whole package of safety pins. I held him still while my husband pulled his rags together and pinned them in four different places. He was so pleased with this gift, which we meant as a joke, that my hus- band felt ashamed of making fun of the child and gave him his jack- knife. No man carried such a thing in the Etla Hills; everyone had 163  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS admired Don Enrique's use of it in cutting pinwheel sticks and whistles for the school children. Now it belonged to Crescencio for- ever; he still had it when I last saw him, in 1945, and doubtless still has it today. After the presentation of the jackknife, we gave him a silver peso, to make up for his theatrical failure the night before, with instructions to take it right to his mother for the purchase of a new shirt. The last shots in the movie show us getting into the back of Don Martin's oxcart, stowing our luggage, and waving goodbye to every- one as we set off for the train. El Maestro kept the camera to take pictures of our departure, so we could both be in the movies, and then ran after the oxcart to return it to us. A month later we had the pictures developed; sure enough, we could see little old Crescencio, hanging on behind, trying to hold his balance underneath the moving cart. We asked for him at Don Julio's in 1938. My brief diary notes taken then said, "Yes, Crescencio is still here, still shy, eating man- goes all day, peeking around the corners of the houses to watch us, only a little taller, that's all." But he grew up to be a very efficient woodcutter, a watcher of charcoal fires on whom many others de- pended, and finally to end up very far from Santa Cruz Etla. But that is all part of the account of the future of Santa Cruz, not of the past. TaE "DAYS oF Ros1TA" were followed by the era of that matrimonio, the married couple who thought of Santa Cruz Etla as such a fine place to teach, a school through which the former teacher bad received first a trip to the United States and then a promotion to Mitla. Disillusioned about their own professional advancement, they quit in 1939; and the rural school authorities ceased to think of the school as a prize job to be offered to the best available candi- dates. Mr. Ximello had been transferred to Mexico City; Rosita was 164 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS admired Don Enrique's use of it in cutting pinwheel sticks and whistles for the school children. Now it belonged to Crescencio for- ever; he still had it when I last saw him, in 1945, and doubtless still has it today. After the presentation of the jackknife, we gave him a silver peso, to make up for his theatrical failure the night before, with instructions to take it right to his mother for the purchase of a new shirt. The last shots in the movie show us getting into the back of Don Martin's oxcart, stowing our luggage, and waving goodbye to every- one as we set off for the train. El Maestro kept the camera to take pictures of our departure, so we could both be in the movies, and then ran after the oxcart to return it to us. A month later we had the pictures developed; sure enough, we could see little old Crescencio, hanging on behind, trying to hold his balance underneath the moving cart. We asked for him at Don Julio's in 1938. My brief diary notes taken then said, "Yes, Crescencio is still here, still shy, eating man- goes all day, peeking around the corners of the houses to watch us, only a little taller, that's all." But he grew up to be a very efficient woodcutter, a watcher of charcoal fires on whom many others de- pended, and finally to end up very far from Santa Cruz Etla. But that is all part of the account of the future of Santa Cruz, not of the past. THE "DAYS of RosrrA" were followed by the era of that matrimonio, the married couple who thought of Santa Cruz Etla as such a fine place to teach, a school through which the former teacher had received first a trip to the United States and then a promotion to Mitla. Disillusioned about their own professional advancement, they quit in 1939; and the rural school authorities ceased to think of the school as a prize job to be offered to the best available candi- dates. Mr. Ximello had been transferred to Mexico City; Rosita was 164 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS admired Don Enrique's use of it in cutting pinwheel sticks and whistles for the school children. Now it belonged to Crescencio for- ever; he still had it when I last saw him, in 1945, and doubtless still has it today. After the presentation of the jackknife, we gave him a silver peso, to make up for his theatrical failure the night before, with instructions to take it right to his mother for the purchase of a new shirt. The last shots in the movie show us getting into the back of Don Martin's oxcart, stowing our luggage, and waving goodbye to every- one as we set off for the train. El Maestro kept the camera to take pictures of our departure, so we could both be in the movies, and then ran after the oxcart to return it to us. A month later we had the pictures developed; sure enough, we could see little old Crescencio, hanging on behind, trying to hold his balance underneath the moving cart. We asked for him at Don Julio's in 1938. My brief diary notes taken then said, "Yes, Crescencio is still here, still shy, eating man- goes all day, peeking around the corners of the houses to watch us, only a little taller, that's all." But he grew up to be a very efficient woodcutter, a watcher of charcoal fires on whom many others de- pended, and finally to end up very far from Santa Cruz Etla. But that is all part of the account of the future of Santa Cruz, not of the past. *2%k 5 m TE "DAYS Oa ROSITA" were followed by the era of that matrimonio, the married couple who thought of Santa Cruz Etla as such a fine place to teach, a school through which the former teacher had received first a trip to the United States and then a promotion to Mitla. Disillusioned about their own professional advancement, they quit in 1939; and the rural school authorities ceased to think of the school as a prize job to be offered to the best available candi- dates. Mr. Ximello had been transferred to Mexico City; Rosita was 164  A DECADE IN BETWEEN in Mitla. Though the new teachers forgot that Rosita had earned her reputation in Santa Cruz Etla, the town itself did not forget, and made odious comparisons with her methods in front of any new teacher who came. Anyone assigned to the Santa Cruz school heard about her successes there right away, from children and from parents, and would have had a hard time doing as well. For this very reason, as a friend of the famous Rosita I felt ill at ease in front of the later teachers, and I never tried to make arrangements to live as a guest in the school building again. It did not seem like home to me, and I did not feel any warm welcome there. Besides, no later teacher offered to put the primary-class desks out on the porch so I could have the primary classroom for my own private living room and bedroom, as Rosita had done. By 1944 the school had gone downhill in other ways besides warmth and good will. There had been four different sets of teachers since the matrimonio. All idea of teaching there as a job of dignity and prestige was gone. A meek, mousy little primary teacher, Dona Ester Pacheco, lived in one of Rosita's rooms. A young Oaxaca man named Don Solomon, a good violinist, taught the upper class and was called principal of the school. Everyone in Santa Cruz Etla liked Don Solomon. He played with the town musicians for all fiestas held on weekdays. He helped Chico and Don Fausto and Esteban to read notes, and he gave them much of his old music. The children learned group folk dances from him and many new songs. But the garden went to weeds, the anima- litos were long since banished from the school, the painted designs chipped off and faded. When beams in the school roof sagged and Don Solomon took no interest, the school committee reflected his attitude, and none were repaired. When books wore out, none came to replace them. When there were no more paper and no more pencils, the children just quit having any practice in writing and arithmetic. Only thirty children were enrolled in the school, of whom only three had stayed to the fourth grade. When I arrived for my visit with Dona Estefana in 1944, Rosita was with me herself, having taken a day off her kindergarten job; and we came with the new rural director for Oaxaca in his camioneta, 165 A DECADE IN BETWEEN in Mitla. Though the new teachers forgot that Rosita had earned her reputation in Santa Cruz Etla, the town itself did not forget, and made odious comparisons with her methods in front of any new teacher who came. Anyone assigned to the Santa Cruz school heard about her successes there right away, from children and from parents, and would have had a hard time doing as well. For this very reason, as a friend of the famous Rosita I felt ill at ease in front of the later teachers, and I never tried to make arrangements to live as a guest in the school building again. It did not seem like home to me, and I did not feel any warm welcome there. Besides, no later teacher offered to put the primary-class desks out on the porch so I could have the primary classroom for my own private living room and bedroom, as Rosita had done. By 1944 the school had gone downhill in other ways besides warmth and good will. There had been four different sets of teachers since the matrimonio. All idea of teaching there as a job of dignity and prestige was gone. A meek, mousy little primary teacher, Dona Ester Pacheco, lived in one of Rosita's rooms. A young Oaxaca man named Don Solomon, a good violinist, taught the upper class and was called principal of the school. Everyone in Santa Cruz Etla liked Don Solomon. He played with the town musicians for all fiestas held on weekdays. He helped Chico and Don Fausto and Esteban to read notes, and he gave them much of his old music. The children learned group folk dances from him and many new songs. But the garden went to weeds, the anima- litos were long since banished from the school, the painted designs chipped off and faded. When beams in the school roof sagged and Don Solomon took no interest, the school committee reflected his attitude, and none were repaired. When books wore out, none came to replace them. When there were no more paper and no more pencils, the children just quit having any practice in writing and arithmetic. Only thirty children were enrolled in the school, of whom only three had stayed to the fourth grade. When I arrived for my visit with Dona Estefana in 1944, Rosita was with me herself, having taken a day off her kindergarten job; and we came with the new rural director for Oaxaca in his camioneta, 165 A DECADE IN BETWEEN in Mitla. Though the new teachers forgot that Rosita had earned her reputation in Santa Cruz Etla, the town itself did not forget, and made odious comparisons with her methods in front of any new teacher who came. Anyone assigned to the Santa Cruz school heard about her successes there right away, from children and from parents, and would have had a hard time doing as well. For this very reason, as a friend of the famous Rosita I felt ill at ease in front of the later teachers, and I never tried to make arrangements to live as a guest in the school building again. It did not seem like home to me, and I did not feel any warm welcome there. Besides, no later teacher offered to put the primary-class desks out on the porch so I could have the primary classroom for my own private living room and bedroom, as Rosita had done. By 1944 the school had gone downhill in other ways besides warmth and good will. There had been four different sets of teachers since the matrimonio. All idea of teaching there as a job of dignity and prestige was gone. A meek, mousy little primary teacher, Dona Ester Pacheco, lived in one of Rosita's rooms. A young Oaxaca man named Don Solomdn, a good violinist, taught the upper class and was called principal of the school. Everyone in Santa Cruz Etla liked Don Solomon. He played with the town musicians for all fiestas held on weekdays. He helped Chico and Don Fausto and Esteban to read notes, and he gave them much of his old music. The children learned group folk dances from him and many new songs. But the garden went to weeds, the anima- litos were long since banished from the school, the painted designs chipped off and faded. When beams in the school roof sagged and Don Solomon took no interest, the school committee reflected his attitude, and none were repaired. When books wore out, none came to replace them. When there were no more paper and no more pencils, the children just quit having any practice in writing and arithmetic. Only thirty children were enrolled in the school, of whom only three had stayed to the fourth grade. When I arrived for my visit with Dona Estefana in 1944, Rosita was with me herself, having taken a day off her kindergarten job; and we came with the new rural director for Oaxaca in his camioneta, 165  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS his station wagon. How we happened to do that is the beginning of another chapter; but suffice it to say here that Don Solomon's young wife, with whom he was none too happy, had just had a baby in Oaxaca City. For weeks he had been staying in Oaxaca at night, walking to Hacienda Blanca to catch the train; thus, he spent only about three hours a day in Santa Cruz Etla. He was not there, and no older students were at the school, when the director arrived with Rosita and me. Only the little Dona Ester was there, sitting on the school steps outside the locked doors, with a handful of primary children around her, all reading from one tattered book. I do not know what the director had to do with it, because of this bad Erst impression, but the next year Don Solomfn left the school, his wife, and the new baby and went to the United States as a bracero, or field hand. No one in Santa Cruz Etla has ever heard from him again. He did not really made a bad impression on me when I first saw him the next day after our arrival, or even all the following days that I stayed with Dona Estefana. It was fun to be in his class, as a "student" or as a visitor. He did not have the fourth grade read out loud; instead, he lined everyonc up on the porch to dance the jarabe oaxaqueia to the tune of his fiddle. Then they did a dance about the carbonero, the charcoal salesman. Each boy dances up to a girl in the opposite line, and as he jigs with his feet, he asks the "housewife" to buy charcoal. In the next "act" the girls dance to the boys and ask them to buy eggs and chickens. Then the boys come back to sell sarapes, and so on. Rosita, who was still visiting that second day and trying not to antagonize the two new teachers, could not resist joining in as one of the girls in line and teaching them three new verses. Then Rosita asked them all out into the campo, the open ground between the school and the municipio. All ages, including Dona Ester the primary teacher, Don Solom6n, Rosita, myself, and all the primary children, joined hands in a big circle. Rosita taught them more singing games, one a game like "Farmer in the Dell" called "Oh, Dona Blanca." Dona Blanca buys corn, the corn chooses the metate, the metate chooses the tortilla, the tortilla chooses the chile, 166 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS his station wagon. How we happened to do that is the beginning of another chapter; but suffice it to say here that Don Solomn's young wife, with whom he was none too happy, had just had a baby in Oaxaca City. For weeks he had been staying in Oaxaca at night, walking to Hacienda Blanca to catch the train; thus, he spent only about three hours a day in Santa Cruz Etla. He was not there, and no older students were at the school, when the director arrived with Rosita and me. Only the little Dona Ester was there, sitting on the school steps outside the locked doors, with a handful of primary children around her, all reading from one tattered book. I do not know what the director had to do with it, because of this bad first impression, but the next year Don Solomon left the school, his wife, and the new baby and went to the United States as a bracero, or field hand. No one in Santa Cruz Etla has ever heard from him again. He did not really made a bad impression on me when I first saw him the next day after our arrival, or even all the following days that I stayed with Dofa Estefana. It was fun to be in his class, as a "student" or as a visitor. He did not have the fourth grade read out loud; instead, he lined everyone up on the porch to dance the jarabe oaxaquena to the tune of his fiddle. Then thee did a dance about the carbonero, the charcoal salesman. Each boy dances up to a girl in the opposite line, and as he jigs with his feet, he asks the "housewife" to buy charcoal. In the next "act" the girls dance to the boys and ask them to buy eggs and chickens. Then the boys come back to sell sarapes, and so on. Rosita, who was still visiting that second day and trying not to antagonize the two new teachers, could not resist joining in as one of the girls in line and teaching them three new verses. Then Rosita asked them all out into the campo, the open ground between the school and the municipio. All ages, including Dona Ester the primary teacher, Don Solomon, Rosita, myself, and all the primary children, joined hands in a big circle. Rosita taught them more singing games, one a game like "Farmer in the Dell" called "Oh, Dona Blanca." Dona Blanca buys corn, the corn chooses the metate, the metate chooses the tortilla, the tortilla chooses the chile, 166 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS his station wagon. How we happened to do that is the beginning of another chapter; but suffice it to say here that Don Solomon's young wife, with whom he was none too happy, had just had a baby in Oaxaca City. For weeks he had been staying in Oaxaca at night, walking to Hacienda Blanca to catch the train; thus, he spent only about three hours a day in Santa Cruz Etla. He was not there, and no older students were at the school, when the director arrived with Rosita and me. Only the little Dona Ester was there, sitting on the school steps outside the locked doors, with a handful of primary children around her, all reading from one tattered book. I do not know what the director had to do with it, because of this bad first impression, but the next year Don Solomon left the school, his wife, and the new baby and went to the United States as a bracero, or field hand. No one in Santa Cruz Etla has ever heard from him again. He did not really made a bad impression on me when I first saw him the next day after our arrival, or even all the following days that I stayed with Dona Estefana. It was fun to be in his class, as a "student" or as a visitor. He did not have the fourth grade read out loud; instead, he lined everyone up on the porch to dance the jarabe oaxaquefa to the tune of his fiddle. Then they did a dance about the carbonero, the charcoal salesman. Each boy dances up to a girl in the opposite line, and as he jigs with his feet, he asks the "housewife" to buy charcoal. In the next "act" the girls dance to the boys and ask them to buy eggs and chickens. Then the boys come back to sell sarapes, and so on. Rosita, who was still visiting that second day and trying not to antagonize the two new teachers, could not resist joining in as one of the girls in line and teaching them three new verses. Then Rosita asked them all out into the campo, the open ground between the school and the municipio. All ages, including Dona Ester the primary teacher, Don Solomon, Rosita, myself, and all the primary children, joined hands in a big circle. Rosita taught them more singing games, one a game like "Farmer in the Dell" called "Oh, Doa Blanca." Dona Blanca buys corn, the corn chooses the metate, the metate chooses the tortilla, the tortilla chooses the chile, 166  94 At 'p _ -1  C . :-] i ': ' l  A DECADE IN BETWEEN the chile chooses the bean, the bean chooses the new Dona Blanca, and so all over again. Then they played a "cat and rat" game she showed them. One child, playing the "cat," chases another, the "rat," in and out of a ring of locked hands, while the whole circle tries to help the rat. All this activity was very unusual, as the children never had a recess or played group games of any kind. Rosita had learned these games through her kindergarten teachers' meetings after she left Santa Cruz Etla. Cultural missions were the first to suggest taking the ideas of children's playgrounds and organized play into sierra villages. Men of the public works committee were repairing the road near the municipio so the director's station wagon could come back for me at the end of the visit. They stopped to watch this unusual excite- ment, and soon were cheering for either the cat or the rat. Women from the nearby houses came over and clapped and sang with the crowd. I had enjoyed being in the ring, being chosen Dona Blanca, and holding hands hard to keep the cat outside the circle. But sud- denly I was chosen oat and had to chase an eleven-year-old, third- grade girl in and out of the circle. Naturally I was exhausted quickly, and my failure almost broke up the game. Don Solomon himself saved the day by substituting for me. When I joined the group of villagers who sat on the old stone church foundation watching the fun, a man I did not recognize spoke to me. "That is my Aurelia you chased, senora." "Aurelia?" I asked, not remembering the name. "Yes, I am Don Lalo," he said. "I brought my Aurelia every day to see you and el sedor, your husband, when you lived in the school. It was then she learned to walk. Surely you know her, she is my only child." It was hard to realize, seeing Rosita so young and gay and playing with the children of Santa Cruz Etla, that ten years had passed since those days. The baby Aurelia was now one of the large girls in school. I met her, a dignified young matron, at Don Feliz' fiesta in 1954 and asked her if she remembered Dona Blanca. At first she hesitated, thinking I referred to some real person; then her face broke into smiles, and she began to sing the little tune of the Farmer in the Dell song. 167 A DECADE IN BETWEEN the chile chooses the bean, the bean chooses the new Dona Blanca, and so all over again. Then they played a "cat and rat" game she showed them. One child, playing the "cat," chases another, the "rat," in and out of a ring of locked hands, while the whole circle tries to help the rat. All this activity was very unusual, as the children never had a recess or played group games of any kind. Rosita had learned these games through her kindergarten teachers' meetings after she left Santa Cruz Etla. Cultural missions were the first to suggest taking the ideas of children's playgrounds and organized play into sierra villages. Men of the public works committee were repairing the road near the municipio so the director's station wagon could come back for me at the end of the visit. They stopped to watch this unusual excite- ment, and soon were cheering for either the cat or the rat. Women from the nearby houses came over and clapped and sang with the crowd. I had enjoyed being in the ring, being chosen Doha Blanca, and holding hands hard to keep the cat outside the circle. But sud- denly I was chosen cat and had to chase an eleven-year-old, third- grade girl in and out of the circle. Naturally I was exhausted quickly, and my failure almost broke up the game. Don Solomon himself saved the day by substituting for me. When I joined the group of villagers who sat on the old stone church foundation watching the fun, a man I did not recognize spoke to me. "That is my Aurelia you chased, senora." "Aurelia?" I asked, not remembering the name. "Yes, I am Don Lalo," he said. "I brought my Aurelia every day to see you and el senor, your husband, when you lived in the school. It was then she learned to walk. Surely you know her, she is my only child." It was hard to realize, seeing Rosita so young and gay and playing with the children of Santa Cruz Etla, that ten years had passed since those days. The baby Aurelia was now one of the large girls in school. I met her, a dignified young matron, at Don Feliz' flesta in 1954 and asked her if she remembered Dona Blanca. At first she hesitated, thinking I referred to some real person; then her face broke into smiles, and she began to sing the little tune of the Farmer in the Dell song. 167 A DECADE IN BETWEEN the chile chooses the bean, the bean chooses the new Dona Blanca, and so all over again. Then they played a "cat and rat" game she showed them. One child, playing the "cat," chases another, the "rat," in and out of a ring of locked hands, while the whole circle tries to help the rat. All this activity was very unusual, as the children never had a recess or played group games of any kind. Rosita had learned these games through her kindergarten teachers' meetings after she left Santa Cruz Ella. Cultural missions were the first to suggest taking the ideas of children's playgrounds and organized play into sierra villages. Men of the public works committee were repairing the road near the municipio so the director's station wagon could come back for me at the end of the visit. They stopped to watch this unusual excite- ment, and soon were cheering for either the cat or the rat. Women from the nearby houses came over and clapped and sang with the crowd. I had enjoyed being in the ring, being chosen Dona Blanca, and holding hands hard to keep the cat outside the circle. But sud- denly I was chosen cat and had to chase an eleven-year-old, third- grade girl in and out of the circle. Naturally I was exhausted quickly, and my failure almost broke up the game. Don Solomon himself saved the day by substituting for me. When I joined the group of villagers who sat on the old stone church foundation watching the fun, a man I did not recognize spoke to me. "That is my Aurelia you chased, senora." "Aurelia?" I asked, not remembering the name. "Yes, I am Don Lalo," he said. "I brought my Aurelia every day to see you and el senor, your husband, when you lived in the school. It was then she learned to walk. Surely you know her, she is my only child." It was hard to realize, seeing Rosita so young and gay and playing with the children of Santa Cruz Etla, that ten years had passed since those days. The baby Aorelia was now one of the large girls in school. I met her, a dignified young matron, at Don Fliz' flesta in 1954 and asked her if she remembered Dona Blanca. At first she hesitated, thinking I referred to some real person; then her face broke into smiles, and she began to sing the little tune of the Farmer in the Dell song. 167  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS BuT RosITA WANTED the children of Santa Cruz Etla to learn some- thing else besides singing games. Always concerned about the prob- lems of Santa Cruz, no matter where she is teaching, she was partic- ularly concerned in the spring of 1944 to hear from the Santa Cruz people, as they came in to the Oaxaca market and stopped to greet her at her "flat" or her kindergarten, that the school enrollment had dropped so badly and that the school itself was deteriorating. When I came to Oaxaca that year, she immediately thought up a scheme to get favors for the village because of my visit. We would go to the state rural education director, get him to assume responsibility for me, and thus bring Santa Cruz Etla to his attention. So that, you see, is how we both, Rosita and I, happened to go up to Santa Cruz Etla that year in all the imposing style of an official station wagon. The chief rural school positions for the state of Oaxaca had al- most become political footballs since the days of Mr. Ximello. New governors had put in new directors, regardless of their interest or experience in Indian education. But in 1943 came Don Luis Varela, himself an Indian from the north of Mexico, to the position of direc- tor; and he appointed a real teacher, a Senor G6mez, to be inspector general under him. Rosita, herself a city kindergarten director, had been delighted about these gentlemen and their interest in the rural Indian schools. But there are a score of village schools in the valley of Oaxaca alone. Senors Varela and G6mez had hardly begun to make the rounds. Certainly they had never heard of Santa Cruz Etla. Rosita, as one director to another, made a formal appointment with Seeor Varela to have him meet "her friend, the distinguished American teacher" who had "studied the rural schools near Oaxaca over a ten-year period." This friend wanted "official permission" to visit a certain school in the Etla Hills, a school, incidentally, in which she herself had started to teach, in whose townspeople, therefore, she still felt a great interest. It was an unusually friendly town, too; the people had a high moral character and a great enthusiasm for 168 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS BUT RosTA wANTED the children of Santa Cruz Etla to learn some- thing else besides singing games. Always concerned about the prob- lems of Santa Cruz, no matter where she is teaching, she was partic- ularly concerned in the spring of 1944 to hear from the Santa Cruz people, as they came in to the Oaxaca market and stopped to greet her at her "flat" or her kindergarten, that the school enrollment had dropped so badly and that the school itself was deteriorating. When I came to Oaxaca that year, she immediately thought up a scheme to get favors for the village because of my visit. We would go to the state rural education director, get him to assume responsibility for me, and thus bring Santa Cruz Etla to his attention. So that, you see, is how we both, Rosita and I, happened to go up to Santa Cruz Etla that year in all the imposing style of an official station wagon. The chief rural school positions for the state of Oaxaca had al- most become political footballs since the days of Mr. Ximello. New governors had put in new directors, regardless of their interest or experience in Indian education. But in 1943 came Don Luis Varela, himself an Indian from the north of Mexico, to the position of direc- tor; and he appointed a real teacher, a Senor Gomez, to be inspector general under him. Rosita, herself a city kindergarten director, had been delighted about these gentlemen and their interest in the rural Indian schools. But there are a score of village schools in the valley of Oaxaca alone. Senors Varela and G6mez had hardly begun to make the rounds. Certainly they had never heard of Santa Gruz Etla. Rosita, as one director to another, made a formal appointment with Senor Varela to have him meet "her friend, the distinguished American teacher" who had "studied the rural schools near Oaxaca over a ten-year period." This friend wanted "official permission" to visit a certain school in the Etla Hills, a school, incidentally, in which she herself had started to teach, in whose townspeople, therefore, she still felt a great interest. It was an unusually friendly town, too; the people had a high moral character and a great enthusiasm for 168 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS .,k6 , BUT RosiTA WANTED the children of Santa Cruz Etla to learn some- thing else besides singing games. Always concerned about the prob- lems of Santa Cruz, no matter where she is teaching, she was partic- ularly concerned in the spring of 1944 to hear from the Santa Cruz people, as they came in to the Oaxaca market and stopped to greet her at her "flat" or her kindergarten, that the school enrollment had dropped so badly and that the school itself was deteriorating. When I came to Oaxaca that year, she immediately thought up a scheme to get favors for the village because of my visit. We would go to the state rural education director, get him to assume responsibility for me, and thus bring Santa Cruz Etla to his attention. So that, you see, is how we both, Rosita and I, happened to go up to Santa Cruz Etla that year in all the imposing style of an official station wagon. The chief rural school positions for the state of Oaxaca had al- most become political footballs since the days of Mr. Ximello. New governors had put in new directors, regardless of their interest or experience in Indian education. But in 1943 came Don Luis Varela, himself an Indian from the north of Mexico, to the position of direc- tor; and he appointed a real teacher, a Senor Gomez, to be inspector general under him. Rosita, herself a city kindergarten director, had been delighted about these gentlemen and their interest in the rural Indian schools. But there are a score of village schools in the valley of Oaxaca alone. Senors Varela and Gomez had hardly begun to make the rounds. Certainly they had never heard of Santa Cruz Etla. Rosita, as one director to another, made a formal appointment with Senor Varela to have him meet "her friend, the distinguished American teacher" who had "studied the rural schools near Oaxaca over a ten-year period." This friend wanted "official permission' to visit a certain school in the Etla Hills, a school, incidentally, in which she herself had started to teach, in whose townspeople, therefore, she still felt a great interest. It was an unusually friendly town, too; the people had a high moral character and a great enthusiasm for 168  THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 hard work. It was a shame that Seinor Varela was not familiar with this community. Don Luis Varela, who had welcomed the pretty kindergarten director and her "distinguished guest" most cordially, was full of ideas for the guest to visit model schools in the valley where his own new program already showed results. Wouldn't she like to stay a week in Mitla, a week at Teotitlin del Valle, a week at Tole? But as Rosita talked, he became involved in her web of intrigue, and before we left his office he had offered to drive us to Santa Cruz Etla himself in his official, specially-geared, mountain-climbing sta- tion wagon. On the way we stopped at the San Pablo Etla school, that big, "modern" school with its large attendance, its running water, and its two fine teachers. After this stop Senor Varela was in an expan- sive mood about schools in the Etla Hills. But alas! Rosita and I and the townspeople of Santa Cruz Etla were badly let down. Un- fortunately, we had sent no word of our coming, and that day turned out to be one of those days when Don Solomon had dismissed the school in the morning and had gone home to his sick wife in the city. The handful of primary children on the steps, all reading out of one book, the closed and locked building, the garden standing neglected in the weeds-what an impression for the state director! Rosita was disappointed and chagrined, of course, but she rallied her forces and characteristically worked out a plan to take advantage of the situation. Leaving me alone at Dona Estdfana's, she went back to Oaxaca in the station wagon with the director, evidently turning on all her charm. She persuaded Don Luis to come back at the end of the week when he could see the "true character of the village people." Would he come for the day and bring the inspector, Seinor Gomez? With this arranged, Rosita excused herself from her kindergarten duties and came back the next day by train and foot to be with me in Santa Cruz Etla. Now she had to bring the community people into the plot, to get them ready to put up a good front before the director and the inspector. On every visit we made in the next few days, when she wasn't teaching Doia Blanca games, Rosita 169 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 hard work. It was a shame that Seinor Varela was not familiar with this community. Don Luis Varela, who had welcomed the pretty kindergarten director and her "distinguished guest" most cordially, was full of ideas for the guest to visit model schools in the valley where his own new program already showed results. Wouldn't she like to stay a week in Mitla, a week at Teotitlin del Valle, a week at Tule? But as Rosita talked, he became involved in her web of intrigue, and before we left his office he had offered to drive us to Santa Cruz Etla himself in his official, specially-geared, mountain-climbing sta- tion wagon. On the way we stopped at the San Pablo Etla school, that big, "modern" school with its large attendance, its running water, and its two fine teachers. After this stop Senor Varela was in an expan- sive mood about schools in the Etla Hills. But alas! Rosita and I and the townspeople of Santa Cruz Etla were badly let down. Un- fortunately, we had sent no word of our coming, and that day turned out to be one of those days when Don Solomon had dismissed the school in the morning and had gone home to his sick wife in the city. The handful of primary children on the steps, all reading out of one book, the closed and locked building, the garden standing neglected in the weeds-what an impression for the state director! Rosita was disappointed and chagrined, of course, but she rallied her forces and characteristically worked out a plan to take advantage of the situation. Leaving me alone at Dofa Estefana's, she went back to Oaxaca in the station wagon with the director, evidently turning on all her charm. She persuaded Don Luis to come back at the end of the week when he could see the "true character of the village people." Would he come for the day and bring the inspector, Senor Gimez? With this arranged, Rosita excused herself from her kindergarten duties and came back the next day by train and foot to be with me in Santa Cruz Etla. Now she had to bring the community people into the plot, to get them ready to put up a good front before the director and the inspector. On every visit we made in the next few days, when she wasn't teaching Dona Blanca games, Rosita 169 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 hard work. It was a shame that Senor Varela was not familiar with this community. Don Luis Varela, who had welcomed the pretty kindergarten director and her "distinguished guest" most cordially, was full of ideas for the guest to visit model schools in the valley where his own new program already showed results. Wouldn't she like to stay a week in Mitla, a week at Teotitlin del Valle, a week at Tole? But as Rosita talked, he became involved in her web of intrigue, and before we left his office he had offered to drive us to Santa Cruz Etla himself in his official, specially-geared, mountain-climbing sta- tion wagon. On the way we stopped at the San Pablo Etla school, that big, "modem" school with its large attendance, its running water, and its two fine teachers. After this stop Senor Varela was in an expan- sive mood about schools in the Etla Hills. But alas! Rosita and I and the townspeople of Santa Cruz Etla were badly let down. Un- fortunately, we had sent no word of our coming, and that day turned out to be one of those days when Don Solomon had dismissed the school in the morning and had gone home to his sick wife in the city. The handful of primary children on the steps, all reading out of one book, the closed and locked building, the garden standing neglected in the weeds-what an impression for the state director! Rosita was disappointed and chagrined, of course, but she rallied her forces and characteristically worked out a plan to take advantage of the situation. Leaving me alone at Dona Estafana's, she went back to Oaxaca in the station wagon with the director, evidently turning on all her charm. She persuaded Don Luis to come back at the end of the week when he could see the "true character of the village people." Would he come for the day and bring the inspector, Senor Gomez? With this arranged, Rosita excused herself from her kindergarten duties and came back the next day by train and foot to be with me in Santa Cruz Etla. Now she had to bring the community people into the plot, to get them ready to put up a good front before the director and the inspector. On every visit we made in the next few days, when she wasn't teaching Dona Blanca games, Rosita 169  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS asked the people about the main "problems" of the town, what they thought should be presented as requests to the director. She had a tentative cultural missions list in mind herself, no doubt. It seems unbelievable, but at first the people-Don Martin. Done Amado, Don Feliz Leon, Doa Estefana-did not think the village had any problems. They could think of nothing to request. I saw many problems in Santa Cruz Etla which they did know they had. Dona Estefana cried because she could not get along with her daughter-in-law. Dona Carmen lived alone and brooded over the thoughtlessness of her daughter. Don Amado gave his life to public betterment and would get no appreciation until they gave him a fine funeral after he was dead. Don Florenzio worked hard to build up a fine orchard and had no child to whom he could leave it. Don Feliz Jimlnez sought solace from a nagging wife in raising Kentucky Wonder beans. The old people thought the younger ones were forsaking the old customs and were changing too fast; the soun ones thought the older ones did not change fast enough. Well, these are all problems of far more sophisticated people than Rsitas peo- ple of Santa Cruz Ella, and it takes more than a rural education supervisor to solve them. Rosita, though, could think of hundreds of things Senor Varela could do for Santa Cruz Etla, and she kept slyly making suggestions on our visits so that the people would think they had thought of the ideas themselves. Finally she got Don Esteban, then president, to call a night meeting. It was the only large mass business meeting I ever attended in Santa Cruz Etla; and it was held in the school- house, as the municipio was too small for the crowd of sixty or more people who came. Since the meeting concerned problems of the school, women came as well as men, and they took active part in the discussion. Rosita was staying at Patrocina's the few nights she stayed over, and I was alone up the hill at Estefana's. Rosita had already taken Chico's lantern and opened the school when I arrived "by flashlight" with Don Pablo, Dona Estefana, and Don Amado. We kept the kerosene lantern going and lit two candles besides; the Coleman light had gone back to Oaxaca with Uncle Octaviano ten years before. With the kerosene lantern we could not 170 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS asked the people about the main "problems" of the town, what then thought should be presented as requests to the director. She had a tentative cultural missions list in mind herself, no doubt. It seems unbelievable, but at first the people-Don M1artin, Dos Amado, Don Feliz Loen, Dona Estefana-did not think the village had any problems. They could think of nothing to request. I saw many problems in Santa Cruz Ella which they did know they had. Dona Estefana cried because she could not get along with her daughter-in-law. Dona Carmen lived alone and brooded over the thoughtlessness of her daughter. Don Amado gave his life to public betterment and would get no appreciation until they gae him a fine funeral after he was dead. Don Florenzio worked hard to build up a fine orchard and had no child to whom he could leave it. Don Feliz Jimnez sought solace from a nagging wife in raising Kentucky Wonder beans. The old people thought the younger ones were forsaking the old customs and were changing too fast; the yong ones thought the older ones did not change fast enough. Well, these are all problems of far more sophisticated people than Resita's peo- ple of Santa Cruz Etla, and it takes more than a rural education supervisor to solve them. Rosita, though, could think of hundreds of things Senor Varela could do for Santa Cruz Etla, and she kept slyly making suggestions on our visits so that the people would think they had thought of the ideas themselves. Finally she got Don Esteban, then president, to call a night meeting. It was the only large mass business meeting I ever attended in Santa Cruz Etla; and it was held in the school- house, as the municipio was too small for the crowd of sist more people who came. Since the meeting concerned problems of the school, women came as well as men, and they took active part in the discussion. Rosita was staying at Patrocina's the fe' nights she stayed over, and I was alone up the hill at Estefana's. Rosita had already taken Chico's lantern and opened the school when I arrived "by flashlight" with Don Pablo, Dona Estefana. and Don Amado. We kept the kerosene lantern going and lit two candles besides; the Coleman light had gone back to Oaxaca with Uncle Octaviano ten years before. With the kerosene lantern we could not 170 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS asked the people about the main "problems" of the town, what they thought should be presented as requests to the director. She had a tentative cultural missions list in mind herself, no doubt. It seems unbelievable, but at first the people-Don Martin. Don Amado, Don Feliz Leon, Dona Estlfana-did not think the sillage had any problems. They could think of nothing to request. I saw many problems in Santa Cruz Ella which they did know they had. Dofia Estlfana cried because she could not get along with her daughter-in-law. Dona Carmen lived alone and brooded over the thoughtlessness of her daughter. Don Amado gave his life to public betterment and would get no appreciation until they gave him a fine funeral after he was dead. Don Florenzio worked hard to build up a fine orchard and had no child to whom he could leave it. Don Feliz Jimonez sought solace from a nagging wife in raising Kentucky Wonder beans. The old people thought the younger ones were forsaking the old customs and were changing too fast; the young ones thought the older ones did not change fast enough. Well, these are all problems of far more sophisticated people than Resita's peo- ple of Santa Cruz Etla, and it takes more than a nrsal education supervisor to solve them. Rosita, though, could think of hundreds of things Senor harela could do for Santa Cruz Etla, and she kept slyly making suggestions on our visits so that the people would think they had thought of the ideas themselves. Finally she got Don Esteban, then president, to call a night meeting. It was the only large mass business meeting I ever attended in Santa Cruz Etla; and it was held in the school- house, as the municipio was too small for the crowd of sixty or more people who came. Since the meeting concerned problems of the school, women came as well as men, and they took active part in the discussion. Rosita was staying at Patocina's the few nights she stayed over, and I was alone up the hill at Estefanas. Rosita had already taken Chico's lantern and opened the school when I arrived "by flashlight" with Don Pablo, Dola Estefana, and Don Amado. We kept the kerosene lantern going and lit two candles besides; the Coleman light had gone back to Oaxaca with Uncle Octaviano ten years before. With the kerosene lantern we could not 170  THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 see the faces of all the people who sat on the benches, on the school desks, and on the floor. It took an hour for the crowd to gather after cena, so we sat chatting with old friends and waiting, while Rosita carefully planned her campaign. Don Esteban (too bad that Don Amado had sponsored such a shy young person as president that critical year) opened the meet- ing, introduced Chico, the alcalde of the school committee, who in- troduced Rosita. She took over from there and kept the floor all evening, starting with one of her usual long speeches. The village was honored; Dona Elena was here again. She had come with splendid introductions to the state director, who had made plans for her to visit prosperous villages in the valley. But Dona Elena had insisted on coning here because she was a friend of Santa Cruz Etla. At this point Rosita urged me to say something. I spoke a few poorly chosen words in bad Spanish about how glad I was to be there and how nice everyone always was to me. This over, Rosita got to the heart of the plot. She had given the director a big "build up" about the town so that he had come himself to bring Dona Elena. When he got there, there was nothing to see, no stu- dents, no garden, no friendly spirit. On the way back to Oaxaca, she bad pleaded with the director not to misunderstand. The peo- ple of Santa Cruz Etla were a wonderful people. The director had listened to her pleading, had promised to come to dinner sometime while Doa Elena was there. What an honor that a Oaxaca State school director should have dinner in the home of a Santa Cruz Etla family! Now the rest of it was up to them. They must take advantage of this opportunity; they must put on a fine, fiesta-type meal, present a good appearance, and if all was favorable and the director was im- pressed, they could tell him their problems and make definite re- quests to him for help. Dona Patrocina rose to offer her house for the dinner; other women promised gastos of food and help. Chico offered the musi- cians for the day; Don Fdliz Ledn, then public works alcalde, offered to get the road repaired so the station wagon would have an easier trip. Most assuredly Santa Cruz Etla would turn out to entertain the 171 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 see the faces of all the people who sat on the benches, on the school desks, and on the Soor. It took an hour for the crowd to gather after cena, so we sat chatting with old friends and waiting, while Rosita carefully planned her campaign. Don Esteban (too bad that Don Amado had sponsored such a shy young person as president that critical year) opened the meet- ing, introduced Chico, the alcalde of the school committee, who in- troduced Rosita. She took over from there and kept the Soor all evening, starting with one of her usual long speeches. The village was honored; Dona Elena was here again. She had come with splendid introductions to the state director, who had made plans for her to visit prosperous villages in the valley. But Dona Elena had insisted on coming here because she was a friend of Santa Cruz Etla. At this point Rosita urged me to say something. I spoke a few poorly chosen words in bad Spanish about how glad I was to be there and how nice everyone always was to me. This over, Rosita got to the heart of the plot. She had given the director a big "build up" about the town so that he had come himself to bring Dona Elena. When he got there, there was nothing to see, no stu- dents, no garden, no friendly spirit. On the way back to Oaxaca, she had pleaded with the director not to misunderstand. The peo- ple of Santa Cruz Etla were a wonderful people. The director had listened to her pleading, had promised to come to dinner sometime while Doa Elena was there. What an honor that a Oaxaca State school director should have dinner in the home of a Santa Cruz Etla family! Now the rest of it was up to them. They must take advantage of this opportunity; they must put on a fine, festa-type meal, present a good appearance, and if all was favorable and the director was im- pressed, they could tell him their problems and make definite re- quests to him for help. Doa Patrocina rose to offer her house for the dinner; other women promised gastos of food and help. Chico offered the musi- cians for the day; Don Feliz Ledn, then public works alcalde, offered to get the road repaired so the station wagon would have an easier trip. Most assuredly Santa Cruz Etla would turn out to entertain the 171 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 see the faces of all the people who sat on the benches, on the school desks, and on the oor. It took an hour for the crowd to gather after cena, so we sat chatting with old friends and waiting, while Rosita carefully planned her campaign, Don Esteban (too bad that Don Amado had sponsored such a shy young person as president that critical year) opened the meet- ing, introduced Chico, the alcalde of the school committee, who in- troduced Rosita. She took over from there and kept the floor all evening, starting with one of her usual long speeches. The village was honored; Doa Elena was here again. She had come with splendid introductions to the state director, who had made plans for her to visit prosperous villages in the valley. But Dona Elena had insisted on coming here because she was a friend of Santa Cruz Etla. At this point Rosita urged me to say something. I spoke a few poorly chosen words in bad Spanish about how glad I was to be there and how nice everyone always was to me. This over, Rosita got to the heart of the plot. She had given the director a big "build up" about the town so that he had come himself to bring Doa Elena. When he got there, there was nothing to see, no stu- dents, no garden, no friendly spirit. On the way back to Oaxaca, she had pleaded with the director not to misunderstand. The peo- ple of Santa Cruz Etla were a wonderful people. The director had listened to her pleading, had promised to come to dinner sometime while Doda Elena was there. What an honor that a Oaxaca State school director should have dinner in the home of a Santa Cruz Etla family! Now the rest of it was up to them. They must take advantage of this opportunity; they must put on a fine, nesta-type meal, present a good appearance, and if all was favorable and the director was im- pressed, they could tell him their problems and make defnite re- quests to him for help. Doa Patrocina rose to offer her house for the dinner; other women promised gastos of food and help. Chico offered the musi- cians for the day; Don Fdliz Leon, then public works alcalde, offered to get the road repaired so the station wagon would have an easier trip. Most assuredly Santa Cruz Etla would turn out to entertain the 171  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS supervisor. There was great enthusiasm among the men for the "entertaining" project. Now Rosita had to steer them back to the "problems." They should discuss them, and then pick out the five most important ways the director would be able to help them. They were all quiet a long time, and I stirred uneasily as I sat near the lantern on the floor. Finally Don Fdliz Jimenez (the first time I remember him taking part in politics, by the way) rose to speak. He thought their great need was for pure water. If they could get a tank for filtered water which would run the year round, water could be piped into the schoolyard, as it was in San Pablo. He knew that many children died in the dry season because the water wasn't filtered, but such a project was impossible for the people to build themselves. They needed technical help and money. If the townspeople would show the direc- tor that they had integrity, good character, he would trust them. Chico seconded this ambitious idea. If they had water piped in the year round, they could have a school shower bath. Children and grown people would not have so far to go to bathe in el rio. Don Florenzio then spoke about the need for windows in the schoolrooms. They had chosen Dona Patrocina's house for the dinner because one of her rooms had a window with shutters. But the children went to school where it was as "dark as a cave," so that reading classes had to be held near the door or on the porch. Why not ask the director for glass windows for the school? I thought how fine it was that Don Florenzio, with no children of his own to go to school, was so concerned for the conditions under which children learned to read, and he himself illiterate. Doa Enriqueta thought of asking for more books, pencils, and paper. There had been nothing new brought to the school in more than three years, and everything was worn out. Don larcelino, whose intelligent son Perfecto had finished the four grades provided in Santa Cruz Etla and longed for a chance at the fifth and sixth year provided in some larger towns, made a speech about the need for advanced education. There should be a third teacher who did nothing but teach the older students. If Santa Cruz Etla had such a teacher, San Pablo Etla children would come to Santa Cruz Etla. 172 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS supervisor. There was great enthusiasm among the men for the "entertaining" project. Now Rosita had to steer them back to the "problems." They should discuss them, and then pick out the five most important ways the director would be able to help them. They were all quiet a long time, and I stirred uneasily as I sat near the lantern on the floor. Finally Don Feliz Jimenez (the first time I remember him taking part in politics, by the way) rose to speak. He thought their great need was for pure water. If they could get a tank for filtered weater which would run the year round, water could be piped into the schoolyard, as it was in San Pablo. He knew that many children died in the dry season because the water wasn't filtered, but such a project was impossible for the people to build themselves. They needed technical help and money. If the townspeople would show the direc- tor that they had integrity, good character, he would trust them. Chico seconded this ambitious idea. If they had water piped in the year round, they could have a school shower bath. Children and grown people would not have so far to go to bathe in el rio. Don Florenzio then spoke about the need for windows in the schoolrooms. They had chosen Dona Patrocina's house for the dinner because one of her rooms had a window with shutters. But the children went to school where it was as "dark as a cave," so that reading classes had to be held near the door or on the porch. Why not ask the director for glass windows for the school? I thought how fine it was that Don Florenzio, with no children of his own to go to school, was so concerned for the conditions under which children learned to read, and he himself illiterate. Dona Enriqueta thought of asking for more books, pencils, and paper. There had been nothing new brought to the school in more than three years, and everything was worn out. Don Mlarcelino, whose intelligent son Perfecto had finished the four grades provided in Santa Cruz Etla and longed for a chance at the fifth and sixth year provided in some larger towns, made a speech about the need for advanced education. There should be a third teacher who did nothing but teach the older students. If Santa Cruz Etla had such a teacher, San Pablo Etla children would come to Santa Cruz Etla. 172 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS supervisor. There was great enthusiasm among the men for the "entertaining" project. Now Rosita had to steer them back to the "problems." They should discuss them, and then pick out the five most important ways the director would be able to help them. They were all quiet a long time, and I stirred uneasily as I sat near the lantern on the floor. Finally Don Feliz Jimenez (the first time I remember him taking part in politics, by the way) rose to speak. He thought their great need was for pure water. If they could get a tank for filtered water which would run the year round, water could be piped into the schoolyard, as it was in San Pablo. He knew that many children died in the dry season because the water wasn't filtered, but such a project was impossible for the people to build themselves. They needed technical help and money. If the townspeople would show the direc- tor that they had integrity, good character, he would trust them. Chico seconded this ambitious idea. If they had water piped in the year round, they could have a school shower bath. Children and grown people would not have so far to go to bathe in el rio. Don Florenzio then spoke about the need for windows in the schoolrooms. They had chosen Dona Patrocina's house for the dinner because one of her rooms had a window with shutters. But the children went to school where it was as "dark as a cave," so that reading classes had to be held near the door or on the porch. Why not ask the director for glass windows for the school? I thought how fine it was that Don Florenzio, with no children of his own to go to school, was so concerned for the conditions under which children learned to read, and he himself illiterate. Dona Enriqueta thought of asking for more books, pencils, and paper. There had been nothing new brought to the school in more than three years, and everything was worn out. Don ?tarcelino, whose intelligent son Perfecto had finished the four grades provided in Santa Cruz Etla and longed for a chance at the fifth and sixth year provided in some larger towns, made a speech about the need for advanced education. There should be a third teacher who did nothing but teach the older students. If Santa Cruz Etla had such a teacher, San Pablo Etla children would come to Santa Cruz Etla. 172  THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 San Pablo Etla had no opportunity to ask favors of any director, so here was one chance to get something the larger town wanted. Then Don Amado, an active leader still in that last year of his life, made a speech scolding Santa Cruz Etla. Here they were ask- ing favors of a stranger, and they had la parcela, the school-owned acreage, and for a year, what with the lack of interest in school affairs in general, no one had worked it. Last year's school commit- tee had let it lie fallow, saying it would be worked when an emer- gency, a "problem," for the school arose. And here they were dis- cussing what their problems were. Their problem was to work the public-school land, make seventy or eighty pesos a year, and buy the school what it needed themselves. Don Martin seconded this motion with a long speech on cooperation and self-help; and Chico, the school affairs alcalde who had been too busy courting Esperanza that year to worry much over the school, promised to get the land planted right away. Rosita had not meant the discussion to take this turn. She let the motion pass that la parcela be planted, and then made a speech her- self about the five most urgent problems. They would have the director welcomed on the school porch before he went to Dona Patrocina's. When he was introduced to the council, chosen people would make speeches. Don Feliz Jimenez would ask about the tank, and Chico about the shower; Dona Enriqueta would ask about the books and supplies, Don Marcelino about the advanced class teacher, and Don Florenzio about the glass windows. Rosita did not want to bore the director with fervent speeches by campesinos, los pobrecitos who fawned on public officials asking for favors. She called the chosen speakers to her as the meeting broke up and told them to plan what they were going to say and to get right to the point. On the day Senor Varela was to come, Rosita and I spent the morning helping at Doia Patrocina's and watching the committee of public works repair the road by filling in chuckholes and removing the rocks. Perhaps this was the last time it was so well repaired, until Don Feliz Jimnez was president ten years later, and we tried to come in with a car. Dona Estefana, Dona Margarita, Dona Rufina, and Dona Sofia 173 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 San Pablo Etla had no opportunity to ask favors of any director, so here was one chance to get something the larger town wanted. Then Don Amado, an active leader still in that last year of his life, made a speech scolding Santa Cruz Etla. Here they were ask- ing favors of a stranger, and they had la parcela, the school-owned acreage, and for a year, what with the lack of interest in school affairs in general, no one had worked it. Last year's school commit- tee had let it lie fallow, saying it would be worked when an emer- gency, a "problem," for the school arose. And here they were dis- cussing what their problems were. Their problem was to work the public-school land, make seventy or eighty pesos a year, and buy the school what it needed themselves. Don Martin seconded this motion with a long speech on cooperation and self-help; and Chico, the school affairs alcalde who had been too busy courting Esperanza that year to worry much over the school, promised to get the land planted right away. Rosita had not meant the discussion to take this turn. She let the motion pass that la parcela be planted, and then made a speech her- self about the five most urgent problems. They would have the director welcomed on the school porch before he went to Dona Patrocina's. When he was introduced to the council, chosen people would make speeches. Don Feliz Jimenez would ask about the tank, and Chico about the shower; Dona Enriqueta would ask about the books and supplies, Don Marcelino about the advanced class teacher, and Don Florenzio about the glass windows. Rosita did not want to bore the director with fervent speeches by campesinos, los pobrecitos who fawned on public officials asking for favors. She called the chosen speakers to her as the meeting broke up and told them to plan what they were going to say and to get right to the point. On the day Senor Varela was to come, Rosita and I spent the morning helping at Dona Patrocina's and watching the committee of public works repair the road by filling in chuckholes and removing the rocks. Perhaps this was the last time it was so well repaired, until Don Feliz Jimenez was president ten years later, and we tried to come in with a car. Dona Estefana, Dona Margarita, Dona Rufina, and Dona Sofia 173 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 San Pablo Etla had no opportunity to ask favors of any director, so here was one chance to get something the larger town wanted. Then Don Amado, an active leader still in that last year of his life, made a speech scolding Santa Cruz Etla. Here they were ask- ing favors of a stranger, and they had la parcela, the school-owned acreage, and for a year, what with the lack of interest in school affairs in general, no one had worked it. Last year's school commit- tee had let it lie fallow, saying it would be worked when an emer- gency, a "problem," for the school arose. And here they were dis- cussing what their problems were. Their problem was to work the public-school land, make seventy or eighty pesos a year, and buy the school what it needed themselves. Don Martin seconded this motion with a long speech on cooperation and self-help; and Chico, the school affairs alcalde who had been too busy courting Esperanza that year to worry much over the school, promised to get the land planted right away. Rosita had not meant the discussion to take this turn. She let the motion pass that la parcela be planted, and then made a speech her- self about the five most urgent problems. They would have the director welcomed on the school porch before he went to Dona Patrocina's. When he was introduced to the council, chosen people would make speeches. Don Feliz Jimnez would ask about the tank, and Chico about the shower; Doia Enriqueta would ask about the books and supplies, Don Marcelino about the advanced class teacher, and Don Florenzio about the glass windows. Rosita did not want to bore the director with fervent speeches by campesinos, los pobrecitos who fawned on public officials asking for favors. She called the chosen speakers to her as the meeting broke up and told them to plan what they were going to say and to get right to the point. On the day Sefnor Varela was to come, Rosita and I spent the morning helping at Dona Patrocina's and watching the committee of public works repair the road by filling in chuckholes and removing the rocks. Perhaps this was the last time it was so well repaired, until Don FEliz Jimenez was president ten years later, and we tried to come in with a car. Dona Estefana, Dona Margarita, Dona Rufina, and Dona Sofia 173  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS worked at Dona Patrocina's all morning. Two chickens were dressed and put on to boil. An olla of rice and one of squash were cooked. More than one hundred tortillas were made, and a great bowl of hot dark chile mole was mixed. Beans were prepared at Dona Angelica's and brought over at the last minute. Don Julio's gasto was twenty bottles of strawberry pop. Rosita made orangeade with oranges from Don Florenzio's orchard, and I helped set up the table in Chico's lit- tle room where the window opens. That is how I happened to realize how nice a room it was and to plan on staying there when I came the next summer, though Chico and his bride occupied it by then. We brought over a table from the school and put on a red and white tablecloth loaned us by Dona Ester, the primary teacher. School children brought over benches for all the guests to sit on. Every- thing was in readiness by one-thirty. There was a great crowd on school steps, waiting for news of the station wagon to come from the runners posted all down the road to San Pablo Etla. Of course the director was two hours late, but that never seems to be a cause for worry in rural Mexico. At three-thirty he alighted from the station wagon, accompanied by the inspector, Senor Gmez, and the young man secretary who drove. Don Esteban, with clean, white clothes prepared for him by his sister-in-lanw Elodia, who kept everything at Dona Paula's cleaner than in the days when we knew his little brother Crescencio at the school, welcomed the director on the school porch and introduced the council. He mumbled a few words about the shame the village had felt when the director had come the week before and had received no welcome. Don Luis Varela sat down on a bench on the porch, and there was a long pause. Finally Dona Enriqueta, taking her courage in her hand. rose to ask about the new schoolbooks. The others followed in quick succession, each one to the point, each "problem" concisely stated. Then the visitors were led to Dona Patrocina's for dinner. Here Don Esteban, who had disappeared as soon as his speech was fnished, showed up as flutist with the musicians on Patrocina's portico, play- ing the Mexican national anthem as the visitors approached. Don Solomon, whose absence had created such a bad impression a few 174 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS worked at Dona Patrocina's all morning. Two chickens were dressed and put on to boil. An olla of rice and one of squash were cooked. More than one hundred tortillas were made, and a great bowl of hot dark chile mole was mixed. Beans were prepared at Dona Angelica's and brought over at the last minute. Don Julio's gasto was twent bottles of strawberry pop. Rosita made orangeade with oranges from Don Florenzio's orchard, and I helped set up the table in Chico's lit- tle room where the window opens. That is how I happened to realize how nice a room it was and to plan on staying there when I came the next summer, though Chico and his bride occupied it by then. We brought over a table from the school and put on a red and white tablecloth loaned us by Dona Ester, the primary teacher. School children brought over benches for all the guests to sit on. Every- thing was in readiness by one-thirty. There was a great crowd on school steps, waiting for news of the station wagon to come from the runners posted all down the road to San Pablo Etla. Of course the director was two hours late, but that never seems to be a cause for worry in rural Mexico. At three-thirty he alighted from the station wagon, accompanied by the inspector, Senor Gomez. and the young man secretary who drove. Don Esteban, with clean, white clothes prepared for him by his sister-in-law Elodia, who kept everything at Dona Paula's cleaner than in the days when we knew his little brother Crescencio at the school, welcomed the director on the school porch and introduced the council He mumbled a few words about the shame the village had felt when the director had come the week before and had received no welcome. Don Luis Varela sat down on a bench on the porch, and there was a long pause. Finally Dona Enriqueta, taking her courage in her hand, rose to ask about the new schoolbooks. The others followed in quick succession, each one to the point, each "problem" concisely stated. Then the visitors were led to Dona Patrocina's for dinner. Here Don Esteban, who had disappeared as soon as his speech was finished, showed up as flutist with the musicians on Patrocina's portico, play- ing the Mexican national anthem as the visitors approached. Don Solomon, whose absence had created such a bad impression a few 174 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS worked at Dona Patrocina's all morning. Two chickens were dressed and put on to boil. An olla of rice and one of squash were cooked. More than one hundred tortillas were made, and a great bowl of hot dark chile mole was mixed. Beans were prepared at Dona Angelica's and brought over at the last minute. Don Julio's gasto was twenty bottles of strawberry pop. Rosita made orangeade with oranges from Don Florenzio's orchard, and I helped set up the table in Chico's lit- tle room where the window opens. That is how I happened to realize how nice a room it was and to plan on staying there when I came the next summer, though Chico and his bride occupied it by then. We brought over a table from the school and put on a red and white tablecloth loaned us by Dona Ester, the primary teacher. School children brought over benches for all the guests to sit on. Every- thing was in readiness by one-thirty. There was a great crowd on school steps, waiting for news of the station wagon to come from the runners posted all down the road to San Pablo Etla. Of course the director was two hours late, but that never seems to be a cause for worry in rural Mexico. At three-thirty he alighted from the station wagon, accompanied by the inspector, Senor Gomez. and the young man secretary who drove. Don Esteban, with clean, white clothes prepared for him by his sister-in-law Elodia, who kept everything at Dona Paula's cleaner than in the days when we knew his little brother Crescencio at the school, welcomed the director on the school porch and introduced the council. He mumbled a few words about the shame the village had felt when the director had come the week before and had received no welcome. Don Luis Varela sat down on a bench on the porch, and there was a long pause. Finally Dona Enriqueta, taking her courage in her hand, rose to ask about the new schoolbooks. The others followed in quick succession, each one to the point, each "problem" concisely stated. Then the visitors were led to Dona Patrocina's for dinner. Here Don Esteban, who had disappeared as soon as his speech was finished, showed up as flutist with the musicians on Patrocina's portico. play- ing the Mexican national anthem as the visitors approached. Don Solomon, whose absence had created such a bad impression a few 174  THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 days before, was there also, dressed in a black suit, with shoes, and playing the fiddle for all he was worth. I am afraid, however, that Senor Varela never connected him with the missing teacher, as school had been dismissed for the day and there were no classes to visit. Both the municipal president and the principal teacher being occupied with the "dinner orchestra," Rosita and I were the only ones who sat down with the three city men. There were dishes, but few forks or spoons. This embarrassed me, but not the director, who dipped up his chicken mole with pieces of tortillas as he had doubtless done all through his childhood. Most of the dinner con- versation centered round Rosita. I made the mistake of saying that I had lived in Santa Cruz Etla ten years earlier, when Rosita was teacher there. How could she have been a teacher ten years earlier, joked the visitors, when she was even now only twenty? Rosita coquetted enough to get the director in a generous mood, and then she brought up the "problems." Go ahead, the director implied, tell us again what your people want, and we'll do anything we can. He turned down the shower and tank, however. The ditch provided the best running water he'd seen in any village. Govern- mental school funds provided pipes for water only when a whole village had to walk some distance to the water supply, or had to dig deep wells. Rosita and I should know that a filtering tank would not purify the water nor provide water in the dry season. As for the shower, why not construct a wooden tank, drill holes in the bot- tom, bring in water from an uphill point in the stream with an easily constructed tile conduit-well, he had printed plans for making such a shower, and he would send up the plans. As for the supplies, Rosita could come to the rural education supplies office and pick out any- thing there was extra, if only some man in the community would send in an oxcart for it. le said that, in his experience, these campesinos seldom sent their children beyond the fourth grade. Only half the children got that far. Let the ambitious youngsters go to that larger school down the hill; there should be a third teacher there before there was any fifth and sixth grade in a little place like this. (Poor Don Marcelino! 175 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 days before, was there also, dressed in a black suit, with shoes, and playing the fiddle for all he was worth. I am afraid, however, that Senor Varela never connected him with the missing teacher, as school had been dismissed for the day and there were no classes to visit. Both the municipal president and the principal teacher being occupied with the "dinner orchestra," Rosita and I were the only ones who sat down with the three city men. There were dishes, but few forks or spoons. This embarrassed me, but not the director, who dipped up his chicken mole with pieces of tortillas as he had doubtless done all through his childhood. Most of the dinner con- versation centered round Rosita. I made the mistake of saying that I had lived in Santa Cruz Etla ten years earlier, when Rosita was teacher there. How could she have been a teacher ten years earlier, joked the visitors, when she was even now only twenty? Rosita coquetted enough to get the director in a generous mood, and then she brought up the "problems." Go ahead, the director implied, tell us again what your people want, and we'll do anything we can. He turned down the shower and tank, however. The ditch provided the best running water he'd seen in any village. Govern- mental school funds provided pipes for water only when a whole village had to walk some distance to the water supply, or had to dig deep wells. Rosita and I should know that a filtering tank would not purify the water nor provide water in the dry season. As for the shower, why not construct a wooden tank, drill holes in the bot- tom, bring in water from an uphill point in the stream with an easily constructed tile conduit-well, he had printed plans for making such a shower, and he would send up the plans. As for the supplies, Rosita could come to the rural education supplies office and pick out any- thing there was extra, if only some man in the community would send in an oxcart for it. He said that, in his experience, these campesinos seldom sent their children beyond the fourth grade. Only half the children got that far. Let the ambitious youngsters go to that larger school down the hill; there should be a third teacher there before there was any fifth and sixth grade in a little place like this. (Poor Don Marcelino! 175 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 days before, was there also, dressed in a black suit, with shoes, and playing the fiddle for all he was worth. I am afraid, however, that Senor Varela never connected him with the missing teacher, as school had been dismissed for the day and there were no classes to visit. Both the municipal president and the principal teacher being occupied with the "dinner orchestra," Rosita and I were the only ones who sat down with the three city men. There were dishes, but few forks or spoons. This embarrassed me, but not the director, who dipped up his chicken mole with pieces of tortillas as he had doubtless done all through his childhood. Most of the dinner con- versation centered round Rosita. I made the mistake of saying that I had lived in Santa Cruz Etla ten years earlier, when Rosita was teacher there. How could she have been a teacher ten years earlier, joked the visitors, when she was even now only twenty? Rosita coquetted enough to get the director in a generous mood, and then she brought up the "problems." Go ahead, the director implied, tell us again what your people want, and we'll do anything we can. He turned down the shower and tank, however. The ditch provided the best running water he'd seen in any village. Govern- mental school funds provided pipes for water only when a whole village had to walk some distance to the water supply, or had to dig deep wells. Rosita and I should know that a filtering tank would not purify the water nor provide water in the dry season. As for the shower, why not construct a wooden tank, drill holes in the bot- tom, bring in water from an uphill point in the stream with an easily constructed tile conduit-well, he had printed plans for making such a shower, and he would send up the plans. As for the supplies, Rosita could come to the rural education supplies office and pick out any- thing there was extra, if only some man in the community would send in an oxcart for it. He said that, in his experience, these campesinos seldom sent their children beyond the fourth grade. Only half the children got that far. Let the ambitious youngsters go to that larger school down the hill; there should be a third teacher there before there was any fifth and sixth grade in a little place like this. (Poor Don Marcelino! 175  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Fortunately, he didn't hear the director say this!) But the windows -he could do something about windows. There was a set of large windows in a school-supply office, frames that had been made for an office building which was never built. Santa Cruz could have the frames, if someone would come and get them. We finished the dinner in great good humor, having accom- plished something, at least. We drank the last of the pop and walked out to join the crowd which had been patiently waiting in Dona Patrocina's yard. I asked Senor GOmez, as we left, what he thought of the dinner, and he said it was regular, which is a very common Spanish word. He could have meant that it was ordinary, or up to a good standard, or just about what he expected, or just as good as he was accustomed to, or any one of a number of things. I don't know whether he meant to compliment Dona Patrocina's committee or not. Out in the houseyard the long flowery speeches Rosita wanted to avoid started before she could stop them. Don Amado vied with Don Martin in thanking the visitors and rehashing the problems. Rosita made a little speech; I made a little speech. Then the director himself talked in a very friendly fashion, while I took pictures. He said that it was a very nice dinner, and he was glad to have the prob- lems brought to his attention. Meanwhile, the people should cooper- ate with all the teachers who came, help them with contributions of work in the public fields, and make them feel a part of the com- munity. Inspector G6mez talked, too, saying that he would come again, that he wanted to be able to report improvement to the profesora americana, that he and Senor Varela thanked Rosita and the visitor for bringing this fine town to their attention. A whole hour was consumed in this speechmaking, and it was getting near sunset. The families brought the visitors presents of eggs, flowers, squashes, avocados, and mangoes. Rosita also received baskets full of presents, including two live chickens, for she was to go back to the city with the officials. The kind, young secretary of- fered to come back up to get me whenever I was ready to go home, and to bring my husband up for the day when he came. So the school officials left, with the air filled with friendliness and hopes for 176 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Fortunately, he didn't hear the director say this!) But the windows -he could do something about windows. There was a set of large windows in a school-supply office, frames that had been made for an office building which was never built. Santa Cruz could have the frames, if someone would come and get them. We finished the dinner in great good humor, having accom- plished something, at least. We drank the last of the pop and walked out to join the crowd which had been patiently waiting in Dona Patrocina's yard. I asked Senor G6mez, as we left, what he thought of the dinner, and he said it was regular, which is a very common Spanish word. He could have meant that it was ordinary, or up to a good standard, or just about what he expected, or just as good as he was accustomed to, or any one of a number of things. I don't know whether he meant to compliment Dona Patrocina's committee or not. Out in the houseyard the long flowery speeches Rosita wanted to avoid started before she could stop them. Don Amado vied with Don Martin in thanking the visitors and rehashing the problems. Rosita made a little speech; I made a little speech. Then the director himself talked in a very friendly fashion, while I took pictures. He said that it was a very nice dinner, and he was glad to have the prob- lems brought to his attention. Meanwhile, the people should cooper- ate with all the teachers who came, help them with contributions of work in the public fields, and make them feel a part of the com- munity. Inspector Gdmez talked, too, saying that he would come again, that he wanted to be able to report improvement to the profesora americana, that he and Senor Varela thanked Rosita and the visitor for bringing this fine town to their attention. A whole hour was consumed in this speechmaking, and it was getting near sunset. The families brought the visitors presents of eggs, flowers, squashes, avocados, and mangoes. Rosita also received baskets full of presents, including two live chickens, for she was to go back to the city with the oflicials. The kind, young secretary of- fered to come back up to get me whenever I was ready to go home, and to bring my husband up for the day when he came. So the school officials left, with the air filled with friendliness and hopes for 176 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Fortunately, he didn't hear the director say this!) But the windows -he could do something about windows. There was a set of large windows in a school-supply office, frames that had been made for an office building which was never built. Santa Cruz could have the frames, if someone would come and get them. We finished the dinner in great good humor, having accom- plished something, at least. We drank the last of the pop and walked out to join the crowd which had been patiently waiting in Dona Patrocina's yard. I asked Senor Gomez, as we left, what he thought of the dinner, and he said it was regular, which is a very common Spanish word. He could have meant that it was ordinary, or up to a good standard, or just about what he expected, or just as good as he was accustomed to, or any one of a number of things. I don't know whether he meant to compliment Dona Patrocina's committee or not. Out in the houseyard the long flowery speeches Rosita wanted to avoid started before she could stop them. Don Amado vied with Don Martin in thanking the visitors and rehashing the problems. Rosita made a little speech; I made a little speech. Then the director himself talked in a very friendly fashion, while I took pictures. He said that it was a very nice dinner, and he was glad to have the prob- lems brought to his attention. Meanwhile, the people should cooper- ate with all the teachers who came, help them with contributions of work in the public fields, and make them feel a part of the com- munity. Inspector G6mez talked, too, saying that he would come again, that he wanted to be able to report improvement to the profesora americana, that he and Senor Varela thanked Rosita and the visitor for bringing this fine town to their attention. A whole hour was consumed in this speechmaking, and it was getting near sunset. The families brought the visitors presents of eggs, flowers, squashes, avocados, and mangoes. Rosita also received baskets full of presents, including two live chickens, for she was to go back to the city with the officials. The kind, young secretarv of- fered to come back up to get me whenever I was ready to go home, and to bring my husband up for the day when he came. So the school officials left, with the air filled with friendliness and hopes for 176  THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 a great future for Santa Cruz Etla. All the most pressing problems were going to be solved. Rosita felt she had accomplished a great deal for her beloved town. She came back by train and foot the following week end and called one more meeting of the whole town council. She told the men that Don Amado had been right, that they must help themselves to improve their own school and community. They promised her to plant la parcela to beans right away, as it was then July and too late for corn. Ten men would plow the land in two days. Another committee would plant, and a third was listed to weed and cultivate, even though this was a busy time of plowing for every man at home. The bean crop would be harvested in October, and it should bring the eighty pesos they hoped for. Rosita glowed with pride at their sincerity and their affection for her. She went back to her city kindergarten. The station wagon came with my husband and got me, and I went back to the United States. Don Luis Varela, having done a fine job during his two years in Oaxaca, was promoted to Mexico City. Senor Gdmez was sent to found an office for school inspection in Tehuantepec. Don Esteban lost his lovely wife Maria, daughter of Doai Angelica, in childbirth; and distraught, he left the town and went to work alone in Oaxaca. Don Bartolo the Comical became president. Chico got married and did not run again as school alcalde, working instead for the election of his father-in-law, Don Meliton Arroyo, who lived way over on the San Lorenzo ridge and sent few of his children to school. But la parcela was planted, and the beans were harvested, and the sacks of beans lay stored in the jail more than a year until prices should be better. Rosita had remembered, in September, 1944, when I had long since left Santa Cruz Etla, to pick out what books and supplies were left over in the office and to send them up with the Leon boys when they brought their oxcart into town with wood. These were the books with the silly little citified stories which had replaced Firmin, but better than no books, of course. If any blue- print for a shower bath was sent up, it got lost among the books and the papers. And, O unexpected and unjust result of my visit! fifth- and sixth- 177 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 a great future for Santa Cruz Etla. All the most pressing problems were going to be solved. Rosita felt she had accomplished a great deal for her beloved town. She came back by train and foot the following week end and called one more meeting of the whole town council. She told the men that Don Amado had been right, that they must help themselves to improve their own school and community. They promised her to plant la parcela to beans right away, as it was then July and too late for corn. Ten men would plow the land in two days. Another committee would plant, and a third was listed to weed and cultivate, even though this was a busy time of plowing for every man at home. The bean crop would be harvested in October, and it should bring the eighty pesos they hoped for. Rosita glowed with pride at their sincerity and their affection for her. She went back to her city kindergarten. The station wagon came with my husband and got me, and I went back to the United States. Don Luis Varela, having done a fine job during his two years in Oaxaca, was promoted to Mexico City. Seior Gomez was sent to found an office for school inspection in Tehuantepec. Don Esteban lost his lovely wife Maria, daughter of Doffa Angelica, in childbirth; and distraught, he left the town and went to work alone in Oaxaca. Don Bartolo the Comical became president. Chico got married and did not run again as school alcalde, working instead for the election of his father-in-law, Don Melitin Arroyo, who lived way over on the San Lorenzo ridge and sent few of his children to school. But la parcela was planted, and the beans were harvested, and the sacks of beans lay stored in the jail more than a year until prices should be better. Rosita had remembered, in September, 1944, when I had long since left Santa Cruz Etla, to pick out what books and supplies were left over in the office and to send them up with the Lein boys when they brought their oxcart into town with wood. These were the books with the silly little citified stories which had replaced Firmin, but better than no books, of course. If any blue- print for a shower bath was sent up, it got lost among the books and the papers. And, O unexpected and unjust result of my visit! fifth- and sixth. 177 THE PROBLEMS OF 1944 a great future for Santa Cruz Etla. All the most pressing problems were going to be solved. Posita felt she had accomplished a great deal for her beloved town. She came back by train and foot the following week end and called one more meeting of the whole town council. She told the men that Don Amado had been right, that they must help themselves to improve their own school and community. They promised her to plant la parcela to beans right away, as it was then July and too late for corn. Ten men would plow the land in two days. Another committee would plant, and a third was listed to weed and cultivate, even though this was a busy time of plowing for every man at home. The bean crop would be harvested in October, and it should bring the eighty pesos they hoped for. Rosita glowed with pride at their sincerity and their affection for her. She went back to her city kindergarten. The station wagon came with my husband and got me, and I went back to the United States. Don Luis Varela, having done a fine job during his two years in Oaxaca, was promoted to Mexico City. Senor Gimez was sent to found an office for school inspection in Tehuantepec. Don Esteban lost his lovely wife Maria, daughter of Doia Angelica, in childbirth; and distraught, he left the town and went to work alone in Oaxaca. Don Bartolo the Comical became president. Chico got married and did not run again as school alcalde, working instead for the election of his father-in-law, Don Melitn Arroyo, who lived way over on the San Lorenzo ridge and sent few of his children to school. But la parcela was planted, and the beans were harvested, and the sacks of beans lay stored in the jail more than a year until prices should be better. Rosita had remembered, in September, 1944, when I had long since left Santa Cruz Etla, to pick out what books and supplies were left over in the office and to send them up with the Lein boys when they brought their oxcart into town with wood. These were the books with the silly little citified stories which had replaced Firmin, but better than no books, of course. If any blue- print for a shower bath was sent up, it got lost among the books and the papers. And, O unexpected and unjust result of my visit! fifth- and sixth- 177  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS grade classes were established in San Pablo Etla before Don Luis Varela left the valley. Fortunately, it was after Don Amado died, and he never knew about that boost to the rival town. Perfecto, the son of Don Marcelino who had spoken to Don Luis so eloquently about the need for advanced grades in the bills, compromised finally and went with Dona Estefana's grandson Aurelio down to the San Pablo school for the upper two grades of work. But the problem of the windows was solved. Before Senor Varela left Oaxaca, he contacted Rosita to remind her that the windows were still lying useless in his building. She got a message through to Santa Cruz by the charcoal sellers, and Don Martin brought the oxcart in to get them. There were five large windows, each about three by six feet, divided into nine small panes apiece. They could be hinged like a door to open in or out. But alas, they were wooden frames only and had no glass. Each small pane would cost two pesos, a total of ninety pesos to get the glass for the fire windows. The window frames lay piled in the jail, objects of great pride and of some bewilderment to subsequent councils. Don Bartolo told me in 1945, as I sat chatting with him on the portico of the municipio, that they were holding the beans from la parcela till they could get ninety pesos for them. Meanwhile, they were planting corn and hoped for fifty or sixty pesos from that crop. Then they would buy the glass, though how they were to get forty- five panes of glass up to Santa Cruz in an oxcart without breaking half of them, I couldn't see. Maybe they eventually came up on the truck which delivered flour to Don Martin. But who was to put in the windows? There was no experienced glassworker nearer than Oaxaca City. Such a worker would charge by the day to fit in the glass, would take many days, and would use much time coming and going. The public works committee would have to tear out adobe bricks along the rear of the school and build wooden frames the exact size to fit the windows. Don Bartolo mea-nt to be progressive, but: "Frankly, Dona Elena, this problem presents us many new problems. The windows are too big for the school and should be put in the municipal building. The beans will probably sprout before we get a better price. Besides, the corn planted in la 178 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS grade classes were established in San Pablo Etla before Don Luis Varela left the valley. Fortunately, it was after Don Arnado died, and he never knew about that boost to the rival town. Perfecto, the son of Don Marceline who had spoken to Hon Luis so eloquently about the need for advanced grades in the hills, compromised finally and went with Dona Estefana's grandson Aurelio down to the San Pablo school for the upper two grades of work. But the problem of the windows was solved. Before Senor Varela left Oaxaca, he contacted Rosita to remind her that the windows were still lying useless in his building. She got a message through to Santa Cruz by the charcoal sellers, and Don Martin brought the oxcart in to get them. There were five large windows, each about three by six feet, divided into nine small panes apiece. They could be hinged like a door to open in or out. But alas, they were wooden frames only and had no glass. Each small pane would cost two pesos, a total of ninety pesos to get the glass for the fire windows. The window frames lay piled in the jail, objects of great pride and of some bewilderment to subsequent councils. Don Bartolo told me in 1945, as I sat chatting with him on the portico of the municipio, that they were holding the beans from la parcela till they could get ninety pesos for them. Meanwhile, they were planting corn and hoped for fifty or sixty pesos from that crop. Then they would buy the glass, though how they were to get forty- five panes of glass up to Santa Cruz in an oxcart without breaking half of them, I couldn't see. Maybe they eventually came up on the truck which delivered flour to Don Martin. But who was to put in the windows? There was no experienced glassworker nearer than Oaxaca City. Such a worker would charge by the day to fit in the glass, would take many days, and would use much time coming and going. The public works committee would have to tear out adobe bricks along the rear of the school and build wooden frames the exact size to fit the windows. Don Bartolo meant to be progressive, but: "Frankly, Dona Elena, this problem presents us many new problems. The windows are too big for the school and should be put in the municipal building. The beans will probably sprout before we get a better price. Besides, the corn planted in la 178 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS grade classes were established in San Pablo Etla before Don Luis Varela left the valley. Fortunately, it was after Don Amado died, and he never knew about that boost to the rival town. Perfecto, the son of Don Marcelino who had spoken to Don Luis so eloquently about the need for advanced grades in the hills, compromised finally and went with Dofa Estefana's grandson Aurelio down to the San Pablo school for the upper two grades of work. But the problem of the windows was solved. Before Senor Varela left Oaxaca, he contacted Rosita to remind her that the windows were still lying useless in his building. She got a message through to Santa Cruz by the charcoal sellers, and Don Martin brought the oxcart in to get them. There were five large windows, each about three by six feet, divided into nine small panes apiece. They could be hinged like a door to open in or out. But alas, they were wooden frames only and had no glass. Each small pane would cost two pesos, a total of ninety pesos to get the glass for the five windows. The window frames lay piled in the jail, objects of great pride and of some bewilderment to subsequent councils. Don Bartolo told me in 1945, as I sat chatting with him on the portico of the municipio, that they vere holding the beans from la parcela till they could get ninety pesos for them. Meanwhile, they were planting corn and hoped for fifty or sixty pesos from that crop. Then they would buy the glass, though how they were to get forty- five panes of glass up to Santa Cruz in an oxcart without breaking half of them, I couldn't see. Maybe they eventually came up on the truck which delivered flour to Don Martin. But who was to put in the windows? There was no experienced glassworker nearer than Oaxaca City. Such a worker would charge by the day to fit in the glass, would take many days, and would use much time coming and going. The public works committee would have to tear out adobe bricks along the rear of the school and build wooden frames the exact size to fit the windows. Don Bartolo meant to be progressive, but: "Frankly, Dona Elena, this problem presents us many new problems. The windows are too big for the school and should be put in the municipal building. The beans will probably sprout before we get a better price. Besides, the corn planted in la 178  DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER parcela is not doing well, for this dry July shows that it surely is not a good corn year." Another time he asked me: "What does the Seiorita Rosita say about us and the glass? Does she think we are backward to have done nothing?" I went into the city with Chico and Esperanza to see the regional dances at the great Lunes del Cerro fiesta of 1945, just after this talk with Don Bartolo, and stayed over at Rosita's "town house." When I told her about all the problems presented by the windows, she sighed with discouragement. "How sad there was no glass in the windows in the first place! Don Luis Valera should not have prom- ised the windows if there was no glass. It would have meant so much to their pride for my people of Santa Cruz Etla to have those fine glass windows in the school. They are not lazy; they just have no initiative about glass." Neither she nor I could foresee that Don Martin, full of initiative, would serve anther term as president in the early fifties, that he would be followed by Don Feliz Jimenez, without a lazy bone in his body, that during those two terms glass windows would go into the school building, roof beams would be replaced and the porch strengthened, a shower would be built at the back, and the whole chapel project would be started as well. 7 WHEN I RETuRNED TO SANTA CRuz ETLA in 1945, none of these future improvements having been organized yet, I noticed only that the outside of the school had been repainted pink and that inside the gloomy, windowless classrooms the walls were a dark green that reflected no light at all. The tables and benches were clean, how- ever, and there were the new books from Oaxaca stacked on the tables. The garden was weeded, rose bushes were blooming in it, and green beans were up. And far down the hill at the end of the garden had been built a real outdoor privy made of adobe. Building outdoor privies was a thing the cultural missionaries were to do for 179 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER parcela is not doing well, for this dry July shows that it surely is not a good corn year." Another time he asked me: "What does the Senorita Rosita say about us and the glass? Does she think we are backward to have done nothing?" I went into the city with Chico and Esperanza to see the regional dances at the great Lunes del Cerro fiesta of 1945, just after this talk with Don Bartolo, and stayed over at Rosita's "town house." When I told her about all the problems presented by the windows, she sighed with discouragement. "How sad there was no glass in the windows in the first place! Don Luis Valera should not have prom- ised the windows if there was no glass. It would have meant so much to their pride for my people of Santa Cruz Etla to have those fine glass windows in the school. They are not lazy; they just have no initiative about glass." Neither she nor I could foresee that Don Martin, full of initiative, would serve anther term as president in the early fifties, that he would be followed by Don Filiz Jimenez, without a lazy bone in his body, that during those two terms glass windows would go into the school building, roof beams would be replaced and the porch strengthened, a shower would be built at the back, and the whole chapel project would be started as well. +7 WHEN I RETURNED To SANTA CRuz ETLA in 1945, none of these future improvements having been organized yet, I noticed only that the outside of the school had been repainted pink and that inside the gloomy, windowless classrooms the walls were a dark green that reflected no light at all. The tables and benches were clean, how- ever, and there were the new books from Oaxaca stacked on the tables. The garden was weeded, rose bushes were blooming in it, and green beans were up. And far down the hill at the end of the garden had been built a real outdoor privy made of adobe. Building outdoor privies was a thing the cultural missionaries were to do for 179 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER parcela is not doing well, for this dry July shows that it surely is not a good corn year." Another time he asked me: "What does the Sefnorita Rosita say about us and the glass? Does she think we are backward to have done nothing?" I went into the city with Chico and Esperanza to see the regional dances at the great Lunes del Cerro fiesta of 1945, just after this talk with Don Bartolo, and stayed over at Rosita's "town house." When I told her about all the problems presented by the windows, she sighed with discouragement. "How sad there was no glass in the windows in the first place! Don Luis Valera should not have prom- ised the windows if there was no glass. It would have meant so much to their pride for my people of Santa Cruz Etla to have those fine glass windows in the school. They are not lazy; they just have no initiative about glass." Neither she nor I could foresee that Don Martin, full of initiative, would serve anther term as president in the early fifties, that he would be followed by Don FEliz Jimenez, without a lazy bone in his body, that during those two terms glass windows would go into the school building, roof beams would be replaced and the porch strengthened, a shower would be built at the back, and the whole chapel project would be started as well. +7 WHEN I RETURNED TO SANTA CRUz ETLA in 1945, none of these future improvements having been organized yet, I noticed only that the outside of the school had been repainted pink and that inside the gloomy, windowless classrooms the walls were a dark green that reflected no light at all. The tables and benches were clean, how- ever, and there were the new books from Oaxaca stacked on the tables. The garden was weeded, rose bushes were blooming in it, and green beans were up. And far down the bill at the end of the garden had been built a real outdoor privy made of adobe. Building outdoor privies was a thing the cultural missionaries were to do for 179  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS mountain villages, said the government in comfortable, sanitary Mexico City; but it will probably take rural teachers a whole gen- eration to put over the idea. Unfortunately for me, this new privy was nearly a city block from Dona Patrocina's; but at least it was there, the only thing of its kind I have ever seen in Santa Cruz Etla. I arrived on a Saturday, and the teachers were gone for the week end; but things at the school looked so much neater than they did the year before under Don Solomon that already I had a good im- pression of the 1945 teaching staff. Monday morning early I went to introduce myself at the school, since Don Bartolo was still too "sick" to do the honors for me. I waited half the morning, and no one came save a few shy children. About noon, one of them remembered it was Benito Juirez' birth- day. Of course it was; the teachers would not come back from Oaxaca City before Tuesday. I remembered the singing and march- ing and flag saluting on Juirez' birthday in 1934, and my idea of the teachers went down. The next morning about ten-thirty they came up the hill. The new principal, Dona Ofelia, sat primly on a burro, while little Dofia Ester, a trifle gayer and more poised than in the year of Don Solom6n, came along behind on foot. Isaias Perez, the boy with the sore eyes, urged the burro along and tried to hold a black umbrella between Dona Ofelia and the sun. He stopped the burro in front of Dona Patrocina's, where I stood with Esperanza watching the caravan. Esperanza, though illiterate, having stayed in Rosita's class only one year, was the daughter of the 1945 alcalde of the school committee, Don Melit6n Arroyo, and as such deserved the courtesy of the principal. She received a scant nod. "Here is the senora americana, friend of Dona Rosita, our beloved former teacher," said Dona Patrocina, calling from the portico. Muy buenos dias, said Dona Ofelia coldly. I felt rather timid. She was past fifty, her hair was slicked back into a knot, her dress was black cotton with a high neck. She had on black cotton stockings and black shoes, unusual because Rosita and Dona Ester had both gone barelegged and all the teachers had worn sandals, even Don Solomon. I could see that this lady con- 180 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS mountain villages, said the government in comfortable, sanitary Mexico City; but it will probably take rural teachers a whole gen- eration to put over the idea. Unfortunately for me, this new privy was nearly a city block from Dona Patrocina's; but at least it was there, the only thing of its kind I have ever seen in Santa Cruz Etla. I arrived on a Saturday, and the teachers were gone for the week end; but things at the school looked so much neater than they did the year before under Don Solomon that already I had a good im- pression of the 1945 teaching staff. Monday morning early I went to introduce myself at the school, since Don Bartolo was still too "sick" to do the honors for me. I waited half the morning, and no one came save a few shy children. About noon, one of them remembered it was Benito Juairez' birth- day. Of course it was; the teachers would not come back from Oaxaca City before Tuesday. I remembered the singing and march- ing and flag saluting on Juirez' birthday in 1934, and my idea of the teachers went down. The next morning about ten-thirty they came up the hill. The new principal, Dona Ofelia, sat primly on a burro, while little Dofia Ester, a trifle gayer and more poised than in the year of Don Solomon, came along behind on foot. Isaias Pdrez, the boy with the sore eyes, urged the burro along and tried to hold a black umbrella between Dona Ofelia and the sun. He stopped the burro in front of Dofia Patrocina's, where I stood with Esperanza watching the caravan. Esperanza, though illiterate, having stayed in Rosita's class only one year, was the daughter of the 1945 alcalde of the school committee, Don Melit6n Arroyo, and as such deserved the courtesy of the principal. She received a scant nod. "Here is the seora americana, friend of Dona Rosita, our beloved former teacher," said Dona Patrocina, calling from the portico. Muy buenos dias, said Dona Ofelia coldly. I felt rather timid. She was past fifty, her hair was slicked back into a knot, her dress was black cotton with a high neck. She had on black cotton stockings and black shoes, unusual because Rosita and Dofna Ester had both gone barelegged and all the teachers had worn sandals, even Don Solomin. I could see that this lady con- 180 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS mountain villages, said the government in comfortable, sanitary Mexico City; but it will probably take rural teachers a whole gen- eration to put over the idea. Unfortunately for me, this new privy was nearly a city block from Dona Patrocina's; but at least it was there, the only thing of its kind I have ever seen in Santa Cruz Etla. I arrived on a Saturday, and the teachers were gone for the week end; but things at the school looked so much neater than they did the year before under Don Solomin that already I had a good im- pression of the 1945 teaching staff. Monday morning early I went to introduce myself at the school, since Don Bartolo was still too "sick" to do the honors for me. I waited half the morning, and no one came save a few shy children. About noon, one of them remembered it was Benito Juairez' birth- day. Of course it was; the teachers would not come back from Oaxaca City before Tuesday. I remembered the singing and march- ing and flag saluting on Juairez' birthday in 1934, and my idea of the teachers went down. The next morning about ten-thirty they came up the hill. The new principal, Dona Ofelia, sat primly on a burro, while little Dona Ester, a trifle gayer and more poised than in the year of Don Solomon, came along behind on foot. Isafas Perez, the boy with the sore eyes, urged the burro along and tried to hold a black umbrella between Dona Ofelia and the sun. He stopped the burro in front of Dona Patrocina's, where I stood with Esperanza watching the caravan. Esperanza, though illiterate, having stayed in Rosita's class only one year, was the daughter of the 1945 alcalde of the school committee, Don Melit6n Arroyo, and as such deserved the courtesy of the principal. She received a scant nod. "Here is the senora americana, friend of Dona Rosita, our beloved former teacher," said Dofia Patrocina, calling from the portico. Muy buenos dias, said Dona Ofelia coldly. I felt rather timid. She was past fifty, her hair was slicked back into a knot, her dress was black cotton with a high neck. She had on black cotton stockings and black shoes, unusual because Rosita and Dona Ester had both gone barelegged and all the teachers had worn sandals, even Don Solomon. I could see that this lady con- 180  DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER sidered herself one of los correctos, the better class of people, the "right ones," and considered Santa Cruz people among los tontos, the ignorant ones. I wanted to feel welcome at the school, so I asked her if I might visit. Of course, I looked very shabby in my old khaki clothes, not at all like one of los correctos myself. "Visit the school any time you please," she said over her shoulder, as she signaled Isaias to urge the burro forward. I put on a clean blouse and went over to the school later in the day. She was probably surprised to see the enthusiastic welcome the children gave me, children in whose homes I had already been visit- ing three days, who remembered me in the exhilaration of the cat and rat games of the summer before. Dona Ofelia nodded to me pleasantly enough and had the children continue reading. During a lull I complimented her on the new garden and the paint job. To explain myself and my presence in the community, I spoke about the campaign against illiteracy and my willingness to help with the teaching of reading and writing to adults. She showed the first spark of interest in me. Puedes td escribir? "Can you write?" she asked in a surprised tone. "Well, I can write well enough to help the illiterates," I said. "Then we can use you; we get little enough cooperation from these tontos on that program," she said. When I told Rosita about this incident, expecting her to be very amused and to act it all out many times to tease me, she surprised me by being angry-angry not because Doa Ofelia thought I could not write, but because she had called me t, as to an inferior, instead of using the polite pronoun usted. Doa Ester was much more friendly than Dona Ofelia. I had had long chats with her in 1944 about ways of teaching beginners to read. I felt always welcome in her class and came again and again through the summer of 1945, sometimes stopping there on the horse so Doa Sofia's Leopoldo and Doa Rufina's Margarito and Don Bartolo's chamaquita could pet the nose of el caballo. Don Marciano considered the horse so ferocious, of course, that no child could take such a risk when he was riding it. 181 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER sidered herself one of los correctos, the better class of people, the "right ones," and considered Santa Cruz people among los tontos, the ignorant ones. I wanted to feel welcome at the school, so I asked her if I might visit. Of course, I looked very shabby in my old khaki clothes, not at all like one of los correctos myself. "Visit the school any time you please," she said over her shoulder, as she signaled Isaias to urge the burro forward. I put on a clean blouse and went over to the school later in the day. She was probably surprised to see the enthusiastic welcome the children gave me, children in whose homes I had already been visit- ing three days, who remembered me in the exhilaration of the cat and rat games of the summer before. Doa Ofelia nodded to me pleasantly enough and had the children continue reading. During a lull I complimented her on the new garden and the paint job. To explain myself and my presence in the community, I spoke about the campaign against illiteracy and my willingness to help with the teaching of reading and writing to adults. She showed the first spark of interest in me. fPuedes t escribir? "Can you write?" she asked in a surprised tone. "Well, I can write well enough to help the illiterates," I said. "Then we can use you; we get little enough cooperation from these tontos on that program," she said. When I told Rosita about this incident, expecting her to be very amused and to act it all out many times to tease me, she surprised me by being angry-angry not because Doa Ofelia thought I could not write, but because she had called me tO, as to an inferior, instead of using the polite pronoun usted. Doa Ester was much more friendly than Dona Ofelia. I had had long chats with her in 1944 about ways of teaching beginners to read. I felt always welcome in her class and came again and again through the summer of 1945, sometimes stopping there on the horse so Dona Sofia's Leopoldo and Doa Rufina's Margarito and Don Bartolo's charmaquita could pet the nose of el caballo. Don Marciano considered the horse so ferocious, of course, that no child could take such a risk when he was riding it. 181 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER sidered herself one of los correctos, the better class of people, the "right ones," and considered Santa Cruz people among los tonos, the ignorant ones. I wanted to feel welcome at the school, so I asked her if I might visit. Of course, I looked very shabby in my old khaki clothes, not at all like one of los correctos myself. "Visit the school any time you please," she said over her shoulder, as she signaled Isaias to urge the burro forward. I put on a clean blouse and went over to the school later in the day. She was probably surprised to see the enthusiastic welcome the children gave me, children in whose homes I had already been visit- ing three days, who remembered me in the exhilaration of the cat and rat games of the summer before. Doa Ofelia nodded to me pleasantly enough and had the children continue reading. During a lull I complimented her on the new garden and the paint job. To explain myself and my presence in the community, I spoke about the campaign against illiteracy and my willingness to help with the teaching of reading and writing to adults. She showed the first spark of interest in me. Puedes td escribir? "Can you write?" she asked in a surprised tone. "Well, I can write well enough to help the illiterates," I said. "Then we can use you; we get little enough cooperation from these tontos on that program," she said. When I told Rosita about this incident, expecting her to be very amused and to act it all out many times to tease me, she surprised me by being angry-angry not because Dona Ofelia thought I could not write, but because she had called me td, as to an inferior, instead of using the polite pronoun usted. Dona Ester was much more friendly than Doa Ofelia. I had had long chats with her in 1944 about ways of teaching beginners to read. I felt always welcome in her class and came again and again through the summer of 1945, sometimes stopping there on the horse so Doa Sofia's Leopoldo and Doa Rufina's Margarito and Don Bartolo's chamaquita could pet the nose of el caballo. Don Marciano considered the horse so ferocious, of course, that no child could take such a risk when he was riding it. 181  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Dona Ester's little charges took turns sweeping the school porch and classrooms and watering down the tile floor with an old-fash- ioned watering can. Their names and their responsibilities were listed on a chart on the wall, neatly printed by Dona Ester. She worked very hard at making planos, copies of letters and simple words, so that each child had something of his own to copy. Her little beginners had no books at all, only pencils and paper. and most of these the families had to supply themselves. I would help her make these copies and spent many mornings making beautiful sentences about cats and goats and burros for Leopoldo and the others. We sometimes used the books provided in the campaign to teach illiterate adults, as they were much better than anything pro- vided for the primary grades. I would like to have been there when Chabella's Margarita, Don Martin's oldest grandchild, started school in 1946, for she was already so cute and bright at five. The advanced primary class had a reader. It was full of Aesop's fables and prosy little stories of good city children who toted their dollies and played with their tin soldiers. Such things Santa Cruz Etla second graders of the 1940's had never seen. I longed for the old tattered books about Firmin and his burro and his tortillas. Rosita had found these citified little books in Don Luis Varela's supplies and had sent them up. They were at least better than the single copy Dona Ester had had the year before; anything was better than the almost complete lack of books in Don Solomdn's time. The trouble was that Dona Ester had eighteen pupils in the first grade and fifteen in the second grade, on the average. She could give any one child about twenty minutes a day, and perhaps he came three days a week. No wonder that it took the Santa Cruz Etla children two years to do the work for each grade and that so many weere still in the third grade when they became discouraged and quit at twelve or thirteen. Many parents considered that a child knew enough when he could read a little and write his own name. Many children dropped out at the end of Dona Ester's classes, too, because they liked her and were afraid of Dona Ofelia. I saw the petite Doa Ester in Oaxaca City on a Sunday at the end of that summer. She had on high-heeled pumps and silk stock- 182 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Dona Ester's little charges took turns sweeping the school porch and classrooms and watering down the tile floor with an old-fash- ioned watering can. Their names and their responsibilities were listed on a chart on the wall, neatly printed by Dona Ester. She worked very hard at making planos, copies of letters and simple words, so that each child had something of his own to copy. Her little beginners had no books at all, only pencils and paper. and most of these the families had to supply themselves. I would help her make these copies and spent many mornings making beautiful sentences about cats and goats and burros for Leopoldo and the others. We sometimes used the books provided in the campaign to teach illiterate adults, as they were much better than anything pro- vided for the primary grades. I would like to have been there when Chabella's Margarita, Don Martin's oldest grandchild, started school in 1946, for she was already so cute and bright at five. The advanced primary class had a reader. It was full of Aesop's fables and prosy little stories of good city children who loved their dollies and played with their tin soldiers. Such things Santa Cruz Etla second graders of the 1940's had never seen. I longed for the old tattered books about Firmin and his burro and his tortillas. Rosita had found these citified little books in Don Luis Varela's supplies and had sent them up. They were at least better than the single copy Doa Ester had had the year before; anything was better than the almost complete lack of books in Don Solomon's time. The trouble was that Dona Ester had eighteen pupils in the first grade and fifteen in the second grade, on the average. She could give any one child about twenty minutes a day, and perhaps he came three days a week. No wonder that it took the Santa Cruz Etla children two cears to do the work for each grade and that so many weere still in the third grade when they became discouraged and quit at twelve or thirteen. Mane parents considered that a child knew enough when he could read a little and write his own name. Many children dropped out at the end of Doa Ester's classes, too, because they liked her and were afraid of Doa Ofelia. I saw the petite Dona Ester in Oaxaca City on a Sunday at the end of that summer. She had on high-heeled pumps and silk stock- 182 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Dona Ester's little charges took turns sweeping the school porch and classrooms and watering down the tile floor with an old-fash- ioned watering can. Their names and their responsibilities were listed on a chart on the wall, neatly printed by Dona Ester. She worked very hard at making planos, copies of letters and simple words, so that each child had something of his own to copy. Her little beginners had no books at all, only pencils and paper. and most of these the families had to supply themselves. I would help her make these copies and spent many mornings making beautiful sentences about cats and goats and burros for Leopoldo and the others. We sometimes used the books provided in the campaign to teach illiterate adults, as they were much better than anything pro- vided for the primary grades. I would like to have been there when Chabella's Margarita, Don Martin's oldest grandchild, started school in 1946, for she was already so cute and bright at five. The advanced primary class had a reader. It was full of Aesop's fables and prosy little stories of good city children who loved their dollies and played with their tin soldiers. Such things Santa Cruz Etla second graders of the 1940's had never seen. I longed for the old tattered books about Firmin and his burro and his tortillas. Rosita had found these citified little books in Don Luis Varela's supplies and had sent them up. They were at least better than the single copy Dona Ester had had the year before; anything was better than the almost complete lack of books in Don Solomn's time. The trouble was that Dona Ester had eighteen pupils in the first grade and fifteen in the second grade, on the average. She could give any one child about twenty minutes a day, and perhaps he came three days a week. No wonder that it took the Santa Cruz Etla children two years to do the work for each grade and that so many weere still in the third oradle when they became discouraged and quit at twelve or thirteen. Many parents considered that a child knew enough when he could read a little and write his own name. Many children dropped out at the end of Doa Ester's classes, too, because they liked her and were afraid of Doa Ofelia. I saw the petite Dona Ester in Oaxaca City on a Sunday at the end of that summer. She had on high-heeled pumps and silk stock- 182  DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER ings, a stylish black and white suit, and black ribbon-and-veil hat. She stopped to remind me of a promise to send colored magazine pictures to the school in Santa Cruz Etla throughout the coming year. I almost told her that she looked as strange to Santa Cruz in that stylish outfit as any colored magazine picture would be, and that I could see her getting married to some well-to-do Oaxaca man and never staying in Santa Cruz Etla long enough to receive any pictures from me. Though this marriage actually happened, my judgment did her an injustice. She had stayed in Santa Cruz three years, longer than any teacher since Rosita; she had made the chil- dren love her; and, although I have never seen her since 1945 myself, Leopoldo told me that she came up to visit the town two times on fiesta days after she had a nice, new husband. Dona Ofelia, with no hopes for a husband, stuck forever perhaps in some lesser place even than Santa Cruz Etta, ground away at teaching the third and fourth grades. The third-grade reader had stories about Mexico's heroes-Hidalgo, Morelos, Juirez, Madero. It had the words of the national anthem and the pledge of allegiance to Mexico. There was a long chapter about the Aztecs, who seemed to live still in some strange world and to have no connection what- ever with the Mixtecs who built Monte Albin or the Zapotecs who built Mitla. The third-grade reader, the only glimpse of the rest of Mexico that most of Santa Cruz Etta would ever get, did not even mention the romantic ancient history of the valley of Oaxaca. Time not used by Dona Ofelia with the third graders in reading this book aloud, each at his own speed, was spent teaching multiplication and long division. There was only a square of black oilcloth used as a blackboard, and that board and Dona Ofelia's stubs of chalk made up the only arithmetic textbook. The reader itself had rather dif- ficult words and stories, material we would expect fifth or sixth graders to read in the United States. Doia Ofelia had two boys and three girls in the fourth grade in 1945-Isaias Prez, Geronomo M6ndez, Chabella's little sister Adelita from Dona Rosario's house on the trail to the San Lorenzo lema, Don Marcelina's little Teresa, almost as good a student as her famous brother Perfecto, and Don Lalo's Aurelia, then twelve years old. 183 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER ings, a stylish black and white suit, and black ribbon-and-veil hat. She stopped to remind me of a promise to send colored magazine pictures to the school in Santa Cruz Etla throughout the coming year. I almost told her that she looked as strange to Santa Cruz in that stylish outfit as any colored magazine picture would be, and that I could see her getting married to some well-to-do Oaxaca man and never staying in Santa Cruz Etla long enough to receive any pictures from me. Though this marriage actually happened, my judgment did her an injustice. She had stayed in Santa Cruz three years, longer than any teacher since Rosita; she had made the chil- dren love her; and, although I have never seen her since 1945 myself, Leopoldo told me that she came up to visit the town two times on fiesta days after she had a nice, new husband. Dona Ofelia, with no hopes for a husband, stuck forever perhaps in some lesser place even than Santa Cruz Etla, ground away at teaching the third and fourth grades. The third-grade reader bad stories about Mexico's heroes-Hidalgo, Morelos, Juirez, Madero. It had the words of the national anthem and the pledge of allegiance to Mexico. There was a long chapter about the Aztecs, who seemed to live still in some strange world and to have no connection what- ever with the Mixtecs who built Monte Albian or the Zapotecs who built Mitla. The third-grade reader, the only glimpse of the rest of Mexico that most of Santa Cruz Etla would ever get, did not even mention the romantic ancient history of the valley of Oaxaca. Time not used by Dona Ofelia with the third graders in reading this book aloud, each at his own speed, was spent teaching multiplication and long division. There was only a square of black oilcloth used as a blackboard, and that board and Dona Ofelia's stubs of chalk made up the only arithmetic textbook. The reader itself had rather dif- ficult words and stories, material we would expect fifth or sixth graders to read in the United States. Dona Ofelia had two boys and three girls in the fourth grade in 1945-Isaias Perez, Ger6nomo Mendez, Chabella's little sister Adelita from Dona Rosario's house on the trail to the San Lorenzo loma, Don Marcelino's little Teresa, almost as good a student as her famous brother Perfecto, and Don Lalo's Aurelia, then twelve years old. 183 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER ings, a stylish black and white suit, and black ribbon-and-veil hat. She stopped to remind me of a promise to send colored magazine pictures to the school in Santa Cruz Etla throughout the coming year. I almost told her that she looked as strange to Santa Cruz in that stylish outfit as any colored magazine picture would be, and that I could see her getting married to some well-to-do Oaxaca man and never staying in Santa Cruz Etla long enough to receive any pictures from me. Though this marriage actually happened, my judgment did her an injustice. She had stayed in Santa Cruz three years, longer than any teacher since Rosita; she had made the chil- dren love her; and, although I have never seen her since 1945 myself, Leopoldo told me that she came up to visit the town two times on fiesta days after she had a nice, new husband. Dona Ofelia, with no hopes for a husband, stuck forever perhaps in some lesser place even than Santa Cruz Etla, ground away at teaching the third and fourth grades. The third-grade reader had stories about Mexico's heroes-Hidalgo, Morelos, Juarez, Madero. It had the words of the national anthem and the pledge of allegiance to Mexico. There was a long chapter about the Aztecs, who seemed to live still in some strange world and to have no connection what- ever with the Mixtecs who built Monte Albin or the Zapotecs who built Mitla. The third-grade reader, the only glimpse of the rest of Mexico that most of Santa Cruz Etla would ever get, did not even mention the romantic ancient history of the valley of Oaxaca. Time not used by Dona Ofelia with the third graders in reading this book aloud, each at his own speed, was spent teaching multiplication and long division. There was only a square of black oilcloth used as a blackboard, and that board and Dona Ofelia's stubs of chalk made up the only arithmetic textbook. The reader itself had rather dif- ficult words and stories, material we would expect fifth or sixth graders to read in the United States. Doia Ofelia had two boys and three girls in the fourth grade in 1945-Isaias Perez, Ger6nomo M6ndez, Chabella's little sister Adelita from Dofa Rosario's house on the trail to the San Lorenzo loua, Don Marcelina's little Teresa, almost as good a student as her famous brother Perfecto, and Don Lalo's Aureclia, then twelve years old. 183  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS These children cared for the garden, watched the younger children as assistants to Dona Ester, doled out the few sheets of paper, and kept the teachers' living quarters clean. But they had a harder time financially than the younger students, because they each had to buy a book. They had the regular fourth-grade reader which has to be "passed" in order to get out of the last year of school, readers which were sent free to Santa Cruz Etla after our visit in 1944. But in addi- tion each child had to spend three pesos of his father's money for the Libro General, the "Book of Everything," for the fourth grade. I took Adelita's book home and looked it through. It was a big book with half-tone cuts from photographs, a better printing job than the little readers. It had two hundred fifty pages and was divided into sec- tions on natural science, Mexican geography, hygiene of the body, description of Mexico's constitutional government, and products of the various states of Mexico. Only seventh or eighth graders here in the United States could tackle that mass of detailed subject mat- ter. There is a Oaxaca State regulation that an examination on this book must be passed in order to earn the fourth-grade "certificate of completion of a rural school"; but the book was never seen in Santa Cruz Etla before the days of Dona Ofelia. I am sure Don Solomon didn't know all that stuff himself. Only Isaias Pdrez and Adelita had any hopes of being certificados at the end of the school semester in 1946. Then Crescencio's little sister Alicia and three others from the third grade came on up, bought the books, and went plugging along. I surely hope this erudition did Santa Cruz Etla some good, but only the part about hygiene seemed to me to have any bearing on the existing "problems." Although I did not have the friendly feeling of "home" about the school that I had when I lived there with Rosita, I came to know these children almost as well as I had those of 1934, to feel a kinship with Ger6nomo and Isaias, Adelita and Teresa, Alicia and Aurelia, Leopoldo, Margarito, and Martiniano, these last two the fatherless little sons of Don Amado. Twice we played ring games such as Rosita had taught us, even through music and singing and folk dancing had been exiled from the school forever by the "academic" Doa Ofelia. I was surprised also to see the boys play with home- 184 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS These children cared for the garden, watched the younger children as assistants to Dona Ester, doled out the few sheets of paper, and kept the teachers' living quarters clean. But they had a harder time financially than the younger students, because they each had to buy a book. They had the regular fourth-grade reader which has to be "passed" in order to get out of the last year of school, readers which were sent free to Santa Cruz Etla after our visit in 1944. But in addi- tion each child had to spend three pesos of his father's money for the Libro General, the "Book of Everything," for the fourth grade. I took Adelita's book home and looked it through. It was a big book with half-tone cuts from photographs, a better printing job than the little readers. It had two hundred fifty pages and was divided into sec- tions on natural science, Mexican geography, hygiene of the body, description of Mexico's constitutional government, and products of the various states of Mexico. Only seventh or eighth graders here in the United States could tackle that mass of detailed subject mat- ter. There is a Oaxaca State regulation that an examination on this book must be passed in order to earn the fourth-grade "certificate of completion of a rural school"; but the book was never seen in Santa Cruz Etla before the days of Dona Ofelia. I am sure Don Solomon didn't know all that stuff himself. Only Isaias Pdrez and Adelita had any hopes of being certificados at the end of the school semester in 1946. Then Crescencdo's little sister Alicia and three others from the third grade came on up, bought the books, and went plugging along. I surely hope this erudition did Santa Cruz Etla some good, but only the part about hygiene seemed to me to have any bearing on the existing "problems." Although I did not have the friendly feeling of "home" about the school that I had when I lived there with Rosita, I came to know these children almost as well as I had those of 1934, to feel a kinship with Gerdnomo and Isaias, Adelita and Teresa, Alicia and Aurelia, Leopoldo, Margarito, and Martiniano, these last two the fatherless little sons of Don Amado. Twice we played ring games such as Rosita had taught us, even through music and singing and folk dancing had been exiled from the school forever by the "academic' Dona Ofelia. I was surprised also to see the boys play with home- 184 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS These children cared for the garden, watched the younger children as assistants to Dona Ester, doled out the few sheets of paper, and kept the teachers' living quarters clean. But they had a harder time financially than the younger students, because they each had to buy a book. They had the regular fourth-grade reader which has to be "passed" in order to get out of the last year of school, readers which were sent free to Santa Cruz Etla after our visit in 1944. But in addi- tion each child had to spend three pesos of his father's money for the Libro General, the "Book of Everything," for the fourth grade. I took Adelita's book home and looked it through. It was a big book with half-tone cuts from photographs, a better printing job than the little readers. It had two hundred fifty pages and was divided into sec- tions on natural science, Mexican geography, hygiene of the body, description of Mexico's constitutional government, and products of the various states of Mexico. Only seventh or eighth graders here in the United States could tackle that mass of detailed subject mat- ter. There is a Oaxaca State regulation that an examination on this book must be passed in order to earn the fourth-grade "certificate of completion of a rural school"; but the book was never seen in Santa Cruz Etla before the days of Dona Ofelia. I am sure Don Solomon didn't know all that stuff himself. Only Isaias Parez and Adelita had any hopes of being certificados at the end of the school semester in 1946. Then Crescencio's little sister Alicia and three others from the third grade came on up, bought the books, and went plugging along. I surely hope this erudition did Santa Cruz Etla some good, but only the part about hygiene seemed to me to have any bearing on the existing "problems." Although I did not have the friendly feeling of "home" about the school that I had when I lived there with Rosita, I came to know these children almost as well as I had those of 1934, to feel a kinship with Gerdnomo and Isaias, Adelita and Teresa, Alicia and Aurelia, Leopoldo, Margarito, and Martiniano, these last two the fatherless little sons of Don Amado. Twice we played ring games such as Rosita had taught us, even through music and singing and folk dancing had been exiled from the school forever by the "academic" Dofia Ofelia. I was surprised also to see the boys play with home- 184  DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER made tops and marbles for the first time. They played marbles in a circle drawn on the ground just as boys play marbles everywhere. "Do you play marbles like this in your country, Dofla Elena?" asked Geronomo. I described our game, telling them about the beautiful glass agates boys have in America. Their faces fell, and I was sorry I had said it. They had thought their little red-clay marbles so fine. Dona Ofelia did not mean to be a purely "book-learning" teacher, and she had done more with the garden than anyone since Rosita. There were five irrigated plots of squash, corn, and green beans; in fact, the school garden looked better than anything else in Santa Cruz Etla in that very dry year of 1945. Doa Ofelia told me, when she became chummier after our weeks of night school teaching to- gether, that the children could sell the vegetable crop and buy some rabbits again. She hoped the present third graders would be con- cerned enough for the garden to keep up the irrigated plots during the dry season when she would be gone on vacation. So I guess she did have some interest in the children. But she surely was scornful of the adults in the community, especially of el Presidente Bartolo and the council. She spoke crossly of their small crop on la parcela. There was that project about the windows for the school room. How stupidly these tonto people had handled the whole affair! Why didn't they raise two hundred pesos by growing a better crop, and put the windows in right? (This when Don Martin and Don Meliton, the school alcalde, had both spoken with pride of how they had worked on the school land in spite of the dry year. I wonder where Dona Ofelia had taught before.) She also wanted new desks and tables. The chairs and tables, made of rough lumber when the school was built, were all the same size, all too small for Geronomo and too large for Leopoldo. "These people are elever enough with their tools when they want to make something for themselves, or for sale. They could set in the windows and make the benches. But they will not. Under this presi- dent and this school alcalde, they never will." At the end of the summer I asked Dota Ofelia my question. "Does a school in a community, the first school ever built in a 185 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER made tops and marbles for the first time. They played marbles in a circle drawn on the ground just as boys play marbles everywhere. "Do you play marbles like this in your country, Dona Elena?" asked Gernomo. I described our game, telling them about the beautiful glass agates boys have in America. Their faces fell, and I was sorry I had said it. They had thought their little red-clay marbles so fine. Dona Ofelia did not mean to be a purely "book-learning" teacher, and she had done more with the garden than anyone since Rosita. There were five irrigated plots of squash, corn, and green beans; in fact, the school garden looked better than anything else in Santa Cruz Etla in that very dry year of 1945. Dona Ofelia told me, when she became chummier after our weeks of night school teaching to- gether, that the children could sell the vegetable crop and buy some rabbits again. She hoped the present third graders would be con- cerned enough for the garden to keep up the irrigated plots during the dry season when she would be gone on vacation. So I guess she did have some interest in the children. But she surely was scornful of the adults in the community, especially of el Presidente Bartolo and the council. She spoke crossly of their small crop on la parcela. There was that project about the windows for the school room. How stupidly these tonto people had handled the whole affair! Why didn't they raise two hundred pesos by growing a better crop, and put the windows in right? (This when Don Martin and Don Melittn, the school alcalde, had both spoken with pride of how they had worked on the school land in spite of the dry year. I wonder where Dona Ofelia had taught before.) She also wanted new desks and tables. The chairs and tables, made of rough lumber when the school was built, were all the same size, all too small for Gernomo and too large for Leopoldo. "These people are clever enough with their tools when they want to make something for themselves, or for sale. They could set in the windows and make the benches. But they will not. Under this presi- dent and this school alcalde, they never will." At the end of the summer I asked Dota Ofelia my question. "Does a school in a community, the first school ever built in a 185 DORA OFELIA AND DORA ESTER made tops and marbles for the first time. They played marbles in a circle drawn on the ground just as boys play marbles everywhere. "Do you play marbles like this in your country, Dona Elena?" asked Geronomo. I described our game, telling them about the beautiful glass agates boys have in America. Their faces fell, and I was sorry I had said it. They had thought their little red-clay marbles so fine. Doa Ofelia did not mean to be a purely "book-learning" teacher, and she had done more with the garden than anyone since Rosita. There were five irrigated plots of squash, corn, and green beans; in fact, the school garden looked better than anything else in Santa Cruz Etla in that very dry year of 1945. Dona Ofelia told me, when she became chummier after our weeks of night school teaching to- gether, that the children could sell the vegetable crop and buy some rabbits again. She hoped the present third graders would be con- cerned enough for the garden to keep up the irrigated plots during the dry season when she would be gone on vacation. So I guess she did have some interest in the children. But she surely was scornful of the adults in the community, especially of el Presidente Bartolo and the council. She spoke crossly of their small crop on la parcela. There was that project about the windows for the school room. How stupidly these tonto people had handled the whole affair! Why didn't they raise two hundred pesos by growing a better crop, and put the windows in right? (This when Don Martin and Don Melittn, the school alcalde, had both spoken with pride of how they had worked on the school land in spite of the dry year. I wonder where Dota Ofelia had taught before.) She also wanted new desks and tables. The chairs and tables, made of rough lumber when the school was built, were all the same size, all too small for Geronomo and too large for Leopoldo. "These people are clever enough with their tools when they want to make something for themselves, or for sale. They could set in the windows and make the benches. But they will not. Under this presi- dent and this school alcalde, they never will." At the end of the summer I asked Doa Ofelia my question. "Does a school in a community, the first school ever built in a 185  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS primitive rural community, raise the standard of living in a ten- year period?" Of course, I didn't say it just that way, but I got the general point across in a roundabout fashion. "Not in this community it won't," she snapped, "not with la gente, here. They are a dirty, lazy people." "Oh, no! Oh, no, they aren't! You just don't know them. I thought as I walked sadly away. But that was the year I was so "scientifically" trying to find out if a rural school did change a community in a decade, and I as determined to get some scientific sociological answer. So I asked the town council my question one day, when I appeared at a last meet- ing to thank them for the summer. I couldn't put over to them the idea of "raise the standard of living." Of course, they thought they had been doing very well, especially in good corn years; and they have such pride in their community that they never think in terms of personal improvement. So I asked: "Are the young men who were in school ten years ago better gardeners and farmers than their fathers?" This idea just produced polite laughter. "Ho' can any young man be a better farmer than his father, Doia Elena? Surely that cannot be true, even in your country," said Don Martin. "Well, can they raise more corn per acre?" "In good years, yes; in bad years, no. One year in this last ten came a pest which destroyed a great deal of the crop. In another. a great rain washed out the seed. This year, you know yourself, Dona Elena, how dry it has been. Both the fathers and the sons do the best they can." No answer to my question there. Dona Estefana had the same reaction. Could the girls who were in school ten years ago keep the houses cleaner, keep the babies freer from sickness? "No, of course, seguro que no, Dona Elena. How could any young girl raise babies better than her mother? For all of us some live, some die." So I looked for an answer in the school itself that year, and found it a stuffier, less vital school than ten years before. although an improvement over Don Solom6n's year. Here also the answer seemed to be: "In good years, yes; in bad years, no." Then I thought 186 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS primitive rural community, raise the standard of living in a ten- year period?" Of course, I didn't say it just that way, but I got the general point across in a roundabout fashion. "Not in this community it won't," she snapped, "not w ith ia gente, here. They are a dirty, lazy people." "Oh, no! Oh, no, they aren't! You just don't know them." I thought as I walked sadly away. But that was the year I was so "scientifically" trying to find out if a rural school did change a community in a decade. and I was determined to get some scientific sociological answer. So I asked the town council my question one day, when I appeared at a last meet- ing to thank them for the summer. I couldn't put over to them the idea of "raise the standard of living." Of course, thes thought they had been doing very well, especially in good corn years; and they have such pride in their community that they never think in terms of personal improvement. So I asked: "Are the young men who were in school ten years ago better gardeners and farmers than their fathers?" This idea just produced polite laughter. "How can any young man be a better farmer than his father, Dona Elena? Surely that cannot be true, even in your country," said Don Martin. "Well, can they raise more corn per acre?" "In good years, yes; in bad years, no. One year in this last ten came a pest which destroyed a great deal of the crop. In another. a great rain washed out the seed. This year, you know yourself, Dona Elena, how dry it has been. Both the fathers and the sons do the best they can." No answer to my question there. Dona Estefana had the same reaction. Could the girls who were in school ten years ago keep the houses cleaner, keep the babies freer from sickness? "No, of course, seguro que no, Dona Elena. How could any young girl raise babies better than her mother? For all of us some live, some die." So I looked for an answer in the school itself that year. and found it a stuffier, less vital school than ten years before. although an improvement over Don Solomn's year. Here also the answer seemed to be: "In good years, yes; in bad years, no." Then I thought 186 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS primitive rural community, raise the standard of living in a ten- year period?" Of course, I didn't say it just that way, but I got the general point across in a roundabout fashion. "Not in this community it won't," she snapped, "not with ia gente, here. They are a dirty, lazy people." "Oh, no! Oh, no, they aren't! You just don't know them." I thought as I walked sadly away. But that was the year I was so "scientifically" trying to find out if a rural school did change a community in a decade. and I was determined to get some scientific sociological answer. So I asked the town council my question one day, when I appeared at a last meet- ing to thank them for the summer. I couldn't put over to them the idea of "raise the standard of living." Of course, thev thought they bad been doing very well, especially in good corn years and they have such pride in their community that they never think in terms of personal improvement. So I asked: "Are the young men who were in school ten years ago better gardeners and farers than their fathers?" This idea just produced polite laughter. "How can any young man be a better farmer than his father, Dona Elena? Surely that cannot be true, even in your country," said Don Martin. "Well, can they raise more corn per acre?" "In good years, yes; in bad years, no. One year in this last ten came a pest which destroyed a great deal of the crop. In another, a great rain washed out the seed. This year, you know yourself, Dona Elena, how dry it has been. Both the fathers and the sons do the best they can." No answer to my question there. Dona Estefana had the same reaction. Could the girls asho were in school ten years ago keep the houses cleaner, keep the babies freer from sickness? "No, of course, seguro que no, Dona Elena. How could any young girl raise babies better than her mother? For all of us some live, some die." So I looked for an answer in the school itself that year. and found it a stuffier, less vital school than ten years before, although an improvement over Don Solom6n's year. Here also the answer seemed to be: "In good years, yes; in bad vears, no." Then I thought 186  DON ALFREDO of the children who went to school to Rosita-Chabella whose four children were so clean and sturdy, Eduardo who knew so much about the mill, Juanita the prosperous, tidy, little wife in San Pablo, Joel who already was taking responsibility in running Dona Est6- fana's wide lands, Nico such a good farmer, Chico who did the writing for the town after the death of Don Amado, Cassiano who gave so much time in a program to teach the illiterates. Who was to say they were not doing these things better because Rosita once taught them? I note that I closed my solemn sociological notes of 1945 with this statement: "Perhaps it is not the school, nor the land, nor the home life which indicates the progress, but the good stu- dents of the good teacher." e,7 8 BY THE TIME OF MY 1954 vs1T I had given up "profound sociological studies" both at home and in Santa Cruz Etla, and I had no scientific approach one way or the other to the problem: How has a school helped a community in twenty years? As for Dona Ofelia, Don Martin and Don Feliz knew only that she had gone, they did not remember how long after 1945. "A long time ago, Dona Elena, who knows what year, one year or another." Then there had been another matrimonio for two or three years; we met the couple briefly on our daylong picnic at Santa Cruz in 1951, without even noting their names. They had evidently not worked the garden, for the whole area of the garden had been cleared of growth in 1952, with no one having a thought as to long- term values of school gardens; and the new chapel had been built on the site, occupying half the garden space. I was disappointed to see no garden. I wondered whether in the long run the garden did not accomplish more for Santa Cruz than the empty chapel, which would probably never have a resident priest. But perhaps the example of the garden-the cultivation of many kinds of green vegetables, the careful choice of the best seeds, the banking and 187 DON ALFREDO of the children who went to school to Rosita-Chabella whose four children were so clean and sturdy, Eduardo who knew so much about the mill, Juanita the prosperous, tidy, little wife in San Pablo, Joel who already was taking responsibility in running Dona Est- fana's wide lands, Nice such a good farmer, Chico who did the writing for the town after the death of Don Amado, Cassiano who gave so much time in a program to teach the illiterates. Who was to say they were not doing these things better because Rosita once taught them? I note that I closed my solemn sociological notes of 1945 with this statement: "Perhaps it is not the school, nor the land, nor the home life which indicates the progress, but the good stu- dents of the good teacher." s, 8%' BY THE TIME oF MY 1954 V1Se I had given up "profound sociological studies" both at home and in Santa Cruz Etla, and I had no scientific approach one way or the other to the problem: How has a school helped a community in twenty years? As for Doua Ofelia, Don Martin and Don Frliz knew only that she had gone, they did not remember how long after 1945. "A long time ago, Dona Elena, who, knows what year, one year or another." Then there had been another matrimonio for two or three years; we met the couple briefly on our daylong picnic at Santa Cruz in 1951, without even noting their names, They had evidently not worked the garden, for the whole area of the garden had been cleared of growth in 1952, with no one having a thought as to long- term values of school gardens; and the new chapel had been built on the site, occupying half the garden space. I was disappointed to, see no garden. I wondered whether in the long run the garden did not accomplish more for Santa Cruz than the empty chapel, which would probably never have a resident priest. But perhaps the example of the garden-the cultivation of many kinds of green vegetables, the careful choice of the best seeds, the banking and 187 DON ALFREDO of the children who went to school to Rosita-Chabella whose four children were so clean and sturdy, Eduardo who knew so much about the mill, Juanita the prosperous, tidy, little wife in San Pablo, Joel who already was taking responsibility in running Dona Este- fana's wide lands, Nice such a good farmer, Chico who did the writing for the town after the death of Don Amado, Cassiano who gave so much time in a program to teach the illiterates. Who was to say they were not doing these things better because Rosita once taught them? I note that I closed my solemn sociological notes of 1945 with this statement: "Perhaps it is not the school, nor the land, nor the home life which indicates the progress, but the good stu- dents of the good teacher." e, 8p BY THE TIME oF MY 1954 VsT I had given up "profound sociological studies" both at home and in Santa Cruz Etla, and I had no scientific approach one way or the other to the problem: How has a school helped a community in twenty years? As for Dona Ofelia, Don Martin and Don Feliz knew only that she had gone, they did not remember how long after 1945. "A long time ago, Dona Elena, who knows what year, one year or another." Then there had been another matrimonio for two or three years; we met the couple briefly on our daylong picnic at Santa Cruz in 1951, without even noting their names. They Sad evidently not worked the garden, for the whole area of the garden had been cleared of growth in 1952, with no one having a thought as to long- term values of school gardens; and the new chapel had been built on the site, occupying half the garden space. I was disappointed to see no garden. I wondered whether in the long run the garden did not accomplish more for Santa Cruz than the empty chapel, which would probably never have a resident priest. But perhaps the example of the garden-the cultivation of many kinds of green vegetables, the careful choice of the best seeds, the banking and 187  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS channel digging for small-scale irrigation, all the things which Rosita and El Maestro and Doa Ofelia had taught-had already be- come such a part of the community, which had always loved gar- dens anyway and needed only the incentive of better methods, that the school garden itself passed into oblivion without anyone's remarking it. With the 1953 session came Don Alfredo Gonzilez as school prin- cipal and his wife Estella as primary teacher. Small, slight, digni- fied, and conscientious, himself of Indian stock from a distant town at the dry end of the valley, Don Alfredo was pleased with his as- signment to Santa Cruz Etla, because, as he himself said, "It is so green here the year round, so much grows, and the fruit trees. Qud magnificos! Besides, this is a good people, an ambitious town, such fine municipal presidents!" Doa Ofelia may have taught in better villages, but evidently Don Alfredo had taught in worse ones, with drier fields, less spectacular views, and less cooperative towns- people. "The first thing the president and council did when the new session started was to put glass windows in the school building. Imagine that! What other mountain school has glass windows?" Naturally, it had taken another term in the presidency by Don Martin to get the glass project started at last. But there had been two good years, the price of both corn and charcoal had gone up with the general rise in the standard of living all over Mexico, and the townspeople had voted to get the windows in the school before they started the church. The glass and the skilled labor cost one hundred fifty pesos, but there were twice as many pesos then for one load of firewood or charcoal. A single crop on la parcela paid the bill. With the new school windows letting in the light, Don Alfredo suggested that the inside be painted a soft light green instead of the dark green it had been for so many years. The outside was also newly painted, a cream color; and, for the first time, the name Don Amado had given it, Escuela Federal de Benito Juarez, was painted inside the arcade in letters a foot high. This last was another work contribution by Perfecto. Don Alfredo also purchased blackboard- ing such as one sees in schools in the United States to replace the 188 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS channel digging for small-scale irrigation, all the things which Rosita and El Maestro and Dona Ofelia had taught-had already be- come such a part of the community, which had always loved gar- dens anyway and needed only the incentive of better methods, that the school garden itself passed into oblivion without anyone's remarking it. With the 1953 session came Don Alfredo GonzIlez as school prin- cipal and his wife Estella as primary teacher. Small, slight, digni- fied, and conscientious, himself of Indian stock from a distant town at the dry end of the valley, Don Alfredo was pleased with his as- signment to Santa Cruz Etla, because, as he himself said, "It is so green here the year round, so much grows, and the fruit trees. jQue magnfficos! Besides, this is a good people, an ambitious town, such fine municipal presidents!" Dona Ofelia may have taught in better villages, but evidently Don Alfredo had taught in worse ones, with drier fields, less spectacular views, and less cooperative town- people. "The first thing the president and council did when the new session started was to put glass windows in the school building. Imagine that! What other mountain school has glass windows?" Naturally, it had taken another term in the presidency by Don Martin to get the glass project started at last. But there had been two good years, the price of both corn and charcoal had gone up with the general rise in the standard of living all over Mexico, and the townspeople had voted to get the windows in the school before they started the church. The glass and the skilled labor cost one hundred fifty pesos, but there were twice as many pesos then for one load of firewood or charcoal. A single crop on la parcela paid the bill. With the new school windows letting in the light, Don Alfredo suggested that the inside be painted a soft light green instead of the dark green it had been for so many years. The outside was also newly painted, a cream color; and, for the first time, the name Don Amado had given it, Escuela Federal de Benito Juarez, was painted inside the arcade in letters a foot high. This last was another work contribution by Perfecto. Don Alfredo also purchased blackboard- ing such as one sees in schools in the United States to replace the 188 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS channel digging for small-scale irrigation, all the things which Rosita and El Maestro and Dona Ofelia had taught-had already be- come such a part of the community, which had always loved gar- dens anyway and needed only the incentive of better methods, that the school garden itself passed into oblivion without anyone's remarking it. With the 1953 session came Don Alfredo Gonzilez as school prin- cipal and his wife Estella as primary teacher. Small, slight, digni- fied, and conscientious, himself of Indian stock from a distant town at the dry end of the valley, Don Alfredo was pleased with his as- signment to Santa Cruz Etla, because, as he himself said, "It is so green here the year round, so much grows, and the fruit trees. jQui magnificos! Besides, this is a good people, an ambitious town, such fine municipal presidents!" Doa Ofelia may have taught in better villages, but evidently Don Alfredo had taught in worse ones, with drier fields, less spectacular views, and less cooperative towns- people. "The first thing the president and council did when the new session started was to put glass windows in the school building. Imagine that! What other mountain school has glass windows?" Naturally, it had taken another term in the presidency by Don Martin to get the glass project started at last. But there had been two good years, the price of both corn and charcoal had gone up with the general rise in the standard of living all over Mexico, and the townspeople had voted to get the windows in the school before they started the church. The glass and the skilled labor cost one hundred fifty pesos, but there were twice as many pesos then for one load of firewood or charcoal. A single crop on la parcela paid the bill. With the new school windows letting in the light, Don Alfredo suggested that the inside be painted a soft light green instead of the dark green it had been for so many years. The outside was also newly painted, a cream color; and, for the first time, the name Don Amado had given it, Escuela Federal de Benito Juarez, was painted inside the arcade in letters a foot high. This last was another work contribution by Perfecto. Don Alfredo also purchased blackboard- ing such as one sees in schools in the United States to replace the 188  DON ALFREDO small pieces of black oilcloth used in the school since Rosita's day. Don Alfredo bought it at his own expense in Oaxaca and had it brought up on the San Lorenzo bus, fifteen feet of it, three feet wide, in two sections. He got Joel and Nico to help him mount it in wooden frames attached to the wall, one in each of the school rooms, where the light came in bright for all to see it. The desks and benches were repaired, there were new colored pictures of CAr- denas and of Ruiz Cortines up on the wall next to Hidalgo and Juarez. The day we arrived in 1954, our car pulled by oxen into the schoolyard, the children were at home for the midday meal, and school was not reopened for the rest of the day. Instead, the official speeches of greeting were held right up on the school porch, not out on the steps as they had been when the schoolteachers were less a part of the town's life. While we ate lunch at Don Martin's, Don Alfredo joined with Don Feliz in summoning the town band, which then sat on the school benches on the porch all the rest of the afternoon, playing its entire repertoire over and over, no matter with whom we were chatting or what speeches were being made. I could see from the whispered conversations and the "scurrying- arounds" of Don Feliz and Don Alfredo that this teacher was a member of the community more than any man teacher had ever been. His wife, twice his size in girth and not much more than half his age, had a little group of primary children fluttering round her all afternoon like chicks round a young hen. Evidently Santa Cruz had at last got over the nostalgia for Rosita and had found a pair of teachers it could take to its bosom. But if I had come that time to analyze the school for "improve- ments in two decades," I would have found little to encourage me beyond the beautification of the building. What teachers can do a good job with only the equipment they or the parents can afford to purchase? In the days of Rosita, the Firmin books, the paper and the pencils, and many crayons, colored chalks, sewing materials, and such things had been provided by the Mexican government, anxious to make the rural schools a success. Don Luis Varela's interest had provided new books, however inadequate, and some small supply of 189 DON ALFREDO small pieces of black oilcloth used in the school since Rosita's day. Don Alfredo bought it at his own expense in Oaxaca and had it brought up on the San Lorenzo bus, fifteen feet of it, three feet wide, in two sections. He got Joel and Nico to help him mount it in wooden frames attached to the wall, one in each of the school rooms, where the light came in bright for all to see it. The desks and benches were repaired, there were new colored pictures of Cir- denas and of Ruiz Cortines up on the wall next to Hidalgo and Juarez. The day we arrived in 1954, our car pulled by oxen into the schoolyard, the children were at home for the midday meal, and school was not reopened for the rest of the day. Instead, the official speeches of greeting were held right up on the school porch, not out on the steps as they had been when the schoolteachers were less a part of the town's life. While we ate lunch at Don Martin's, Don Alfredo joined with Don Feliz in summoning the town band, which then sat on the school benches on the porch all the rest of the afternoon, playing its entire repertoire over and over, no matter with whom we were chatting or what speeches were being made. I could see from the whispered conversations and the "scurrying- arounds" of Don Flliz and Don Alfredo that this teacher was a member of the community more than any man teacher had ever been. His wife, twice his size in girth and not much more than half his age, had a little group of primary children fluttering round her all afternoon like chicks round a young hen. Evidently Santa Cruz had at last got over the nostalgia for Rosita and had found a pair of teachers it could take to its bosom. But if I had come that time to analyze the school for "improve- ments in two decades," I would have found little to encourage me beyond the beautification of the building. What teachers can do a good job with only the equipment they or the parents can afford to purchase? In the days of Rosita, the Firmin books, the paper and the pencils, and many crayons, colored chalks, sewing materials, and such things had been provided by the Mexican government, anxious to make the rural schools a success. Don Luis Varela's interest had provided new books, however inadequate, and some small supply of 189 DON ALFREDO small pieces of black oilcloth used in the school since Rosita's day. Don Alfredo bought it at his own expense in Oaxaca and had it brought up on the San Lorenzo bus, fifteen feet of it, three feet wide, in two sections. He got Joel and Nico to help him mount it in wooden frames attached to the wall, one in each of the school rooms, where the light came in bright for all to see it. The desks and benches were repaired, there were new colored pictures of Car- denas and of Ruiz Cortines up on the wall next to Hidalgo and Juarez. The day we arrived in 1954, our car pulled by oxen into the schoolyard, the children were at home for the midday meal, and school was not reopened for the rest of the day. Instead, the official speeches of greeting were held right up on the school porch, not out on the steps as they had been when the schoolteachers were less a part of the town's life. While we ate lunch at Don Martin's, Don Alfredo joined with Don Feliz in summoning the town band, which then sat on the school benches on the porch all the rest of the afternoon, playing its entire repertoire over and over, no matter with whom we were chatting or what speeches were being made. I could see from the whispered conversations and the "scurrying- arounds" of Don Feliz and Don Alfredo that this teacher was a member of the community more than any man teacher had ever been. His wife, twice his size in girth and not much more than half his age, had a little group of primary children fluttering round her all afternoon like chicks round a young hen. Evidently Santa Cruz had at last got over the nostalgia for Rosita and had found a pair of teachers it could take to its bosom. But if I had come that time to analyze the school for "improve- ments in two decades," I would have found little to encourage me beyond the beautification of the building. What teachers can do a good job with only the equipment they or the parents can afford to purchase? In the days of Rosita, the Firmin books, the paper and the pencils, and many crayons, colored chalks, sewing materials, and such things had been provided by the Mexican government, anxious to make the rural schools a success. Don Luis Varela's interest had provided new books, however inadequate, and some small supply of 189  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS paper and pencils, in the mid-1940's. Now since the beginning of the 1950's, anything that the school has above the teachers sal- aries must be provided by the community itself. The Mexican rural schools are beginning to be an old story, while the official interest of the nation centers on the new industrialization. The federal govern- ment gave the impetus, maintains the staff; let the towns carry on from there. Fair enough! Santa Cruz Etla had fixed up the school building, then had taxed every family heavily, one hundred pesos, to build the chapel. When Don Alfredo reported that the books had disintegrated and that there were no writing supplies to be found, the school committee called a parents' meeting. It was decided that ever family with children would purchase books and supplies for its own, the stores in Oaxaca being so accessible these days by bus. Seemingly a wise enough decision, but nonetheless responsible for the practical fail- ure of Don Alfredo's program. Nico's little girl and Chico's little boy were in the first grade in 1954. For an outlay of five pesos, Dona Patrocina's family purchased for each child one copy of the most namby-pamby little reader I ever saw, and a "copybook" of about thirty blank sheets with a pencil attached by string. When the sheets were filled with the childish attempts at writing, the paper was turned and the new writing went across the old. When my husband came back with the car on the second Sunday, he brought a new copy book and a dozen pencils for each child in Dona Patrocina's family, as well as gifts of pencils and paper for many other children we knew aell in the community. But such artificial irrigation does not water the vineyard. What of the children from San Sebastian and San Lorenzo whom we do not know well, who months before had dropped out of school when the first family purchases were used up, when the pencils were lost or the copybooks inadvertently left out in the rain? Or what of the children who weere to enter school at six, near the end of the year when the crop was long since exhausted and all money from it spent-and so never entered school at all? And how about the third and fourth graders, whose books were so expensive, who needed more than one book apiece and a great deal of paper? 190 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS paper and pencils, in the mid-1940's. Now since the beginning of the 1950's, anything that the school has above the teachers sal- aries must be provided by the community itself. The Mlexican rural schools are beginning to be an old story, while the official interest of the nation centers on the new industrialization. The federal govern- ment gave the impetus, maintains the staff; let the towns carry on from there. Fair enough! Santa Cruz Etla had fixed up the school building, then had taxed every family heavily, one hundred pesos, to build the chapel. When Don Alfredo reported that the books had disintegrated and that there were no writing supplies to be found, the school committee called a parents' meeting. It was decided that every family with children would purchase books and supplies for its own, the stores in Oaxaca being so accessible these days by bus. Seemingly a wvise enough decision, but nonetheless responsible for the practical fail- ure of Don Alfredo's program. Nico's little girl and Chico's little boy were in the first grade in 1954. For an outlay of five pesos, Dona Patrocina's family purchased for each child one copy of the most namby-pamby little reader I ever saw, and a "copybook" of about thirty blank sheets w1ith a pencil attached by string. When the sheets were filed with the childish attempts at writing, the paper was turned and thc new writing went across the old. When my husband came back with the car on the second Sunday, he brought a new copy book and a dozen pencils for each child in Doia Patrocina's family, as well as gifts of pencils and paper for many other children we knew oell in the community. But such artificial irrigation does not water the vineyard. What of the children from San Sebastiin and San Lorenzo whom we do not know well, who months before had dropped out of school when the first family purchases were used up, when the pencils were lost or the copybooks inadvertently left out in the rain? Or what of the children who were to enter school at six, near the end of the year when the crop was long since exhausted and all money from it spent-and so never entered school at all? And how about the third and fourth graders, whose books were so expensive. who needed more than one book apiece and a great deal of paper? 190 SANTA CRUZ OF TIlE ETLA HILLS paper and pencils, in the mid-1940's. Now since the beginning of the 1950's, anything that the school has above the teachers sal- aries must be provided by the community itself. The lexican rural schools are beginning to be an old story, while the official interest of the nation centers on the new industrialization. The federal govern- ment gave the impetus, maintains the staff; let the towns carry on from there. Fair enough! Santa Cruz Etla had fixed up the school building, then had taxed every family heavily, one hundred pesos, to build the chapel. When Don Alfredo reported that the books had disintegrated and that there were no writing supplies to be found, the school committee called a parents' meeting. It was decided that ever family oith children would purchase books and supplies for its own, the stores in Oaxaca being so accessible these days by bus. Seemingly a wise enough decision, but nonetheless responsible for the practical fail- ure of Don Alfredo's program. Nico's little girl and Chico's little boy were in the first grade in 1954. For an outlay of five pesos, Dona Patrocina's family purchased for each child one copy of the most namby-pamby little reader I ever saw, and a "copybook" of about thirty blank sheets with a pencil attached by string. When the sheets were filled with the childish attempts at writing, the paper was turned and th anaw writing went across the old. When my husband came back with the car on the second Sunday, he brought a new copy book and a dozen pencils for each child in Dona Patrocina's family, as well as gifts of pencils and paper for many other children w-e knew well in the community. But such artificial irrigation does not water the vineyard. What of the children from San Sebastian and San Lorenzo whom we do not know well, who months before had dropped out of school when the first family purchases were used up, shen the pencils were lost or the copybooks inadvertently left out in the rain? Or what of the children who were to enter school at six, near the end of the year when the crop was long since exhausted and all money from it spent-and so never entered school at all? And hoo about the third and fourth graders, whose books were so expensive. who needed more than one book apiece and a great deal of paper? 190  DON ALFREDO Don Alfredo was not so concerned about all this as I. He had started teaching as a tutor in a private Catholic boys' school, had been eight years in communities where there were even less sup- plies than in Santa Cruz Etla, and had had no experience with a regime in which a benevolent central office sent out supplies. As academic as Doa Ofelia in the classroom, he scared away the older children by his insistence on rote learning, and he was almost as responsible for the small enrollment in the fourth grade as was the expense of the books. There were three boys and four girls in Don Alfredo's fourth grade, not much better a survival rate from the lower grades than in Doa Ofelia's time. Don Marciano's youngest girl, Chabella's second daughter, Adela, and a brother of Esperanza were the only ones from families I knew well. Living as I did in Don Martin's house, I could look over Adela's books every day and "pump" her on the value of what she was learning. Bright child in a bright family, though not up to the brilliance of her older sister Margarita, Adela found the fourth grade a disappointment and talked wist- fully of going down to San Pablo to school. This was a thing no Santa Cruz girl had ever done, although Margarita had the fifth and sixth grades with the nuns in Oaxaca on a sort of scholarship. The same Libro General was used as in Doa Ofelia's fourth grade, and Adela's copy was in shreds from many different users, with pages missing and the binding gone. The "little red school house" on the mid-western prairies in the days of our grandfathers had the same problems about the providing of books and their disintegration and obsolescence as they passed through a family. However, no one in Santa Cruz was complaining about the books in 1954, or about the teaching either. There were fifteen third graders, twenty-two second graders, and thirty-one first graders to be lined up in groups for me the day I took photographs of the school. Don Alfredo and Dona Estella are still happy in Santa Cruz Etla as I write this, according to my correspondents, and have no idea of leaving unless a new director shifts them arbitrarily. Little bank drafts or international money orders sent down from time to time, at twelve pesos to the dollar, buy quite a lot of pencils and 191 DON ALFREDO Don Alfredo was not so concerned about all this as L He had started teaching as a tutor in a private Catholic boys' school, had been eight years in communities where there were even less sup- plies than in Santa Cruz Etla, and had had no experience with a regime in which a benevolent central office sent out supplies. As academic as Doa Ofelia in the classroom, he scared away the older children by his insistence on rote learning, and he was almost as responsible for the small enrollment in the fourth grade as was the expense of the books. There were three boys and four girls in Don Alfredo's fourth grade, not much better a survival rate from the lower grades than in Dona Ofelia's time. Don Marciano's youngest girl, Chabella's second daughter, Adela, and a brother of Esperanza were the only ones from families I knew well. Living as I did in Don Martin's house, I could look over Adela's books every day and "pump" her on the value of what she was learning. Bright child in a bright family, though not up to the brilliance of her older sister Margarita, Adela found the fourth grade a disappointment and talked wist- fully of going down to San Pablo to school. This was a thing no Santa Cruz girl had ever done, although Margarita had the fifth and sixth grades with the nuns in Oaxaca on a sort of scholarship. The same Libro General was used as in Dona Ofelia's fourth grade, and Adela's copy was in shreds from many different users, with pages missing and the binding gone. The "little red school house" on the mid-western prairies in the days of our grandfathers had the same problems about the providing of books and their disintegration and obsolescence as they passed through a family. However, no one in Santa Cruz was complaining about the books in 1954, or about the teaching either. There were fifteen third graders, twenty-two second graders, and thirty-one first graders to be lined up in groups for me the day I took photographs of the school. Don Alfredo and Dona Estella are still happy in Santa Cruz Etla as I write this, according to my correspondents, and have no idea of leaving unless a new director shifts them arbitrarily. Little bank drafts or international money orders sent down from time to time, at twelve pesos to the dollar, buy quite a lot of pencils and 191 DON ALFREDO Don Alfredo was not so concerned about all this as I. He had started teaching as a tutor in a private Catholic boys' school, had been eight years in communities where there were even less sup- plies than in Santa Cruz Etla, and had had no experience with a regime in which a benevolent central office sent out supplies. As academic as Doa Ofelia in the classroom, he scared away the older children by his insistence on rote learning, and he was almost as responsible for the small enrollment in the fourth grade as was the expense of the books. There were three boys and four girls in Don Alfredo's fourth grade, not much better a survival rate from the lower grades than in Dona Ofelia's time. Don Marciano's youngest girl, Chabella's second daughter, Adela, and a brother of Esperanza were the only ones from families I knew well. Living as I did in Don Martin's house, I could look over Adela's books every day and "pump" her on the value of what she was learning. Bright child in a bright family, though not up to the brilliance of her older sister Margarita, Adela found the fourth grade a disappointment and talked wist- fully of going down to San Pablo to school. This was a thing no Santa Cruz girl had ever done, although Margarita had the fifth and sixth grades with the nuns in Oaxaca on a sort of scholarship. The same Libro General was used as in Doa Ofelia's fourth grade, and Adela's copy was in shreds from many different users, with pages missing and the binding gone. The "little red school house" on the mid-western prairies in the days of our grandfathers had the same problems about the providing of books and their disintegration and obsolescence as they passed through a family. However, no one in Santa Cruz was complaining about the books in 1954, or about the teaching either. There were fifteen third graders, twenty-two second graders, and thirty-one first graders to be lined up in groups for me the day I took photographs of the school. Don Alfredo and Doa Estella are still happy in Santa Cruz Etla as I write this, according to my correspondents, and have no idea of leaving unless a new director shifts them arbitrarily. Little bank drafts or international money orders sent down from time to time, at twelve pesos to the dollar, buy quite a lot of pencils and 191  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS paper for a very little; and Rosita and I can be sure that with the new mail system coming up to San Pablo, these little sprinklings get directly into the hands of Don Alfredo whom we can trust to spend the money wisely in the Oaxaca school-supply stores. Materials sent from here-bright magazine pictures, colored papers, watercolor paints-if carefully packed and labelled "Educational Materials," have eventually reached the Santa Cruz Etla school, but the outlay of money goes five times further when spent by Don Alfredo. Our own little red school houses improved as the United States became industrialized and rural standards of living raised over a fifty-year period, so I do not mean to be too impatient with Santa Cruz Etla. AT ANY RATE, most of the younger people of Santa Cruz Etla have learned to read in the school. But what of the adults? Rosita had learned in her own normal-school training that the good rural teacher organizes night school classes to "reach the older people who are hungry for book learning," and surely "teach the illiterate adults" was another "must" on the cultural missions list from the time of the first cultural mission. So Rosita had bought her Coleman light and kept Uncle Octa- viano to manage it for her when it began to sputter, and she had held night classes for adults three times a week on the school porch. Twenty of the now middle-aged men had learned to read from her. Chico who became town secretary, Eduardo who was fourteen in 1934 but not allowed to attend day school by the hard-driving Don Julio, Don Pablo who married Sofia and then went to work in the United States, Esteban (oldest of Dona Paula's neglected brood) who was municipal president in 1944 when he was only twenty- seven-all these we can count as Rosita's children, for she taught them to read under la luz and by the sweat of their brows. I noted them bent over the paper, writing with stub pencils from the chil- dren's first Firmin reader, and remarked in my 1934 diary, from the 192 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS paper for a very little; and Rosita and I can be sure that with the new mail system coming up to San Pablo, these little sprinklings get directly into the hands of Don Alfredo whom we can trust to spend the money wisely in the Oaxaca school-supply stores. Materials sent from here-bright magazine pictures, colored papers, watercolor paints-if carefully packed and labelled "Educational Materials," have eventually reached the Santa Cruz Etla school, but the outlay of money goes five times further when spent by Don Alfredo. Our own little red school houses improved as the United States became industrialized and rural standards of living raised over a fifty-year period, so I do not mean to be too impatient with Santa Cruz Etla. AT ANY RATE, most of the younger people of Santa Cruz Etla have learned to read in the school. But what of the adults? Rosita had learned in her own normal-school training that the good rural teacher organizes night school classes to "reach the older people who are hungry for book learning," and surely "teach the illiterate adults" was another "must" on the cultural missions list from the time of the first cultural mission. So Rosita had bought her Coleman light and kept Uncle Octa- viano to manage it for her when it began to sputter, and she had held night classes for adults three times a week on the school porch. Twenty of the now middle-aged men had learned to read from her. Chico who became town secretary, Eduardo who was fourteen in 1934 but not allowed to attend day school by the hard-driving Don Julio, Don Pablo who married Sofia and then went to work in the United States, Esteban (oldest of Dona Paula's neglected brood) who was municipal president in 1944 when he was only twenty- seven-all these we can count as Rosita's children, for she taught them to read under la luz and by the sweat of their brows. I noted them bent over the paper, writing with stub pencils from the chil- dren's first Firmin reader, and remarked in my 1934 diary, from the 192 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS paper for a very little; and Rosita and I can be sure that with the new mail system coming up to San Pablo, these little sprinklings get directly into the hands of Don Alfredo whom we can trust to spend the money wisely in the Oaxaca school-supply stores. Materials sent from here-bright magazine pictures, colored papers, watercolor paints-if carefully packed and labelled "Educational Materials," have eventually reached the Santa Cruz Etla school, but the outlay of money goes five times further when spent by Don Alfredo. Our own little red school houses improved as the United States became industrialized and rural standards of living raised over a fifty-year period, so I do not mean to be too impatient with Santa Cruz Etla. AT ANY RAsE, most of the younger people of Santa Cruz Etla have learned to read in the school. But what of the adults? Rosita had learned in her own normal-school training that the good rural teacher organizes night school classes to "reach the older people who are hungry for book learning," and surely "teach the illiterate adults" was another "must" on the cultural missions list from the time of the first cultural mission. So Rosita had bought her Coleman light and kept Uncle Octa- viano to manage it for her when it began to sputter, and she had held night classes for adults three times a week on the school porch. Twenty of the now middle-aged men had learned to read from her. Chico who became town secretary, Eduardo who was fourteen in 1934 but not allowed to attend day school by the hard-driving Don Julio, Don Pablo who married Sofia and then went to work in the United States, Esteban (oldest of Dona Paula's neglected brood) who was municipal president in 1944 when he was only twenty- seven-all these we can count as Rosita's children, for she taught them to read under la luz and by the sweat of their brows. I noted them bent over the paper, writing with stub pencils from the chil- dren's first Firmin reader, and remarked in my 1934 diary, from the 192  LOS ANALFABETOS experience of my own twenty-five years of life: "This attempt at writing is the hardest work undertaken by these sons of toil." But they did learn to write, in Rosita's own campaa contra analfa- betismo, her "campaign against illiteracy," and they used their learning in later years. After Rosita left and took the Coleman light away, no teacher in the next ten years even tried such a program. In 1944 all Mexico was electrified by the dramatic program of the Education Minister, Dr. Jaime Torres-Bodet, called the "Each One Teach One Plan." Everyone was talking about it in Mexico City, on the trains, in Rosita's school meetings which I attended with her in 1944. Half the people of Mexico were adjudged illiterate in that year, and under a war emergency law President Avila Camacho ordained that all illiterate adults must learn to read and write. Dr. Torres-Bodet said that this could be done by a nation- wide publicity campaign, by urging all who could read and write to help teach those who could not. The education ministry printed a booklet as a standard text which was distributed free by the millions of copies. A registration of literate persons was held nation-wide, through the schools, the various civil service offices, the bus and railroad ticket agencies; it was a fairly simple problem to get the booklets widespread among the literate. In each booklet was a coupon to be signed and sent to the Department of Education by everyone who could read. On the coupon he listed the name of the person he was teaching. When the booklet was mastered, the learner filled in a second coupon from the book and sent it in to be matched with the first. Trained teachers and special volunteers were to take thirty or forty booklets apiece. The idea spread like wildfire in the summer and fall of 1944. Some bus companies near Mexico City would not sell a ticket un- less the prospective passenger could produce a yellow card showing that he was either teaching or learning. Any university student who taught fifty illiterates would get a scholarship for the rest of the year. Persons who taught five or more received a gold seal from Mexico City. In all the attendant publicity throughout the ensuing two years, the state of Oaxaca was cited as the center of en- thusiasm. The valley market town of Etla was mentioned in an 193 LOS ANALFABETOS experience of my own twenty-five years of life: "This attempt at writing is the hardest work undertaken by these sons of toil." But they did learn to write, in Rosita's own campaa contra analfa- betismo, her "campaign against illiteracy," and they used their learning in later years. After Rosita left and took the Coleman light away, no teacher in the next ten years even tried such a program. In 1944 all Mexico was electrified by the dramatic program of the Education Minister, Dr. Jaime Torres-Bodet, called the "Each One Teach One Plan." Everyone was talking about it in Mexico City, on the trains, in Rosita's school meetings which I attended with her in 1944. Half the people of Mexico were adjudged illiterate in that year, and under a war emergency law President Avila Camacho ordained that all illiterate adults must learn to read and write. Dr. Torres-Bodet said that this could be done by a nation- wide publicity campaign, by urging all who could read and write to help teach those who could not. The education ministry printed a booklet as a standard text which was distributed free by the millions of copies. A registration of literate persons was held nation-wide, through the schools, the various civil service offices, the bus and railroad ticket agencies; it was a fairly simple problem to get the booklets widespread among the literate. In each booklet was a coupon to be signed and sent to the Department of Education by everyone who could read. On the coupon he listed the name of the person he was teaching. When the booklet was mastered, the learner filled in a second coupon from the book and sent it in to be matched with the first. Trained teachers and special volunteers were to take thirty or forty booklets apiece. The idea spread like wildfire in the summer and fall of 1944. Some bus companies near Mexico City would not sell a ticket un- less the prospective passenger could produce a yellow card showing that he was either teaching or learning. Any university student who taught fifty illiterates would get a scholarship for the rest of the year. Persons who taught five or more received a gold seal from Mexico City. In all the attendant publicity throughout the ensuing two years, the state of Oaxaca was cited as the center of en- thusiasm. The valley market town of Etla was mentioned in an 193 LOS ANALFABETOS experience of my own twenty-five years of life: "This attempt at writing is the hardest work undertaken by these sons of toil." But they did learn to write, in Rosita's own campana contra analfa- betismo, her "campaign against illiteracy," and they used their learning in later years. After Rosita left and took the Coleman light away, no teacher in the next ten years even tried such a program. In 1944 all Mexico was electrified by the dramatic program of the Education Minister, Dr. Jaime Torres-Bodet, called the "Each One Teach One Plan." Everyone was talking about it in Mexico City, on the trains, in Rosita's school meetings which I attended with her in 1944. Half the people of Mexico were adjudged illiterate in that year, and under a war emergency law President Avila Camacho ordained that all illiterate adults must learn to read and write. Dr. Torres-Bodet said that this could be done by a nation- wide publicity campaign, by urging all who could read and write to help teach those who could not. The education ministry printed a booklet as a standard text which was distributed free by the millions of copies. A registration of literate persons was held nation-wide, through the schools, the various civil service offices, the bus and railroad ticket agencies; it was a fairly simple problem to get the booklets widespread among the literate. In each booklet was a coupon to be signed and sent to the Department of Education by everyone who could read. On the coupon he listed the name of the person he was teaching. When the booklet was mastered, the learner filled in a second coupon from the book and sent it in to be matched with the first. Trained teachers and special volunteers were to take thirty or forty booklets apiece. The idea spread like wildfire in the summer and fall of 1944. Some bus companies near Mexico City would not sell a ticket un- less the prospective passenger could produce a yellow card showing that he was either teaching or learning. Any university student who taught fifty illiterates would get a scholarship for the rest of the year. Persons who taught five or more received a gold seal from Mexico City. In all the attendant publicity throughout the ensuing two years, the state of Oaxaca was cited as the center of en- thusiasm. The valley market town of Etla was mentioned in an 193  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS American magazine as being one of the first towns to establish 100 per cent literacy. Seior Torres-Bodet himself visited some moun- tain towns in the upper valley of Oaxaca and reported amazing prog- ress. He told an American reporter (Amy Vanderbilt, writing in Collier's, December 14, 1946): A poor Mexican living in his adobe hut in a little unpaved vil- lage .. . has nothing very different from what he had when the Spaniards came. Of what use is it to tell him why he is so poor? .. . why the babies he loves so much must often die young? He has no real contact with the world. He doesn't know how to live better. and improvement can't be forced upon him. But if he learns to read and write Spanish, he becomes a unit of our society, and the possibil- ity of his human and social improvement is limitless. Mr. Torres-Bodet could report three million illiterates taught throughout Mexico by the end of 1945. He himself went up to a higher cabinet position, and from there to the world chairmanship of UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cul- tural Organization, where he introduced his "Each One Teach One" program for all backward peoples, and eventually resigned in protest over the small funds granted for this work in the United Nations budget. But he left in Mexico a permanent office staff and a detailed plan to keep up the program there. It sounds too good to be true, on the face of it, but the same missionary spirit which had made school buildings and teacher training possible in Oaxaca fifteen years before made this new plan work with surprising efficiency. Rosita and her kindergarten as- sistants in Oaxaca City had a class of forty poor working mothers who came to the kindergarten when the children were dismissed, who sat at the low tables in the tiny chairs and struggled to write, while the teachers volunteered the extra hours without pay. Two Indian servant women in Rosita's block came three times a week to learn from Rosita's mother at her home. Even the current little "Augustina," a twelve-year-old Indian boy from Mitia who washed the dishes at Rosita's town house, had a lesson every day in reading 194 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS American magazine as being one of the first towns to establish 100 per cent literacy. Seior Torres-Bodet himself visited some moun- tain towns in the upper valley of Oaxaca and reported amazing prog- ress. He told an American reporter (Amy Vanderbilt, writing in Colliers, December 14, 1946): A poor Mexican living in his adobe hut in a little unpaved vil- lage . . . has nothing very different from what he had when the Spaniards came. Of what use is it to tell him why he is so poor? ... why the babies he loves so much must often die young? He has no real contact with the world. He doesn't know how to live better. and improvement can't be forced upon him. But if he learns to read and write Spanish, he becomes a unit of our society, and the possibil- ity of his human and social improvement is limitless. Mr. Torres-Bodet could report three million illiterates taught throughout Mexico by the end of 1945. He himself went up to a higher cabinet position, and from there to the world chairmanship of UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cul- tural Organization, where he introduced his "Each One Teach One" program for all backward peoples, and eventually resigned in protest over the small funds granted for this work in the United Nations budget. But he left in Mlexico a permanent office staff and a detailed plan to keep up the program there. It sounds too good to be true, on the face of it, but the same missionary spirit which had made school buildings and teacher training possible in Oaxaca fifteen years before made this new plan work with surprising efficiency. Rosita and her kindergarten as- sistantsinoOaxaca Citychadoaclass of fortyvpoor-orkingasotherrs who came to the kindergarten when the children were dismissed. who sat at the low tables in the tiny chairs and struggled to write, while the teachers volunteered the extra hours without pay. Two Indian servant women in Rosita's block came three times a week to learn from Rosita's mother at her home. Es-en the current little "Augustina," a twelve-year-old Indian boy from litia who washed the dishes at Rosita's town house, had a lesson every day in reading 194 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS American magazine as being one of the first towns to establish 100 per cent literacy. Senor Torres-Bodet himself visited some moun- tain towns in the upper valley of Oaxaca and reported amazing prog- ress. He told an American reporter (Amy Vanderbilt, writing in Collier's, December 14, 1946): A poor Mexican living in his adobe hut in a little unpaved vil- lage . . . has nothing very different from what he had when the Spaniards came. Of what use is it to tell him why he is so poor? ... why the babies he loves so much must often die young? He has no real contact with the world. He doesn't know how to live better, and improvement can't be forced upon him. But if he learns to read and write Spanish, he becomes a unit of our society, and the possibil- ity of his human and social improvement is limitless. Mr. Torres-Bodet could report three million illiterates taught throughout Mexico by the end of 1945. He himself went up to a higher cabinet position, and from there to the world chairmanship of UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cul- tural Organization, where he introduced his "Each One Teach One" program for all backward peoples, and eventually resigned in protest over the small funds granted for this work in the United Nations budget. But he left in Mexico a permanent office staff and a detailed plan to keep up the program there. It sounds too good to be true, on the face of it, but the same missionary spirit which had made school buildings and teacher training possible in Oaxaca fifteen years before made this new plan work with surprising efficiency. Rosita and her kindergarten as- sistants in Oaxaca City had a class of forty poor sorking mothers who came to the kindergarten when the children were dismissed, who sat at the low tables in the tiny chairs and struggled to write, while the teachers volunteered the extra hours without pay. Two Indian servant women in Rosita's block came three times a week to learn from Rosita's mother at her home. Even the current little "Augustina," a twelve-year-old Indian boy from litia who washed the dishes at Rosita's town house, had a lesson every day in reading 194  LOS ANALFABETOS and writing so that he could enter the city schools at his own age level in the next year. Who was I to resist such pressure? Was I not a "lettered one," obligated to teach one or more "unlettered ones" to read and write? If I wanted an excuse to go back to Santa Cruz Etla in 1945, after my short, "scientific," ten-year-study visit of 1944, I need only think about the spectacular and successful work of the campana contra analfabetismo. Things always go a little slower, a little less spectacularly, in Santa Cruz Etla. There the illiteracy rate is a good deal more than 50 per cent. Only the people who were ten or younger when Rosita first came, and then that handful of adults under the Cole- man light, had had any chance at book learning; and not half of those really had had two years of schooling. Even Esperanza, pet of the school's primary class in 1934, had quit a year later because of the illness of her mother and had forgotten everything she had learned. Oh, illiterates there were in plenty, and the town was anxious to do its part in the campaign. In February of 1945 Don Bartolo was summoned to a meeting of "heads of municipalities" from the hills above Etla. The governor of Oaxaca spoke to them. He told them that each president must make a roster of all those in his municipality who could read and all those who could not and bring it into the city. The mountain com- munities must do as well as those in the valley had done. Two books for each lettered person would be sent to the school. The rural teachers went to a meeting about it the next week end, and they were urged to assist the presidents in handling clerical details. Dona Ester, the meek little primary teacher, signed a receipt for thirty of the booklets. Don Bartolo, with no great personal enthusiasm for the project, called a meeting of the householders of Santa Cruz Etla. Cassiano, Eduardo, Joel, Aurelio, Adolfo Soto, Chico, and Nico all signed the roster as "literate ones," alfabetos, willing each to teach two anal- fabetos. Two-thirds of the coupons were returned, Donia Ofelia and Dona Ester taking the responsibility for three analfabetos apiece. At the mass meeting it was voted to have classes for women 195 LOS ANALFABETOS and writing so that he could enter the city schools at his own age level in the next year. Who was I to resist such pressure? Was I not a "lettered one," obligated to teach one or more "unlettered ones" to read and write? If I wanted an excuse to go back to Santa Cruz Etla in 1945, after my short, "scientific," ten-year-study visit of 1944, I need only think about the spectacular and successful work of the campana contra analfabetismo. Things always go a little slower, a little less spectacularly, in Santa Cruz Etla. There the illiteracy rate is a good deal more than 50 per cent. Only the people who were ten or younger when Rosita first came, and then that handful of adults under the Cole- man light, had had any chance at book learning; and not half of those really had had two years of schooling. Even Esperanza, pet of the school's primary class in 1934, had quit a year later because of the illness of her mother and had forgotten everything she had learned. Oh, illiterates there weere in plenty, and the town was anxious to do its part in the campaign. In February of 1945 Don Bartolo was summoned to a meeting of "beads of municipalities" from the hills above Etla. The governor of Oaxaca spoke to them. He told them that each president must make a roster of all those in his municipality who could read and all those who could not and bring it into the city. The mountain com- munities must do as well as those in the valley had done. Two books for each lettered person would be sent to the school. The rural teachers went to a meeting about it the next week end, and they were urged to assist the presidents in handling clerical details. Dona Ester, the meek little primary teacher, signed a receipt for thirty of the booklets. Don Bartolo, with no great personal enthusiasm for the project, called a meeting of the householders of Santa Cruz Etla. Cassiano, Eduardo, Joel, Aurelio, Adolfo Soto, Chico, and Nico all signed the roster as "literate ones," alfabetos, willing each to teach two anal- fabetos. Two-thirds of the coupons were returned, Dona Ofelia and Doa Ester taking the responsibility for three analfabetos apiece. At the mass meeting it was voted to have classes for women 195 LOS ANALFABETOS and writing so that he could enter the city schools at his own age level in the next year. Who was I to resist such pressure? Was I not a "lettered one," obligated to teach one or more "unlettered ones" to read and write? If I wanted an excuse to go back to Santa Cruz Ella in 1945, after my short, "scientific," ten-year-study visit of 1944, I need only think about the spectacular and successful work of the campana contra analfabetismo. Things always go a little slower, a little less spectacularly, in Santa Cruz Etla. There the illiteracy rate is a good deal more than 50 per cent. Only the people who were ten or younger when Rosita first came, and then that handful of adults under the Cole- man light, had had any chance at book learning; and not half of those really had had two years of schooling. Even Esperanza, pet of the school's primary class in 1934, had quit a year later because of the illness of her mother and had forgotten everything she had learned. Oh, illiterates there weere in plenty, and the town was anxious to do its part in the campaign. In February of 1945 Don Bartolo was summoned to a meeting of "heads of municipalities" from the hills above Etla. The governor of Oaxaca spoke to them. He told them that each president must make a roster of all those in his municipality who could read and all those who could not and bring it into the city. The mountain com- munities must do as well as those in the valley had done. Two books for each lettered person would be sent to the school. The rural teachers went to a meeting about it the next week end, and they were urged to assist the presidents in handling clerical details. Dona Ester, the meek little primary teacher, signed a receipt for thirty of the booklets. Don Bartolo, with no great personal enthusiasm for the project, called a meeting of the householders of Santa Cruz Etla. Cassiano, Eduardo, Joel, Aurelio, Adolfo Soto, Chico, and Nico all signed the roster as "literate ones," alfabetos, willing each to teach two anal- fabetos. Two-thirds of the coupons were returned, Dona Ofelia and Donfa Ester taking the responsibility for three analfabetos apiece. At the mass meeting it was voted to have classes for women 195  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS in the afternoon and for men at night. Don Bartolo had heard the new regulation read out loud at the meeting for municipal presi- dents: "Be sure to start the classes the closest Monday," so it was decided to hold classes on Mondays, starting about the middle of April. Surely the authorities had meant Monday, Tuesday, Wednes- day, and so on, every week night. Doa Ofelia had misunderstood something, too. She thought the education director had said: "Do not go on in a new lesson till the previous lesson is learned perfectly." She taught the Monday class like a modern school. The literate ones prompted and helped each backward pupil, but all worked together, and the entire group waited till each "unlettered one" had "learned the previous lessons perfectly." Naturally, everyone started over at the beginning again every Monday. The council had also voted that each analfabeto should bring his own candle, that no money for candles or kerosene lanterns should come from fiesta funds-and of course there was no Coleman light. A candle is a luxury in Santa Cruz Etla. Before I brought candles to Dona Patrocina's house, her family had eaten cena by the light of a pine torch. Chico used the kerosene lantern at home only that one time the ox was sick. Candles are not made in Santa Cruz, be- cause there is no beeswax or tallow, and store-bought candles are used only for weddings, baptismos, and angelitos. Many analfabetos did not come at all in those first months because of the "bring a candle" ruling. They wanted education, but not that badly. Don Bartolo was asked to report on progress the first of June. His own personal progress was zero; that of the analfabetos av- eraged two lessons. Don Bartolo certainly did not like to lie about it all, and anyway a careful check was to be made at the end of two years, so he promised that Santa Cruz Etla would do better. The whole community was doubtless glad to be able to tell Rosita three weeks later that classes were being held "three nights a week now," and that women had at last begun to come for help from Dofia Ester in the late afternoon. After my arrival that summer of 1945 and as soon as the classes started again after Dona Ofelia's absence over Juirez' birthday, after 196 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS in the afternoon and for men at night. Don Bartolo had heard the new regulation read out loud at the meeting for municipal presi- dents: "Be sure to start the classes the closest Monday," so it was decided to hold classes on Mondays, starting about the middle of April. Surely the authorities had meant Monday, Tuesday, Wednes- day, and so on, every week night. Dona Ofelia had misunderstood something, too. She thought the education director had said: "Do not go on in a new lesson till the previous lesson is learned perfectly." She taught the Monday class like a modern school. The literate ones prompted and helped each backward pupil, but all worked together, and the entire group waited till each "unlettered one" had "learned the previous lessons perfectly." Naturally, everyone started over at the beginning again every Monday. The council had also voted that each analfabeto should bring his own candle, that no money for candles or kerosene lanterns should come from fiesta funds-and of course there was no Coleman light. A candle is a luxury in Santa Cruz Etla. Before I brought candles to Dona Patrocina's house, her family had eaten cena by the light of a pine torch. Chico used the kerosene lantern at home only that one time the ox was sick. Candles are not made in Santa Cruz, be- cause there is no beeswax or tallow, and store-bought candles are used only for weddings, baptismos, and angelitos. Many analfabetos did not come at all in those first months because of the "bring a candle" ruling. They wanted education, but not that badly. Don Bartolo was asked to report on progress the first of June. His own personal progress was zero; that of the analfabetos av- eraged two lessons. Don Bartolo certainly did not like to lie about it all, and anyway a careful check was to be made at the end of two years, so he promised that Santa Cruz Etla would do better. The whole community was doubtless glad to be able to tell Rosita three weeks later that classes were being held "three nights a week now," and that women had at last begun to come for help from Dona Ester in the late afternoon. After my arrival that summer of 1945 and as soon as the classes started again after Dona Ofelia's absence over Juirez' birthday, after 196 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS in the afternoon and for men at night. Don Bartolo had heard the new regulation read out loud at the meeting for municipal presi- dents: "Be sure to start the classes the closest Monday," so it was decided to hold classes on Mondays, starting about the middle of April. Surely the authorities had meant Monday, Tuesday, Wednes- day, and so on, every week night. Dona Ofelia had misunderstood something, too. She thought the education director had said: "Do not go on in a new lesson till the previous lesson is learned perfectly." She taught the Monday class like a modern school. The literate ones prompted and helped each backward pupil, but all worked together, and the entire group waited till each "unlettered one" had "learned the previous lessons perfectly." Naturally, everyone started over at the beginning again every Monday. The council had also voted that each analfabeto should bring his own candle, that no money for candles or kerosene lanterns should come from fiesta funds-and of course there was no Coleman light. A candle is a luxury in Santa Cruz Etla. Before I brought candles to Dona Patrocina's house, her family had eaten cena by the light of a pine torch. Chico used the kerosene lantern at home only that one time the ox was sick. Candles are not made in Santa Cruz, be- cause there is no beeswax or tallow, and store-bought candles are used only for weddings, baptismos, and angelitos. Many analfabetos did not come at all in those first months because of the "bring a candle" ruling. They wanted education, but not that badly. Don Bartolo was asked to report on progress the first of June. His own personal progress was zero; that of the analfabetos av- eraged two lessons. Don Bartolo certainly did not like to lie about it all, and anyway a careful check was to be made at the end of two years, so he promised that Santa Cruz Etla would do better. The whole community was doubtless glad to be able to tell Rosita three weeks later that classes were being held "three nights a week now," and that women had at last begun to come for help from Dona Ester in the late afternoon. After my arrival that summer of 1945 and as soon as the classes started again after Dona Ofelia's absence over Juirez' birthday, after 196  LOS ANALFABETOS Don Bartolo was up and around after the "hangover" sickness, and after I began to rally from my first bout with the "water sickness" -then the work with analfabetos in Santa Cruz Etla took a new lease on life. Everyone ate cena after dark, and it was better to wait until the moon and stars were out before going anywhere up and down the ridges and ravines in the evening. My first night Chico took me over to the school with the lantern, but he put it out at the school door and left it outside. I brought three candles, a pad of notebook paper, and a pencil By August I had sent for more candles every time I could arrange for Oaxaca City purchases, had broken all my drawing pencils up to make each into three short pencils, and had used up all the diary and note-taking paper I had brought to Santa Cruz Etla with me. That first night I attended, nineteen analfabetos were present. Don Bartolo should be counted as the twentieth, for he was cer- tainly there. He opened the class like a professor, and asked Dona Ofelia to call the roll. His own name was not listed, and as soon as the "business" was over, he disappeared into the shadows. He came every Monday in this way, but he never brought a candle. I did not want to run afoul of Dofna Ofelia again right away, and I stayed back behind my candles with Joel and Cassiano. Don Bartolo called me out, however, and asked everyone to clap for me, while Chico told Dofia Ofelia how Rosita had promised I would help. Dona Ofelia really did not like to teach the grown men, anyway. All those who were there, averaging around thirty years of age, did look very tonto, with scraggly beards, uncombed mops of hair sometimes halfway to their shoulders, horny bare feet, and clothes dirty and torn after a long day with the plow or up in the sierra. She just oozed scorn of them. When Don Bartolo told them to thank me because they "needed my help so badly," Dona Ofelia just said, Seguro que si, "surely we do." Then she retired with a long, new candle to a corner table and devoted herself to helping two well- brushed students who had advanced three lessons. Dofa Ester and I went on most of the time without her after that. It was that first night when I saw how the "don't advance till everyone is perfect" system had retarded everyone. The little booklet itself was so simply 197 LOS ANALFABETOS Don Bartolo was up and around after the "hangover" sickness, and after I began to rally from my first bout with the "water sickness" -then the work with analfabetos in Santa Cruz Etla took a new lease on life. Everyone ate cena after dark, and it was better to wait until the moon and stars were out before going anywhere up and down the ridges and ravines in the evening. My first night Chico took me over to the school with the lantern, but he put it out at the school door and left it outside. I brought three candles, a pad of notebook paper, and a pencil. By August I had sent for more candles every time I could arrange for Oaxaca City purchases, had broken all my drawing pencils up to make each into three short pencils, and had used up all the diary and note-taking paper I had brought to Santa Cruz Etla with me. That first night I attended, nineteen analfabetos were present. Don Bartolo should be counted as the twentieth, for he was cer- tainly there. He opened the class like a professor, and asked Dona Ofelia to call the roll. His own name was not listed, and as soon as the "business" was over, he disappeared into the shadows. He came every Monday in this way, but he never brought a candle. I did not want to run afoul of Dofna Ofelia again right away, and I stayed back behind my candles with Joel and Cassiano. Don Bartolo called me out, however, and asked everyone to clap for me, while Chico told Dofia Ofelia how Rosita had promised I would help. Dofna Ofelia really did not like to teach the grown men, anyway. All those who were there, averaging around thirty years of age, did look very tonto, with scraggly beards, uncombed mops of hair sometimes halfway to their shoulders, horny bare feet, and clothes dirty and torn after a long day with the plow or up in the sierra. She just oozed scorn of them. When Don Bartolo told them to thank me because they "needed my help so badly," Dofna Ofelia just said, Seguro que si, "surely we do." Then she retired with a long, new candle to a corner table and devoted herself to helping two well- brushed students who had advanced three lessons. Dona Ester and I went on most of the time without her after that. It was that first night when I saw how the "don't advance till everyone is perfect" system had retarded everyone. The little booklet itself was so simply 197 LOS ANALFABETOS Don Bartolo was up and around after the "hangover" sickness, and after I began to rally from my first bout with the "water sickness" -then the work with analfabetos in Santa Cruz Etla took a new lease on life. Everyone ate cena after dark, and it was better to wait until the moon and stars were out before going anywhere up and down the ridges and ravines in the evening. My first night Chico took me over to the school with the lantern, but he put it out at the school door and left it outside. I brought three candles, a pad of notebook paper, and a pencil. By August I had sent for more candles every time I could arrange for Oaxaca City purchases, had broken all my drawing pencils up to make each into three short pencils, and had used up all the diary and note-taking paper I had brought to Santa Cruz Etla with me. That first night I attended, nineteen analfabetos were present. Don Bartolo should be counted as the twentieth, for he was cer- tainly there. He opened the class like a professor, and asked Dofna Ofelia to call the roll. His own name was not listed, and as soon as the "business" was over, he disappeared into the shadows. He came every Monday in this way, but he never brought a candle. I did not want to run afoul of Doa Ofelia again right away, and I stayed back behind my candles with Joel and Cassiano. Don Bartolo called me out, however, and asked everyone to clap for me, while Chico told Dofia Ofelia how Rosita had promised I would help. Doia Ofelia really did not like to teach the grown men, anyway. All those who were there, averaging around thirty years of age, did look very tenon, with scraggly beards, uncombed mops of hair sometimes halfway to their shoulders, horny bare feet, and clothes dirty and torn after a long day with the plow or up in the sierra. She just oozed scorn of them. When Don Bartolo told them to thank me because they "needed my help so badly," Dona Ofelia just said, Seguro que si, "surely we do." Then she retired with a long, new candle to a corner table and devoted herself to helping two well- brushed students who had advanced three lessons. Dofna Ester and I went on most of the time without her after that. It was that first night when I saw how the "don't advance till everyone is perfect" system had retarded everyone. The little booklet itself was so simply 197  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS written that it was easier to learn at one's own speed than by work- ing in concert. The lesson they had all learned was about the vowels. The booklet, La Cartilla, was printed cheaply on newsprint paper. It began, after fifteen discouraging pages of explanations to the teacher, with a lesson on the vowels. Here was a picture of a squeaking mouse saying "i-i-i-i," and after him the capital I and small letter i in both printing and script, for I is pronounced only as "ee," and no other way, in the Spanish language. Next came a black and white line drawing of a train, with a cloud of steam, whistling "u--u-u," followed by U's. Now even Santa Cruz Etla people know that a train goes "oo-oo" for they can hear the valley train on windy days, and in Spanish U is always pronounced that way. E was illustrated by a deaf man holding his hand to his ear and saying "e-e-e-e-e" Deaf people everywhere in the world say something like "eh," or "hey," which is quite similar to the only way E is pronounced in Spanish. Then there was the sketch of a horse rearing high while its rider cried "o-o-o-o," a sound like our "whoa"; and a drawing of a pleased child launching a model airplane with cries of "ah!" or "a-a-a-a," the standard Spanish A Santa Cruz children have never launched model airplanes, but they said something like "ah!" when they first saw the pinwheels my husband made for Cres- cencio and Augustina in 1934. Thus, the great joy of the Spanish language to a person who has struggled all his life with English-the fact that vowels, and most consonants too, are pronounced always the same-made the first lesson in the Cartilla an immediate success. The only delay waiting on "perfection" was in writing. At the end of the summer one of my own pupils was still trying to learn to write a capital I. My hand- writing is so bad, and my capital I's so strange looking, that only those men who had got beyond the letter before I got there, or who copied Cassiano's capital I's, ever reached "perfection." The second lesson was also clearly understandable to Santa Cruz Etla. It introduced the letter L by means of a youth named Lalo. Here was a picture of a young campesino, badly in need of a haircut, a striped V-necked sarape over both shoulders, puzzling 198 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS written that it was easier to learn at one's own speed than by work- ing in concert. The lesson they had all learned was about the vowels. The booklet, La Cartilla, was printed cheaply on newsprint paper. It began, after fifteen discouraging pages of explanations to the teacher, with a lesson on the vowels. Here was a picture of a squeaking mouse saying "i-i-i-i," and after him the capital I and small letter i in both printing and script, for I is pronounced only as "ee," and no other way, in the Spanish language. Next came a black and white line drawing of a train, with a cloud of steam, whistling "u-u-u-u," followed by U's. Now even Santa Cruz Etla people know that a train goes "oo-oo" for they can hear the valley train on windy days, and in Spanish U is always pronounced that way. E was illustrated by a deaf man holding his hand to his ear and saying "e-e-e-e-e." Deaf people everywhere in the world say something like "eh." or "hey," which is quite similar to the only way E is pronounced in Spanish. Then there was the sketch of a horse rearing high while its rider cried "o-o-o-o," a sound like our "whoa"; and a drawing of a pleased child launching a model airplane with cries of "ah!" or "a-a-a-a," the standard Spanish A. Santa Cruz children have never launched model airplanes, but they said something like "ah!" when they first saw the pinwheels my husband made for Cres- cencio and Augustina in 1934. Thus, the great joy of the Spanish language to a person who has struggled all his life with English-the fact that vowels, and most consonants too, are pronounced always the same-made the first lesson in the Cartilla an immediate success. The only delay waiting on "perfection" was in writing. At the end of the summer one of my own pupils was still trying to learn to write a capital I. My hand- writing is so bad, and my capital I's so strange looking, that only those men who had got beyond the letter before I got there, or who copied Cassiano's capital I's, ever reached "perfection." The second lesson was also clearly understandable to Santa Cruz Etla. It introduced the letter L by means of a youth named Lalo. Heere was a picture of a young campesino, badly in need of a haircut, a striped V-necked sarape over both shoulders, puzzling 198 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS written that it was easier to learn at one's own speed than by work- ing in concert. The lesson they had all learned was about the vowels. The booklet, La Cartilla, was printed cheaply on newsprint paper. It began, after fifteen discouraging pages of explanations to the teacher, with a lesson on the vowels. Here was a picture of a squeaking mouse saying "i-i-i-i,"and after him the capital I and small letter i in both printing and script, for I is pronounced only as "ee," and no other way, in the Spanish language. Next came a black and white line drawing of a train, with a cloud of steam, whistling "u-u-u-u," followed by U's. Now even Santa Cruz Etla people know that a train goes "oo-oo" for they can hear the valley train on windy days, and in Spanish U is always pronounced that way. E was illustrated by a deaf man holding his hand to his ear and saying "e-c-e-e-e." Deaf people everywhere in the world say something like "eh," or "hey," which is quite similar to the only way E is pronounced in Spanish. Then there was the sketch of a horse rearing high while its rider cried "o-o-o-o," a sound like our "whoa"; and a drawing of a pleased child launching a model airplane with cries of "ah!" or "a-a-a-a," the standard Spanish A. Santa Cruz children have never launched model airplanes, but they said something like "ah!" when they first saw the pinwheels my husband made for Cres- cencio and Augustina in 1934. Thus, the great joy of the Spanish language to a person who has struggled all his life with English-the fact that vowels, and most consonants too, are pronounced always the same-made the first lesson in the Cartilla an immediate success. The only delay waiting on "perfection" was in writing. At the end of the summer one of my own pupils was still trying to learn to write a capital I. My hand- writing is so bad, and my capital I's so strange looking, that only those men who had got beyond the letter before I got there, or who copied Cassiano's capital I's, ever reached "perfection." The second lesson was also clearly understandable to Santa Cruz Etla. It introduced the letter L by means of a youth named Lalo. Here was a picture of a young campesino, badly in need of a haircut, a striped V-necked sarape over both shoulders, puzzling 198  LOS ANALFABETOS over a printed book. In printing and script it said, Lalo lee; leo a Eulalia (Lalo reads: I read to Eulalia). In Santa Cruz Etla, in the ravine just below the school, lived Don Lalo, father of the child Aurelia who learned to toddle while we watched in 1934, and whom I chased in "cat and rat" in 1944. Lalo was himself illiterate and came to class several times when he learned that the lesson was about him, but he told me he was "too old now to learn." To be sure, "Lalo" is not an actual baptismal name, but a paisano shorten- ing or nickname, based on "Eduardo." Lalo was probably always sorry he bore that name from then on, for it came to be a slander among the forty or so men who came to the classes from time to time. One would say: "You? What do you know? You never got beyond Lalo!" Or: "Why aren't you at the school at night? If you forget you will have to go back to Lalo." Or: "Remember the days before Dona Elena came? We none of us got beyond Lalo." Everyone who got beyond Lalo went on to the S lesson. Here were words and sentences using S and L with the vowels. The story told in S and L that the sun comes up at six, and then Lalo, just like Nico and Chico and everyone else, washes himself. Lalo se asea a las seis. The a lan seis needed a little explanation, because no one in Santa Cruz knows whether he gets up at six and washes himself, or maybe at five or at seven. Luisa and Luis entered the lessons, along with Lalo and Eulalia. Then there was an M les- son about the Mama that ground the mole when Lalo went to the lomas. The tia or Aunt Tomasa, the papa named Pepe, and the rest followed lesson by lesson and letter by letter. So went the lessons through the alphabet, el alfabeto para los analfabetos. Only Felipe, who was firme and formal and went to study at the colegio in Mexico City in the middle sentence of a lesson, was beyond the un- derstanding of Santa Cruz Etla. But since the F came as far along as page 59, very few of my people were advanced to F by the end of August. After my first night, Dona Ester and I divided the men by tables, four or five men, two candles (no matter who brought the candles), two pencils, and three pieces of paper to a table. At first she and I would begin the new men, get them to "Pepe," and pass 199 LOS ANALFABETOS over a printed book. In printing and script it said, Lalo lee; leo a Eulalia (Lalo reads: I read to Eulalia). In Santa Cruz Etla, in the ravine just below the school, lived Don Lalo, father of the child Aurelia who learned to toddle while we watched in 1934, and whom I chased in "cat and rat" in 1944. Lalo was himself illiterate and came to class several times when he learned that the lesson was about him, but he told me he was "too old now to learn." To be sure, "Lalo" is not an actual baptismal name, but a paisano shorten- ing or nickname, based on "Eduardo." Lalo was probably always sorry he bore that name from then on, for it came to be a slander among the forty or so men who came to the classes from time to time. One would say: "You? What do you know? You never got beyond Lalo!" Or: "Why aren't you at the school at night? If you forget you will have to go back to Lalo." Or: "Remember the days before Dona Elena came? We none of us got beyond Lalo." Everyone who got beyond Lalo went on to the S lesson. Here were words and sentences using S and L with the vowels. The story told in S and L that the sun comes up at six, and then Lalo, just like Nico and Chico and everyone else, washes himself. Lalo se asea a las seis. The a las seis needed a little explanation, because no one in Santa Cruz knows whether he gets up at six and washes himself, or maybe at five or at seven. Luisa and Luis entered the lessons, along with Lalo and Eulalia. Then there was an M les- son about the Mama that ground the mole when Lalo went to the lomas. The tia or Aunt Tomasa, the papa named Pepe, and the rest followed lesson by lesson and letter by letter. So went the lessons through the alphabet, el alfabeto para tos analfabetos. Only Felipe, who was firme and formal and went to study at the colegio in Mexico City in the middle sentence of a lesson, was beyond the un- derstanding of Santa Cruz Etla. But since the F came as far along as page 59, very few of my people were advanced to F by the end of August. After my first night, Dona Ester and I divided the men by tables, four or five men, two candles (no matter who brought the candles), two pencils, and three pieces of paper to a table. At first she and I would begin the new men, get them to "Pepe," and pass 199 LOS ANALFABETOS over a printed book. In printing and script it said, Lalo lee; leo a Eulalia (Lalo reads: I read to Eulalia). In Santa Cruz Etla, in the ravine just below the school, lived Don Lalo, father of the child Aurelia who learned to toddle while we watched in 1934, and whom I chased in "cat and rat" in 1944. Lalo was himself illiterate and came to class several times when he learned that the lesson was about him, but he told me he was "too old now to learn." To be sure, "Lalo" is not an actual baptismal name, but a paisano shorten- ing or nickname, based on "Eduardo." Lalo was probably always sorry he bore that name from then on, for it came to be a slander among the forty or so men who came to the classes from time to time. One would say: "You? What do you know? You never got beyond Lalo!" Or: "Why aren't you at the school at night? If you forget you will have to go back to Lalo." Or: "Remember the days before Dofia Elena came? We none of us got beyond Lalo." Everyone who got beyond Lalo went on to the S lesson. Here were words and sentences using S and L with the vowels. The story told in S and L that the sun comes up at six, and then Lalo, just like Nico and Chico and everyone else, washes himself. Lalo se asea a las seis. The a las seis needed a little explanation, because no one in Santa Cruz knows whether he gets up at six and washes himself, or maybe at five or at seven. Luisa and Luis entered the lessons, along with Lalo and Eulalia. Then there was an M les- son about the Mama that ground the mole when Lalo went to the lomas. The tia or Aunt Tomasa, the papa named Pepe, and the rest followed lesson by lesson and letter by letter. So went the lessons through the alphabet, el alfabeto para los analfabetos. Only Felipe, who was firme and formal and went to study at the colegio in Mexico City in the middle sentence of a lesson, was beyond the un- derstanding of Santa Cruz Etla. But since the F came as far along as page 59, very few of my people were advanced to F by the end of August. After my first night, Doa Ester and I divided the men by tables, four or five men, two candles (no matter who brought the candles), two pencils, and three pieces of paper to a table. At first she and I would begin the new men, get them to "Pepe," and pass 199  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS them on to Cassiano or his friend Perfecto. Those two boys were the only ones who had patience to stick all evening and do three or four lessons over and over. Eduardo, Aurelio, and Chico could go on with the faster students, but Nico and Joel would forget about the teaching and laugh and talk with each other. When special friends of theirs came the second week, though, they were willing to start with the vowels and see their friends right through to "Felipe." Thus, we were soon all helping our own pupils. I started almost eseryone, but hung on especially to four: Ceferino Jimenez, who played the bass viol (under obligation to his teacher, he danced with me all afternoon that time at the angelita when his string broke); Bernar- dino Mendez, who started with me on the L lesson and took all summer to get to "Tomasa"; and two brothers named Elisha and Elijah, or Eliseo and Elijeo Ramirez, who weere already friends of mine through Dona Patrocina's family. I learned the last names of the students, although before then I had known few last names in Santa Cruz Etla. As I helped every- one get started, I wrote models of their names, so that they could practice writing them as soon as they got a good start with the les- sons. Since there are so few families and there has been so much marrying between families through the years, almost eservone seemed to be named Perez, Mndez, Ramirez, Sanchez, Lopez, Jimnez, or Garcia, the common family names of half the people of Mexico, the Smiths, Joneses, and Browns of Latin America. Dona Ester and I had them write their names because we couldn't interest them in writing any other way. They would read with ease and enthusiasm; all the literate boys were willing to sit and pro- nounce the words and have the "pupil" repeat after them. The table with Joel and Nico got clear through to "Pepe" before anyone had written a word. Cassiano was the best writing teacher. Even Don Amado would have been pleased to see his son's neat writing and his shy eagerness in the teaching. His best pupil was Doha Rufina, his own mother, whom he helped at home every day after he came in from the fields for dinner. She was at the "Felipe" lesson when I left Santa Cruz Etla. I would have said: "Why bother with this perfect copybook 200 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS them on to Cassiano or his friend Perfecto. Those two boys weere the only ones who had patience to stick all evening and do three or four lessons over and over. Eduardo, Aurelio, and Chico could go on with the faster students, but Nico and Joel would forget about the teaching and laugh and talk with each other. When special friends of theirs came the second week, though, they were willing to start with the vowels and see their friends right through to "Felipe." Thus, we were soon all helping our own pupils. I started almost everyone, but hung on especially to four: Ceferino Jimnez, who played the bass viol (under obligation to his teacher, he danced with me all afternoon that time at the angelita when his string broke); Bernar- dino Mendez, who started with me on the L lesson and took all summer to get to "Tomasa"; and two brothers named Elisha and Elijah, or Eliseo and Elijeo Ramirez, who were already friends of mine through Dona Patrocina's family. I learned the last names of the students, although before then I had known few last names in Santa Cruz Etla. As I helped every- one get started, I wrote models of their names, so that they could practice writing them as soon as they got a good start with the les- sons. Since there are so few families and there has been so much marrying between families through the years, almost everyone seemed to be named PErez, Mdndez, Ramirez, Sanchez, Lopez, Jimenez, or Garcia, the common family names of half the people of Mexico, the Smiths, Joneses, and Browns of Latin America. Dona Ester and I had them write their names because we couldn't interest them in writing any other way. They would read with ease and enthusiasm; all the literate boys were willing to sit and pro- nounce the words and have the "pupil" repeat after them. The table with Joel and Nico got clear through to "Pepe" before anyone had written a word. Cassiano was the best writing teacher. Even Don Amado would have been pleased to see his son's neat writing and his shy eagerness in the teaching. His best pupil was Doha Rufina, his own mother, whom he helped at home every day after he came in from the fields for dinner. She was at the "Felipe" lesson when I left Santa Cruz Etla. I would have said: "Why bother with this perfect copybook 200 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS them on to Cassiano or his friend Perfecto. Those two boys were the only ones who had patience to stick all evening and do three or four lessons over and over. Eduardo, Aurelio, and Chico could go on with the faster students, but Nico and Joel would forget about the teaching and laugh and talk with each other. When special friends of theirs came the second week, though, they were willing to start with the vowels and see their friends right through to "Felipe." Thus, we were soon all helping our own pupils. I started almost everyone, but hung on especially to four: Ceferino Jimnez, who played the bass viol (under obligation to his teacher, he danced with me all afternoon that time at the angelita when his string broke); Bernar- dino Mndez, who started with me on the L lesson and took all summer to get to "Tomasa"; and two brothers named Elisha and Elijah, or Eliseo and Elijeo Ramfrez, who weere already friends of mine through Doha Patrocina's family. I learned the last names of the students, although before then I had known few last names in Santa Cruz Etla. As I helped every- one get started, I wrote models of their names, so that they could practice writing them as soon as they got a good start with the les- sons. Since there are so few families and there has been so much marrying between families through the years, almost everyone seemed to be named Pdrez, Mdndez, Ramirez, Sinchez, Lopez, Jimnez, or Garcia, the common family names of half the people of Mexico, the Smiths, Joneses, and Browns of Latin America. Doia Ester and I had them write their names because we couldn't interest them in writing any other way. They would read with ease and enthusiasm; all the literate boys were willing to sit and pro- nounce the words and have the "pupil" repeat after them. The table with Joel and Nico got clear through to "Pepe" before anyone had written a word. Cassiano was the best writing teacher. Even Don Amado would have been pleased to see his son's neat writing and his shy eagerness in the teaching. His best pupil was Doia Rufina, his own mother, whom he helped at home every day after he came in from the fields for dinner. She was at the "Felipe" lesson when I left Santa Cruz Etla. I would have said: "Why bother with this perfect copybook 200  LOS ANALFABETOS writing? Who in Santa Cruz Etla needs to write so much? Only those who keep the town records and serve as municipal secretary; surely not all these people." But I knew the inspection at the end of the first year would include a written test for all those names sent in to Oaxaca on the coupons, and I wanted Santa Cruz Etla to shine on the examinations. Even Dona Ofelia wanted that. She made a little speech one night about how all the literate teachers must try as hard to teach writing as Cassiano was trying. It is true that all the students were plugging hard at some phase of the learning. They would work more than two hours without a pause, and for them it was really harder work than plowing land or cutting wood. Cold as the night is at that altitude, beads of sweat would stand out on their faces as they read, Tomasa toma los tamales (Tomasa takes the tamales). I had noted this extreme effort, and the sweat on the faces, when I saw Chico and Esteban learning to read in 1934, and they had the Coleman light and Rosita to help them. In 1945 our light was so poor. We would work until the candles burned down into the rough tops of the tables. Don Ceferino would gather the melted wax from the table top and feed it into the quar- ter-inch of candlewick still burning, just to make light enough to read Pepe es el papd one more time out loud. (Of course, everyone was reading something different out loud all evening; it was hard to concentrate on "Pepe.") Dona Ester or I would have to say: "The lights are dying. Do you not have to go to the sierra early tomorrow?" Then they would take their booklets (for all kept them to read aloud and show off to their wives) and save the papers with their name patterns, and go off down the ravine or up the hill. There was no problem about my getting home on moonlight nights, nor on the nights when Chico would put kerosene in the lantern and let us use it to guide us home. One night, when we stopped to chat on the steps, Aurelio guided me home with a flashlight, one that Sofia's Don Pablo had left when he went to the United States. But the night Cassiano, Joel, and I stayed late to help Elisha and Elijah, it poured rain, and we had no light at all. We formed a chain holding hands, and they 201 LOS ANALFABETOS writing? Who in Santa Cruz Etla needs to write so much? Only those who keep the town records and serve as municipal secretary; surely not all these people." But I knew the inspection at the end of the first year would include a written test for all those names sent in to Oaxaca on the coupons, and I wanted Santa Cruz Etla to shine on the examinations. Even Dona Ofelia wanted that. She made a little speech one night about how all the literate teachers must try as hard to teach writing as Cassiano was trying. It is true that all the students were plugging hard at some phase of the learning. They would work more than two hours without a pause, and for them it was really harder work than plowing land or cutting wood. Cold as the night is at that altitude, beads of sweat would stand out on their faces as they read, Tomasa toma los tamales (Tomasa takes the tamales). I had noted this extreme effort, and the sweat on the faces, when I saw Chico and Esteban learning to read in 1934, and they had the Coleman light and Rosita to help them. In 1945 our light was so poor. We would work until the candles burned down into the rough tops of the tables. Don Ceferino would gather the melted wax from the table top and feed it into the quar- ter-inch of candlewick still burning, just to make light enough to read Pepe es el papd one more time out loud. (Of course, everyone was reading something different out loud all evening; it was hard to concentrate on "Pepe.") Dona Ester or I would have to say: "The lights are dying. Do you not have to go to the sierra early tomorrow?" Then they would take their booklets (for all kept them to read aloud and show off to their wives) and save the papers with their name patterns, and go off down the ravine or up the hill. There was no problem about my getting home on moonlight nights, nor on the nights when Chico would put kerosene in the lantern and let us use it to guide us home. One night, when we stopped to chat on the steps, Aurelio guided me home with a flashlight, one that Sofia's Don Pablo had left when he went to the United States. But the night Cassiano, Joel, and I stayed late to help Elisha and Elijah, it poured rain, and we had no light at all. We formed a chain holding hands, and they 201 LOS ANALFABETOS writing? Who in Santa Cruz Etla needs to write so much? Only those who keep the town records and serve as municipal secretary; surely not all these people." But I knew the inspection at the end of the first year would include a written test for all those names sent in to Oaxaca on the coupons, and I wanted Santa Cruz Etla to shine on the examinations. Even Dona Ofelia wanted that. She made a little speech one night about how all the literate teachers must try as hard to teach writing as Cassiano was trying. It is true that all the students were plugging hard at some phase of the learning. They would work more than two hours without a pause, and for them it was really harder work than plowing land or cutting wood. Cold as the night is at that altitude, beads of sweat would stand out on their faces as they read, Tomasa toma los tamales (Tomasa takes the tamales). I had noted this extreme effort, and the sweat on the faces, when I saw Chico and Esteban learning to read in 1934, and they had the Coleman light and Rosita to help them. In 1945 our light was so poor. We would work until the candles burned down into the rough tops of the tables. Don Ceferino would gather the melted wax from the table top and feed it into the quar- ter-inch of candlewick still burning, just to make light enough to read Pepe es el papd one more time out loud. (Of course, everyone was reading something different out loud all evening; it was hard to concentrate on "Pepe.") Dona Ester or I would have to say: "The lights are dying. Do you not have to go to the sierra early tomorrow?" Then they would take their booklets (for all kept them to read aloud and show off to their wives) and save the papers with their name patterns, and go off down the ravine or up the hill. There was no problem about my getting home on moonlight nights, nor on the nights when Chico would put kerosene in the lantern and let us use it to guide us home. One night, when we stopped to chat on the steps, Aurelio guided me home with a flashlight, one that Sofia's Don Pablo had left when he went to the United States. But the night Cassiano, Joel, and I stayed late to help Elisha and Elijah, it poured rain, and we had no light at all. We formed a chain holding hands, and they 201  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS got me down the trail to Dona Patrocina's, where I stumbled, cold and wet, into the dark room and to my petate. Cassiano and Joel must have found the way back up the trail to Dona Estifana's, for they were both back the next night in the light of the full moon. There were no lighting problems with the classes for women; but then, there were no helpful Cassianos either. Juanita and Cha- bella and the other "doll dressers" of 1934, who might have helped, had little children to dress in 1945 and many tasks at home in the daytime. It would not have been seemly for a young matron to leave home, bring her suckling baby, and come to teach others on the schoolhouse steps. Even few analfabetas thought it seemly to come. Chico and I struggled with Esperanza day in and day out, and never got her really beyond "Lalo." Dona Ofelia was graciously willing to help the women and worked with the industrious Elodia from Dona Paula's and with three other young married women. I did not go to the school porch to help every afternoon, as I was often riding el caballo, sketching, or just visiting. But I took one of the spare booklets with the coupon unsigned and registered Eostolia. She was a round-faced, pleasant woman the age of Nico, an only daughter of his father's brother. Such a close cousin is called a hermana prima, or "cousin-sister," and the relationship was even closer in this case, for Nico and Chico had no sister. It was because Eostolia was the wife of the older Ramirez brother that I tried so hard to help Elisha and Elijah. She had been twelve in 1934, had come to watch us sew doll dresses, but had not been able to come to school because of the long illness of her mother, who died when Eostolia was fourteen. Now she was de- termined to learn faster than Elijeo. She often came to Dona Patro- eina's house and had "school" there with Esperanza and Hip6lito Arroyo, Esperanza's next younger brother. Though she was there less often, she learned twice as much as they did. Altogether, at the school we taught eight young women the first half of the book that summer, but we taught thirty-five young men. Eostolia and the Ramirez brothers invited me to come and visit them after they all had advanced through the "Tomasa" lesson. They lived with the boys' old mother in the ravine above the Co- 202 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS got me down the trail to Dona Patrocina's, where I stumbled, cold and wet, into the dark room and to my petate. Cassiano and Joel must have found the way back up the trail to Dona Estdfana's, for they were both back the next night in the light of the full moon. There were no lighting problems with the classes for women; but then, there were no helpful Cassianos either. Juanita and Cha- bella and the other "doll dressers" of 1934, who might have helped, had little children to dress in 1945 and many tasks at home in the daytime. It would not have been seemly for a young matron to leave home, bring her suckling baby, and come to teach others on the schoolhouse steps. Even few analfabetas thought it seemly to come. Chico and I struggled with Esperanza day in and day out, and never got her really beyond "Lalo." Dona Ofelia was graciously willing to help the women and worked with the industrious Elodia from Dona Paula's and with three other young married women. I did not go to the school porch to help every afternoon, as I was often riding el caballo, sketching, or just visiting. But I took one of the spare booklets with the coupon unsigned and registered Eostolia. She was a round-faced, pleasant woman the age of Nico, an only daughter of his father's brother. Such a close cousin is called a hermana prima, or "cousin-sister," and the relationship was even closer in this case, for Nico and Chico had no sister. It was because Eostolia was the wife of the older Ramirez brother that I tried so hard to help Elisha and Elijah. She had been twelve in 1934, had come to watch us sew doll dresses, but had not been able to come to school because of the long illness of her mother, who died when Eostolia was fourteen. Now she was de- termined to learn faster than Elijeo. She often came to Doha Patro- cina's house and had "school" there with Esperanza and Hipolito Arroyo, Esperanza's next younger brother. Though she was there less often, she learned twice as much as they did. Altogether, at the school we taught eight young women the first half of the book that summer, but we taught thirty-five young men. Eostolia and the Ramirez brothers invited me to come and visit them after they all had advanced through the "Tomasa" lesson. They lived with the boys' old mother in the ravine above the Co- 202 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS got me down the trail to Dona Patrocina's, where I stumbled, cold and wet, into the dark room and to my petate. Cassiano and Joel must have found the way back up the trail to Dona Estifana's, for they were both back the next night in the light of the full moon. There were no lighting problems with the classes for women; but then, there were no helpful Cassianos either. Juanita and Cha- bella and the other "doll dressers" of 1934, who might have helped, had little children to dress in 1945 and many tasks at home in the daytime. It would not have been seemly for a young matron to leave home, bring her suckling baby, and come to teach others on the schoolhouse steps. Even few analfabetas thought it seemly to come. Chico and I struggled with Esperanza day in and day out, and never got her really beyond "Lalo." Dona Ofelia was graciously willing to help the women and worked with the industrious Elodia from Dona Paula's and with three other young married women. I did not go to the school porch to help every afternoon, as I was often riding el caballo, sketching, or just visiting. But I took one of the spare booklets with the coupon unsigned and registered Eostolia. She was a round-faced, pleasant woman the age of Nico, an only daughter of his father's brother. Such a close cousin is called a hermana prima, or "cousin-sister," and the relationship was even closer in this case, for Nico and Chico had no sister. It was because Eostolia was the wife of the older Ramirez brother that I tried so hard to help Elisha and Elijah. She had been twelve in 1934, had come to watch us sew doll dresses, but had not been able to come to school because of the long illness of her mother, who died when Eostolia was fourteen. Now she was de- termined to learn faster than Elijeo. She often came to Dona Patro- cina's house and had "school" there with Esperanza and Hip6lito Arroyo, Esperanza's next younger brother. Though she was there less often, she learned twice as much as they did. Altogether, at the school we taught eight young women the first half of the book that summer, but we taught thirty-five young men. Eostolia and the Ramirez brothers invited me to come and visit them after they all had advanced through the "Tomasa" lesson. They lived with the boys' old mother in the ravine above the Co- 202  LOS ANALFABETOS operativa and near Don Feliz' irrigated garden. Here was an old bamboo and adobe hut, a one-room shack under straw thatch, and Eostolia had moved into it with metate and bridal chest. It seemed a very happy family. They were all great jokers, and their only sorrow seemed to be that after five years of marriage there were still no children. It was difficult to get to Eostolia's house down in the ravine, such a slippery trail when it was wet, such a "caving-in" and "crumbling-off" trail when it was dry. It was hard even for Eliseo's donkeys to step out of the ravine in the morning when they had to go to the sierra. Elijeo worked the fields and went to market, and thus had more time with his wife. When I first saw them both, the night they were turned over to me by Dona Ofelia, they looked like a tourist's wildest idea of marauding bandits, they were so un- washed and uncombed. The day they asked me to visit, they had both been to Oaxaca, had had some of their hair trimmed and had been shaved by a barber, of all things! So they did not look at all wild in the photograph I took of them. I wrote enthusiastically about them in my notes of 1945: "I shall always remember Eostolia, Elijeo, and Eliseo, los analfabetos de Santa Cent Etla, as the best students I have ever had, in many years of many kinds of teaching. They truly appreciated what little time I spent with them; they made the fastest progress in the sub- ject they were trying to learn; they and I all had a feeling of ac- complishing something important." I took this teaching of the il- literates very seriously in 1945, and thought I was "advancing a whole family a hundred years," to quote myself at the time, simply by teaching them to be "literates." No doubt that was an exaggera- tion, but there is that much difference in the minds of many Mexicans, in the eyes of the Mexican law and society, between "unlettered ones" and "lettered ones." Eostolia served me strawberry pop which she, one of the poor little ones, the probrecitas of Santa Cruz Etla, had had Elijeo bring from Oaxaca. She gave me three fresh eggs; she had no other gift, for there were neither flowers nor fruit trees on the Ramirez brothers' land. The morning I left Santa Cruz, when I was trying to get away 203 LOS ANALFABETOS operativa and near Don Fihz' irrigated garden. Here was an old bamboo and adobe but, a one-room shack under straw thatch, and Eostolia had moved into it with metate and bridal chest. It seemed a very happy family. They were all great jokers, and their only sorrow seemed to be that after five years of marriage there were still no children. It was difficult to get to Eostolia's house down in the ravine, such a slippery trail when it was wet, such a "caving-in" and "crumbling-off" trail when it was dry. It was hard even for Eliseo's donkeys to step out of the ravine in the morning when they had to go to the sierra. Elijeo worked the fields and went to market, and thus had more time with his wife. When I first saw them both, the night they were turned over to me by Dofia Ofelia, they looked like a tourist's wildest idea of marauding bandits, they were so un- washed and uncombed. The day they asked me to visit, they had both been to Oaxaca, had had some of their hair trimmed and had been shaved by a barber, of all things! So they did not look at all wild in the photograph I took of them. I wrote enthusiastically about them in my notes of 1945: "I shall always remember Eostolia, Elijeo, and Eliseo, los analfabetos de Santa Cruz Etla, as the best students I have ever had, in many years of many kinds of teaching. They truly appreciated what little time I spent with them; they made the fastest progress in the sub- ject they were trying to learn; they and I all had a feeling of ac- complishing something important." I took this teaching of the il- literates very seriously in 1945, and thought I was "advancing a whole family a hundred years," to quote myself at the time, simply by teaching them to be "literates." No doubt that was an exaggera- tion, but there is that much difference in the minds of many Mexicans, in the eyes of the Mexican law and society, between "unlettered ones" and "lettered ones." Eostolia served me strawberry pop which she, one of the poor little ones, the probrecitas of Santa Cruz Etla, had had Elijeo bring from Oaxaca. She gave me three fresh eggs; she had no other gift, for there were neither flowers nor fruit trees on the Ramirez brothers' land. The morning I left Santa Cruz, when I was trying to get away 203 LOS ANALFABETOS operativa and near Don Fehz' irrigated garden. Here was an old bamboo and adobe but, a one-room shack under straw thatch, and Eostolia had moved into it with metate and bridal chest. It seemed a very happy family. They were all great jokers, and their only sorrow seemed to be that after five years of marriage there were still no children. It was difficult to get to Eostolia's house down in the ravine, such a slippery trail when it was wet, such a "caving-in" and "crumbling-off" trail when it was dry. It was hard even for Eliseo's donkeys to step out of the ravine in the morning when they had to go to the sierra. Elijeo worked the fields and went to market, and thus had more time with his wife. When I first saw them both, the night they were turned over to me by Dofia Ofelia, they looked like a tourist's wildest idea of marauding bandits, they were so un- washed and uncombed. The day they asked me to visit, they had both been to Oaxaca, had had some of their hair trimmed and had been shaved by a barber, of all things! So they did not look at all wild in the photograph I took of them. I wrote enthusiastically about them in my notes of 1945: "I shall always remember Eostolia, Elijeo, and Eliseo, los analfabetos de Santa Cruz Etla, as the best students I have ever had, in many years of many kinds of teaching. They truly appreciated what little time I spent with them; they made the fastest progress in the sub- ject they were trying to learn; they and I all had a feeling of ac- complishing something important." I took this teaching of the il- literates very seriously in 1945, and thought I was "advancing a whole family a hundred years," to quote myself at the time, simply by teaching them to be "literates." No doubt that was an exaggera- tion, but there is that much difference in the minds of many Mexicans, in the eyes of the Mexican law and society, between "unlettered ones" and "lettered ones." Eostolia served me strawberry pop which she, one of the poor little ones, the probrecitas of Santa Cruz Etla, had had Elijeo bring from Oaxaca. She gave me three fresh eggs; she had no other gift, for there were neither flowers nor fruit trees on the Ramirez brothers' land. The morning I left Santa Cruz, when I was trying to get away 203  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS without any fanfare and ceremony, Eliseo heard about it and de- layed his trip to the sierra to come with his brother and sister-in-law to bid me good-bye. They were full of thanks for the teaching, but Eliseo said, "I want to press again the hand of Dona Elena, the fearless one." "Oh, oh," I thought, "fearless to pull myself up the trail in the rainy dark when I had the water sickness, to teach uncombed moun- tain Indians to read about Tomasa and Lalo and Pepe? Well, I'd hardly call that fearless, Eliseo." But I said out loud only, "Why fearless, Eliseo?" hoping for some compliment on the tremendous "difficulty" of the job. "Fearless that you ride the horse of Don Marciano to the sierra," he answered, putting that feat above any mere teaching of analfabetos. I had other pupils besides these. Don Ceferino was the good musician, the player of bass viol and flute and fiddle, all three, who could read music long before he could read words, and who after- wards trained his two young sons to be musicians also. Pedro Sanchez from the San Sebastian loma got to "Felipe" with me and Dona Ester. Luis Jimenez tarried long on the capital T's and finally went on to the C's, one of the most difficult letters because of the con- fusion with the Q-sound in Spanish. Cassiano, Eduardo, and I shifted many of them back and forth between us, according to the number of candles we had to the table. No one in any helper's group got beyond the twenty-five lessons which introduced the letters. Elijeo promised that he would read the whole booklet if I would come again. "The next twenty pages have an educational value beyond lit- eracy itself," said an American educational journal in 1946. describ- ing the booklet as a "splendid educational experiment in our neigh- bor republic." I almost have to take this statement as to educational value for granted, because I never got around to teaching anyone the second section. These latter pages, written it is said by Dr. Torres-Bodet himself, consisted of brief reading sections of one or two pages each: on public health, the family, the soil, biographies of famous Mexicans, and the Mexican constitution. The booklet 204 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS without any fanfare and ceremony, Eliseo heard about it and de- layed his trip to the sierra to come with his brother and sister-in-law to bid me good-bye. They were full of thanks for the teaching, but Eliseo said, "I want to press again the hand of Dona Elena, the fearless one." "Oh, oh," I thought, "fearless to pull myself up the trail in the rainy dark when I had the water sickness, to teach uncombed moun- tain Indians to read about Tomasa and Lalo and Pepe? Well, I'd hardly call that fearless, Eliseo." But I said out loud only, "Why fearless, Eliseo?" hoping for some compliment on the tremendous "difficulty" of the job. "Fearless that you ride the horse of Don Marciano to the sierra," he answered, putting that feat above any mere teaching of analfabetos. I had other pupils besides these. Don Ceferino was the good musician, the player of bass viol and flute and fiddle, all three, who could read music long before he could read words, and who after- wards trained his two young sons to be musicians also. Pedro SAnchez from the San Sebastian loma got to "Felipe" with me and Dona Ester. Luis Jimenez tarried long on the capital T's and finally went on to the C's, one of the most difficult letters because of the con- fusion with the Q-sound in Spanish. Cassiano, Eduardo, and I shifted many of them back and forth between us, according to the number of candles we had to the table. No one in any helper's group got beyond the twenty-five lessons which introduced the letters. Elijeo promised that he would read the whole booklet if I would come again. "The next twenty pages have an educational value beyond lit- eracy itself," said an American educational journal in 1946, describ- ing the booklet as a "splendid educational experiment in our neigh- bor republic." I almost have to take this statement as to educational value for granted, because I never got around to teaching anyone the second section. These latter pages, written it is said by Dr. Torres-Bodet himself, consisted of brief reading sections of one or two pages each: on public health, the family, the soil, biographies of famous Mexicans, and the Mexican constitution. The booklet 204 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS without any fanfare and ceremony, Eliseo heard about it and de- layed his trip to the sierra to come with his brother and sister-in-law to bid me good-bye. They were full of thanks for the teaching, but Eliseo said, "I want to press again the hand of Dona Elena, the fearless one." "Oh, oh," I thought, "fearless to pull myself up the trail in the rainy dark when I had the water sickness, to teach uncombed moun- tain Indians to read about Tomasa and Lalo and Pepe? Well, I'd hardly call that fearless, Eliseo." But I said out loud only, "Why fearless, Eliseo?" hoping for some compliment on the tremendous "difficulty" of the job. "Fearless that you ride the horse of Don Marciano to the sierra," he answered, putting that feat above any mere teaching of analfabetos. I had other pupils besides these. Don Ceferino was the good musician, the player of bass viol and flute and fiddle, all three, who could read music long before he could read words, and who after- wards trained his two young sons to be musicians also. Pedro Sanchez from the San Sebastiin Ioma got to "Felipe" with me and Dofia Ester. Luis Jimenez tarried long on the capital T's and finally went on to the C's, one of the most difficult letters because of the con- fusion with the Q-sound in Spanish. Cassiano, Eduardo, and I shifted many of them back and forth between us, according to the number of candles we had to the table. No one in any helper's group got beyond the twenty-five lessons which introduced the letters. Elijeo promised that he would read the whole booklet if I would come again. "The next twenty pages have an educational value beyond lit- eracy itself," said an American educational journal in 1946, describ- ing the booklet as a "splendid educational experiment in our neigh- bor republic." I almost have to take this statement as to educational value for granted, because I never got around to teaching anyone the second section. These latter pages, written it is said by Dr. Torres-Bodet himself, consisted of brief reading sections of one or two pages each: on public health, the family, the soil, biographies of famous Mexicans, and the Mexican constitution. The booklet 204  LOS ANALFABETOS ended with the complete words of the Mexican national anthem. I read this last part through only once with Don Ceferino, and I'm sure he didn't follow me. Some of the Spanish vocabulary was over my head, although Don Ceferino nodded wisely as we read the words together. I had a message the following winter from Chico, via Rosita, that Dona Ester had taken twenty men and five women through the last part of the book, and that Santa Cruz Ella was "ready for the inspection." I am afraid this "inspection" was not as serious nor as thorough as we had expected it to be. Evidently Dofna Ester finally took fifteen of our people down to Oaxaca on the San Lorenzo bus on a Sat- urday, and they were given a very cursory examination in the office of rural education, which is always worked to death anyway with the problems of regular rural schools. They read out loud from the book (by then they knew every page by heart), and then they an- swered written examination questions. Rosita wrote me only that this had happened; she did not say what the questions were. It seems that the group rallied first at her "town house," and she went with them. The examiner matched the coupons turned in at the beginning to the learners' books, accounting for each one, filled in and tore out the second coupon remaining in the book and gave it to the aprendedor, the learner. The coupon left in the book at last, bearing a serial number, was signed by the learner and by the teacher (who signed for my people when I wasn't there?) and filed away for- ever. "All fifteen of your people passed," wrote Rosita, "including your Ramirez family, those cousins of Chico." She did not say whether Cassiano and Dona Ester got gold seals. I know nobody sent me one. But we had checked out thirty books in the first place. I wonder what became of the certificates of my other people, whose first cou- pons I signed, and who, after they had learned the alphabet, had no one teacher, but probably listened in on everybody else for the hard last twenty pages? And what about Esperanza, who gave up along the way, and whose book, with Coupon One long since sent in under her own name to the authorities, was given me by 205 LOS ANALFABETOS ended with the complete words of the Mexican national anthem. I read this last part through only once with Don Ceferino, and I'm sure he didn't follow me. Some of the Spanish vocabulary was over my head, although Don Ceferino nodded wisely as we read the words together. I had a message the following winter from Chico, via Rosita, that Dofna Ester had taken twenty men and five women through the last part of the book, and that Santa Cruz Ella was "ready for the inspection." I am afraid this "inspection" was not as serious nor as thorough as we had expected it to be. Evidently Dona Ester finally took fifteen of our people down to Oaxaca on the San Lorenzo bus on a Sat- urday, and they were given a very cursory examination in the office of rural education, which is always worked to death anyway with the problems of regular rural schools. They read out loud from the book (by then they knew every page by heart), and then they an- swered written examination questions. Rosita wrote me only that this had happened; she did not say what the questions were. It seems that the group rallied first at her "town house," and she went with them. The examiner matched the coupons turned in at the beginning to the learners' books, accounting for each one, filled in and tore out the second coupon remaining in the book and gave it to the aprendedor, the learner. The coupon left in the book at last, bearing a serial number, was signed by the learner and by the teacher (who signed for my people when I wasn't there?) and filed away for- ever. "All fifteen of your people passed," wrote Rosita, "including your Ramirez family, those cousins of Chico." She did not say whether Cassiano and Dofna Ester got gold seals. I know nobody sent me one. But we had checked out thirty books in the first place. I wonder what became of the certificates of my other people, whose first cou- pons I signed, and who, after they had learned the alphabet, had no one teacher, but probably listened in on everybody else for the hard last twenty pages? And what about Esperanza, who gave up along the way, and whose book, with Coupon One long since sent in under her own name to the authorities, was given me by 205 LOS ANALFABETOS ended with the complete words of the Mexican national anthem. I read this last part through only once with Don Ceferino, and I'm sure he didn't follow me. Some of the Spanish vocabulary was over my head, although Don Ceferino nodded wisely as we read the words together. I had a message the following winter from Chico, via Rosita, that Dofla Ester had taken twenty men and five women through the last part of the book, and that Santa Cruz Ella was "ready for the inspection." I am afraid this "inspection" was not as serious nor as thorough as we had expected it to be. Evidently Dofna Ester finally took fifteen of our people down to Oaxaca on the San Lorenzo bus on a Sat- urday, and they were given a very cursory examination in the office of rural education, which is always worked to death anyway with the problems of regular rural schools. They read out loud from the book (by then they knew every page by heart), and then they an- swered written examination questions. Rosita wrote me only that this had happened; she did not say what the questions were. It seems that the group rallied first at her "town house," and she went with them. The examiner matched the coupons turned in at the beginning to the learners' books, accounting for each one, filled in and tore out the second coupon remaining in the book and gave it to the aprendedor, the learner. The coupon left in the book at last, bearing a serial number, was signed by the learner and by the teacher (who signed for my people when I wasn't there?) and filed away for- ever. "All fifteen of your people passed," wrote Rosita, "including your Ramirez family, those cousins of Chico." She did not say whether Cassiano and Dona Ester got gold seals. I know nobody sent me one. But we had checked out thirty books in the first place. I wonder what became of the certificates of my other people, whose first cou- pons I signed, and who, after they had learned the alphabet, had no one teacher, but probably listened in on everybody else for the hard last twenty pages? And what about Esperanza, who gave up along the way, and whose book, with Coupon One long since sent in under her own name to the authorities, was given me by 205  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Esperanza as a souvenir and was brought back here to Los Angeles? And what happened to Pedro Sanchez and Bernardino Mendez and those two friends of Joel and Nico, who undoubtedly did not finish the book and pass? Didn't they get even any gold stars for trying? No one remembered the answers to any of these questions by 1954. And how about the people who did learn, who "advanced one hundred years"? It was announced in the fall of 1945 that the municipal president (oh, oh, Don Bartolo! and you never on any list yourself, either of literate ones or of book holders or of exam- ination passers), the municipal president must "send the results of his area to the Secretariat of Public Education in Mexico City." Then the federal secretariat would distribute second-grade pamphlets to the new "literates." These pamphlets were called: "How to be a Better Farmer"; "How to be a Better Citizen"; "How to Care for your Baby"; "How to Avoid Disease." Because of the campaign, fifteen more people in Santa Cruz Etla were supposed to be able to read about these things than had been before, Whenever people meet on the trails in Santa Cruz Etla, they say to each other, Como lo a? (How goes it?) During the summer of the campana, the answer would not be the usual muy bien, among the night school students, but often, "It goes as far as 'Tomasa, " or "Pepe," or even "Felipe." We "lettered ones" would often give this answer too, referring to our current learner. I noted this fact in my diary notes of 1945, and remarked (oh, so optimistically!) in de- scribing what I had heard about the second-level books that were to come next: "When the second-level books come, and they say to each other, 'How goes it?' if they get the custom of answering, 'It goes as far as being a better farmer,' or 'It goes as far as giving bet- ter care to babies,' then will the hundred years move forward faster." Too idealistic, too optimistic for Santa Cruz Etla the reader will say; and I, myself, now the reader twelve years later of my own 1945 notes, say so too. But no one in Santa Cruz Etla is discouraged. The people remember the campaign with pleasure, and the town leaders mention with pride that fifteen people passed. Even Don Bartolo, unchanged in 1954, said: "Remember the campana contra 206 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Esperanza as a souvenir and was brought back here to Los Angeles? And what happened to Pedro SAnchez and Bernardino Mndez and those two friends of Joel and Nico, who undoubtedly did not finish the book and pass? Didn't they get even any gold stars for trying? No one remembered the answers to any of these questions by 1954. And how about the people who did learn, who "advanced one hundred years"? It was announced in the fall of 1945 that the municipal president (oh, oh, Don Bartolo! and you never on any list yourself, either of literate ones or of book holders or of exam- ination passers), the municipal president must "send the results of his area to the Secretariat of Public Education in Mexico City." Then the federal secretariat would distribute second-grade pamphlets to the new "literates." These pamphlets were called: "How to be a Better Farmer"; "How to be a Better Citizen"; "How to Care for your Baby"; "How to Avoid Disease." Because of the campaign, fifteen more people in Santa Cruz Etla were supposed to be able to read about these things than had been before. Whenever people meet on the trails in Santa Cruz Etla, they say to each other, dComo lo ea? (How goes it?) During the summer of the campana, the answer would not be the usual muy bien, among the night school students, but often, "It goes as far as 'Tomasa,' " or "Pepe," or even "Felipe." We "lettered ones" would often give this answer too, referring to our current learner. I noted this fact in my diary notes of 1945, and remarked (oh, so optimistically!) in de- scribing what I had heard about the second-level books that were to come next: "When the second-level books come, and they say to each other, 'How goes it?' if they get the custom of answering, 'It goes as far as being a better farmer,' or 'It goes as far as giving bet- ter care to babies,' then will the hundred years move forward faster." Too idealistic, too optimistic for Santa Cruz Etla the reader will say; and I, myself, now the reader twelve years later of my own 1945 notes, say so too. But no one in Santa Cruz Etla is discouraged. The people remember the campaign with pleasure, and the town leaders mention with pride that fifteen people passed. Even Don Bartolo, unchanged in 1954, said: "Remember the campana contra 206 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Esperanza as a souvenir and was brought back here to Los Angeles? And what happened to Pedro SAnchez and Bernardino Mendez and those two friends of Joel and Nico, who undoubtedly did not finish the book and pass? Didn't they get even any gold stars for trying? No one remembered the answers to any of these questions by 1954. And how about the people who did learn, who "advanced one hundred years"? It was announced in the fall of 1945 that the municipal president (oh, oh, Don Bartolol and you never on any list yourself, either of literate ones or of book holders or of exam- ination passers), the municipal president must "send the results of his area to the Secretariat of Public Education in Mexico City," Then the federal secretariat would distribute second-grade pamphlets to the new "literates." These pamphlets were called: "How to be a Better Farmer"; "How to be a Better Citizen"; "How to Care for your Baby"; "How to Avoid Disease." Because of the campaign, fifteen more people in Santa Cruz Etla were supposed to be able to read about these things than had been before. Whenever people meet on the trails in Santa Cruz Etla, they say to each other, gComo to va? (How goes it?) During the summer of the campana, the answer would not be the usual muy bien, among the night school students, but often, "It goes as far as 'Tomasa,'" or "Pepe," or even "Felipe." We "lettered ones" would often give this answer too, referring to our current learner. I noted this fact in my diary notes of 1945, and remarked (oh, so optimistically!) in de- scribing what I had heard about the second-level books that were to come next: "When the second-level books come, and they say to each other, 'How goes it?' if they get the custom of answering, 'It goes as far as being a better farmer,' or 'It goes as far as giving bet- ter care to babies,' then will the hundred years move forward faster" Too idealistic, too optimistic for Santa Cruz Etla the reader will say; and I, myself, now the reader twelve years later of my own 1945 notes, say so too. But no one in Santa Cruz Etla is discouraged. The people remember the campaign with pleasure, and the town leaders mention with pride that fifteen people passed. Even Don Bartolo, unchanged in 1954, said: "Remember the campana contra 206  LOS ANALFABETOS analfabetismo, Doa Elena? How well we did here in Santa Cruz Etla!" He remained president until the New Year in 1947, so natur- ally no second-level books came through any initiative of the municipal president. Doa Ester, the only one of the teachers in- terested, was married and gone by the time another president came in; and the new teachers could not be expected to carry on something they did not even know had started. Cassiano, Joel, Nico- then so young, so shy of city ways and official contacts, unwilling to take any action that the men of the council did not request-well, no one could expect them to send for the other books. In everyone's experience it was almost impossible to get any schoolbooks, any- way, so who would try? That left only me, busy in Los Angeles, traveling and studying far afield from Santa Cruz Etla in every subsequent summer until 1951. So I have to question my own conscience, if Santa Cruz Etla people never answered each other on the trails about the "Better Farmer" and the "Better Babies" booklets. Was I really interested in getting my analfabetos ahead a century, or wasn't I just in- terested in an excuse for having a nice summer in Santa Cruz Etla, a story to tell teacher and student audiences in the United States about "the splendid campaign against illiteracy" and my own part in it? If none of the second little books ever got into the Etla Hills, the fault is as much mine as anyone's. On a nation-wide scale the campaia contra analfabetismo still goes on. In 1953 President Ruiz Cortines asked for a complete new evaluation of the program, and his committee then decided to con- tinue it by means of special, paid teachers. The Cartilla was re- issued to all regular teachers, in the cities at least, though Don Alfredo never received one in Santa Cruz. The new edition had pic- tures in color, contained some easier stories in the back about health and agriculture, and included much of the material meant for the second-level books before. Rosita attended a special meeting in Mexico City in June of 1954 that was called for teacher volunteers and received several copies of the new edition, without the formality of signing for them. When I came back through Mexico City in August of that year, she had already launched her own little new 207 LOS ANALFABETOS analfabetismo, Doa Elena? How well we did here in Santa Cruz Etla!" He remained president until the New Year in 1947, so natur- ally no second-level books came through any initiative of the municipal president. Doa Ester, the only one of the teachers in- terested, was married and gone by the time another president came in; and the new teachers could not be expected to carry on something they did not even know had started. Cassiano, Joel, Nico- then so young, so shy of city ways and official contacts, unwilling to take any action that the men of the council did not request-well, no one could expect them to send for the other books. In everyone's experience it was almost impossible to get any schoolbooks, any- way, so who would try? That left only me, busy in Los Angeles, traveling and studying far afield from Santa Cruz Etla in every subsequent summer until 1951. So I have to question my own conscience, if Santa Cruz Etla people never answered each other on the trails about the "Better Farmer" and the "Better Babies" booklets. Was I really interested in getting my analfabetos ahead a century, or wasn't I just in- terested in an excuse for having a nice summer in Santa Cruz Etla, a story to tell teacher and student audiences in the United States about "the splendid campaign against illiteracy" and my own part in it? If none of the second little books ever got into the Etla Hills, the fault is as much mine as anyone's. On a nation-wide scale the campaa contra analfabetismo still goes on. In 1953 President Ruiz Cortines asked for a complete new evaluation of the program, and his committee then decided to con- tinue it by means of special, paid teachers. The Cartilla was re- issued to all regular teachers, in the cities at least, though Don Alfredo never received one in Santa Cruz. The new edition had pic- tures in color, contained some easier stories in the back about health and agriculture, and included much of the material meant for the second-level books before. Rosita attended a special meeting in Mexico City in June of 1954 that was called for teacher volunteers and received several copies of the new edition, without the formality of signing for them. When I came back through Mexico City in August of that year, she had already launched her own little new 207 LOS ANALFABETOS analfabetismo, Doa Elena? How well we did here in Santa Cruz Etla!" He remained president until the New Year in 1947, so natur- ally no second-level books came through any initiative of the municipal president. Dona Ester, the only one of the teachers in- terested, was married and gone by the time another president came in; and the new teachers could not be expected to carry on something they did not even know had started. Cassiano, Joel, Nico- then so young, so shy of city ways and official contacts, unwilling to take any action that the men of the council did not request-well, no one could expect them to send for the other books. In everyone's experience it was almost impossible to get any schoolbooks, any- way, so who would try? That left only me, busy in Los Angeles, traveling and studying far afield from Santa Cruz Etla in every subsequent summer until 1951. So I have to question my own conscience, if Santa Cruz Etla people never answered each other on the trails about the "Better Farmer" and the "Better Babies" booklets. Was I really interested in getting my analfabetos ahead a century, or wasn't I just in- terested in an excuse for having a nice summer in Santa Cruz Etla, a story to tell teacher and student audiences in the United States about "the splendid campaign against illiteracy" and my own part in it? If none of the second little books ever got into the Etla Hills, the fault is as much mine as anyone's. On a nation-wide scale the campaa contra analfabetismo still goes on. In 1953 President Ruiz Cortines asked for a complete new evaluation of the program, and his committee then decided to con- tinue it by means of special, paid teachers. The Cartilla was re- issued to all regular teachers, in the cities at least, though Don Alfredo never received one in Santa Cruz. The new edition had pic- tures in color, contained some easier stories in the back about health and agriculture, and included much of the material meant for the second-level books before. Rosita attended a special meeting in Mexico City in June of 1954 that was called for teacher volunteers and received several copies of the new edition, without the formality of signing for them. When I came back through Mexico City in August of that year, she had already launched her own little new 207  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS campaia and had three kindergarten mothers busily at work on "Tomasa" and "Pepe." She says that some cynics in Mexico think the "Each-One-Teach-One" program fell down, that "each one" is not necessarily a good teacher. Naturally Rosita is not cynical about anything, and she tells success stories of the city mothers she taught to read in 1945 and 1946 in Oaxaca, of the little Mitla Indian servant boy in her house then who is now teaching school himself in the hills behind Mitla. So I looked again to see what the little learning they had re- ceived meant to some of the analfabetos in Santa Cruz Etla. Are they, and is the town, better off because of Tomasa and Pepe and Felipe? I got around to answering this question when I checked on the future hopes of those who had ever been to any kind of school class in Santa Cruz Etla. SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS campana and had three kindergarten mothers busily at work on "Tomasa" and "Pepe." She says that some cynics in Mexico think the "Each-One-Teach-One" program fell down, that "each one" is not necessarily a good teacher. Naturally Rosita is not cynical about anything, and she tells success stories of the city mothers she taught to read in 1945 and 1946 in Oaxaca, of the little Mitla Indian servant boy in her house then who is now teaching school himself in the hills behind Mitla. So I looked again to see what the little learning they had re- ceived meant to some of the analfabetos in Santa Cruz Etla. Are they, and is the town, better off because of Tomasa and Pepe and Felipe? I got around to answering this question when I checked on the future hopes of those who had ever been to any kind of school class in Santa Cruz Etla. SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS campana and had three kindergarten mothers busily at work on "Tomasa" and "Pepe." She says that some cynics in Mexico think the "Each-One-Teach-One" program fell down, that "each one" is not necessarily a good teacher. Naturally Rosita is not cynical about anything, and she tells success stories of the city mothers she taught to read in 1945 and 1946 in Oaxaca, of the little Mitla Indian senant boy in her house then who is now teaching school himself in the hills behind Mitla. So I looked again to see what the little learning they had re- ceived meant to some of the analfabetos in Santa Cruz Etla. Are they, and is the town, better off because of Tomasa and Pepe and Felipe? I got around to answering this question when I checked on the future hopes of those who had ever been to any kind of school class in Santa Cruz Etla. 208 208 208  PART FOUR PART FOUR PART FOUR Send On Another Benito Juarez 1. DON AMADO'S DREAM: A future leader should come from Santa Cruz Etla. 2. CHICO AND EsPERANzA: They are happy and they are still in the hills. 3. THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT: They were all grown men when they learned to read, anyway. 4. DON PABLO EL BRAcERo: He went to work in the United States. 5. THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO: What became of the young men I myself taught to read and write? 6. Nico: Would Don Amado have been pleased with a fine young farmer? 7. THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934: What did they do for the village? 8. THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DOHA OFELIA: All these are grown men now. 9. DON AMADO'S OwN SONS: They gave up the dream and went to the city. 10. MARGARITA: Our public health project failed. 11. SANTA CRuz ETLA ITSELF: It is an "awakening village." Send On Another Benito Juarez 1. DON AMADOS DREAM: A future leader should come from Santa Cruz Etla. 2. CoCO AND EsPERANzA: They are happy and they are still in the hills. 3. THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT: They were all grown men when they learned to read, anyway. 4. DON PABLO EL BRAcERo: He went to work in the United States. 5. THE RAMIREz BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO: What became of the young men I myself taught to read and write? 6. Nico: Would Don Amado have been pleased with a fine young farmer? 7. THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934: What did they do for the village? 8. THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DONA OFELIA: All these are grown men now. 9. DON AMADo'S OWN soNs: They gave up the dream and went to the city. 10. MARGARITA: Our public health project failed. 11. SANTA CRUz ETLA ITSELF: It is an "awakening village." Send On Another Benito Juarez 1. DON AMADOS DREAM: A future leader should come from Santa Cruz Etla. 2. CHICO AND EsPERANzA: They are happy and they are still in the hills. 3. THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT: They were all grown men when they learned to read, anyway. 4. DON PABLO EL BRAcEBo: He went to work in the United States. 5. THE RAMIREz BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO: What became of the young men I myself taught to read and write? 6. Nico: Would Don Amado have been pleased with a fine young farmer? 7. THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934: What did they do for the village? 8. THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DONA OFELIA: All these are grown men now. 9. DON AMADO'S OWN SONS: They gave up the dream and went to the city. 10. MARGARITA: Our public health project failed. 11. SANTA CRUZ ETLA ITSELF: It is an "awakening village."  VU an. -7k, I 49- DON AMAO had not been satisfied to have just an ordinary school in Santa Cruz Etla, which would do the usual routine educating job. He deplored the end of the night classes after Rosita and the Coleman light left; he would have been delighted at the campana against illiteracy. All to the same end. He wanted Santa Cruz Etla to "send on another Benito Juirez." Benito Juirez, the reform president of Mexico in the days of Maximilian and Carlotta, had been born a full-blooded Zapotecan Indian a century and a half ago in the sierra of Ixtlin fiftv miles back of, and beyond, Santa Cruz Etla. Orphaned early, abused by his ignorant tonto Zapotecan relatives, he ran away at twelve to the "great metropolis" of Oaxaca, which had then perhaps ten or fifteen thousand inhabitants, most of them Spanish-speaking colo- nials. He was taken in as an "Augustina-type" kitchen slavey by a 210 DON AMAno had not been satisfied to have just an ordinarv school in Santa Cruz Etla, which would do the usual routine educating job. He deplored the end of the night classes after Rosita and the Coleman light left; he would have been delighted at the campana against illiteracy. All to the same end. He wanted Santa Cruz Etla to "send on another Benito Juarez." Benito Juirez, the reform president of Mexico in the days of Maximilian and Carlotta, had been born a full-blooded Zapotecan Indian a century and a half ago in the sierra of Ixtlin fifty miles back of, and beyond, Santa Cruz Etla. Orphaned early, abused by his ignorant tonto Zapotecan relatives, he ran away at twelve to the "great metropolis" of Oaxaca, which had then perhaps ten or fifteen thousand inhabitants, most of them Spanish-speaking colo- nials. He was taken in as an "Augustina-type" kitchen slavev by a 210 -7k5, I "f9- DON AMAnO had not been satisfied to have just an ordinarv school in Santa Cruz Etla, which would do the usual routine educating job. He deplored the end of the night classes after Rosita and the Coleman light left; he would have been delighted at the campaa against illiteracy. All to the same end. He wanted Santa Cruz Etla to "send on another Benito Juarez." Benito Juirez, the reform president of Mexico in the days of Maximilian and Carlotta, had been born a full-blooded Zapotecan Indian a century and a half ago in the sierra of Ixtlin fiftv miles back of, and beyond, Santa Cruz Etla. Orphaned early, abused by his ignorant tonto Zapotecan relatives, he ran away at twelve to the "great metropolis" of Oaxaca, which had then perhaps ten or fifteen thousand inhabitants, most of them Spanish-speaking colo- nials. He was taken in as an "Augustina-type" kitchen slavey by a 210  DON AMADO'S DREAM well-to-do family; for the first time he heard there the Spanish language spoken and learned of the existence of writing and books. Adopted by a kind friend of his employer, he was sent to school and then to college. He became a lawyer and a champion of Indian rights in the new republic, and eventually became governor of Oaxaca, member of the national congress, chief justice of the na- tional supreme court, and then president of Mexico and personifica- tion of the rights of the pobrecitos against the landlord class. He is called the Abraham Lincoln of Mexico. Every Indian village, every person of Indian blood in Mexico, is better off because he lived. Don Amado was expecting a great deal of Santa Cruz Etla when he hoped the town and the school would produce another Benito Juarez. When he spoke of this idea so fervently that night at Dona Estdfana's in 1944, I asked him if he wanted such a heroic person to work for the improvement of Santa Cruz Etla, or for the fame of the Etla Hills throughout the nation. Did he want personal betterment, community-wide improvement at home, or national leadership? Per- haps he himself had not thought that far, as he floundered around answering, with a great deal of high-flown prose, and I was very sleepy. But he spoke of the older fellows who had learned to write under Rosita's Coleman light: Esteban whom he had pushed as president; Chico who had helped him with town records; Panfilo, Don Marciano's eldest; Eduardo the mechanically minded one; and Pablo Bautista who had married Dona Sofia. There was still time for all these to do something spectacular. Then he had hopes for Rosita's own students whom we had known in 1934; the boys Nico and Joel and Crescencio and, though he did not mention them, the girls who might also (it seemed to me) do something for the village: Esperanza, Chabella, and perhaps Juanita. Speaking in 1944, he was hardly conscious of the work for illiterates which had just been launched in Mexico City the same month he was talking to me at Dona Estafana's. But if he had, he would have leaped to make plans and to have hopes for Elisha and Elijah and Don Ceferino. Closest to his heart was his own son Cassiano, fifteen when Don 211 DON AMADO'S DREAM well-to-do family; for the first time he heard there the Spanish language spoken and learned of the existence of writing and books. Adopted by a kind friend of his employer, he was sent to school and then to college. He became a lawyer and a champion of Indian rights in the new republic, and eventually became governor of Oaxaca, member of the national congress, chief justice of the na- tional supreme court, and then president of Mexico and personifica- tion of the rights of the pobrecitos against the landlord class. He is called the Abraham Lincoln of Mexico. Every Indian village, every person of Indian blood in Mexico, is better off because he lived. Don Amado was expecting a great deal of Santa Cruz Etla when he hoped the town and the school would produce another Benito Juarez. When he spoke of this idea so fervently that night at Dona Estifana's in 1944, I asked him if he wanted such a heroic person to work for the improvement of Santa Cruz Etla, or for the fame of the Etla Hills throughout the nation. Did he want personal betterment, community-wide improvement at home, or national leadership? Per- haps he himself had not thought that far, as he floundered around answering, with a great deal of high-flown prose, and I was very sleepy. But he spoke of the older fellows who had learned to write under Rosita's Coleman light: Esteban whom he had pushed as president; Chico who had helped him with town records; Panfilo, Don Marciano's eldest; Eduardo the mechanically minded one; and Pablo Bautista who had married Dona Sofia. There was still time for all these to do something spectacular. Then he had hopes for Rosita's own students whom we had known in 1934; the boys Nico and Joel and Crescencio and, though he did not mention them, the girls who might also (it seemed to me) do something for the village: Esperanza, Chabella, and perhaps Juanita. Speaking in 1944, he was hardly conscious of the work for illiterates which had just been launched in Mexico City the same month he was talking to me at Dona Estdfana's. But if he had, he would have leaped to make plans and to have hopes for Elisha and Elijah and Don Ceferino. Closest to his heart was his own son Cassiano, fifteen when Don 211 DON AMADO'S DREAM well-to-do family; for the first time he heard there the Spanish language spoken and learned of the existence of writing and books. Adopted by a kind friend of his employer, he was sent to school and then to college. He became a lawyer and a champion of Indian rights in the new republic, and eventually became governor of Oaxaca, member of the national congress, chief justice of the na- tional supreme court, and then president of Mexico and personifica- tion of the rights of the pobrecitos against the landlord class. He is called the Abraham Lincoln of Mexico. Every Indian village, every person of Indian blood in Mexico, is better off because he lived. Don Amado was expecting a great deal of Santa Cruz Etla when he hoped the town and the school would produce another Benito Juarez. When he spoke of this idea so fervently that night at Dona Estfana's in 1944, I asked him if he wanted such a heroic person to work for the improvement of Santa Cruz Etla, or for the fame of the Etla Hills throughout the nation. Did he want personal betterment, community-wide improvement at home, or national leadership? Per- haps he himself had not thought that far, as he floundered around answering, with a great deal of high-flown prose, and I was very sleepy. But he spoke of the older fellows who had learned to write under Rosita's Coleman light: Esteban whom he had pushed as president; Chico who had helped him with town records; Panfilo, Don Marciano's eldest; Eduardo the mechanically minded one; and Pablo Bautista who had married Dona Sofia. There was still time for all these to do something spectacular. Then he had hopes for Rosita's own students whom we had known in 1934; the boys Nico and Joel and Crescencio and, though he did not mention them, the girls who might also (it seemed to me) do something for the village: Esperanza, Chabella, and perhaps Juanita. Speaking in 1944, he was hardly conscious of the work for illiterates which had just been launched in Mexico City the same month he was talking to me at Dona Estefana's. But if he had, he would have leaped to make plans and to have hopes for Elisha and Elijah and Don Ceferino. Closest to his heart was his own son Cassiano, fifteen when Don 211  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Amado died, a student of Rosita in the primary class before she left Santa Cruz Etla. In Cassiano's generation other bright boys, such as Aurelio, Dona Estdfana's grandson, and Don Marcelino's Perfecto, that good, good student, would have appealed to him as possibilities of the Benito Juarez type. There was a younger bunch of children in school when I was there in 1945, fourth graders like Gernomo and Aurelia and Isafas Perez, and the little ones like Dofa Sofia's smart little Leopoldo and Don Amado's other sons, shy Martiniano and bold Margarito, all then in the first grade. Waiting to go into the first grade in 1946 was the brilliant little Margarita, daughter of Chabella and granddaughter of Don Martin-and they are still coming on, Don Amado. There is Esperanza's little son and Joel's two children, and Aurelio's much beloved baby boc. Surely in all these there will be someone to please you, Don Amado, to carry the torch for Santa Cruz Etla. The school itself was named Escuela Federal Rural de Benito Judrez. Through its portals all these young people passed or will pass. Can you be satisfied, Don Amado, that most of them lived happily and brought joy to their own families, and in many cases some im- provement, and that they produced fine children, and cut more ssood or raised better corn? And those that left home, as did Benito Juirez, longed to be back in Santa Cruz, with few exceptions, and came home sometimes to bring new ideas. Who is to say that Benito Juarez himself would not think they were "carrying the torch"? *.sfls 2" IF I WERE To ANSWER the questions I pose to the spirit of Don Amado, if I were even to set up aims for cultural missionaries, should I seek out those of the second generation in Santa Cruz who are most suc- eessful, or those who are happiest? Isn't happiness success? And being happy is to have founded a happy family. And Chico. from Rosita's first night school class, and his little wife Esperanza, from Rosita's primary class in 1934, have surely done that. 212 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Amado died, a student of Rosita in the primary class before she left Santa Cruz Etla. In Cassiano's generation other bright boys, such as Aurelio, Dona Estefana's grandson, and Don Marcelino's Perfecto, that good, good student, would have appealed to him as possibilities of the Benito Juirez type. There was a younger bunch of children in school when I was there in 1945, fourth graders like Gerdnomo and Aurelia and Isaias Perez, and the little ones like Dona Sofia's smart little Leopoldo and Don Amado's other sons, shy Martiniano and bold Margarito, all then in the first grade. Waiting to go into the first grade in 1946 was the brilliant little Margarita, daughter of Chabella and granddaughter of Don Martin-and they are still coming on, Don Amado. There is Esperanza's little son and Joel's two children, and Aurelio's much beloved babe boe. Surely in all these there will be someone to please you, Don Amado, to carry the torch for Santa Cruz Etla. The school itself was named Escuela Federal Rural de Benito Judrez. Through its portals all these young people passed or will pass. Can you be satisfied, Don Amado, that most of them lived happily and brought joy to their own families, and in many cases some im- provement, and that they produced fine children, and cut more wood or raised better corn? And those that left home, as did Benito Juirez, longed to be back in Santa Cruz, with few exceptions, and came home sometimes to bring new ideas. Who is to say that Benito Juarez himself would not think they were "carrying the torch"? IF I WERE TO ANSWER the questions I pose to the spirit of Don Amado, if I were even to set up aims for cultural missionaries, should I seek out those of the second generation in Santa Cruz who are most suc- cessful, or those who are happiest? Isn't happiness success? And being happy is to have founded a happy family. And Chico, from Rosita's first night school class, and his little wife Esperanza, from Rosita's primary class in 1934, have surely done that. 212 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Amado died, a student of Rosita in the primary class before she left Santa Cruz Etla. In Cassiano's generation other bright boys, such as Aurelio, Dona Estefana's grandson, and Don Marcelino's Perfecto, that good, good student, would have appealed to him as possibilities of the Benito Juarez type. There was a younger bunch of children in school when I was there in 1945, fourth graders like Geronomo and Aurelia and Isaias Perez, and the little ones like Dona Sofia's smart little Leopoldo and Don Amado's other sons, shy Martiniano and bold Margarito, all then in the first grade. Waiting to go into the first grade in 1946 was the brilliant little Margarita, daughter of Chabella and granddaughter of Don Martin-and they are still coming on, Don Amado. There is Esperanza's little son and Joel's two children, and Aurelio's much beloved baby boy. Surely in all these there will be someone to please you, Don Amado, to carry the torch for Santa Cruz Etla. The school itself was named Escuela Federal Rural de Benito Judrez. Through its portals all these young people passed or will pass. Can you be satisfied, Don Amado, that most of them lived happily and brought joy to their own families, and in many cases some im- provement, and that they produced fine children, and cut more wood or raised better corn? And those that left home, as did Benito Juarez. longed to be back in Santa Cruz, with few exceptions, and came home sometimes to bring new ideas. Who is to say that Benito Juarez himself would not think they were "carrying the torch"? IF I WERE To ANSWER the questions I pose to the spirit of Don Amado, if I were even to set up aims for cultural missionaries, should I seek out those of the second generation in Santa Cruz who are most suc- cessful, or those who are happiest? Isn't happiness success? And being happy is to have founded a happy family. And Chico, from Rosita's first night school class, and his little wife Esperanza. from Eosita's primary class in 1934, have surely done that. 212  CHICO AND ESPERANZA In addition, Chico (Don Francisco Lipez in the eyes of the newest new generation in Santa Cruz) is a great credit to the town. For years after the death of Don Amado and before Cassiano and Perfecto could take over, he kept all the written records of the town. He served as alcalde of the school committee in 1944 and again quite recently (I didn't check what year), and he did a better job the second time, now that his own little son is in school. With- out a doubt, he will some day be president. He went to work one short season, just before his marriage, on the Pan American Highway as it was being worked through the valley into Oaxaca, but he pre- ferred to return to the village and spend his energies there. He is the head of a household, and can command his mother, his wife, and his younger brother's family. This is purely theoretical, how- ever, or at least it was when I lived there, for Dona Patrocina ran the house and surely Esperanza commanded Chico. But he was the highest ranking man of the young generation left in Santa Cruz Etla after Esteban withdrew from "politics." He was also a musician, which was even more important, and a regular liaison officer be- tween Santa Cruz Etla and the Oaxaca market. This last activity was so important to me and my life in the vil- lage in 1945 that it is worth digressing from Benito Jurez to tell about. Chico could get candles and embroidery thread, turpentine for the oil paints, white cheese for cena, all these things within two or three days from the time I began to want them, because he went so often to market. He did not have to wait for Saturday, but could sell his charcoal any day at private houses, where the seoras knew him, and where, he told me, he was always sure of a good sale. Sometimes he sold loads of unburned wood, and on those days he would take an hour getting the load ready. He would put green alfalfa across the burro's back, then cushions made of old petates stuffed with straw, and finally the pack harness made of century- plant fibre. The week before my 1945 visit he had just paid eighteen pesos for new harnesses, cinch straps, bags, baskets, and the ropes. Chico's burros were always so carefully packed that they never had the sore backs you so often see on the poor little pack-burros of Mexico. Chico's burros had been working the trails between Oaxaca 213 CHICO AND ESPERANZA In addition, Chico (Don Francisco Lipez in the eyes of the newest new generation in Santa Cruz) is a great credit to the town. For years after the death of Don Amado and before Cassiano and Perfecto could take over, he kept all the written records of the town. He served as alcalde of the school committee in 1944 and again quite recently (I didn't check what year), and he did a better job the second time, now that his own little son is in school. With- out a doubt, he will some day be president. He went to work one short season, just before his marriage, on the Pan American Highway as it was being worked through the valley into Oaxaca, but he pre- ferred to return to the village and spend his energies there. He is the head of a household, and can command his mother, his wife, and his younger brother's family. This is purely theoretical, how- ever, or at least it was when I lived there, for Dofa Patrocina ran the house and surely Esperanza commanded Chico. But he was the highest ranking man of the young generation left in Santa Cruz Etla after Esteban withdrew from "politics." He was also a musician, which was even more important, and a regular liaison officer be- tween Santa Cruz Etla and the Oaxaca market. This last activity was so important to me and my life in the vil- lage in 1945 that it is worth digressing from Benito Juirez to tell about. Chico could get candles and embroidery thread, turpentine for the oil paints, white cheese for cena, all these things within two or three days from the time I began to want them, because he went so often to market. He did not have to wait for Saturday, but could sell his charcoal any day at private houses, where the seHoras knew him, and where, he told me, he was always sure of a good sale. Sometimes he sold loads of unburned wood, and on those days he would take an hour getting the load ready. He would put green alfalfa across the burro's back, then cushions made of old petates stuffed with straw, and finally the pack harness made of century- plant fibre. The week before my 1945 visit he had just paid eighteen pesos for new harnesses, cinch straps, bags, baskets, and the ropes. Chico's burros were always so carefully packed that they never had the sore backs you so often see on the poor little pack-burros of Mexico. Chico's burros had been working the trails between Oaxaca 213 CHICO AND ESPERANZA In addition, Chico (Don Francisco Lipez in the eyes of the newest new generation in Santa Cruz) is a great credit to the town. For years after the death of Don Amado and before Cassiano and Perfecto could take over, he kept all the written records of the town. He served as alcalde of the school committee in 1944 and again quite recently (I didn't check what year), and he did a better job the second time, now that his own little son is in school. With- out a doubt, he will some day be president. He went to work one short season, just before his marriage, on the Pan American Highway as it was being worked through the valley into Oaxaca, but he pre- ferred to return to the village and spend his energies there. He is the head of a household, and can command his mother, his wife, and his younger brother's family. This is purely theoretical, how- ever, or at least it was when I lived there, for Dona Patrocina ran the house and surely Esperanza commanded Chico. But he was the highest ranking man of the young generation left in Santa Cruz Etla after Esteban withdrew from "politics." He was also a musician, which was even more important, and a regular liaison officer be- tween Santa Cruz Etla and the Oaxaca market. This last activity was so important to me and my life in the vil- lage in 1945 that it is worth digressing from Benito Juarez to tell about. Chico could get candles and embroidery thread, turpentine for the oil paints, white cheese for cena, all these things within two or three days from the time I began to want them, because he went so often to market. He did not have to wait for Saturday, but could sell his charcoal any day at private houses, where the seneras knew him, and where, he told me, he was always sure of a good sale. Sometimes he sold loads of unburned wood, and on those days he would take an hour getting the load ready. He would put green alfalfa across the burro's back, then cushions made of old petates stuffed with straw, and finally the pack harness made of century- plant fibre. The week before my 1945 visit he had just paid eighteen pesos for new harnesses, cinch straps, bags, baskets, and the ropes. Chico's burros were always so carefully packed that they never had the sore backs you so often see on the poor little pack-burros of Mexico. Chico's burros had been working the trails between Oaxaca 213  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and the sierra for ten or twelve years, and he told me he figured on them lasting twenty. Everything that came from the city to Dona Patrocina's house came on their backs. Chico needed the money he got for the wood to pay installments on his wedding clothes and his part in the fiesta taxes. But it is sur- prising how much buying and selling goes on in Santa Cruz Etla without any money or any trips to market. During the summer we had the mangoes to offer for eggs, in a ratio of about six to one; and for tomatoes and onions, three to one; and for avocados, just even. When Esperanza's brother, Hipdlito Arroyo, chased our runasway burros for us, we gave him three mangoes. When Chico sent the burros home from market early by Don Marciano's third son. we gave him six mangoes for the errand. I don't know what Dona Patrocina does in return for small favors in the dry season when the mangoes are not ripe. I know that we had flowers from Dona Paula's garden on our altar every Sunday in return for Dona Patrocina's treatments of Dona Paula's rheumatism. We also got chicharrones, or pork cracklings, a delicious Mexican delicacy, each of the three times Don Casimiro, the hog-raising neighbor, butchered in the summer; and I knew that the gift was payment for Dona Patrocina's treatments. Thus, we could live a long time without cash because of a mango tree and an herb woman. Chico, however, tuning in on the modern world as he did, needed actual money. He used money in the permanent shops of Oaxaca, rather than in the Saturday market stalls, to buy rice, macaroni, sugar, coffee beans, lye for the cooked corn, soap, and chocolate. (Don Martin was selling all these things for cash or trade by 1954, of course.) Neither Dona Patrocina nor Esperanza could write, so Chico never took a list; they would both stand talking out by the burros as he packed them (and both talked excitedly) and tell him the things they wanted. I surely admired Chico, for he never seemed to forget anything; at least they never scolded him. Often he did errands for neighbors, or we would buy an excess of sugar or coffee which neighbors would pay for with eggs or (while I was there to be fed) with tomatoes and avocados. When Chico took his wood to Santa Maria Asumpa, where the 214 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and the sierra for ten or twelve years, and he told me he figured on them lasting twenty. Everything that came from the city to Dona Patrocina's house came on their backs. Chico needed the money he got for the wood to pay installments on his wedding clothes and his part in the fiesta taxes. But it is sur- prising how much buying and selling goes on in Santa Cruz Etla without any money or any trips to market. During the summer we had the mangoes to offer for eggs, in a ratio of about six to one; and for tomatoes and onions, three to one; and for avocados, just even. When Esperanza's brother, Hip6lito Arroyo, chased our runaway burros for us, we gave him three mangoes. When Chico sent the burros home from market early by Don Marciano's third son, we gave him six mangoes for the errand. I don't know what Dona Patrocina does in return for small favors in the dry season when the mangoes are not ripe. I know that we had flowers from Dona Paula's garden on our altar every Sunday in return for Dona Patrocina's treatments of Dona Paula's rheumatism. We also got chicharrones, or pork cracklings, a delicious Mexican delicacy, each of the three times Don Casimiro, the hog-raising neighbor, butchered in the summer; and I knew that the gift was payment for Dona Patrocina's treatments. Thus, we could live a long time without cash because of a mango tree and an herb woman. Chico, however, tuning in on the modern world as he did, needed actual money. He used money in the permanent shops of Oaxaca, rather than in the Saturday market stalls, to buy rice, macaroni, sugar, coffee beans, lye for the cooked corn, soap, and chocolate. (Don Martin was selling all these things for cash or trade by 1954, of course.) Neither Dona Patrocina nor Esperanza could write, so Chico never took a list; they would both stand talking out by the burros as he packed them (and both talked excitedly) and tell him the things they wanted. I surely admired Chico, for he never seemed to forget anything; at least they never scolded him. Often he did errands for neighbors, or we would buy an excess of sugar or coffee which neighbors would pay for with eggs or (while I was there to be fed) with tomatoes and avocados. When Chico took his wood to Santa Maria Asumpa, where the 214 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS and the sierra for ten or twelve years, and he told me he figured on them lasting twenty. Everything that came from the city to Dona Patrocina's house came on their backs. Chico needed the money he got for the wood to pay installments on his wedding clothes and his part in the fiesta taxes. But it is sur- prising how much buying and selling goes on in Santa Cruz Etla without any money or any trips to market. During the summer we had the mangoes to offer for eggs, in a ratio of about six to one; and for tomatoes and onions, three to one; and for avocados, just even. When Esperanza's brother, Hipolito Arroyo, chased our runaway burros for us, we gave him three mangoes. When Chico sent the burros home from market early by Don Marciano's third son. we gave him six mangoes for the errand. I don't know what Dona Patrocina does in return for small favors in the dry season when the mangoes are not ripe. I know that we had flowers from Dona Paula's garden on our altar every Sunday in return for Dona Patrocina's treatments of Dona Paula's rheumatism. We also got chicharrones, or pork cracklings, a delicious Mexican delicacy, each of the three times Don Casimiro, the hog-raising neighbor, butchered in the summer; and I knew that the gift was payment for Dona Patrocina's treatments. Thus, we could live a long time without cash because of a mango tree and an herb woman. Chico, however, tuning in on the modern world as he did, needed actual money. He used money in the permanent shops of Oaxaca, rather than in the Saturday market stalls, to buy rice, macaroni, sugar, coffee beans, lye for the cooked corn, soap, and chocolate. (Don Martin was selling all these things for cash or trade by 1954, of course.) Neither Dona Patrocina nor Esperanza could write, so Chico never took a list; they would both stand talking out by the burros as he packed them (and both talked excitedly) and tell him the things they wanted. I surely admired Chico, for he never seemed to forget anything; at least they never scolded him. Often he did errands for neighbors, or we would buy an excess of sugar or coffee which neighbors would pay for with eggs or (while I was there to be fed) with tomatoes and avocados. When Chico took his wood to Santa Maria Asumpa, where the 214  CHICO AND ESPERANZA pottery kilns were, he would sometimes bring back clay pots and dishes in exchange for wood. Once he bought a large, new, flat tortilla griddle for Dona Patrocina. It seems hard to see why a smart man like Chico never thought of exchanging a whole load of wood for a whole load of pots, those big baking dishes and water jars made from the red clay of Santa Maria Asumpa's river bed, and then selling the pots at a profit to the housewives up and down the trail. But I guess there was no profit motive. Perhaps if Chico were to have been the harbinger of fine new things for Santa Cruz that Don Amado wanted, he would have pepped up trade and the use of money; but then, he was concerned just with being successful with things as he knew them. Dona Rosario, kindly, handsome, middle-aged mother of Cha- bella, walked down to the San Lorenzo bus from away up the trail toward the sierra in order to go to Oaxaca City and buy a new tor- tilla griddle made in Santa Maria Asumpa. Not waiting for the San Lorenzo bus to come home, she took the Etla bus and walked back home uphill through San Pablo. In all that long walk she had balanced the tortilla griddle, twenty inches in diameter, on her head; and when she stopped at Patrocina's to chat of the pleasures of going to market, she stood at ease with it still there. She wouldn't have wanted to cancel the trip and buy pottery from Chico at her own door, and she doesn't want to see changes and improvements come to Santa Cruz which will make it possible for her to do so. Chico is fine as the market liaison, as far as Santa Cruz wants one, but let's not have too much! Chico was taught to play the fiddle by his uncle, Don Fausto; and in such playing, as well as in general industriousness and responsi- bility, he seemed to me far superior to the older generation, if his uncle was an example of that. Don Solomon, the teacher who went to the United States as a bracero, taught Chico some of the rudiments of note reading and helped the Santa Cruz musicians write out the music in parts. Then they would play eighteen hours at a stretch for some wedding or mayordomfa, often without pay. The music they had in the house included such pieces as Sobre las Olas ("Over the Waves") and "La Paloma," such songs of Oaxaca as Cancidn 215 CHICO AND ESPERANZA pottery kilns were, he would sometimes bring back clay pots and dishes in exchange for wood. Once he bought a large, new, flat tortilla griddle for Dona Patrocina. It seems hard to see why a smart man like Chico never thought of exchanging a whole load of wood for a whole load of pots, those big baking dishes and water jars made from the red clay of Santa Maria Asumpa's river bed, and then selling the pots at a profit to the housewives up and down the trail. But I guess there was no profit motive. Perhaps if Chico were to have been the harbinger of fine new things for Santa Cruz that Don Amado wanted, he would have pepped up trade and the use of money; but then, he was concerned just with being successful with things as he knew them. Dona Rosario, kindly, handsome, middle-aged mother of Cha- bella, walked down to the San Lorenzo bus from away up the trail toward the sierra in order to go to Oaxaca City and buy a new tor- tilla griddle made in Santa Maria Asumpa. Not waiting for the San Lorenzo bus to come home, she took the Etla bus and walked back home uphill through San Pablo. In all that long walk she had balanced the tortilla griddle, twenty inches in diameter, on her head; and when she stopped at Patrocina's to chat of the pleasures of going to market, she stood at ease with it still there. She wouldn't have wanted to cancel the trip and buy pottery from Chico at her own door, and she doesn't want to see changes and improvements come to Santa Cruz which will make it possible for her to do so. Chico is fine as the market liaison, as far as Santa Cruz wants one, but let's not have too much Chico was taught to play the fiddle by his uncle, Don Fausto; and in such playing, as well as in general industriousness and responsi- bility, he seemed to me far superior to the older generation, if his uncle was an example of that. Don Solomdn, the teacher who went to the United States as a bracero, taught Chico some of the rudiments of note reading and helped the Santa Cruz musicians write out the music in parts. Then they would play eighteen hours at a stretch for some wedding or mayordomfa, often without pay. The music they had in the house included such pieces as Sobre las Olas ("Over the Waves") and "La Paloma," such songs of Oaxaca as Cancidnr 215 CHICO AND ESPERANZA pottery kilns were, be would sometimes bring back clay pots and dishes in exchange for wood. Once he bought a large, new, flat tortilla griddle for Dona Patrocina. It seems hard to see why a smart man like Chico never thought of exchanging a whole load of wood for a whole load of pots, those big baking dishes and water jars made from the red clay of Santa Maria Asumpa's river bed, and then selling the pots at a profit to the housewives up and down the trail. But I guess there was no profit motive. Perhaps if Chico were to have been the harbinger of fine new things for Santa Cruz that Don Amado wanted, he would have pepped up trade and the use of money; but then, he was concerned just with being successful with things as he knew them. Doa Rosario, kindly, handsome, middle-aged mother of Cha- bella, walked down to the San Lorenzo bus from away up the trail toward the sierra in order to go to Oaxaca City and buy a new tor- tilla griddle made in Santa Maria Asumpa. Not waiting for the San Lorenzo bus to come home, she took the Etla bus and walked back home uphill through San Pablo. In all that long walk she had balanced the tortilla griddle, twenty inches in diameter, on her head; and when she stopped at Patrocina's to chat of the pleasures of going to market, she stood at ease with it still there. She wouldn't have wanted to cancel the trip and buy pottery from Chico at her own door, and she doesn't want to see changes and improvements come to Santa Cruz which will make it possible for her to do so. Chico is fine as the market liaison, as far as Santa Cruz wants one, but let's not have too much! Chico was taught to play the fiddle by his uncle, Don Fausto; and in such playing, as well as in general industriousness and responsi- bility, he seemed to me far superior to the older generation, if his uncle was an example of that. Don Solomn, the teacher who went to the United States as a bracero, taught Chico some of the rudiments of note reading and helped the Santa Cruz musicians write out the music in parts. Then they would play eighteen hours at a stretch for some wedding or mayordomfa, often without pay. The music they had in the house included such pieces as Sobre las 01as ("Over the Waves") and "La Paloma," such songs of Oaxaca as Cancion 215  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Mixteca and La Lerona, and a Cancidn de la Frontera which we call "South of the Border." By 1954 Chico had quit music as a partial profession and had left the town orchestra to Don Ceferino Jimnez and his sons. But he still enjoyed playing at home, and he provided four hours of music for a santo, a birthday party I went to in honor of Dona Angelica Leon in 1954. Chico as a person and a civic leader is a success, a credit to Don Amado's plans and to Rosita's teaching. Then there is the lovely little Esperanza, without whom life in Santa Cruz would have been less fun for me in 1945. and with whom I enjoyed happy hours of visiting in 1954. She seems the epitome of what a young wife should be, and as such she is a necessity in help- ing to send on Benito Juirezes of the future, if not of the present. Through her I learned much of the marriage customs of Santa Cruz Etla, and through her I came to know that happy marriage is the best thing that can happen in a town. We had remembered Esperanza as the tiniest, youngest girl in the primary class in 1934, the one in the movies who was always smiling shyly, with a grown person's rebozo wrapped round her head and trailing in the mud behind her. This mite of humanity grew into a very jolly, pretty girl who had caught the eye of Dona Patrocina's Chico by the time she was fourteen and he twenty-six. Dona Patrocina had told Rosita in 1944 about the betrothal. a whis- per of good news, for Chico was then already twenty-seven. and Patrocina was wistfully hopeful for grandchildren. The wedding was planned for October, 1944. There was to be a fandango. or large circle dance. Rosita was to come. Then Nico and Chico and all of Esperanza's brothers were going to work throughout the dry season making bricks to build Chico and Esperanza a house in Dona Patrocina's houseyard. The wedding was not held till February, 1945, and no house was built. A few piles of adobe bricks, made by Chico alone, lay stacked behind the house, on the downhill side, until Nico was married three years later. I don't know why the wedding was postponed, but I can guess why the house was not built. Dona Patrocina and Esperanza got along so well together that there was no need then for a second house. 216 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Mixteca and La Llorona, and a Cancion de la Frontera which we call "South of the Border." By 1954 Chico had quit music as a partial profession and had left the town orchestra to Don Ceferino Jimnez and his sons. But he still enjoyed playing at home, and he provided four hours of music for a santo, a birthday party I went to in honor of Dona Angelica Le6n in 1954. Chico as a person and a civic leader is a success, a credit to Don Amado's plans and to Rosita's teaching. Then there is the lovely little Esperanza, without whom life in Santa Cruz would have been less fun for me in 1945, and with whom I enjoyed happy hours of visiting in 1954. She seems the epitome of what a young wife should be, and as such she is a necessity in help- ing to send on Benito Judrezes of the future, if not of the present. Through her I learned much of the marriage customs of Santa Cruz Etla, and through her I came to know that happy marriage is the best thing that can happen in a town. We had remembered Esperanza as the tiniest, youngest girl in the primary class in 1934, the one in the movies who was always smiling shyly, with a grown person's rebozo wrapped round her head and trailing in the mud behind her. This mite of humanity grew into a very jolly, pretty girl who had caught the eye of Dona Patrocina's Chico by the time she was fourteen and he twenty-six. Dona Patrocina had told Rosita in 1944 about the betrothal, a whis- per of good news, for Chico was then already twenty-seven. and Patrocina was wistfully hopeful for grandchildren. The wedding was planned for October, 1944. There was to be a fandango. or large circle dance. Rosita was to come. Then Nico and Chico and all of Esperanza's brothers were going to work throughout the dry season making bricks to build Chico and Esperanza a house in Dona Patrocina's houseyard. The wedding was not held till February, 1945, and no house was built. A few piles of adobe bricks, made by Chico alone, lay stacked behind the house, on the downhill side, until Nico was married three years later. I don't know why the wedding was postponed, but I can guess why the house was not built. Dona Patrocina and Esperanza got along so well together that there was no need then for a second house. 216 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Mixteca and La Llerona, and a Cancidn de la Frontera which we call "South of the Border." By 1954 Chico had quit music as a partial profession and had left the town orchestra to Don Ceferino Jimnez and his sons. But he still enjoyed playing at home, and he provided four hours of music for a santo, a birthday party I went to in honor of Dona Angelica Le6n in 1954. Chico as a person and a civic leader is a success, a credit to Don Amado's plans and to Rosita's teaching. Then there is the lovely little Esperanza, without whom life in Santa Cruz would have been less fun for me in 1945, and with whom I enjoyed happy hours of visiting in 1954. She seems the epitome of what a young wife should be, and as such she is a necessity in help- ing to send on Benito Judrezes of the future, if not of the present. Through her I learned much of the marriage customs of Santa Cruz Etla, and through her I came to know that happy marriage is the best thing that can happen in a town. We had remembered Esperanza as the tiniest, youngest girl in the primary class in 1934, the one in the movies who was always smiling shyly, with a grown person's rebozo wrapped round her head and trailing in the mud behind her. This mite of humanity grew into a very jolly, pretty girl who had caught the eye of Dona Patrocina's Chico by the time she was fourteen and he twenty-six. Dona Patrocina had told Rosita in 1944 about the betrothal, a whis- per of good news, for Chico was then already twenty-seven, and Patrocina was wistfully hopeful for grandchildren. The wedding was planned for October, 1944. There was to be a fandango, or large circle dance. Rosita was to come. Then Nico and Chico and all of Esperanza's brothers were going to work throughout the drv season making bricks to build Chico and Esperanza a house in Dona Patrocina's houseyard. The wedding was not held till February, 1945, and no house was built. A few piles of adobe bricks, made by Chico alone, lay stacked behind the house, on the downhill side, until Nico was married three years later. I don't know why the wedding was postponed, but I can guess why the house was not built. Dona Patrocina and Esperanza got along so well together that there was no need then for a second house. 216  CHICO AND ESPERANZA Anyone could get along with the laughing little Esperanza. What puzzles me is how Chico, a shy young man even if he was the town fiddler and secretary, ever got up the nerve to ask for Esperanza at all. Of course he could not marry as long as he was the only support of the family. When Nico was old enough to till the land, Chico was free to make cash as a leador. "Then for a long time I saw no girl to interest me, Dona Elena," he said. Esperanza was busily growing older and prettier all this time. At sixteen she still stood about four feet ten, but she had such a plump little face, such big eyes, and such a merry laugh that she probably caught other eyes than those of Chico. But he had eyes only for her. "He was interested in many, only afraid to ask for them," teased Esperanza. We were all sitting on the ground in the "kitchen" in the candlelight. "Then why did he have courage to ask for you, Esperanza?" She broke into gales of laughter. "Why, Chico, why? You had looked at me first four years ago." Chico only laughed too, and began playing a tune on the fiddle. It sounded so popularized and familiar that I asked him the name of it. La Muchacha de mis Suenos, he answered, "Girl of My Dreams." He had learned it from a street player in Oaxaca City. There does not seem to be much "dreaming" or romancing in the matter of betrothals in the Etla Hills, although a man like Chico can pick and choose. Rosita toid me in detail the customs of betrothal. A young man takes candles and fruit to the family of a marriageable girl, often ten or twelve years his junior. If the family accepts the candles, the boy can come again and ask the father if the gift was "agreeable." Within two or three weeks, the boy's parents take a second gift, fruit, eggs, and cheese. Finally, a month later, a third party, usually the boy's godmother, goes to ask the girl's parents, definitely, for the hand of the girl in marriage. The father will either refuse the request or consent to ask the girl. If the girl accepts, her parents give a dinner with chicken or turkey mole and ask the boy and the go-between. A month later the boy's parents give the actual betrothal party, an all-day affair for the girl's parents and cousins and godparents, and the boy's cousins and parents. At this public 217 CHICO AND ESPERANZA Anyone could get along with the laughing little Esperanza. What puzzles me is how Chico, a shy young man even if he was the town fiddler and secretary, ever got up the nerve to ask for Esperanza at all. Of course he could not marry as long as he was the only support of the family. When Nico was old enough to till the land, Chico was free to make cash as a lesador. "Then for a long time I saw no girl to interest me, Dofia Elena," he said. Esperanza was busily growing older and prettier all this time. At sixteen she still stood about four feet ten, but she had such a plump little face, such big eyes, and such a merry laugh that she probably caught other eyes than those of Chico. But he had eyes only for her. "He was interested in many, only afraid to ask for them," teased Esperanza. We were all sitting on the ground in the "kitchen" in the candlelight. "Then why did he have courage to ask for you, Esperanza?" She broke into gales of laughter. "Why, Chico, why? You had looked at me first four years ago." Chico only laughed too, and began playing a tune on the fiddle. It sounded so popularized and familiar that I asked him the name of it. La Muchacha de mis Suesos, he answered, "Girl of My Dreams." He had learned it from a street player in Oaxaca City. There does not seem to be much "dreaming" or romancing in the matter of betrothals in the Etla Hills, although a man like Chico can pick and choose. Rosita toid me in detail the customs of betrothal. A young man takes candles and fruit to the family of a marriageable girl, often ten or twelve years his junior. If the family accepts the candles, the boy can come again and ask the father if the gift was "agreeable." Within two or three weeks, the boy's parents take a second gift, fruit, eggs, and cheese. Finally, a month later, a third party, usually the boy's godmother, goes to ask the girl's parents, definitely, for the hand of the girl in marriage. The father will either refuse the request or consent to ask the girl. If the girl accepts, her parents give a dinner with chicken or turkey mole and ask the boy and the go-between. A month later the boy's parents give the actual betrothal party, an all-day affair for the girl's parents and cousins and godparents, and the boy's cousins and parents. At this public 217 CHICO AND ESPERANZA Anyone could get along with the laughing little Esperanza. What puzzles me is how Chico, a shy young man even if he was the town fiddler and secretary, ever got up the nerve to ask for Esperanza at all. Of course he could not marry as long as he was the only support of the family. When Nico was old enough to till the land, Chico was free to make cash as a leador. "Then for a long time I saw no girl to interest me, Doia Elena," he said. Esperanza was busily growing older and prettier all this time. At sixteen she still stood about four feet ten, but she had such a plump little face, such big eyes, and such a merry laugh that she probably caught other eyes than those of Chico. But he had eyes only for her. "He was interested in many, only afraid to ask for them," teased Esperanza. We were all sitting on the ground in the "kitchen" in the candlelight. "Then why did he have courage to ask for you, Esperanza?" She broke into gales of laughter. "Why, Chico, why? You had looked at me first four years ago." Chico only laughed too, and began playing a tune on the fiddle. It sounded so popularized and familiar that I asked him the name of it. La Muchacha de mis Suenos, he answered, "Girl of My Dreams." He had learned it from a street player in Oaxaca City. There does not seem to be much "dreaming" or romancing in the matter of betrothals in the Etla Hills, although a man like Chico can pick and choose. Rosita toid me in detail the customs of betrothal. A young man takes candles and fruit to the family of a marriageable girl, often ten or twelve years his junior. If the family accepts the candles, the boy can come again and ask the father if the gift was "agreeable." Within two or three weeks, the boy's parents take a second gift, fruit, eggs, and cheese. Finally, a month later, a third party, usually the boy's godmother, goes to ask the girl's parents, definitely, for the hand of the girl in marriage. The father will either refuse the request or consent to ask the girl. If the girl accepts, her parents give a dinner with chicken or turkey mole and ask the boy and the go-between. A month later the boy's parents give the actual betrothal party, an all-day affair for the girl's parents and cousins and godparents, and the boy's cousins and parents. At this public 217  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS affair, the girl's parents must ask, "When do you wish the wedding?" The boy names a date, about four or five months ahead, depending or whether a new house must be built and adobe bricks made and dried for it. All this formality and secrecy seems absurd in a community as small as Santa Cruz Etla. Surely everyone would have known that Chico had his eyes on Esperanza. He told me that he had first asked for her with candles when she was fifteen. His go-between, that San Pablo godmother, Doffa Socorro, for whom the Virgin of Car- men was given the party, was refused by Don Mslelit6n Arroyo. Esperanza was too young. As the only girl she was needed at home. "Meanwhile, I turned down others," said Esperanza, interrupting the conversation. Somehow she got across to Chico the message that he should ask again when she was seventeen. These palabras primeras or first words made by the godmother had started in May, 1944. It must have been a better corn year than 1945, for Dona Patrocina and Chico's godmother paid for all those mole dinners of hot chile and chicken, to say nothing of the cost of the wedding. A wedding is a three-day celebration and the whole town comes. Chico and Esperanza hired Don F41iz Ledn's oxcart and went into Oaxaca on a Saturday for the official civil registration. Don lelit6n, who was doubtless sorry to lose his only daughter, took her to a photographer and had a peso picture taken of her in her white-satin dress. I never saw the picture because Don Melit6n kept it. and I was never actually in his house. On Sunday, the oxcart was decorated with flowers from Dona Paula's garden, every upright on it twined with garlands. "Flowers were even stuck in the wheel spokes," said Esperanza. Chico and Esperanza rode in this cart to the church in San Pablo Etla, having perforce chosen a Sunday when the padre would come on horseback from Etla. This attendance at mass and blessing by the priest made all San Pablo part of the ceremony, which doubtless was hard on Dona Patrocina's entertainment budget. A bride is called a novia, which is also a common word in Mexico for girlfriend or sweetheart. Old-fashioned brides wear long. white 218 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS affair, the girl's parents must ask, "When do you wish the wedding?" The boy names a date, about four or five months ahead, depending or whether a new house must be built and adobe bricks made and dried for it. All this formality and secrecy seems absurd in a community as small as Santa Cruz Ella. Surely everyone would have known that Chico had his eyes on Esperanza. He told me that he had first asked for her with candles when she was fifteen. His go-between, that San Pablo godmother, Dolla Socorro, for whom the Virgin of Car- men was given the party, was refused by Don Melit6n Arroyo. Esperanza was too young. As the only girl she was needed at home. "Meanwhile, I turned down others," said Esperanza, interrupting the conversation. Somehow she got across to Chico the message that he should ask again when she was seventeen. These palabras primeras or first words made by the godmother had started in May, 1944. It must have been a better corn year than 1945, for Dolla Patrocina and Chico's godmother paid for all those mole dinners of hot chile and chicken, to say nothing of the cost of the wedding. A wedding is a three-day celebration and the whole town comes. Chico and Esperanza hired Don Feliz Ledn's oxcart and went into Oaxaca on a Saturday for the official civil registration. Don leliton, who was doubtless sorry to lose his only daughter, took her to a photographer and had a peso picture taken of her in her white-satin dress. I never saw the picture because Don Mlelit6n kept it, and I was never actually in his house. On Sunday, the oxcart was decorated with flowers from Dona Paula's garden, every upright on it twined with garlands. "Flowers were even stuck in the wheel spokes," said Esperanza. Chico and Esperanza rode in this cart to the church in San Pablo Etla, having perforce chosen a Sunday when the padre would come on horseback from Etla. This attendance at mass and blessing by the priest made all San Pablo part of the ceremony, which doubtless was hard on Dona Patrocina's entertainment budget. A bride is called a novia, which is also a common word in Mexico for girlfriend or sweetheart. Old-fashioned brides wear long, white 218 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS affair, the girl's parents must ask, "When do you wish the wedding?" The boy names a date, about four or five months ahead, depending or whether a new house mustbe built and adobe bricks made and dried for it. All this formality and secrecy seems absurd in a community as small as Santa Cruz Etla. Surely everyone would have known that Chico had his eyes on Esperanza. He told me that he had first asked for her with candles when she was fifteen. His go-between, that San Pablo godmother, Dona Socorro, for whom the Virgin of Car- men was given the party, was refused by Don Melit6n Arroyo. Esperanza was too young. As the only girl she was needed at home. "Meanwhile, I turned down others," said Esperanza, interrupting the conversation. Somehow she got across to Chico the message that he should ask again when she was seventeen. These palabras primeras or first words made by the godmother had started in May, 1944. It must have been a better corn year than 1945, for Dona Patrocina and Chico's godmother paid for all those mole dinners of hot chile and chicken, to say nothing of the cost of the wedding. A wedding is a three-day celebration and the whole town comes. Chico and Esperanza hired Don Faliz Le6n's oxcart and went into Oaxaca on a Saturday for the official civil registration. Don Melit6n, who was doubtless sorry to lose his only daughter, took her to a photographer and had a peso picture taken of her in her white-satin dress. I never saw the picture because Don lelit6n kept it, and I was never actually in his house. On Sunday, the oxcart was decorated with flowers from Doaa Paula's garden, every upright on it twined with garlands. "Flowers were even stuck in the wheel spokes," said Esperanza. Chico and Esperanza rode in this cart to the church in San Pablo Etla, having perforce chosen a Sunday when the padre would come on horseback from Etla. This attendance at mass and blessing by the priest made all San Pablo part of the ceremony, which doubtless was hard on Dona Patrocina's entertainment budget. A bride is called a novia, which is also a common word in Mexico for girlfriend or sweetheart. Old-fashioned brides wear long, white 218  CHICO AND ESPERANZA dresses, in the same full-gored style as Doia Estefana's everyday dress. Don Julio's Juanita and Eduardo's Rafaela had worn short, white satin dresses. Esperanza asked her father for such a short, modern dress and got it, but she has been too shy to wear it since. It lies neatly folded at the bottom of her chest. The bridal veil, made of white net, was provided by her godmother, as well as the chest in which she brought all her things to Dona Patrocina's. Dona Patrocina paid for the oxcart, the flowers, and the bridegroom's new white cotton clothes. She also bought bright-colored paper from which she made paper chains to festoon the house inside and out. Remnants of these paper chains still hung from the rafters inside the house the following summer when I lived there. The procession back to Santa Cruz Etla went across the ravine to Don Melit6n's house near the San Lorenzo ridge. As the bride's father, he provided the turkey mole for everyone's dinner that first day. I don't see how they got an oxcart across the ravine and up to Don Melit6n's; I am afraid Esperanza with her flowers and her white satin dress had to walk. But even on her wedding day she did not have to wear shoes. Congratulations and pulque drinking went on all day Sunday at Don Melit6n's, but the bridal couple came home to Dona Patrocina's at nightfall. They had to be up early Monday, because the second day of the celebration is the most important. This was the day of the fandango, the group dance. I have never seen such a dance, and I could not quite understand from Esperanza's description just how they do it. But the fact that Chico, the groom, was one of the main musicians for the town created a problem for the wedding. Finally his god- mother from San Pablo hired four of the San Pablo Etla musicians to play all day Monday for the fandango and all day Tuesday for the smaller-scale dancing and eating that goes on the third day.. It must have cost her forty pesos. It seems to me that being a godparent in the Etla Hills is a pretty expensive proposition. When a child is baptized, the godparent pays for the christening robe and the dinner party. When the child dies, the godparents pay for the funeral party. When a girl marries, there is the problem of the chest and the veil. And when a boy marries, 219 CHICO AND ESPERANZA dresses, in the same full-gored style as Dona Estdfana's everyday dress. Don Julio's Juanita and Eduardo's Rafaela had worn short, white satin dresses. Esperanza asked her father for such a short, modern dress and got it, but she has been too shy to wear it since. It lies neatly folded at the bottom of her chest. The bridal veil, made of white net, was provided by her godmother, as well as the chest in which she brought all her things to Dona Patrocina's. Dona Patrocina paid for the oxcart, the flowers, and the bridegroom's new white cotton clothes. She also bought bright-colored paper from which she made paper chains to festoon the house inside and out. Remnants of these paper chains still hung from the rafters inside the house the following summer when I lived there. The procession back to Santa Cruz Etla went across the ravine to Don Melit6n's house near the San Lorenzo ridge. As the bride's father, he provided the turkey mole for everyone's dinner that first day. I don't see how they got an oxcart across the ravine and up to Don Melit6n's; I am afraid Esperanza with her flowers and her white satin dress had to walk. But even on her wedding day she did not have to wear shoes. Congratulations and pulque drinking went on all day Sunday at Don Melit6n's, but the bridal couple came home to Dona Patrocina's at nightfall. They had to be up early Monday, because the second day of the celebration is the most important. This was the day of the fandango, the group dance. I have never seen such a dance, and I could not quite understand from Esperanza's description just how they do it. But the fact that Chico, the groom, was one of the main musicians for the town created a problem for the wedding. Finally his god- mother from San Pablo hired four of the San Pablo Etla musicians to play all day Monday for the fandango and all day Tuesday for the smaller-scale dancing and eating that goes on the third day.. It must have cost her forty pesos. It seems to me that being a godparent in the Etla Hills is a pretty expensive proposition. When a child is baptized, the godparent pays for the christening robe and the dinner party. When the child dies, the godparents pay for the funeral party. When a girl marries, there is the problem of the chest and the veil. And when a boy marries,. 219 CHICO AND ESPERANZA dresses, in the same full-gored style as Dona Estfana's everyday dress. Don Julio's Juanita and Eduardo's Rafaela had worn short, white satin dresses. Esperanza asked her father for such a short, modern dress and got it, but she has been too shy to wear it since. It lies neatly folded at the bottom of her chest. The bridal veil, made of white net, was provided by her godmother, as well as the chest in which she brought all her things to Dona Patrocina's. Dona Patrocina paid for the oxcart, the flowers, and the bridegroom's new white cotton clothes. She also bought bright-colored paper from which she made paper chains to festoon the house inside and out. Remnants of these paper chains still hung from the rafters inside the house the following summer when I lived there. The procession back to Santa Cruz Etla went across the ravine to Don Melit6n's house near the San Lorenzo ridge. As the bride's father, he provided the turkey mole for everyone's dinner that first day. I don't see how they got an oxcart across the ravine and up to Don Melit6n's; I am afraid Esperanza with her flowers and her white satin dress had to walk. But even on her wedding day she did not have to wear shoes. Congratulations and pulque drinking went on all day Sunday at Don Melit6n's, but the bridal couple came home to Doa Patrocina's at nightfall. They had to be up early Monday, because the second day of the celebration is the most important. This was the day of the fandango, the group dance. I have never seen such a dance, and I could not quite understand from Esperanza's description just how they do it. But the fact that Chico, the groom, was one of the main musicians for the town created a problem for the wedding. Finally his god- mother from San Pablo hired four of the San Pablo Etla musicians to play all day Monday for the fandango and all day Tuesday for the smaller-scale dancing and eating that goes on the third day.. It must have cost her forty pesos. It seems to me that being a godparent in the Etla Hills is a pretty expensive proposition. When a child is baptized, the godparent pays for the christening robe and the dinner party. When the child dies, the godparents pay for the funeral party. When a girl marries, there is the problem of the chest and the veil. And when a boy marries, 219  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS expenses mount up doubly. So many children are born in Santa Cruz Etla, many of whom survive long enough to have a baptism and god- parents, and there are so few families, that people have to be god- parents just as often as they are parents. Many a good corn year's profits have gone into the celebrations for a godchild. Rosita was a godmother to two children while she was at the school, and she had to provide funerals for both of them before she left. Dona Patrocina paid for the food served at Esperanza's wedding the second and third days. She had to do most of the preparation because Esperanza did not help her with tortillas until things settled down after the first week. Doia Patrocina also bought cloth for two dresses for Esperanza and new cotton outfits for herself and Nico, as well as one for the bridegroom. All her ready cash was spent on the food and decorations, evidently, and she borrowed money in Etla for the clothes. Three times during the summer of 1945 a young city man came on horseback from a "commercial house" in Etla and collected three silver pesos. Doa Patrocina always had it ready. I did not like to ask, but it looked as if the bill collector went on across the ravine to Don Melittn's for an installment of the wedding ex- penses at that end as well. A marriage is called a casamiento. The whole idea is taken very seriously in Santa Cruz Etla, and a broken marriage is so seldom heard of that I am still surprised (and maybe all of Santa Cruz Etla was, too) at the thought of Don Julio's new family. One day at Patrocina's I lay sick on my petate and listened to the chatter of a gossiping little man, second cousin to Dona Patrocina, who came to visit from San Luis Ocotitlin. The juiciest story he had to tell was about a girl in that town who ran home after eight days of marriage. She would not eat her mother-in-law's cooking. The wizened little cousin thought this story very funny, but I heard Dona Patrocina repeat it in a shocked voice to Doa Estdfana when she came to see me the next day. I have also heard Dona Pastorcita, Don Martin's wife and my hostess in 1954, tell of the scandalous behavior of peo- ple in "those valley towns" who only register their marriage with the civil authorities and never go before the padre. "Many people in the valley live like that. They are not really married," she said. 220 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS expenses mount up doubly. So many children are born in Santa Cruz Etla, many of whom survive long enough to have a baptism and god- parents, and there are so few families, that people have to be god- parents just as often as they are parents. Many a good corn year's profits have gone into the celebrations for a godchild. Rosita was a godmother to two children while she was at the school, and she had to provide funerals for both of them before she left. Dona Patrocina paid for the food served at Esperanza's wedding the second and third days. She had to do most of the preparation because Esperanza did not help her with tortillas until things settled down after the first week. Dona Patrocina also bought cloth for two dresses for Esperanza and new cotton outfits for herself and Nico, as well as one for the bridegroom. All her ready cash was spent on the food and decorations, evidently, and she borrowed money in Etla for the clothes. Three times during the summer of 1945 a young city man came on horseback from a "commercial house" in Etla and collected three silver pesos. Doa Patrocina always had it ready. I did not like to ask, but it looked as if the bill collector went on across the ravine to Don Melitdn's for an installment of the wedding ex- penses at that end as well. A marriage is called a casamiento. The whole idea is taken very seriously in Santa Cruz Etla, and a broken marriage is so seldom heard of that I am still surprised (and maybe all of Santa Cruz Etla was, too) at the thought of Don Julio's new family. One day at Patrocina's I lay sick on my petate and listened to the chatter of a gossiping little man, second cousin to Doa Patrocina, who came to visit from San Luis Ocotithn. The juiciest story he had to tell was about a girl in that town who ran home after eight days of marriage. She would not eat her mother-in-law's cooking. The wizened little cousin thought this story very funny, but I heard Doda Patrocina repeat it in a shocked voice to Dona Estefana when she came to see me the next day. I have also heard Doa Pastorcita, Don Martin's wife and my hostess in 1954, tell of the scandalous behavior of peo- ple in "those valley towns" who only register their marriage with the civil authorities and never go before the padre. "Many people in the valley live like that. They are not really married," she said. 220 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS expenses mount up doubly. So many children are born in Santa Cruz Etla, many of whom survive long enough to have a baptism and god- parents, and there are so few families, that people have to be god- parents just as often as they are parents. Many a good corn year's profits have gone into the celebrations for a godchild. Rosita was a godmother to two children while she was at the school, and she had to provide funerals for both of them before she left. Doda Patrocina paid for the food served at Esperanza's wedding the second and third days. She had to do most of the preparation because Esperanza did not help her with tortillas until things settled down after the first week. Doa Patrocina also bought cloth for two dresses for Esperanza and new cotton outfits for herself and Nico, as well as one for the bridegroom. All her ready cash was spent on the food and decorations, evidently, and she borrowed money in Etla for the clothes. Three times during the summer of 1945 a young city man came on horseback from a "commercial house" in Etla and collected three silver pesos. Doa Patrocina always had it ready. I did not like to ask, but it looked as if the bill collector went on across the ravine to Don Melitn's for an installment of the wedding ex- penses at that end as well. A marriage is called a casamiento. The whole idea is taken very seriously in Santa Cruz Etla, and a broken marriage is so seldom heard of that I am still surprised (and maybe all of Santa Cruz Etla was, too) at the thought of Don Julio's new family. One day at Patrocina's I lay sick on my petate and listened to the chatter of a gossiping little man, second cousin to Doda Patrocina, who came to visit from San Luis Ocotitlin. The juiciest story he had to tell was about a girl in that town who ran home after eight days of marriage. She would not eat her mother-in-law's cooking. The wizened little cousin thought this story very funny, but I heard Dona Patrocina repeat it in a shocked voice to Dona Estfana when she came to see me the next day. I have also heard Doa Pastorcita, Don Martin's wife and my hostess in 1954, tell of the scandalous behavior of peo- ple in "those valley towns" who only register their marriage with the civil authorities and never go before the padre. "Many people in the valley live like that. They are not really married," she said. 220  CHICO AND ESPERANZA Esperanza and Chico seemed just as happy together as high- school sweethearts in the United States, even though they did not "go steady" through school; and Chico was already a member of Los Policias and was a young ledador when Esperanza was in the first grade. They laughed and teased and joked and chased each other around the houseyard like two ten-year-olds. In public they were very decorous. At the mayordomia at San Pablo Etla, that day of the Virgin of Carmen, Chico did not play the fiddle with the San Pablo musicians, but sat around with the young men and pitched coins at a line drawn on the ground. Esperanza, dressed in the long, pink-flowered dress that Doa Patrocina had given her, sat primly among the women on the petates, under the chins of the red oxen. Neither one danced all day. On the way home, I asked Esperanza: "Is it not the custom for a young bride and groom to dance together at a fiesta?" Esperanza answered: "It would be the custom if we wished. We did not wish." I had wondered if Doa Sofia and the bracero, Don Pablo, went through all the rigmarole of asking with candles, a go-between, a request to parents, and so on, when they were married, both in mid- dle age and both for the second time. Doa Estefana had been sur- prised when I asked. "How else could a man ask for a woman, ex- cept to give candles and food to her parents?" she said. "Of course Pablo had to ask me for Sofia." "But didn't Sofia and Pablo know each other well and make up their own minds?" Dona Estefana would not answer this. She would not admit that there was one marriage in which she, the parent, was not very important in the decision. Doa Patrocina told me another time, though, that she and her little old mother had gone to see the widowed Doa Buenaventura, aged at least forty-five, to ask her to receive presents from Don Fausto, the guitar player, only brother of Doda Patrocina. "She kept us waiting for an answer two months, though she was surely lucky to get Fausto, and she knew it," Doa Patrocina remarked in a tone of voice that sounded a trifle catty. However it happened, it didn't last, and Fausto in 1954 was back living with Patrocina in her crowd- 221 CHICO AND ESPERANZA Esperanza and Chico seemed just as happy together as high. school sweethearts in the United States, even though they did not "go steady" through school; and Chico was already a member of Los Policias and was a young lenador when Esperanza was in the first grade. They laughed and teased and joked and chased each other around the houseyard like two ten-year-olds. In public they were very decorous. At the mayordomia at San Pablo Etla, that day of the Virgin of Carmen, Chico did not play the fiddle with the San Pablo musicians, but sat around with the young men and pitched coins at a line drawn on the ground. Esperanza, dressed in the long, pink-flowered dress that Doa Patrocina had given her, sat primly among the women on the petates, under the chins of the red oxen. Neither one danced all day. On the way home, I asked Esperanza: "Is it not the custom for a young bride and groom to dance together at a fiesta?" Esperanza answered: "It would be the custom if we wished. We did not wish." I had wondered if Doa Sofia and the bracero, Don Pablo, went through all the rigmarole of asking with candles, a go-between, a request to parents, and so on, when they were married, both in mid- dle age and both for the second time. Doa Estdfana had been sur- prised when I asked. "How else could a man ask for a woman, ex- cept to give candles and food to her parents?" she said. "Of course Pablo had to ask me for Sofia." "But didn't Sofia and Pablo know each other well and make up their own minds?" Doa Estefana would not answer this. She would not admit that there was one marriage in which she, the parent, was not very important in the decision. Doa Patrocina told me another time, though, that she and her little old mother had gone to see the widowed Dona Buenaventura, aged at least forty-five, to ask her to receive presents from Don Fausto, the guitar player, only brother of Doa Patrocina. "She kept us waiting for an answer two months, though she was surely lucky to get Fausto, and she knew it," Doa Patrocina remarked in a tone of voice that sounded a trifle catty. However it happened, it didn't last, and Fausto in 1954 was back living with Patrocina in her crowd- 221 CHICO AND ESPERANZA Esperanza and Chico seemed just as happy together as high- school sweethearts in the United States, even though they did not "go steady" through school; and Chico was already a member of Los Policias and was a young ledador when Esperanza was in the first grade. They laughed and teased and joked and chased each other around the houseyard like two ten-year-olds. In public they were very decorous. At the mayordomia at San Pablo Etla, that day of the Virgin of Carmen, Chico did not play the fiddle with the San Pablo musicians, but sat around with the young men and pitched coins at a line drawn on the ground. Esperanza, dressed in the long, pink-flowered dress that Doa Patrocina had given her, sat primly among the women on the petates, under the chins of the red oxen. Neither one danced all day. On the way home, I asked Esperanza: "Is it not the custom for a young bride and groom to dance together at a fiesta?" Esperanza answered: "It would be the custom if we wished. We did not wish." I had wondered if Doa Sofia and the bracero, Don Pablo, went through all the rigmarole of asking with candles, a go-between, a request to parents, and so on, when they were married, both in mid- dle age and both for the second time. Doa Estefana had been sur- prised when I asked. "How else could a man ask for a woman, ex- cept to give candles and food to her parents?" she said. "Of course Pablo had to ask me for Sofia." "But didn't Sofia and Pablo know each other well and make up their own minds?" Doa Estefana would not answer this. She would not admit that there was one marriage in which she, the parent, was not very important in the decision. Doa Patrocina told me another time, though, that she and her little old mother had gone to see the widowed Doa Buenaventura, aged at least forty-five, to ask her to receive presents from Don Fausto, the guitar player, only brother of Doa Patrocina. "She kept us waiting for an answer two months, though she was surely lucky to get Fausto, and she knew it," Doa Patrocina remarked in a tone of voice that sounded a trifle catty. However it happened, it didn't last, and Fausto in 1954 was back living with Patrocina in her crowd- 221  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ed house, while Buenaventura and her children kept theft own counsel over in San Sebastiin. How Don Julio and his two different wives fit into all this elaborate pattern of marriage is hard to figure. But I am supposed to be writing about Esperanza, and about how she, as a happy little wife, is just as good a product of Santa Cruz Etla in the second generation as Benito Juirez might have been. It was a good thing she was happy; surely she worked hard. In Dona Patrocina's household the newest bride is the "hewer of wood and the drawer of water." At least, she certainly drew the water. On her return from the mill in the morning, she got an olla or clay jar full of water from the ditch to start the coffee. She was able to eat her own breakfast only after everyone else had enough tortillas. Then she had to go back and forth across the trail to the ditch ten times for ollas of water, four for the large jar in the "kitchen," six for the large jar provided in front of the house for washing. On days clothes were washed, this ten-gallon jar had to be filled again in the course of the morning. Both boys washed their faces and hands with water from it after breakfast, using a gourd dipper to dish water into a flat clay bowl. Drinking water came from the large jar, too. I have never heard of these large "storage" jars being washed, and it is easy to see why dysentery, the "water sickness," sometimes lingers on from dry season to the rainy, and back to the dry, collecting its annual toll. Three days a week Esperanza washed. She herself, being a new bride, owned at least five cotton dresses and the white satin dress. But I doubt if Dona Patrocina had three faded, patched, cotton dresses for daily wear. The people of Santa Cruz Etla do try desper- ately to be clean, but their muddy trails, their close quarters with the livestock, their dirt floors and lack of chairs, all make it difficult to keep light-colored clothes clean. Esperanza washed, Dona Patro- tina ironed, Esperanza did the mending. Nothing was discarded until it was as threadbare as Crescencio's shirt. Esperanza did not learn to sew in school with Rosita, as did Chabella and Juanita. She had been brought to school in 1934 at the age of six by an older sister aged eight. The summer we knew her then was her only term in school. In the fall of that year her 222 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ed house, while Buenaventura and her children kept their own counsel over in San Sebastiin. How Don Julio and his two different wives fit into all this elaborate pattern of marriage is hard to figure. But I am supposed to be writing about Esperanza, and about how she, as a happy little wife, is just as good a product of Santa Cruz Etla in the second generation as Benito Juarez might have been. It was a good thing she was happy; surely she worked hard. In Dona Patrocina's household the newest bride is the "hewer of wood and the drawer of water." At least, she certainly drew the water. On her return from the mill in the morning, she got an olla or clay jar full of water from the ditch to start the coffee. She was able to eat her own breakfast only after everyone else had enough tortillas. Then she had to go back and forth across the trail to the ditch ten times for ollas of water, four for the large jar in the "kitchen," six for the large jar provided in front of the house for washing. On days clothes were washed, this ten-gallon jar had to be filled again in the course of the morning. Both boys washed their faces and hands with water from it after breakfast, using a gourd dipper to dish water into a flat clay bowl. Drinking water came from the large jar, too. I have never heard of these large "storage" jars being washed, and it is easy to see why dysentery, the "water sickness," sometimes lingers on from dry season to the rainy, and back to the dry, collecting its annual toll. Three days a week Esperanza washed. She herself, being a new bride, owned at least five cotton dresses and the white satin dress. But I doubt if Doffa Patrocina had three faded, patched, cotton dresses for daily wear. The people of Santa Cruz Etla do try desper- ately to be clean, but their muddy trails, their close quarters with the livestock, their dirt floors and lack of chairs, all make it diffcult to keep light-colored clothes clean. Esperanza washed, Dona Patro- cina ironed, Esperanza did the mending. Nothing was discarded until it was as threadbare as Crescencio's shirt. Esperanza did not learn to sew in school with Rosita, as did Chabella and Juanita. She had been brought to school in 1931 at the age of six by an older sister aged eight. The summer we knew her then was her only term in school. In the fall of that year her 222 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ed house, while Buenaventura and her children kept their own counsel over in San Sebastiin. How Don Julio and his two different wives fit into all this elaborate pattern of marriage is hard to figure. But I am supposed to be writing about Esperanza, and about how she, as a happy little wife, is just as good a product of Santa Cruz Etla in the second generation as Benito Juirez might have been. It was a good thing she was happy; surely she worked hard. In Dona Patrocina's household the newest bride is the "hewer of wood and the drawer of water." At least, she certainly drew the water. On her return from the mill in the morning, she got an olla or clay jar full of water from the ditch to start the coffee. She was able to eat her own breakfast only after everyone else had enough tortillas. Then she had to go back and forth across the trail to the ditch ten times for ollas of water, four for the large jar in the "kitchen," six for the large jar provided in front of the house for washing. On days clothes were washed, this ten-gallon jar had to be filled again in the course of the morning. Both boys washed their faces and hands with water from it after breakfast, using a gourd dipper to dish water into a flat clay bowl. Drinking water came from the large jar, too. I have never heard of these large "storage" jars being washed, and it is easy to see why dysentery, the "water sickness," sometimes lingers on from dry season to the rainy, and back to the dry, collecting its annual toll. Three days a week Esperanza washed. She herself, being a new bride, owned at least five cotton dresses and the white satin dress. But I doubt if Dona Patrocina had three faded, patched, cotton dresses for daily wear. The people of Santa Cruz Etla do try desper- ately to be clean, but their muddy trails, their close quarters with the livestock, their dirt floors and lack of chairs, all make it diffcult to keep light-colored clothes clean. Esperanza washed. Dona Patro- cina ironed, Esperanza did the mending. Nothing was discarded until it was as threadbare as Crescencio's shirt. Esperanza did not learn to sew in school with Rosita, as did Chabella and Juanita. She had been brought to school in 1914 at the age of six by an older sister aged eight. The summer we knew her then was her only term in school. In the fall of that year her 222  CHICO AND ESPERANZA sister died. Esperanza's mother already had three sons younger than Esperanza, and the latter stayed at home, taking on at seven the jobs of hauling water and running to the mill. Four more boys were born to Don Melit6n Arroyo and his wife; of the seven, five survived, many boys' mouths for Esperanza to fill with tortillas. It is easy to see why she was gay at Dona Patrocina's; the work there was so much lighter. The two older brothers, Juan and Hip6lito, came by the house often to say hello to their sister, and there was still a strong family affection among them. A boy I didn't remember at all stopped me on the trail in 1954 to tell me he was Humberto Arroyo, one of the younger brothers, now grown almost to manhood. I should have recognized him; all of Esperanza's brothers look so much like Esperanza; and there was an unmistakable one in the fourth grade at school in 1954, just two years ahead of Esperanza's own little boy. I have still a friendly feeling for the smiling Hipolito. Once when La Abuelita and I were alone at Dona Patrocina's that long summer of 1945, all three burros got loose at once. It was only the sudden arrival of Hip6lito which saved the day. The grandmother and I could only chase one burro each. Hip6lito could chase all three at once, it seemed, for they were quickly rounded up. In September of 1945 Esperanza left the tortilla-making at Doaa Patrocina's for a week to go home to help her mother. Don Melit6n's wife gave birth to her tenth child, the first girl-child in eight births. This girl seemed healthy and happy in 1951, a chubby carbon copy of Esperanza in her own first days in school. She was named Juana Petra, and she had to replace Esperanza who was given to Chico. "You don't know how glad my mother was to have this last one be a girl, though it will be a couple of years yet before she can make tortillas," said Esperanza. Sadly I noticed in 1954 that Juana Petra was out of school, like Esperanza before her, and at home making tortillas, though the next older brother was in school. Don Melit6n has been alcalde of the school committee, but neither he, nor Esperanza, nor Hip6lito, nor any save this young brother, has ever learned to read. Chico teased Esperanza into going to the literacy classes for adults with me in the early afternoon, but 223 CHICO AND ESPERANZA sister died. Esperanza's mother already had three sons younger than Esperanza, and the latter stayed at home, taking on at seven the jobs of hauling water and running to the mill. Four more boys were born to Don Melit6n Arroyo and his wife; of the seven, five survived, many boys' mouths for Esperanza to fill with tortillas. It is easy to see why she was gay at Dona Patrocina's; the work there was so much lighter. The two older brothers, Juan and Hipolito, came by the house often to say hello to their sister, and there was still a strong family affection among them. A boy I didn't remember at all stopped me on the trail in 1954 to tell me he was Humberto Arroyo, one of the younger brothers, now grown almost to manhood. I should have recognized him; all of Esperanza's brothers look so much like Esperanza; and there was an unmistakable one in the fourth grade at school in 1954, just two years ahead of Esperanza's own little boy. I have still a friendly feeling for the smiling Hip6lito. Once when La Abuelita and I were alone at Dona Patrocina's that long summer of 1945, all three burros got loose at once. It was only the sudden arrival of Hip6lito which saved the day. The grandmother and I could only chase one burro each. Hipolito could chase all three at once, it seemed, for they were quickly rounded up. In September of 1945 Esperanza left the tortilla-making at Dona Patrocina's for a week to go home to help her mother. Don Melit6n's wife gave birth to her tenth child, the first girl-child in eight births. This girl seemed healthy and happy in 1951, a chubby carbon copy of Esperanza in her own first days in school. She was named Juana Petra, and she had to replace Esperanza who was given to Chico. "You don't know how glad my mother was to have this last one be a girl, though it will be a couple of years yet before she can make tortillas," said Esperanza. Sadly I noticed in 1954 that Juana Petra was out of school, like Esperanza before her, and at home making tortillas, though the next older brother was in school. Don Melit6n has been alcalde of the school committee, but neither he, nor Esperanza, nor Hip6lito, nor any save this young brother, has ever learned to read. Chico teased Esperanza into going to the literacy classes for adults with me in the early afternoon, but 223 CHICO AND ESPERANZA sister died. Esperanza's mother already had three sons younger than Esperanza, and the latter stayed at home, taking on at seven the jobs of hauling water and running to the mill. Four more boys were born to Don Melit6n Arroyo and his wife; of the seven, five survived, many boys' mouths for Esperanza to fill with tortillas. It is easy to see why she was gay at Dona Patrocina's; the work there was so much lighter. The two older brothers, Juan and Hipolito, came by the house often to say hello to their sister, and there was still a strong family affection among them. A boy I didn't remember at all stopped me on the trail in 1954 to tell me he was Humberto Arroyo, one of the younger brothers, now grown almost to manhood. I should have recognized him; all of Esperanza's brothers look so much like Esperanza; and there was an unmistakable one in the fourth grade at school in 1954, just two years ahead of Esperanza's own little boy. I have still a friendly feeling for the smiling Hip6lito. Once when La Abuelita and I were alone at Dona Patrocina's that long summer of 1945, all three burros got loose at once. It was only the sudden arrival of Hipolito which saved the day. The grandmother and I could only chase one burro each. Hip6lito could chase all three at once, it seemed, for they were quickly rounded up. In September of 1945 Esperanza left the tortilla-making at Doaa Patrocina's for a week to go home to help her mother. Don Melit6n's wife gave birth to her tenth child, the first girl-child in eight births. This girl seemed healthy and happy in 1951, a chubby carbon copy of Esperanza in her own first days in school. She was named Juana Petra, and she had to replace Esperanza who was given to Chico. "You don't know how glad my mother was to have this last one be a girl, though it will be a couple of years yet before she can make tortillas," said Esperanza. Sadly I noticed in 1954 that Juana Petra was out of school, like Esperanza before her, and at home making tortillas, though the next older brother was in school. Don Melit6n has been alcalde of the school committee, but neither he, nor Esperanza, nor Hip6lito, nor any save this young brother, has ever learned to read. Chico teased Esperanza into going to the literacy classes for adults with me in the early afternoon, but 223  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS she sat around and laughed and chatted and would not study. She remembered most of the alphabet from her year with Rosita and made a great show at home of reading the letters out loud for Chico, but she never would take a pencil in her hand to write anything. Hip6lito came sometimes for help from Nico, in the night school, but more often came by Dofia Patrocina's when I was helping Eosto- lia and Esperanza on our portico. As we worked at the letters, all four of us, Dona Patrocina, herself illiterate, called us the "Lopez School for Beginners." Hip6lito never got beyond "Lalo," however, and could not be called a "literate one." The only thing Esperanza missed about school was the chance to learn to embroider. Under Doa Ofelia the three girls in the fourth grade sat primly on the school steps and embroidered altar cloths, blouses, and tortilla warming rags. Two girls were making a table runner ten feet long to use when the town council ate at the school on September 16. The design was of floral baskets and was done in bright thread. It would take months of work. Espe- ranza would have liked very much to be helping them. She yearned to work with colors. I suggested she get Chico to buy her a cloth and some colored thread in the market, and I would draw her a design on the cloth. When the cloth came, plain unbleached muslin, she asked for butterflies, mariposas. It was easy enough to draw large groups of butterflies hovering above garlands of flowers; but Chico had brought only pink, green, and blue thread, no yellow, nor brown, nor black. The project had to wait for Chico to make another trip. The yellow I had to buy for Esperanza myself, finally, when I went to Oaxaca on the horse. Of course, it was another week before the embroidery got started; when I left only one butterfly was done. Esperanza had to use most of her time in the daylight to wash and mend and make tortillas. I felt rewarded for my butterfly design in the long run, however; the cloth, all four corners worked, is spread over a little stand to hold Chico's fiddle and music in the new house they have now. I remember an incident of another cloth, one which showed Esperanza's sense of humor. One day in 1945 when I went sketch- 224 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS she sat around and laughed and chatted and would not study. She remembered most of the alphabet from her year with Rosita and made a great show at home of reading the letters out loud for Chico, but she never would take a pencil in her hand to write anything. Hip6lito came sometimes for help from Nico, in the night school, but more often came by Doa Patrocina's when I was helping Eosto- lia and Esperanza on our portico. As we worked at the letters, all four of us, Dona Patrocina, herself illiterate, called us the "Lopez School for Beginners." Hip6lito never got beyond "Lalo," however, and could not be called a "literate one." The only thing Esperanza missed about school was the chance to learn to embroider. Under Doa Ofelia the three girls in the fourth grade sat primly on the school steps and embroidered altar cloths, blouses, and tortilla warming rags. Two girls were making a table runner ten feet long to use when the town council ate at the school on September 16. The design was of floral baskets and was done in bright thread. It would take months of work. Espe- ranza would have liked very much to be helping them. She yearned to work with colors. I suggested she get Chico to buy her a cloth and some colored thread in the market, and I would draw her a design on the cloth. When the cloth came, plain unbleached muslin, she asked for butterflies, mariposas. It was easy enough to draw large groups of butterflies hovering above garlands of flowers; but Chico had brought only pink, green, and blue thread, no yellow, nor brown, nor black. The project had to wait for Chico to make another trip. The yellow I had to buy for Esperanza myself, finally, when I went to Oaxaca on the horse. Of course, it was another week before the embroidery got started; when I left only one butterfly was done. Esperanza had to use most of her time in the daylight to wash and mend and make tortillas. I felt rewarded for my butterflv design in the long run, however; the cloth, all four corners worked, is spread over a little stand to hold Chico's fiddle and music in the new house they have now. I remember an incident of another cloth, one which showed Esperanza's sense of humor. One day in 1945 when I went sketch- 224 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS she sat around and laughed and chatted and would not study. She remembered most of the alphabet from her year with Rosita and made a great show at home of reading the letters out loud for Chico, but she never would take a pencil in her hand to write anything. Hip6lito came sometimes for help from Nico, in the night school, but more often came by Doa Patrocina's when I was helping Eosto- lia and Esperanza on our portico. As we worked at the letters, all four of us, Doa Patrocina, herself illiterate, called us the "Lopez School for Beginners." Hip6lito never got beyond "Lalo," however, and could not be called a "literate one." The only thing Esperanza missed about school was the chance to learn to embroider. Under Doa Ofelia the three girls in the fourth grade sat primly on the school steps and embroidered altar cloths, blouses, and tortilla warming rags. Two girls were making a table runner ten feet long to use when the town council ate at the school on September 16. The design was of floral baskets and was done in bright thread. It would take months of work. Espe- ranza would have liked very much to be helping them. She yearned to work with colors. I suggested she get Chico to buy her a cloth and some colored thread in the market, and I would draw her a design on the cloth. When the cloth came, plain unbleached muslin, she asked for butterflies, mariposas. It was easy enough to draw large groups of butterflies hovering above garlands of flowers; but Chico had brought only pink, green, and blue thread, no yellow, nor brown, nor black. The project had to wait for Chico to make another trip. The yellow I had to buy for Esperanza myself, finally, when I went to Oaxaca on the horse. Of course, it was another week before the embroidery got started; when I left only one butterfly was done. Esperanza had to use most of her time in the daylight to wash and mend and make tortillas. I felt rewarded for my butterfly design in the long run, however; the cloth, all four corners worked, is spread over a little stand to hold Chico's fiddle and music in the new house they have now. I remember an incident of another cloth, one which showed Esperanza's sense of humor. One day in 1945 when I went sketch- 224  CHICO AND ESPERANZA ing down to San Pablo Etla, I stopped to talk to the teachers there and got back after dark. Chico was not yet home from market. Doia Patrocina had been called to a sick bed, and Nico had gone with her. La Abuelita went to bed when the sun set. Only Espe- ranza greeted me, sitting sad and alone in the dim light of the char- coal fire. "There is no cena, no supper, Dona Elena. My mother-in-law is gone; she left no instructions. There are no beans remaining from lunch. All the tortillas Nice took to the poor family where the mother is sick. There is nothing. ;Que ldstima!" She got up by and by and lit a candle in the large room. Soon she called me in there to "see her embroidery." She had taken the table back into the sleeping room and had spread it with a clean cloth and a fancy supper, much more "style" than I ever had sitting alone at lunch. There was the white cheese of which I was so fond, that we had not had for a week; there were eggs fried like a Spanish omelette; there was chocolate made with milk and foamed up in the Spanish fashion. It was the best cena in many days. Esperanza herself sat down with me, the first time she had ever sat in a chair to eat at a table covered with a cloth. She pretended to be very grown up and serious, asking if that were the way ladies, damnas, acted in my country. But we could not contain our laughter. When Chico drove the burros home from the market, coming in cross and tired, we could not explain to him why we were so merry and "stylish" at the same time. Esperanza was always amused at my bathing in el rio, for she was the one who went with me. She had gone with Rosita and me and three other little girls from the school when I bathed in el rio in 1934. That was the first time I had ever seen the "river," and I had expected that to bathe in the river, bhair en el rio, meant to go swimming. Rosita and the children had taken soap and towels in a bucket. It had been a "good year" with much water, and el rio ran two feet deep. In order to "bathe," we found secluded places along the stream and all sat down in the water. It had taken patience and much pantomime for Rosita to explain this to me. But with Esperanza, by then a young lady, and with La Abuelita 225 CHICO AND ESPERANZA ing down to San Pablo Etla, I stopped to talk to the teachers there and got back after dark. Chico was not yet home from market. Dona Patrocina had been called to a sick bed, and Nico had gone with her. La Abuelita went to bed when the sun set. Only Espe- ranza greeted me, sitting sad and alone in the dim light of the char- coal fire. "There is no cena, no supper, Dona Elena. My mother-in-law is gone; she left no instructions. There are no beans remaining from lunch. All the tortillas Nice took to the poor family where the mother is sick. There is nothing. ;Qui hstima!" She got up by and by and lit a candle in the large room. Soon she called me in there to "see her embroidery." She had taken the table back into the sleeping room and had spread it with a clean cloth and a fancy supper, much more "style" than I ever had sitting alone at lunch. There was the white cheese of which I was so fond, that we had not had for a week; there were eggs fried like a Spanish omelette; there was chocolate made with milk and foamed up in the Spanish fashion. It was the best cena in many days. Esperanza herself sat down with me, the first time she had ever sat in a chair to eat at a table covered with a cloth. She pretended to be very grown up and serious, asking if that were the way ladies, damns, acted in my country. But we could not contain our laughter. When Chico drove the burros home from the market, coming in cross and tired, we could not explain to him why we were so merry and "stylish" at the same time. Esperanza was always amused at my bathing in el rio, for she was the one who went with me. She had gone with Rosita and me and three other little girls from the school when I bathed in el ro in 1934. That was the first time I had ever seen the "river," and I had expected that to bathe in the river, bhair en el rio, meant to go swimming. Rosita and the children had taken soap and towels in a bucket. It had been a "good year" with much water, and el rio ran two feet deep. In order to "bathe," we found secluded places along the stream and all sat down in the water. It had taken patience and much pantomime for Rosita to explain this to me. But with Esperanza, by then a young lady, and with La Abuelita 225 CHICO AND ESPERANZA ing down to San Pablo Etla, I stopped to talk to the teachers there and got back after dark. Chico was not yet home from market. Dofia Patrocina had been called to a sick bed, and Nice had gone with her. La Abuelita went to bed when the sun set. Only Espe- ranza greeted me, sitting sad and alone in the dim light of the char- coal fire. "There is no cena, no supper, Dona Elena. My mother-in-law is gone; she left no instructions. There are no beans remaining from lunch. All the tortillas Nice took to the poor family where the mother is sick. There is nothing. ;Qu ldstima!" She got up by and by and lit a candle in the large room. Soon she called me in there to "see her embroidery." She had taken the table back into the sleeping room and had spread it with a clean cloth and a fancy supper, much more "style" than I ever had sitting alone at lunch. There was the white cheese of which I was so fond, that we had not had for a week; there were eggs fried like a Spanish omelette; there was chocolate made with milk and foamed up in the Spanish fashion. It was the best cena in many days. Esperanza herself sat down with me, the first time she had ever sat in a chair to eat at a table covered with a cloth. She pretended to be very grown up and serious, asking if that were the way ladies, damas, acted in my country. But we could not contain our laughter. When Chico drove the burros home from the market, coming in cross and tired, we could not explain to him why we were so merry and "stylish" at the same time. Esperanza was always amused at my bathing in el rio, for she was the one who went with me. She had gone with Rosita and me and three other little girls from the school when I bathed in el rio in 1934. That was the first time I had ever seen the "river," and I had expected that to bathe in the river, baar en el rio, meant to go swimming. Rosita and the children had taken soap and towels in a bucket. It had been a "good year" with much water, and el rio ran two feet deep. In order to "bathe," we found secluded places along the stream and all sat down in the water. It had taken patience and much pantomime for Rosita to explain this to me. But with Esperanza, by then a young lady, and with La Abuelita 225  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS along for the walk, I searched up and down el rio for any place deep enough to bathe in the dry year, 1945. The "river" was almost dry at the oxcart trail crossing on the way to the San Sebastian ridge. We went up it a quarter of a mile trying to find a deep, clean place. Then we met the young daughter of Don Fausto's Buenaventura. "There is a pozito grandote, a little well, very big, near here," she said, "and others near it." Esperanza and the little grandmother left me at the first pool while they found a place further down. At my "bathtub" there was a deep, natural well, filled with underground spring water. It overflowed in a narrow place of the river, making a clear pool below the spring about three feet deep and five wide. I was able to wash my hair as well as to take a refreshingly thorough bath in the clean, cold water. Esperanza found her pool too muddy to wash her hair, and she came down to join me at mine. She may have laughed at my shyness at bathing in the river, but I laughed at her clumsy method of wash- ing the long braids. I helped her undo them and soused them thoroughly with lather from my own soap. Since Esperanza had very long, thick hair and washed it only in cold river water with crude washing soap, she could never get rid of the lice, no matter how hard she tried to catch them individually with the comb. But who am I to criticize Esperanza for having vermin, when I was so criticized myself on one occasion right at the pozito grandote? I went to bathe there often through the summer, after that first time when I washed Esperanza's hair. I would take my clean change of clothes and wash out my dirty ones, often playing an hour or so at the cool little sheltered pool in the heat of the day. The people from our ridge knew I went down there, sometimes with el caballo, and they never disturbed me. But undoubtedly the spring just above the pool had the best drinking water for a mile around. I tried not to show surprise, therefore, one day as I sat naked on the edge of the pool, when two men going in to market from the San Sebastian ridge searched out the spring. Coyly I turned my face away and rapidly washed clothes. They stopped at the spring to look at me in astonishment. Mira, es la gringa, (look, it is the foreign woman) said one. "How white she is!" 226 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS along for the walk, I searched up and down el rio for any place deep enough to bathe in the dry year, 1945. The "river" was almost dry at the oxcart trail crossing on the way to the San Sebastian ridge. We went up it a quarter of a mile trying to find a deep, clean place. Then we met the young daughter of Don Fausto's Buenaventura. "There is a pozito grandote, a little well, very big, near here," she said, "and others near it." Esperanza and the little grandmother left me at the first pool while they found a place further down. At my "bathtub" there was a deep, natural well, filled with underground spring water. It overflowed in a narrow place of the river, making a clear pool below the spring about three feet deep and five wide. I was able to wash my hair as well as to take a refreshingly thorough bath in the clean, cold water. Esperanza found her pool too muddy to wash her hair, and she came down to join me at mine. She may have laughed at my shyness at bathing in the river, but I laughed at her clumsy method of wash- ing the long braids. I helped her undo them and soused them thoroughly with lather from my own soap. Since Esperanza had very long, thick hair and washed it only in cold river water with crude washing soap, she could never get rid of the lice, no matter how hard she tried to catch them individually with the comb. But who am I to criticize Esperanza for having vermin, when I was so criticized myself on one occasion right at the pozito grandote? I went to bathe there often through the summer, after that first time when I washed Esperanza's hair. I would take my clean change of clothes and wash out my dirty ones, often playing an hour or so at the cool little sheltered pool in the heat of the day. The people from our ridge knew I went down there, sometimes with el caballo, and they never disturbed me. But undoubtedly the spring just above the pool had the best drinking water for a mile around. I tried not to show surprise, therefore, one day as I sat naked on the edge of the pool, when two men going in to market from the San Sebastian ridge searched out the spring. Coyly I turned my face away and rapidly washed clothes. They stopped at the spring to look at me in astonishment. Mira, es la gringa, (look, it is the foreign woman) said one. "How white she is!" 226 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS along for the walk, I searched up and down el rio for any place deep enough to bathe in the dry year, 1945. The "river" was almost dry at the oxcart trail crossing on the way to the San Sebastian ridge. We went up it a quarter of a mile trying to find a deep, clean place. Then we met the young daughter of Don Fausto's Buenaventura. "There is a pozito grandote, a little well, very big, near here," she said, "and others near it." Esperanza and the little grandmother left me at the first pool while they found a place further down. At my "bathtub" there was a deep, natural well, filled with underground spring water. It overflowed in a narrow place of the river, making a clear pool below the spring about three feet deep and five wide. I was able to wash my hair as well as to take a refreshingly thorough bath in the clean, cold water. Esperanza found her pool too muddy to wash her hair, and she came down to join me at mine. She may have laughed at my shyness at bathing in the river, but I laughed at her clumsy method of wash- ing the long braids. I helped her undo them and soused them thoroughly with lather from my own soap. Since Esperanza had very long, thick hair and washed it only in cold river water with crude washing soap, she could never get rid of the lice, no matter how hard she tried to catch them individually with the comb. But who am I to criticize Esperanza for having vermin, when I was so criticized myself none occasion right at the pozito grandote? I went to bathe there often through the summer, after that first time when I washed Esperanza's hair. I would take my clean change of clothes and wash out my dirty ones, often playing an hour or so at the cool little sheltered pool in the heat of the day. The people from our ridge knew I went down there, sometimes with el caballo, and they never disturbed me. But undoubtedly the spring just above the pool had the best drinking water for a mile around. I tried not to show surprise, therefore, one day as I sat naked on the edge of the pool, when two men going in to market from the San Sebastian ridge searched out the spring. Coyly I turned my face away and rapidly washed clothes. They stopped at the spring to look at me in astonishment. Mira, es la gringa, (look, it is the foreign woman) said one. "How white she is!" 226  CHICO AND ESPERANZA Pobrecita, said the other sympathetically, ;qne la han picado las pulgas! (poor little thing, how flea-bitten she is!), and they both trudged off down the ravine. Esperanza in 1954 had neither fleas in her house (at least I picked up none in several afternoons of visiting) nor lice in her head. Perhaps following my own explanations, she now washes her hair in hot water, heated in an olla and then poured into the big clay washing tub, and she uses Castile soap bought in Oaxaca City. Her little boy seemed by far the cleanest, neatest, best-combed little boy in the first grade at school. Because of endless chatter with Esperanza, my Spanish improved more during my summer at Patrocina's than in any other year of my Latin American adventuring. It is easy enough to use the usted, or formal "you," forms of Spanish verbs. But between co-godmothers and relatives, and soon between myself and Dona Patrocina, or Es- peranza, or Dona Estefana, we were using td, or "thou," where Rosita had always used usted. This called for forms of the verb not so commonly learned. La Abuelita called everyone td; I don't think she knew the tsted at all, even to address the saints. Since I have never really studied Spanish, but merely picked it up on many trips to Mexico, I do not know the preterit, or past, tense very well. The ti forms of the preterit were completely strange words to me, spoken rapidly in the midst of Esperanza's laughter. The rules for verbs and the list of verb-form changes, which I had with me in a formal Spanish grammar in 1945, were of great interest to the literate Chico and Nico. Though able to read well, they did not realize the existence of formal grammar rules in their own language. I learned other typical expressions from Esperanza. Wild trees and plants are furios, as opposed to the garden variety. Raw meat is crudo. The commonest expressions Esperanza used were eso es, "that's it," "that's the thing," or "that's the way it should be," and jmira no mds! which really means "look no more" but is surely as sensible an expression as "just look!" Esperanza, who was never impatient about the water-carrying or the tortilla-making or the embroidery or the literacy lessons or anything, always said every 227 CHICO AND ESPERANZA Pobrecita, said the other sympathetically, ;qa4 la han picado las pulgas! (poor little thing, how flea-bitten she is!), and they both trudged off down the ravine. Esperanza in 1954 had neither fleas in her house (at least I picked up none in several afternoons of visiting) nor lice in her head. Perhaps following my own explanations, she now washes her hair in hot water, heated in an olla and then poured into the big clay washing tub, and she uses Castile soap bought in Oaxaca City. Her little boy seemed by far the cleanest, neatest, best-combed little boy in the first grade at school. Because of endless chatter with Esperanza, my Spanish improved more during my summer at Patrocina's than in any other year of my Latin American adventuring. It is easy enough to use the usted, or formal "you," forms of Spanish verbs. But between co-godmothers and relatives, and soon between myself and Dona Patrocina, or Es- peranza, or Dona Estefana, we were using td, or "thou," where Rosita had always used usted. This called for forms of the verb not so commonly learned. La Abuelita called everyone ti; I don't think she knew the usted at all, even to address the saints. Since I have never really studied Spanish, but merely picked it up on many trips to Mexico, I do not know the preterit, or past, tense very well. The ti forms of the preterit were completely strange words to me, spoken rapidly in the midst of Esperanza's laughter. The rules for verbs and the list of verb-form changes, which I had with me in a formal Spanish grammar in 1945, were of great interest to the literate Chico and Nico. Though able to read well, they did not realize the existence of formal grammar rules in their own language. I learned other typical expressions from Esperanza. Wild trees and plants are furios, as opposed to the garden variety. Raw meat is crudo. The commonest expressions Esperanza used were eso es, "that's it," "that's the thing," or "that's the way it should be," and jmira no nods! which really means "look no more" but is surely as sensible an expression as "just look!" Esperanza, who was never impatient about the water-carrying or the tortilla-making or the embroidery or the literacy lessons or anything, always said every 227 CHICO AND ESPERANZA Pobrecita, said the other sympathetically, jsed la han picado las pulgas! (poor little thing, how flea-bitten she is!), and they both trudged off down the ravine. Esperanza in 1954 had neither fleas in her house (at least I picked up none in several afternoons of visiting) nor lice in her head. Perhaps following my own explanations, she now washes her hair in hot water, heated in an olla and then poured into the big clay washing tub, and she uses Castile soap bought in Oaxaca City. Her little boy seemed by far the cleanest, neatest, best-combed little boy in the first grade at school. Because of endless chatter with Esperanza, my Spanish improved more during my summer at Patrocina's than in any other year of my Latin American adventuring. It is easy enough to use the usted, or formal "you," forms of Spanish verbs. But between co-godmothers and relatives, and soon between myself and Dona Patrocina, or Es- peranza, or Dona Estefana, we were using to, or "thou," where Rosita had always used usted. This called for forms of the verb not so commonly learned. La Abuelita called everyone to; I don't think she knew the usted at all, even to address the saints. Since I have never really studied Spanish, but merely picked it up on many trips to Mexico, I do not know the preterit, or past, tense very well. The tri forms of the preterit were completely strange words to me, spoken rapidly in the midst of Esperanza's laughter. The rules for verbs and the list of verb-form changes, which I had with me in a formal Spanish grammar in 1945, were of great interest to the literate Chico and Nico. Though able to read well, they did not realize the existence of formal grammar rules in their own language. I learned other typical expressions from Esperanza. Wild trees and plants are furios, as opposed to the garden variety. Raw meat is crudo. The commonest expressions Esperanza used were eso es, "that's it," "that's the thing," or "that's the way it should be," and imira no sis! which really means "look no more" but is surely as sensible an expression as "just look!" Esperanza, who was never impatient about the water-carrying or the tortilla-making or the embroidery or the literacy lessons or anything, always said every 227  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS night, Maiana es otro dia (tomorrow is another day). She also very often said, Sigan las maianas, which perhaps means "bring on your tomorrows," or "let more tomorrows come," or something like that. The way she and La Abuelita, and even Dona Estefana, used laughter as conversation confused me, too, until I heard everyone, even the men, laughing out loud at the long, heavy rain they needed so badly that year. They laughed, not with scorn, but with delight. They didn't laugh at me on the horse because I looked funny, but because they were pleased to have me come riding by to chat. When they saw my finished oil paintings they laughed right out loud. Then I knew they liked them as much as they liked the rain. "Esperanza has not yet been touched by any 'sorrow of life' and it will not make her very sorrowful when it comes." So I, the sociologist, wrote in 1945. I remember one rainy morning watching her making tortillas. Whole chunks of pine wood are usually used to speed up the fire in tortilla-making. This time Chico had cut up young growth, and the wood was too green to sell to the pottery kilns. It made a very bad smoke, which was forced back to the ground by the rain. Esperanza, close over the smoking fire as she ground tortillas, could not keep the tears from running down her face. Quick to see "sociological significance" or to try to bring in history, I was reminded of a "Mother's Lament" which some old Spaniard with Cortes had heard in the ancient Mexico City and had translated from the Aztec. I don't remember the words, but the mother's son has gone to war against some Aztec enemy. She does not want the rest of her family to know she is grieving, but she cannot help cry- ing as she sits silently making tortillas. She tells her critical family: "Green the wood is, much it smokes and makes me e." I have remembered this song every time I have heard Jerome Kern's "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." And now here was an Indian woman, descendant of the ancient people akin to the Aztecs, and the tears streamed down her face as she made tortillas over a green-wood fire. Esperanza herself spoiled the whole poetic idea. She kept laughing every time she took a corner of her rebozo to wipe the tears away. 228 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS night, Maiana es otro disa (tomorrow is another day). She also very often said, Sigan las mananas, which perhaps means "bring on your tomorrows," or "let more tomorrows come," or something like that. The way she and La Abuelita, and even Dona Estefana, used laughter as conversation confused me, too, until I heard everyone, even the men, laughing out loud at the long, heavy rain they needed so badly that year. They laughed, not with scorn, but with delight. They didn't laugh at me on the horse because I looked funny, but because they were pleased to have me come riding by to chat. When they saw my finished oil paintings they laughed right out loud. Then I knew they liked them as much as they liked the rain. "Esperanza has not yet been touched by any 'sorrow of life.' and it will not make her very sorrowful when it comes." So I, the sociologist, wrote in 1945. I remember one rainy morning watching her making tortillas. Whole chunks of pine wood are usually used to speed up the fire in tortilla-making. This time Chico had cut up young growth, and the wood was too green to sell to the pottery kilns. It made a very bad smoke, which was forced back to the ground by the rain. Esperanza, close over the smoking fire as she ground tortillas, could not keep the tears from running down her face. Quick to see "sociological significance" or to try to bring in history, I was reminded of a "Mother's Lament" which some old Spaniard with Cortds had heard in the ancient Mexico City and had translated from the Aztec. I don't remember the words, but the mother's son has gone to war against some Aztec enemy. She does not want the rest of her family to know she is grieving, but she cannot help cry- ing as she sits silently making tortillas. She tells her critical family: "Green the wood is, much it smokes and makes me cr." I have remembered this song every time I have heard Jerome Kern's "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." And now here was an Indian woman, descendant of the ancient people akin to the Aztecs, and the tears streamed down her face as she made tortillas over a green-wood fire. Esperanza herself spoiled the whole poetic idea. She kept laughing every time she took a corner of her rebozo to wipe the tears away. 228 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS night, Maiana es otro dia (tomorrow is another day). She also very often said, Sigan las maianas, which perhaps means "bring on your tomorrows," or "let more tomorrows come," or something like that. The way she and La Abuelita, and even Dona Estefana, used laughter as conversation confused me, too, until I heard everyone, even the men, laughing out loud at the long, heavy rain they needed so badly that year. They laughed, not with scorn, but with delight. They didn't laugh at me on the horse because I looked funny, but because they were pleased to have me come riding by to chat. When they saw my finished oil paintings they laughed right out loud. Then I knew they liked them as much as they liked the rain. "Esperanza has not yet been touched by any 'sorrow of life' and it will not make her very sorrowful when it comes." So I, the sociologist, wrote in 1945. I remember one rainy morning watching her making tortillas. Whole chunks of pine wood are usually used to speed up the fire in tortilla-making. This time Chico had cut up young growth, and the wood was too green to sell to the pottery kilns. It made a very bad smoke, which was forced back to the ground by the rain. Esperanza, close over the smoking fire as she ground tortillas, could not keep the tears from running down her face. Quick to see "sociological significance" or to try to bring in history, I was reminded of a "Mother's Lament" which some old Spaniard with Cortes had heard in the ancient Mexico City and had translated from the Aztec. I don't remember the words, but the mother's son has gone to war against some Aztec enemy. She does not want the rest of her family to know she is grieving, but she cannot help cry- ing as she sits silently making tortillas. She tells her critical family: "Green the wood is, much it smokes and makes me cry." I have remembered this song every time I have heard Jerome Kern's "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." And now here was an Indian woman, descendant of the ancient people akin to the Aztecs, and the tears streamed down her face as she made tortillas over a green-wood fire. Esperanza herself spoiled the whole poetic idea. She kept laughing every time she took a corner of her rebozo to wipe the tears away. 228  CHICO AND ESPERANZA But Esperanza was surely "touched by the sorrow of life" in the second decade I knew her. In 1951, though in Santa Cruz Etla for only a few hours, I ran up and down the trails from Don Martin's visiting everyone. Delighted to know that Nico was married and to see his little daughter, I went bungling right into Dofna Patrocina's house. There on the petate, where I had slept as a member of her family six years before, lay a little ghost of an Esperanza, sick for two months after a miscarriage in the spring. She could still smile, although she was hardly able to force out a weak little laugh as she lay in the dark room and squeezed my hand. But playing around Dona Patrocina's door were Esperanza's two fine children, a boy born in 1947 and a second born in 1949. Because of Esperanza's long illness, all the family, Nico's half as well, was living still in Patrocina's crowded rooms. Today Esperanza is laughing, and her pictures show her as pretty as ever. But her face is lined, and her laughter is a trifle less spontaneous. The boy born in 1947 succumbed to the "water sick- ness" a few months after Esperanza was well enough to get up, and she has never conceived again since her serious illness. Now she and Chico have only the one little boy, the frail and sweet-faced little Ramon, who entered in the first grade in 1954. How Doda Patrocina must have grieved at her own helplessness, the failure of her herb remedies, in the face of Esperanza's own illness and the death of the child! Now Nico's wife fits quietly into the family and has given birth to two fine and healthy children. Chico's little family has moved across to the other side of Patrocina's house lot, into the house they all built on the site where they had first stacked the adobe bricks before Chico's wedding. Still Esperanza's subdued attitude has left a little grayness over the house. Never again would she or I recapture those gay moments at Dona Patrocina's in 1945. But she has brought Chico happiness. He wears some store- bought clothes, acts as dignified as did Don Amado himself in the 1930's, and shows every evidence of being head of the best-ordered family in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Amado would find no fault with their progress. 229 CHICO AND ESPERANZA But Esperanza was surely "touched by the sorrow of life" in the second decade I knew her. In 1951, though in Santa Cruz Etla for only a few hours, I ran up and down the trails from Don Martin's visiting everyone. Delighted to know that Nico was married and to see his little daughter, I went bungling right into Dona Patrocina's house. There on the petate, where I had slept as a member of her family six years before, lay a little ghost of an Esperanza, sick for two months after a miscarriage in the spring. She could still smile, although she was hardly able to force out a weak little laugh as she lay in the dark room and squeezed my hand. But playing around Doia Patrocina's door were Esperanza's two fine children, a boy born in 1947 and a second born in 1949. Because of Esperanza's long illness, all the family, Nico's half as well, was living still in Patrocina's crowded rooms. Today Esperanza is laughing, and her pictures show her as pretty as ever. But her face is lined, and her laughter is a trifle less spontaneous. The boy born in 1947 succumbed to the "water sick- ness" a few months after Esperanza was well enough to get up, and she has never conceived again since her serious illness. Now she and Chico have only the one little boy, the frail and sweet-faced little Ramon, who entered in the first grade in 1954. How Doia Patrocina must have grieved at her own helplessness, the failure of her herb remedies, in the face of Esperanza's own illness and the death of the child! Now Nico's wife fits quietly into the family and has given birth to two fine and healthy children. Chico's little family has moved across to the other side of Patrocina's house lot, into the house they all built on the site where they had first stacked the adobe bricks before Chico's wedding. Still Esperanza's subdued attitude has left a little grayness over the house. Never again would she or I recapture those gay moments at Doia Patrocina's in 1945. But she has brought Chico happiness. He wears some store- bought clothes, acts as dignified as did Don Amado himself in the 1930's, and shows every evidence of being head of the best-ordered family in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Amado would find no fault with their progress. 229 CHICO AND ESPERANZA But Esperanza was surely "touched by the sorrow of life" in the second decade I knew her. In 1951, though in Santa Cruz Etla for only a few hours, I ran up and down the trails from Don Martin's visiting everyone. Delighted to know that Nico was married and to see his little daughter, I went bungling right into Dona Patrocina's house. There on the petate, where I had slept as a member of her family six years before, lay a little ghost of an Esperanza, sick for two months after a miscarriage in the spring. She could still smile, although she was hardly able to force out a weak little laugh as she lay in the dark room and squeezed my hand. But playing around Doia Patrocina's door were Esperanza's two fine children, a boy born in 1947 and a second born in 1949. Because of Esperanza's long illness, all the family, Nico's half as well, was living still in Patrocina's crowded rooms. Today Esperanza is laughing, and her pictures show her as pretty as ever. But her face is lined, and her laughter is a trifle less spontaneous. The boy born in 1947 succumbed to the "water sick- ness" a few months after Esperanza was well enough to get up, and she has never conceived again since her serious illness. Now she and Chico have only the one little boy, the frail and sweet-faced little Ramon, who entered in the first grade in 1954. How Dona Patrocina must have grieved at her own helplessness, the failure of her herb remedies, in the face of Esperanza's own illness and the death of the child! Now Nico's wife fits quietly into the family and has given birth to two fine and healthy children. Chico's little family has moved across to the other side of Patrocina's house lot, into the house they all built on the site where they had first stacked the adobe bricks before Chico's wedding. Still Esperanza's subdued attitude has left a little grayness over the house. Never again would she or I recapture those gay moments at Dona Patrocina's in 1945. But she has brought Chico happiness. He wears some store- bought clothes, acts as dignified as did Don Amado himself in the 1930's, and shows every evidence of being head of the best-ordered family in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Amado would find no fault with their progress. 229  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I KNow DON AMADo would have thought of Chico first of all those older fellows who learned to write in Rosita's night class, because Chico was chief assistant secretary to the town council before Don Amado's death. Maybe he had hopes also for Esteban. I never found out whether it was Don Amado or some of the other older men who had first launched Esteban, oldest and cleanest of Don a Paula's ragged brood, in a career of public service and politics. But he was one of those whom I myself saw learning to read under the Coleman light in the evenings at the school in 1934, when Chico had already known how to read and write for more than a year. Why Esteban, of all the younger men who might have been presi- dent? He seemed the least prepossessing of all, though he was older than Chico. Of course, there were few others who had become literate, and it was evidently Don Amado's idea to have the literate young men assume public office. Don Bartolo, the Illiterate One, did not achieve the presidency until Don Amado was too near death to stop it. At any rate Esteban played the flute and he was surely a dignified and courteous president in 1944 when Don Luis Varela came to visit. Was it Esteban's fault if Don Solomdn was a weak teacher and neglected the school, and thus precipitated all that confusion about the "problems" in 1944? Esteban had had some apprentice- ship in government, working on the committee of public works; and he had served as chairman of that committee, so I understand, just before his presidency. At any rate, the death of his wife in childbirth, that lovely young daughter of Doa Angdlica and Don Fdliz Le6n, embittered him more than I ever saw any other rural Mexican man embittered by a death. Usually they are philosophical about death. Esteban left the community and went to work as a peon, or agricultural worker, on land south of Oaxaca City, living almost like a migrant, with no roots in any land. I have never seen him again. Don iaximo, the second brother of Crescencio and husband of the conscientious and responsible housekeeper, Elodia, told me in 1954 that Esteban was 230 I Know DON AMADo would have thought of Chico first of all those older fellows who learned to write in Rosita's night class, because Chico was chief assistant secretary to the town council before Don Amado's death. Maybe he had hopes also for Esteban. I never found out whether it was Don Amado or some of the other older men who had first launched Esteban, oldest and cleanest of Dona Paula's ragged brood, in a career of public service and politics. But he was one of those whom I myself saw learning to read under the Coleman light in the evenings at the school in 1934, when Chico had already known how to read and write for more than a year. Why Esteban, of all the younger men who might have been presi- dent? He seemed the least prepossessing of all, though he was older than Chico. Of course, there were few others who had become literate, and it was evidently Don Amado's idea to have the literate young men assume public office. Don Bartolo, the Illiterate One. did not achieve the presidency until Don Amado was too near death to stop it. At any rate Esteban played the flute and he was surely a dignified and courteous president in 1944 when Don Luis Varela came to visit. Was it Esteban's fault if Don Solomon was a weak teacher and neglected the school, and thus precipitated all that confusion about the "problems" in 1944? Esteban had had some apprentice- ship in government, working on the committee of public works; and he had served as chairman of that committee, so I understand, just before his presidency. At any rate, the death of his wife in childbirth, that lovely young daughter of Dona Angelica and Don Feliz Ledn, embittered him more than I ever saw any other rural Mexican man embittered by a death. Usually they are philosophical about death. Esteban left the community and went to work as a peon, or agricultural worker, on land south of Oaxaca City, living almost like a migrant, with no roots in any land. I have never seen him again. Don Maximo, the second brother of Crescencio and husband of the conscientious and responsible housekeeper, Elodia, told me in 1954 that Esteban was 230 I KNOw DON AMAno would have thought of Chico first of all those older fellows who learned to write in Rosita's night class, because Chico was chief assistant secretary to the town council before Don Amado's death. Maybe he had hopes also for Esteban. I never found out whether it was Don Amado or some of the other older men who had first launched Esteban, oldest and cleanest of Dona Paula's ragged brood, in a career of public service and politics. But he was one of those whom I myself saw learning to read under the Coleman light in the evenings at the school in 1934, when Chico had already known how to read and write for more than a year. Why Esteban, of all the younger men who might have been presi- dent? He seemed the least prepossessing of all, though he was older than Chico. Of course, there were few others who had become literate, and it was evidently Don Amado's idea to have the literate young men assume public office. Don Bartolo, the Illiterate One, did not achieve the presidency until Don Amado was too near death to stop it. At any rate Esteban played the flute and he was surely a dignified and courteous president in 1944 when Don Luis Varela came to visit. Was it Esteban's fault if Don Solomon was a weak teacher and neglected the school, and thus precipitated all that confusion about the "problems" in 1944? Esteban had had some apprentice- ship in government, working on the committee of public works; and he had served as chairman of that committee, so I understand. just before his presidency. At any rate, the death of his wife in childbirth, that lovely young daughter of Dofia Angelica and Don Fdliz Le6n, embittered him more than I ever saw any other rural Mexican man embittered by a death. Usually they are philosophical about death. Esteban left the community and went to work as a peon, or agricultural worker, on land south of Oaxaca City, living almost like a migrant, with no roots in any land. I have never seen him again. Don iiximo, the second brother of Crescencio and husband of the conscientious and responsible housekeeper, Elodia, told me in 1954 that Esteban was 230  THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT working as day laborer in a new agricultural community in the val- ley called Pueblo Nuevo, but that dl tiene ni familia ni tierra (he has neither family nor land). I don't know what good it did him or Santa Cruz Etla either for him to learn to read and write under the Coleman light. At any rate, he missed the chance to do something fine for Santa Cruz Etla or to be a second Benito Juirez. An opposite story can be told of Panfilo, who learned under the Coleman light before I came to Santa Cruz the first time and had already left home in 1944 because Don Marciano had so many sons. When the Pan American Highway began to creep over the moun- tains from the north, Panfilo was there working on it, part of the construction crew. He became a foreman. The road wound on down to Tehuantepec, and Panfilo with it. Then he came back to Oaxaca City and worked as a foreman in charge of a group of stone- masons busy there with the many new buildings that were going up in the new Oaxaca. In 1945 he was making four pesos a day and sending ten pesos home a month, as well as a sewing machine. When I heard about him, though I hardly remembered him, I was prone to consider him an important "specimen" from Santa Cruz Etla and to draw all sorts of conclusions about the dawning new age he sym- bolized. He worked set hours, nine a day, including time for a mid- day siesta, and earned twice as much as the leadores his age made in the sierra above Santa Cruz Etla in a twelve-hour day. He wore store-bought clothes the three Sundays he walked up from Hacienda Blanca past Dofia Patrocina's to his father's house. "Here is Pan- filo," I thought, "who has left Santa Cruz Etla. Soon other young men will follow him and everything will be different." But the third time he came on Sunday, I happened to be walking along the trail and met him. He fell in step with me and asked me how I liked to ride his father's horse. "And how do you like the kills of Santa Cruz Etla, seiora?" "Don't you like Santa Cruz Etla yourself, Don Panfilo?" I asked. "But how not? It is my tierra, my land." "But you do not live here now yourself." "Why, naturally I do. Next year I will come back here to marry. Then I will stay in my tierra. How else can one live?" 231 THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT working as day laborer in a new agricultural community in the val- ley called Pueblo Nuevo, but that dl tiene ni familia ni tierra (he has neither family nor land). I don't know what good it did him or Santa Cruz Etla either for him to learn to read and write under the Coleman light. At any rate, he missed the chance to do something fine for Santa Cruz Etla or to be a second Benito Juirez. An opposite story can be told of Panfilo, who learned under the Coleman light before I came to Santa Cruz the first time and had already left home in 1944 because Don Marciano had so many sons. When the Pan American Highway began to creep over the moun- tains from the north, Panfilo was there working on it, part of the construction crew. He became a foreman. The road wound on down to Tehuantepec, and Panfilo with it. Then he came back to Oaxaca City and worked as a foreman in charge of a group of stone- masons busy there with the many new buildings that were going up in the new Oaxaca. In 1945 he was making four pesos a day and sending ten pesos home a month, as well as a sewing machine. When I heard about him, though I hardly remembered him, I was prone to consider him an important "specimen" from Santa Cruz Etla and to draw all sorts of conclusions about the dawning new age he sym- bolized. He worked set hours, nine a day, including time for a mid- day siesta, and earned twice as much as the leiadores his age made in the sierra above Santa Cruz Etla in a twelve-hour day. He wore store-bought clothes the three Sundays he walked up from Hacienda Blanca past Doia Patrocina's to his father's house. "Here is Pan- filo," I thought, "who has left Santa Cruz Etla. Soon other young men will follow him and everything will be different." But the third time he came on Sunday, I happened to be walking along the trail and met him. He fell in step with me and asked me how I liked to ride his father's horse. "And how do you like the hills of Santa Cruz Etla, senora?" "Don't you like Santa Cruz Etla yourself, Don Panfilo?" I asked. "But how not? It is my tierra, my land." "But you do not live here now yourself." "Why, naturally I do. Next year I will come back here to many. Then I will stay in my tierra. How else can one live?" 231 THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT working as day laborer in a new agricultural community in the val- ley called Pueblo Nuevo, but that dl tiene ni familia ni tierra (he has neither family nor land). I don't know what good it did him or Santa Cruz Etla either for him to learn to read and write under the Coleman light. At any rate, he missed the chance to do something fine for Santa Cruz Etla or to be a second Benito Juirez. An opposite story can be told of Panfilo, who learned under the Coleman light before I came to Santa Cruz the first time and had already left home in 1944 because Don Marciano had so many sons. When the Pan American Highway began to creep over the moun- tains from the north, Panfilo was there working on it, part of the construction crew. He became a foreman. The road wound on down to Tehuantepec, and Panfilo with it. Then he came back to Oaxaca City and worked as a foreman in charge of a group of stone- masons busy there with the many new buildings that were going up in the new Oaxaca. In 1945 he was making four pesos a day and sending ten pesos home a month, as well as a sewing machine. When I heard about him, though I hardly remembered him, I was prone to consider him an important "specimen" from Santa Cruz Etla and to draw all sorts of conclusions about the dawning new age he sym- bolized. He worked set hours, nine a day, including time for a mid- day siesta, and earned twice as much as the leiadores his age made in the sierra above Santa Cruz Etla in a twelve-hour day. He wore store-bought clothes the three Sundays he walked up from Hacienda Blanca past Doia Patrocina's to his father's house. "Here is Pan- filo," I thought, "who has left Santa Cruz Etla. Soon other young men will follow him and everything will be different." But the third time he came on Sunday, I happened to be walking along the trail and met him. He fell in step with me and asked me how I liked to ride his father's horse. "And how do you like the hills of Santa Cruz Etla, senora?" "Don't you like Santa Cruz Etla yourself, Don Panfilo?" I asked. "But how not? It is my tierra, my land." "But you do not live here now yourself." "Why, naturally I do. Next year I will come back here to marry. Then I will stay in my tierra. How else can one live?" 231  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS So Panfilo spoke with warmth and loyalty of Santa Cruz Etla. He did marry in the hills, a daughter of Dona Buenaventura who had been a toddler when he was a young man in Rosita's night classes. Don Marciano's land did not have room for them all, how- ever, and Panfilo did not stay on his tierra. His heart and his loyalty did, though; in a lull in his work as stonemason, he came up to help his younger brother build the fine new adobe and cement house for his parents to replace their little bamboo shacks. When I asked Don Feliz how Santa Cruz men could have built the new chapel without good plans and skilled help, Don Fliz said enthusiastically: "Re- member Panfilo? He was here to act as foreman for us, to help us at every step." Though Perfecto had drawn the sketch of how the church should look, the fagade, so to speak, it was Panfilo who laid out measure- ments for the walls, constructed the arches, made the whole thing possible. He quit his city job for two months in order to do it. Then, at the May festival, when the church was first used, he came up with his growing family in tow, and presented Don F6liz with a hundred pesos as his gasto for church and fiesta. Panfilo is prosper- ous, for no such construction worker today, with any skill and any foreman's responsibility, gets less than three hundred fifty pesos a month. I am surely sorry not to have talked to Panfilo in 1954, to compliment him on his great services to Santa Cruz and to his father's family, on the manner in which his heart has stayed in Santa Cruz Etla. I am sure that Benito Juirez never went back to the sierra of Ixtlin in his maturity to do as much for his people. Wouldn't Don Amado have thought a stonemason as fine as a lawyer, a doctor, or a teacher, if he had lived to know about Panfilo and the church? Eduardo el Mecdnico, son of Don Julio, had learned to read and write from Rosita at night, two years after he hurt his hand that time with the sickle. He must have been eighteen or twenty when his father bought the gasoline mill to grind the corn, and he took complete charge of the machinery. He seemed to me to be a natural- born mechanic; the mill broke down only the one time that I ever heard of. In an era when all of Mexico was going mechanical, in- 232 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS So Panfilo spoke with warmth and loyalty of Santa Cruz Etla. He did marry in the hills, a daughter of Dona Buenaventura who had been a toddler when he was a young man in Rosita's night classes. Don Marciano's land did not have room for them all, how- ever, and Panfilo did not stay on his tierra. His heart and his loyalty did, though; in a lull in his work as stonemason, he came up to help his younger brother build the fine new adobe and cement house for his parents to replace their little bamboo shacks. When I asked Don F6liz how Santa Cruz men could have built the new chapel without good plans and skilled help, Don F6liz said enthusiasticallv: "Re- member Panfilo? He was here to act as foreman for us, to help us at every step." Though Perfecto had drawn the sketch of how the church should look, the fagade, so to speak, it was Panfilo who laid out measure- ments for the walls, constructed the arches, made the whole thing possible. He quit his city job for two months in order to do it. Then, at the May festival, when the church was first used, he came up with his growing family in tow, and presented Don Fliz with a hundred pesos as his gasto for church and fiesta. Panfilo is prosper- ous, for no such construction worker today, with any skill and any foreman's responsibility, gets less than three hundred fifty pesos a month. I am surely sorry not to have talked to Panfilo in 1934, to compliment him on his great services to Santa Cruz and to his father's family, on the manner in which his heart has staved in Santa Cruz Etla. I am sure that Benito Juirez never went back to the sierra of Ixtlin in his maturity to do as much for his people. Wouldn't Don Amado have thought a stonemason as fine as a lawyer, a doctor, or a teacher, if he had lived to know about Panfilo and the church? Eduardo el Mecdnico, son of Don Julio, had learned to read and write from Rosita at night, two years after he hurt his hand that time with the sickle. He must have been eighteen or twenty when his father bought the gasoline mill to grind the corn, and he took complete charge of the machinery. He seemed to me to be a natural- born mechanic; the mill broke down only the one time that I ever heard of. In an era when all of Mexico was going mechanical, in- 232 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS So Panfilo spoke with warmth and loyalty of Santa Cruz Etla. He did marry in the hills, a daughter of Dona Buenaventura who had been a toddler when he was a young man in Rosita's night classes. Don Marciano's land did not have room for them all, how- ever, and Panfilo did not stay on his tierra. His heart and his loyalty did, though; in a lull in his work as stonemason, he came up to help his younger brother build the fine new adobe and cement house for his parents to replace their little bamboo shacks. When I asked Don Feliz how Santa Cruz men could have built the new chapel without good plans and skilled help, Don Fliz said enthusiastically: "Re- member Panfilo? He was here to act as foreman for us, to help us at every step." Though Perfecto had drawn the sketch of how the church should look, the fagade, so to speak, it was Panfilo who laid out measure- ments for the walls, constructed the arches, made the whole thing possible. He quit his city job for two months in order to do it. Then, at the May festival, when the church was first used, he came up with his growing family in tow, and presented Don Filiz with a hundred pesos as his gasto for church and fiesta. Panfilo is prosper- ous, for no such construction worker today, with any skill and any foreman's responsibility, gets less than three hundred fifty pesos a month. I am surely sorry not to have talked to Panfilo in 1954, to compliment him on his great services to Santa Cruz and to his father's family, on the manner in which his heart has staved in Santa Cruz Etla. I am sure that Benito Juirez never went back to the sierra of Ixtlin in his maturity to do as much for his people. Wouldn't Don Amado have thought a stonemason as fine as a lawyer, a doctor, or a teacher, if he had lived to know about Panfilo and the church? Eduardo el Mecinico, son of Don Julio, had learned to read and write from Rosita at night, two years after he hurt his hand that time with the sickle. He must have been eighteen or twenty when his father bought the gasoline mill to grind the corn, and he took complete charge of the machinery. He seemed to me to be a natural- born mechanic; the mill broke down only the one time that I ever heard of. In an era when all of Mexico was going mechanical, in- 232  THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT dustrializing so rapidly, there was such a demand for people with a mechanical bent and the know-how of machinery that, on the face of it, I would have picked Eduardo as the "one most apt to succeed" away from home. But Santa Cruz Etla needed him, as did his father, and he stayed. In 1945 he had been married for four years to pretty little Rafae- la, who was quite modern, and wore a short store-bought gingham dress. She put on a knee-length white satin dress to have her pic- ture taken with her husband and the babies. She owned even a pair of slippers, so Esperanza said, though I never saw her wear anything on her feet. Eduardo's little house, set on the back of Don Julio's old house lot at the mill, was built in quite a modern fashion, much more so than the two rooms which Chico finally finished for Espe- ranza. It had a wooden door with a knob and with hinges. There were even windows with shutters, but of course no glass. I heard that Eduardo had wanted to build his new house on the last bit of land Don Julio owned, before he acquired all that land with his second marriage. This bit of land was in a beautiful place, way up the ravine above Don Martin's, heavily shaded with trees- oranges, lemons, avocados. La Abuelita had had a cousin who had once lived there and had sold the land to Don Julio twenty-five years before. There was a thatch and adobe hut still on it. Nico told me that Don Julio forbade Eduardo to go there and then sold the land. Don Julio did not want Eduardo so far from the mill. I saw the wooded place up the ravine, passing it on horseback, and I understand how the pretty young Rafaela would rather have lived there than under the stem and watchful eye of her father-in-law. In 1954 I ran by chance into Don Julio's new family the second day of my visit, going to see the young Dona Refugio and finding that she was then the mother of Don Julio's young children. I was entertained there, drank a small tequila, and accepted two fresh eggs after I had photographed the children. Perhaps bad news travels fast, and this seemed bad news to Eduardo and his mother. At any rate, I saw Eduardo only at the mill, busy and gruff as his father had been a decade before. Though I offered to take photos all around again and urged him to bring his younger children up to 233 THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT dustrializing so rapidly, there was such a demand for people with a mechanical bent and the know-how of machinery that, on the face of it, I would have picked Eduardo as the "one most apt to succeed" away from home. But Santa Cruz Ella needed him, as did his father, and he stayed. In 1945 be had been married for four years to pretty little Rafae- la, who was quite modern, and wore a short store-bought gingham dress. She put on a knee-length white satin dress to have her pic- ture taken with her husband and the babies. She owned even a pair of slippers, so Esperanza said, though I never saw her wear anything on her feet. Eduardo's little house, set on the back of Don Julio's old house lot at the mill, was built in quite a modern fashion, much more so than the two rooms which Chico finally finished for Espe- ranza. It had a wooden door with a knob and with hinges. There were even windows with shutters, but of course no glass. I heard that Eduardo had wanted to build his new house on the last bit of land Don Julio owned, before he acquired all that land with his second marriage. This bit of land was in a beautiful place, way up the ravine above Don Martin's, heavily shaded with trees- oranges, lemons, avocados. La Abuelita had had a cousin who had once lived there and had sold the land to Don Julio twenty-five years before. There was a thatch and adobe hut still on it. Nico told me that Don Julio forbade Eduardo to go there and then sold the land. Don Julio did not want Eduardo so far from the mill. I saw the wooded place up the ravine, passing it on horseback, and I understand how the pretty young Rafaela would rather have lived there than under the stern and watchful eye of her father-in-law. In 1954 I ran by chance into Don Julio's new family the second day of my visit, going to see the young Dona Refugio and finding that she was then the mother of Don Julio's young children. I was entertained there, drank a small tequila, and accepted two fresh eggs after I had photographed the children. Perhaps bad news travels fast, and this seemed bad news to Eduardo and his mother. At any rate, I saw Eduardo only at the mill, busy and gruff as his father had been a decade before. Though I offered to take photos all around again and urged him to bring his younger children up to 233 THOSE OTHERS FROM UNDER THE COLEMAN LIGHT dustrializing so rapidly, there was such a demand for people with a mechanical bent and the know-how of machinery that, on the face of it, I would have picked Eduardo as the "one most apt to succeed" away from home. But Santa Cruz Etla needed him, as did his father, and he stayed. In 1945 he had been married for four years to pretty little Rafae- la, who was quite modern, and wore a short store-bought gingham dress. She put on a knee-length white satin dress to have her pic- ture taken with her husband and the babies. She owned even a pair of slippers, so Esperanza said, though I never saw her wear anything on her feet. Eduardo's little house, set on the back of Don Julio's old house lot at the mill, was built in quite a modern fashion, much more so than the two rooms which Chico finally finished for Espe- ranza. It had a wooden door with a knob and with hinges. There were even windows with shutters, but of course no glass. I heard that Eduardo had wanted to build his new house on the last bit of land Don Julio owned, before he acquired all that land with his second marriage. This bit of land was in a beautiful place, way up the ravine above Don Martin's, heavily shaded with trees- oranges, lemons, avocados. La Abuelita had had a cousin who had once lived there and had sold the land to Don Julio twenty-five years before. There was a thatch and adobe hut still on it. Nico told me that Don Julio forbade Eduardo to go there and then sold the land. Don Julio did not want Eduardo so far from the mill. I saw the wooded place up the ravine, passing it on horseback, and I understand how the pretty young Rafaela would rather have lived there than under the stern and watchful eye of her father-in-law. In 1954 I ran by chance into Don Julio's new family the second day of my visit, going to see the young Dofia Refugio and finding that she was then the mother of Don Julio's young children. I was entertained there, drank a small tequila, and accepted two fresh eggs after I had photographed the children. Perhaps bad news travels fast, and this seemed bad news to Eduardo and his mother. At any rate, I saw Eduardo only at the mill, busy and gruff as his father had been a decade before. Though I offered to take photos all around again and urged him to bring his younger children up to 233  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Don Martin's for pictures, I did not see him socially, nor Rafaela, nor Dona Fecunda his mother, during the visit. Chabella and her mother-in-law Pastorcita, my hostesses in 1954, simply laughed in- dulgently when I tried to find out if I had offended Eduardo by visiting his father's new family first. Eduardo had been a good friend in 1945, had danced with me at an angelito and at the mayor- domsa in San Pablo, had helped in the campaign against illiteracy, and I have been sorry ever since if I did the wrong thing socially! As far as improvement for Santa Cruz Etla through Eduardo rl Mecdnico goes - well, perhaps the ball-playing comes via Eduardo. He was fond of ball; and, his family having cash money, he had been indulged by his strict father in that one thing alone. It was on Don Julio's land the fellows played ball. It was Eduardo who bought the first ball, and he probably still buys any new ones. In the 1940's it was a hard two-inch rubber ball, or pelota, and they either hit it in a kind of handball game against a low adobe wall they built at one end of the "field," or played a type of volleyball with it. For this latter game, they drew a faint, almost imaginary line through the middle of the hard-packed feld. Whoever came to play on Sunday afternoon (I watched them many times) lined up, one by one, on opposite sides of the line. The best players had purchased leather palm-guards, and they took the hard rubber ball and knocked it as forcefully as they would with a bat. The boys like Nico and Joel, who worked in the felds and had little ready cash, wrapped their hands in red bandanas, and they seemed to hit it just as hard. After the hit, the ball was knocked back and forth across the line as in our volleyball game. It was returned on the bounce, but when it bounced twice the point was lost. No one ever seemed to keep very careful score; no one had loyal- ty to any one team or captain. I used to cheer for Cassiano or Nico or Don Bartolo (a vigorous player), but I never saw any of them on the same side two Sundays in succession. Sometimes Eduardo and Chico and Don Martin's Miguelito and others would go down to the fine field behind the San Pablo Etla church, where the ball bounced off the church wall when hit too hard instead of being lost down the ravine. Esperanza and I went to watch Chico play at San 234 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Don Martin's for pictures, I did not see him socially, nor Rafaela, nor Dona Fecunda his mother, during the visit. Chabella and her mother-in-law Pastorcita, my hostesses in 1954, simply laughed in- dulgently when I tried to find out if I had offended Eduardo by visiting his father's new family first. Eduardo had been a good friend in 1945, had danced with me at an angelito and at the mayor- domia in San Pablo, had helped in the campaign against illiteracy, and I have been sorry ever since if I did the wrong thing socially! As far as improvement for Santa Cruz Etla through Eduardo el Mecdnico goes - well, perhaps the ball-playing comes via Eduardo. He was fond of ball; and, his family having cash money, he had been indulged by his strict father in that one thing alone. It was on Don Julio's land the fellows played ball. It was Eduardo who bought the first ball, and he probably still buys any new ones. In the 1940's it was a hard two-inch rubber ball, or pelota, and they either hit it in a kind of handball game against a low adobe wall they built at one end of the "field," or played a type of volleyball with it. For this latter game, they drew a faint, almost imaginary line through the middle of the hard-packed field. Whoever came to play on Sunday afternoon (I watched them many times) lined up, one by one, on opposite sides of the line. The best players had purchased leather palm-guards, and they took the hard rubber ball and knocked it as forcefully as they would with a bat. The boys like Nico and Joel, who worked in the fields and had little ready cash, wrapped their hands in red bandanas, and they seemed to hit it just as hard. After the hit, the ball was knocked back and forth across the line as in our volleyball game. It was returned on the bounce, but when it bounced twice the point was lost. No one ever seemed to keep very careful score; no one had loyal- ty to any one team or captain. I used to cheer for Cassiano or Nico or Don Bartolo (a vigorous player), but I never saw any of them on the same side two Sundays in succession. Sometimes Eduardo and Chico and Don Martin's Miguelito and others would go down to the fine field behind the San Pablo Etla church, where the ball bounced off the church wall when hit too hard instead of being lost down the ravine. Esperanza and I went to watch Chico play at San 234 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Don Martin's for pictures, I did not see him socially, nor Rafaela, nor Dona Fecunda his mother, during the visit. Chabella and her mother-in-law Pastorcita, my hostesses in 1954, simply laughed in- dulgently when I tried to find out if I had offended Eduardo by visiting his father's new family first. Eduardo had been a good friend in 1945, had danced with me at an angelito and at the mayor- domia in San Pablo, had helped in the campaign against illiteracy, and I have been sorry ever since if I did the wrong thing socially! As far as improvement for Santa Cruz Etla through Eduardo el Mecdnico goes - well, perhaps the ball-playing comes via Eduardo. He was fond of ball; and, his family having cash money, he had been indulged by his strict father in that one thing alone. It was on Don Julio's land the fellows played ball. It was Eduardo who bought the first ball, and he probably still buys any new ones. In the 1940's it was a hard two-inch rubber ball, or pelota, and they either hit it in a kind of handball game against a low adobe wall they built at one end of the "field," or played a type of volleyball with it. For this latter game, they drew a faint, almost imaginary line through the middle of the hard-packed field. Whoever came to play on Sunday afternoon (I watched them many times) lined up, one by one, on opposite sides of the line. The best players had purchased leather palm-guards, and they took the hard rubber ball and knocked it as forcefully as they would with a bat. The boys like Nico and Joel, who worked in the fields and had little ready cash, wrapped their hands in red bandanas, and they seemed to hit it just as hard. After the hit, the ball was knocked back and forth across the line as in our volleyball game. It was returned on the bounce, but when it bounced twice the point was lost. No one ever seemed to keep very careful score; no one had loyal- ty to any one team or captain. I used to cheer for Cassiano or Nico or Don Bartolo (a vigorous player), but I never saw any of them on the same side two Sundays in succession. Sometimes Eduardo and Chico and Don Martin's Miguelito and others would go down to the fine field behind the San Pablo Etla church, where the ball bounced off the church wall when hit too hard instead of being lost down the ravine. Esperanza and I went to watch Chico play at San 234  DON PABLO EL BRACERO Pablo one Sunday and found Santa Cruz men lined up with San Pablo men on each side - of all thingsl when Santa Cruz spent its life trying to beat San Pablo at everything it could! But the men play always for the love of playing, never to win for any one side. I had seen young men play basketball and baseball in larger Mexican villages; but none of the boys I asked at Santa Cruz knew anything about baseball, and the basketballs cost thirty-five pesos apiece. When Don Amado received the plans for the school build- ing in Mexico City, the building instructions included plans for basketball goals. In accordance with the blueprints, Don Amado had them constructed; but there were no metal hoops for baskets and the two backboards stood for twenty years without use or ex- planation, merely a part of the scenery to anyone under twenty-five. I was delighted, then, to see a group of men, from eighteen to forty years of age, actually playing basketball around these goal posts in front of the municipio on both Sunday afternoons I visited in 1954, and to hear that Eduardo, now a devotee of that game, had provided the baskets and the ball for it. Don Bartolo and the older followers of pelota, still wearing their leather hand-guards, were down on the little handball field. Don Feliz told me that Don Julio and Eduardo, when the family split up, had decided to give the handball court outright to the town. So Santa Cruz Etla, thanks to Eduardo's interest in ball, now has two athletic fields of its own. Would Don Amado, whom I never saw playing ball, have con- sidered this a sufficient public service from one of the new genera- tion who learned to read and write? Even though Eduardo himself, evidently made antisocial by all the trouble with his father, remains entirely aloof from Santa Cruz service committees and politics? DON PABLo BAUsTA was the oldest person who learned his letters by the Coleman light, and so perhaps would not count as one of "the new generation which can read and write." He learned after 235 DON PABLO EL BRACERO Pablo one Sunday and found Santa Cruz men lined up with San Pablo men on each side - of all things! when Santa Cruz spent its life trying to beat San Pablo at everything it could! But the men play always for the love of playing, never to win for any one side. I had seen young men play basketball and baseball in larger Mexican villages; but none of the boys I asked at Santa Cruz knew anything about baseball, and the basketballs cost thirty-five pesos apiece. When Don Amado received the plans for the school build- ing in Mexico City, the building instructions included plans for basketball goals. In accordance with the blueprints, Don Amado had them constructed; but there were no metal hoops for baskets and the two backboards stood for twenty years without use or ex- planation, merely a part of the scenery to anyone under twenty-five. I was delighted, then, to see a group of men, from eighteen to forty years of age, actually playing basketball around these goal posts in front of the municipio on both Sunday afternoons I visited in 1954, and to hear that Eduardo, now a devotee of that game, had provided the baskets and the ball for it. Don Bartolo and the older followers of pelota, still wearing their leather hand-guards, were down on the little handball field. Don Fdliz told me that Don Julio and Eduardo, when the family split up, had decided to give the handball court outright to the town. So Santa Cruz Etla, thanks to Eduardo's interest in ball, now has two athletic fields of its own. Would Don Amado, whom I never saw playing ball, have con- sidered this a sufficient public service from one of the new genera- tion who learned to read and write? Even though Eduardo himself, evidently made antisocial by all the trouble with his father, remains entirely aloof from Santa Cruz service committees and politics? DON PABLO BAuxisTA was the oldest person who learned his letters by the Coleman light, and so perhaps would not count as one of "the new generation which can read and write." He learned after 235 DON PABLO EL BRACERO Pablo one Sunday and found Santa Cruz men lined up with San Pablo men on each side - of all things! when Santa Cruz spent its life trying to beat San Pablo at everything it could But the men play always for the love of playing, never to win for any one side. I had seen young men play basketball and baseball in larger Mexican villages; but none of the boys I asked at Santa Cruz knew anything about baseball, and the basketballs cost thirty-five pesos apiece. When Don Amado received the plans for the school build- ing in Mexico City, the building instructions included plans for basketball goals. In accordance with the blueprints, Don Amado had them constructed; but there were no metal hoops for baskets and the two backboards stood for twenty years without use or ex- planation, merely a part of the scenery to anyone under twenty-five. I was delighted, then, to see a group of men, from eighteen to forty years of age, actually playing basketball around these goal posts in front of the municipio on both Sunday afternoons I visited in 1954, and to hear that Eduardo, now a devotee of that game, had provided the baskets and the ball for it. Don Bartolo and the older followers of pelota, still wearing their leather hand-guards, were down on the little handball field. Don Feliz told me that Don Julio and Eduardo, when the family split up, had decided to give the handball court outright to the town. So Santa Cruz Etla, thanks to Eduardo's interest in ball, now has two athletic fields of its own. Would Don Amado, whom I never saw playing ball, have con- sidered this a sufficient public service from one of the new genera- tion who learned to read and write? Even though Eduardo himself, evidently made antisocial by all the trouble with his father, remains entirely aloof from Santa Cruz service committees and politics? DON PABLO BAuTisTA was the oldest person who learned his letters by the Coleman light, and so perhaps would not count as one of "the new generation which can read and write." He learned after 235  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Chico and Esteban, during Rosita's last two years in Santa Cruz Etla, after he had married Sofia and had come up from San Pablo to live in Dona Estofana's family in Santa Cruz. He agreed whole- heartedly with Don Amado about the need for improvements in the hill villages, and he sat talking with us those evenings at Dona Estefana's in 1944. He was talking about another kind of improve- ment, though, and kept saying, Debemos ser mas moderns (we must be more modern). A man of about forty years of age in 1944, with a drive and a restlessness foreign to Santa Cruz Etla, he was curious and concerned about the rest of the world, impatient with the burros on the trips to market, angry at the oxen when he plowed in Dofna Estefana's fields. The matrimonio who taught in San Pablo all those years had painted a mural on the outside wall of the school showing farmers plowing corn with tractors, a subject of mystery to the people of Santa Cruz Etla. Many of them had asked me if that really happened in my country. "How can machines do the farm work? What do the machines understand compared to an ox?" But Don Pablo was more intelligently interested; he was im- patient even in 1944 at the slow methods of farming, the shallow furrows of the wooden plow. He had learned to read in the hard night class with the younger men in order to find out more about such things. His was the only mention I ever heard made in Santa Cruz of the possibility of electric light. Over on the San Lorenzo, or south, ridge, about two miles from the Santa Cruz school, runs an electric power line strung on poles. For some reason the line runs along the ridges, instead of through the valley, from the city of Oaxaca to the large valley town of Etla. This line could be seen from many houses, but no one seemed to know or care anything about it. That night in 1944, while lighting me home from the mass meeting Rosita called about the "problems," Don Pablo carried a flashlight (the only one I have ever seen in Santa Cruz Etla, by the way). He spoke then about the electric power line. Every house in Santa Cruz Etla could be as light at night as the round spot of ground below the flashlight-and he focused it to emphasize his point-if only the government would allow extensions from the line and provide copper 236 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Chico and Esteban, during Rosita's last two years in Santa Cruz Etla, after he had married Sofia and had come up from San Pablo to live in Dona Estefana's family in Santa Cruz. He agreed whole- heartedly with Don Amado about the need for improvements in the hill villages, and he sat talking with us those evenings at Dona Estefana's in 1944. He was talking about another kind of improve- ment, though, and kept saying, Debemos ser mds modernos (we must be more modern). A man of about forty years of age in 1944, with a drive and a restlessness foreign to Santa Cruz Etla, he was curious and concerned about the rest of the world, impatient with the burros on the trips to market, angry at the oxen when he plowed in Dona Estefana's fields. The matrimonio who taught in San Pablo all those years had painted a mural on the outside wall of the school showing farmers plowing corn with tractors, a subject of mystery to the people of Santa Cruz Etla. Many of them had asked me if that really happened in my country. "How can machines do the farm work? What do the machines understand compared to an ox?" But Don Pablo was more intelligently interested; he was im- patient even in 1944 at the slow methods of farming, the shallow furrows of the wooden plow. He had learned to read in the hard night class with the younger men in order to find out more about such things. His was the only mention I ever heard made in Santa Cruz of the possibility of electric light. Over on the San Lorenzo, or south. ridge, about two miles from the Santa Cruz school, runs an electric power line strung on poles. For some reason the line runs along the ridges, instead of through the valley, from the city of Oaxaca to the large valley town of Etla. This line could be seen from many houses, but no one seemed to know or care anything about it. That night in 1944, while lighting me home from the mass meeting Rosita called about the "problems," Don Pablo carried a flashlight (the only one I have ever seen in Santa Cruz Etla, by the way ). He spoke then about the electric power line. Every house in Santa Cruz Etla could be as light at night as the round spot of ground below the flashlight-and he focused it to emphasize his point-if only the government would allow extensions from the line and provide copper 236 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Chico and Esteban, during Rosita's last two years in Santa Cruz Etla, after he had married Sofia and had come up from San Pablo to live in Doia Estefana's family in Santa Cruz. He agreed whole- heartedly with Don Amado about the need for improvements in the hill villages, and he sat talking with us those evenings at Dona Estefana's in 1944. He was talking about another kind of improve- ment, though, and kept saying, Debemos ser mds modernos (we must be more modern). A man of about forty years of age in 1944, with a drive and a restlessness foreign to Santa Cruz Etla, he was curious and concerned about the rest of the world, impatient with the burros on the trips to market, angry at the oxen when he plowed in Dona Estefana's fields. The matrimonio who taught in San Pablo all those years had painted a mural on the outside wall of the school showing farmers plowing corn with tractors, a subject of mystery to the people of Santa Cruz Etla. Many of them had asked me if that really happened in my country. "How can machines do the farm work? What do the machines understand compared to an ox?" But Don Pablo was more intelligently interested; he was im- patient even in 1944 at the slow methods of farming, the shallow furrows of the wooden plow. He had learned to read in the hard night class with the younger men in order to find out more about such things. His was the only mention I ever heard made in Santa Cruz of the possibility of electric light. Over on the San Lorenzo, or south. ridge, about two miles from the Santa Cruz school, runs an electric power line strung on poles. For some reason the line runs along the ridges, instead of through the valley, from the city of Oaxaca to the large valley town of Etla. This line could be seen from many houses, but no one seemed to know or care anything about it. That night in 1944, while lighting me home from the mass meeting Rosita called about the "problems," Don Pablo carried a flashlight (the only one I have ever seen in Santa Cruz Etla, by the way ). He spoke then about the electric power line. Every house in Santa Cruz Etla could be as light at night as the round spot of ground below the flashlight-and he focused it to emphasize his point-if only the government would allow extensions from the line and provide copper 236  DON PABLO EL BRACERO wire. The people should form a Cooperativa. If San Pablo Etla would join, they could all share the expense and the work of build- ing the line. But no one was interested. "Only I, Pablo Bautista, realize what electricity would mean to the village," I quoted him in my 1944 diary. "We would have lights at night; women could even make tortillas at night in the harvest season when they have to work in the fields in the daytime. School could be held at night all the time." Strange that the only use of electricity which Don Pablo knew about was light. I asked him also about his flashlight. It had cost twelve pesos, about $2.50 at that time, but a great sacrifice for one of these people. The batteries cost sixty centavos apiece, but he did not begrudge the money. "Too much money is spent on fiestas here in Santa Cruz Etla which could be used for practical things," he told me. Then he went to the United States, where flashlights seem to grow on every tree. The United States government, during the World War II years, arranged with the Mexican government to bring in Mexican men as temporary farm laborers. Agents of the United States government made speeches in plazas the length and breadth of Mexico in 1944, drafting such workers. Thousands of city workers, farmers, and hill village people volunteered to go. The men were to stay six months or a year. They were called braceros, a name coming from the word brazo, or arm. Perhaps it is something like our word "field hand." I never heard the word in Mexico in any other connection, but everywhere I went during the war years people expected me to know all about the braceros. Labor was scarce on the farms of the United States. The armies of the Allies had to be fed. Mexican farmers are strong men, accus- tomed to many hours of hard manual labor in the hot sun. The money paid them in dollars by the farm contractors of the United States seemed very big money when sent home and changed into pesos. Because so many workers wanted to go, by the second summer every state was assigned a quota. Certain provincial capitals pro- vided the required workers each month. Oaxaca's turn came in 237 DON PABLO EL BRACERO wire. The people should form a Cooperativa. If San Pablo Etla would join, they could all share the expense and the work of build- ing the line. But no one was interested. "Only I, Pablo Bautista, realize what electricity would mean to the village," I quoted him in my 1944 diary. "We would have lights at night; women could even make tortillas at night in the harvest season when they have to work in the fields in the daytime. School could be held at night all the time." Strange that the only use of electricity which Don Pablo knew about was light. I asked him also about his flashlight. It had cost twelve pesos, about $2.50 at that time, but a great sacrifice for one of these people. The batteries cost sixty centavos apiece, but he did not begrudge the money. "Too much money is spent on fiestas here in Santa Cruz Etla which could be used for practical things," he told me. Then he went to the United States, where flashlights seem to grow on every tree. The United States government, during the World War II years, arranged with the Mexican government to bring in Mexican men as temporary farm laborers. Agents of the United States government made speeches in plazas the length and breadth of Mexico in 1944, drafting such workers. Thousands of city workers, farmers, and hill village people volunteered to go. The men were to stay six months or a year. They were called braceros, a name coming from the word brazo, or arm. Perhaps it is something like our word "field hand." I never heard the word in Mexico in any other connection, but everywhere I went during the war years people expected me to know all about the braceros. Labor was scarce on the farms of the United States. The armies of the Allies had to be fed. Mexican farmers are strong men, accus- tomed to many hours of hard manual labor in the hot sun. The money paid them in dollars by the farm contractors of the United States seemed very big money when sent home and changed into pesos. Because so many workers wanted to go, by the second summer every state was assigned a quota. Certain provincial capitals pro- vided the required workers each month. Oaxaca's turn came in 237 DON PABLO EL BRACERO wire. The people should form a Cooperativa. If San Pablo Etla would join, they could all share the expense and the work of build- ing the line. But no one was interested. "Only I, Pablo Bautista, realize what electricity would mean to the village," I quoted him in my 1944 diary. "We would have lights at night; women could even make tortillas at night in the harvest season when they have to work in the fields in the daytime. School could be held at night all the time." Strange that the only use of electricity which Don Pablo knew about was light. I asked him also about his flashlight. It had cost twelve pesos, about $2.50 at that time, but a great sacrifice for one of these people. The batteries cost sixty centavos apiece, but he did not begrudge the money. "Too much money is spent on fiestas heere in Santa Cruz Etla which could be used for practical things," he told me. Then he went to the United States, where flashlights seem to grow on every tree. The United States government, during the World War II years, arranged with the Mexican government to bring in Mexican men as temporary farm laborers. Agents of the United States government made speeches in plazas the length and breadth of Mexico in 1944, drafting such workers. Thousands of city workers, farmers, and hill village people volunteered to go. The men were to stay six months or a year. They were called braceros, a name coming from the word brazo, or arm. Perhaps it is something like our word "field hand." I never heard the word in Mexico in any other connection, but everywhere I went during the war years people expected me to know all about the braceros. Labor was scarce on the farms of the United States. The armies of the Allies had to be fed. Mexican farmers are strong men, accus- tomed to many hours of hard manual labor in the hot sun. The money paid them in dollars by the farm contractors of the United States seemed very big money when sent home and changed into pesos. Because so many workers wanted to go, by the second summer every state was assigned a quota. Certain provincial capitals pro- vided the required workers each month. Oaxaca's turn came in 237  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS April of 1945. Three thousand Oaxaca men could go. Three hun- dred had gone the year before, including two men from San Pablo Etla. Even Rosita's young cousin went, a boy in teacher training school. He worked at repairing railroad track in upper New York State. He wrote home about the cities, the cold, the automobiles, the strange food. Rosita's family was very worried for fear he would never come back, but he did, happily enough, and is today teaching in Oaxaca City. The wages paid to the braceros in the United States averaged sixty-five cents an hour in the war years, so the official reports said. All the Mexican workers on any one farm lived and ate together, sharing expenses and Mexican-style food. They could not under- stand the people around them in most places where they were working-the vegetables gardens of Maryland and New Jersey, the wheat fields of eastern Washington and Oregon, the fruit orchards of California, and other places. They did not spend very much money. For some it was possible to save three or four hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars would have been almost fifteen hun- dred pesos in 1945, a gold mine in any village where an acre of corn was bringing in seventy-five pesos a year, and rural schoolteachers got sixty pesos a month. In 1945 I was asked in Santa Cruz Etla, again at a dance in San Pablo, and among Rosita's friends in Oaxaca: Do the braceros work well? Are the Americans pleased with them? Do they learn the American ways of working? On a train that summer of 1945, an unknown man who saw I was from the United States crossed the car to lean over and say to me seriously: "Pardon, senora, but in your country, the braceros, my countrymen, have they worked well? I wish I could report, for both the United States and Miexico, such happy circumstances for the braceros in the 1950's. Urged to go to work in the United States during the war, the braceros found the wages good; in return, most American farmers found the braceros good workers, if perhaps too docile and too swilling to work for very low wages in American money. Many who went dur- ing the war years wanted to go back again; American farmers in the southwest still wanted their type of workers, one who was 238 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS April of 1945. Three thousand Oaxaca men could go. Three hun- dred had gone the year before, including two men from San Pablo Etla. Even Rosita's young cousin went, a boy in teacher training school. He worked at repairing railroad track in upper New York State. He wrote home about the cities, the cold, the automobiles, the strange food. Rosita's family was very worried for fear he would never come back, but he did, happily enough, and is today teaching in Oaxaca City. The wages paid to the braceros in the United States averaged sixty-five cents an hour in the war years, so the official reports said. All the Mexican workers on any one farm lived and ate together, sharing expenses and Mexican-style food. They could not under- stand the people around them in most places where they were working-the vegetables gardens of Maryland and New Jersey, the wheat fields of eastern Washington and Oregon, the fruit orchards of California, and other places. They did not spend very much money. For some it was possible to save three or four hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars would have been almost fifteen hun- dred pesos in 1945, a gold mine in any village where an acre of corn was bringing in seventy-five pesos a year, and rural schoolteachers got sixty pesos a month. In 1945 I was asked in Santa Cruz Etla, again at a dance in San Pablo, and among Rosita's friends in Oaxaca: Do the braceros work well? Are the Americans pleased with them? Do they learn the American ways of working? On a train that summer of 1945, an unknown man who saw I was from the United States crossed the car to lean over and say to me seriously: "Pardon, senora, but in your country, the braceros, my countrymen, have they worked well? I wish I could report, for both the United States and Miexico, such happy circumstances for the braceros in the 1950's. Urged to go to work in the United States during the war, the braceros found the wages good; in return, most American farmers found the braceros good workers, if perhaps too docile and too willing to work for very low wages in American money. Many who went dur- ing the war years wanted to go back again; American farmers in the southwest still wanted their type of workers, one who was 238 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS April of 1945. Three thousand Oaxaca men could go. Three hun- dred had gone the year before, including two men from San Pablo Etla. Even Rosita's young cousin went, a boy in teacher training school. He worked at repairing railroad track in upper New York State. He wrote home about the cities, the cold, the automobiles, the strange food. Rosita's family was very worried for fear he would never come back, but he did, happily enough, and is today teaching in Oaxaca City. The wages paid to the braceros in the United States averaged sixty-five cents an hour in the war years, so the official reports said. All the Mexican workers on any one farm lived and ate together, sharing expenses and Mexican-style food. They could not under- stand the people around them in most places where they were working-the vegetables gardens of Maryland and New Jersey, the wheat fields of eastern Washington and Oregon, the fruit orchards of California, and other places. They did not spend very much money. For some it was possible to save three or four hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars would have been almost fifteen hun- dred pesos in 1945, a gold mine in any village where an acre of corn was bringing in seventy-five pesos a year, and rural schoolteachers got sixty pesos a month. In 1945 I was asked in Santa Cruz Etla, again at a dance in San Pablo, and among Rosita's friends in Oaxaca: Do the braceros work well? Are the Americans pleased with them? Do they learn the American ways of working? On a train that summer of 1945, an unknown man who saw I was from the United States crossed the car to lean over and say to me seriously: "Pardon, senora, but in your country, the braceros, my countrymen, have they worked well? I wish I could report, for both the United States and Miexico, such happy circumstances for the braceros in the 1950's. Urged to go to work in the United States during the war, the braceros found the wages good; in return, most American farmers found the braceros good workers, if perhaps too docile and too willing to work for very low wages in American money. Many who went dur- ing the war years wanted to go back again; American farmers in the southwest still wanted their type of workers, one who was 238  DON PABLO EL BRACERO pleased with sixty-five cents an hour for "stoop" labor in the Imperial and Salt River valleys of Arizona and California and the Rio Grande Delta at Brownsville. So the braceros continued to go, and the farmers continued to hire them. The treaty arrangements of wartime ran out, and no long-term, completely satisfactory new treaty was made. Some braceros continued to go legally with ap- proval from the United States consul, but most of them crossed the Rio Grande illegally and became "wetbacks." I cannot write about this situation with any firsthand knowledge, for I found no one in the whole Etla Hills region who had gone back to the United States as a wetback. But it is true that Rosita's relatives believe from talk in Oaxaca and from stories in the city newspapers that the United States "mistreated' the wetbacks, "rounded them up like criminals," that the United States govern- ment made them unwelcome while the farmers continued to hire them by the thousands and thousands. In 1954 no one in Mexico was asking me if the braceros were doing a good job in my country; I was embarrassed by questions as to why we no longer wanted them, why we paid them so well (in terms of pesos of course) and then "drove them back across the Rio Grande like cattle." I am only glad to be able to say that no Santa Cruz Etla man had come to the United States under these difficult illegal circumstances. Don Pablo, the practical Don Pablo who wanted to learn so much about the world, took advantage of the treaty arrangements during World War II and of the Oaxaca "draft" to go to the United States where he could get all his questions about machine methods answered. Don Rafael Perez of San Pablo Etla, who had gone a year before the Oaxaca draft, had brought home a thousand pesos in the spring of 1945. He had bought a new team of oxen, five hundred pesos for each ox, la yunta de Rafael Pirez; people spoke about the team with awe. "How could anyone spend five hundred pesos apiece for oxen?" asked Patrocina. (Perhaps the high prices returning braceros were willing to pay had something to do with it, but one reason Cassiano went to work in Mexico City in 1954 was because he could not then buy a new ox team for less than 1,200 pesos.) Don Enrique Mejia of San Pablo had done other 239 DON PABLO EL BRACERO pleased with sixty-five cents an hour for "stoop" labor in the Imperial and Salt River valleys of Arizona and California and the Rio Grande Delta at Brownsville. So the braceros continued to go, and the farmers continued to hire them. The treaty arrangements of wartime ran out, and no long-term, completely satisfactory new treaty was made. Some braceros continued to go legally with ap- proval from the United States consul, but most of them crossed the Rio Grande illegally and became "wetbacks." I cannot write about this situation with any firsthand knowledge, for I found no one in the whole Etla Hills region who had gone back to the United States as a wetback. But it is true that Rosita's relatives believe from talk in Oaxaca and from stories in the city newspapers that the United States "mistreated" the wetbacks, "rounded them up like criminals," that the United States govern- ment made them unwelcome while the farmers continued to hire them by the thousands and thousands. In 1954 no one in Mexico was asking me if the braceros were doing a good job in my country; I was embarrassed by questions as to why we no longer wanted them, why we paid them so well (in terms of pesos of course) and then "drove them back across the Rio Grande like cattle." I am only glad to be able to say that no Santa Cruz Etla man had come to the United States under these diffcult illegal circumstances. Don Pablo, the practical Don Pablo who wanted to learn so much about the world, took advantage of the treaty arrangements during World War II and of the Oaxaca "draft" to go to the United States where he could get all his questions about machine methods answered. Don Rafael Perez of San Pablo Etla, who had gone a year before the Oaxaca draft, had brought home a thousand pesos in the spring of 1945. He had bought a new team of oxen, five hundred pesos for each ox, la yunta de Rafael Pirez; people spoke about the team with awe. "How could anyone spend five hundred pesos apiece for oxen?" asked Patrocina. (Perhaps the high prices returning braceros were willing to pay had something to do with it, but one reason Cassiano went to work in Mexico City in 1954 was because he could not then buy a new ox team for less than 1,200 pesos.) Don Enrique Mejia of San Pablo had done other 239 DON PABLO EL BRACERO pleased with sixty-five cents an hour for "stoop" labor in the Imperial and Salt River valleys of Arizona and California and the Rio Grande Delta at Brownsville. So the braceros continued to go, and the farmers continued to hire them. The treaty arrangements of wartime ran out, and no long-term, completely satisfactory new treaty was made. Some braceros continued to go legally with ap- proval from the United States consul, but most of them crossed the Rio Grande illegally and became "wetbacks." I cannot write about this situation with any firsthand knowledge, for I found no one in the whole Etla Hills region who had gone back to the United States as a wetback. But it is true that Rosita's relatives believe from talk in Oaxaca and from stories in the city newspapers that the United States "mistreated" the wetbacks, "rounded them up like criminals," that the United States govern- ment made them unwelcome while the farmers continued to hire them by the thousands and thousands. In 1954 no one in Mexico was asking me if the braceros were doing a good job in my country; I was embarrassed by questions as to why we no longer wanted them, why we paid them so well (in terms of pesos of course) and then "drove them back across the Rio Grande like cattle." I am only glad to be able to say that no Santa Cruz Etla man had come to the United States under these difficult illegal circumstances. Don Pablo, the practical Don Pablo who wanted to learn so much about the world, took advantage of the treaty arrangements during World War II and of the Oaxaca "draft" to go to the United States where he could get all his questions about machine methods answered. Don Rafael Pdrez of San Pablo Etla, who had gone a year before the Oaxaca draft, had brought home a thousand pesos in the spring of 1945. He had bought a new team of oxen, five hundred pesos for each ox, la yunta de Rafael Pirez; people spoke about the team with awe. "How could anyone spend five hundred pesos apiece for oxen?" asked Patrocina. (Perhaps the high prices returning braceros were willing to pay had something to do with it, but one reason Cassiano went to work in Mexico City in 1954 was because he could not then buy a new ox team for less than 1,200 pesos.) Don Enrique Mejia of San Pablo had done other 239  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS things with his money-sporty clothes, room in town, months of idleness around the Oaxaca plaza after he returned. But they both went back under the Oaxaca quota in 1945. It was easy for them to persuade Don Pablo to go. With him went Don Solom6n, the young, fiddle-playing schoolteacher who had been so unhappy with his wife. Even a rural teacher could use a thousand pesos. Dona Sofia did not know what Don Pablo would want with a thousand pesos. One thing she was sure of, they would put a tile roof on the house Don Pablo had built her, to replace the thatch. This could be done for one hundred pesos. Then what? New oxen? Dona Estefana had two fine teams she raised from her own stock, better than any expensive, valley-bred oxen. A cart? One could be built for perhaps fifty pesos. More land? Surely Dona Estafana had enough for all. The electric lights? Don Pablo's thousand pesos could light all the village, but it could not begin to bring the line into the town. When I arrived in 1945 and stood talking on the school steps, the day Don Bartolo was "ill," many questions were asked me about Don Pablo's presence in the United States. Hadn't I seen him? Could he learn my language as I had learned theirs? Why couldn't he learn it from two printed lists of corresponding words, as they had seen me studying a Spanish vocabulary, for he could read? How was the climate where he was? How was the corn crop there? They knew we plowed with machines. How was this possible? What about the bean crop this year in the United States? They had been amused in other years when I told them we did not eat the rich, red beans every day. What then did Don Pablo find to eat? Did the use of machines on the farms leave time for woodcutting? Don Pablo sent a letter to Dona Sofia while he was in the United States. Since there was no mail service then, not even to San Pablo, he had written to Santa Cruz Etla, as I alsays did, in care of Rosita in Oaxaca City, asking her to send it up to the hills by any charcoal seller she saw in town. Don Pablo said he had been in Mexico City; only Don Amado of all the hill people had ever been to Mexico City at that time. Then he was sent to Washington to work in an orchard. Rosita saw the letter and thought it meant 240 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS things with his money-sporty clothes, room in town, months of idleness around the Oaxaca plaza after he returned. But they both went back under the Oaxaca quota in 1945. It was easy for them to persuade Don Pablo to go. With him went Don Solomon, the young, fiddle-playing schoolteacher who had been so unhappy with his wife. Even a rural teacher could use a thousand pesos. Dona Sofia did not know what Don Pablo would want with a thousand pesos. One thing she was sure of, they would put a tile roof on the house Don Pablo had built her, to replace the thatch. This could be done for one hundred pesos. Then what? New oxen? Dona Estefana had two fine teams she raised from her own stock, better than any expensive, valley-bred oxen. A cart? One could be built for perhaps fifty pesos. More land? Surely Dona Estdfana had enough for all. The electric lights? Don Pablo's thousand pesos could light all the village, but it could not begin to bring the line into the town. When I arrived in 1945 and stood talking on the school steps, the day Don Bartolo was "ill," many questions were asked me about Don Pablo's presence in the United States. Hadn't I seen him? Could he learn my language as I had learned theirs? Why couldn't he learn it from two printed lists of corresponding words, as they had seen me studying a Spanish vocabulary, for he could read? How was the climate where he was? How was the corn crop there? They knew we plowed with machines. How was this possible? What about the bean crop this year in the United States? They had been amused in other years when I told them we did not eat the rich, red beans every day. What then did Don Pablo find to eat? Did the use of machines on the farms leave time for woodcutting? Don Pablo sent a letter to Dona Sofia while he was in the United States. Since there was no mail service then, not even to San Pablo, he had written to Santa Cruz Etla, as I always did, in care of Rosita in Oaxaca City, asking her to send it up to the hills by any charcoal seller she saw in town. Don Pablo said he had been in Mexico City; only Don Amado of all the hill people had ever been to Mexico City at that time. Then he was sent to Washington to work in an orchard. Rosita saw the letter and thought it meant 240 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS things with his money-sporty clothes, room in town, months of idleness around the Oaxaca plaza after he returned. But they both went back under the Oaxaca quota in 1945. It was easy for them to persuade Don Pablo to go. With him went Don Solom6n, the young, fiddle-playing schoolteacher who had been so unhappy with his wife. Even a rural teacher could use a thousand pesos. Dona Sofia did not know what Don Pablo would want with a thousand pesos. One thing she was sure of, they would put a tile roof on the house Don Pablo had built her, to replace the thatch. This could be done for one hundred pesos. Then what? New oxen? Dona Estfana had two fine teams she raised from her own stock, better than any expensive, valley-bred oxen. A cart? One could be built for perhaps fifty pesos. More land? Surely Dona Estefana had enough for all. The electric lights? Don Pablo's thousand pesos could light all the village, but it could not begin to bring the line into the town. When I arrived in 1945 and stood talking on the school steps, the day Don Bartolo was "ill," many questions were asked me about Don Pablo's presence in the United States. Hadn't I seen him? Could he learn my language as I had learned theirs? Why couldn't he learn it from two printed lists of corresponding words, as they had seen me studying a Spanish vocabulary, for he could read? How was the climate where he was? How was the corn crop there? They knew we plowed with machines. How was this possible? What about the bean crop this year in the United States? They had been amused in other years when I told them we did not eat the rich, red beans every day. What then did Don Pablo find to eat? Did the use of machines on the farms leave time for woodcutting? Don Pablo sent a letter to Dona Sofia while he was in the United States. Since there was no mail service then, not even to San Pablo, he had written to Santa Cruz Etla, as I always did, in care of Rosita in Oaxaca City, asking her to send it up to the hills by any charcoal seller she saw in town. Don Pablo said he had been in Mexico City; only Don Amado of all the hill people had ever been to Mexico City at that time. Then he was sent to Washington to work in an orchard. Rosita saw the letter and thought it meant 240  DON PABLO EL BRACERO Washington, D. C. "He is in your capital," she told me excitedly. The postmark was illegible, having been through so many hands, but my guess was Washington State, perhaps the apple orchards of Yakima Valley. I tried to imagine Don Pablo in Yakima, that beautiful little farming valley. And yet a world away from Santa Cruz Etla! In Santa Cruz a few families have apple trees in their houseyards, and they eat the sour little apples while they are still hard. In Yakima Don Pablo would have seen acres and acres of big red apples and helped to harvest them by the ton. In Santa Cruz Etla nothing can be grown when there is no rain; the people suffer for water through the rainless season of December, January, February. In Yakima he would see ditches full of irrigation water; the floodgates would be lifted and the orchard land six inches under water overnight. No crop would die for lack of water. But, ah, the winter, the "winter" when Santa Cruz Etla has the dry, hot dust-well, I hope Don Pablo did not stay through January and February in Washington State. If the Washington where Don Pablo worked lay in the western part of the United States, why hadn't I seen Don Pablo in my coun- try of California? This puzzled all the people who chattered with me on Dona Estefana's portico when I went there to chat that summer of 1945. They couldn't understand then why I hadn't seen him, though in 1954 they would think it perfectly natural that I should not find the Santa Cruz people who were in Mexico City, on my way through the capital. They know Mexico City is a large and confusing place. "But my country is bigger than the whole state of Oaxaca and Mexico City combined," I had to tell them in 1945. "In Oaxaca City, at the market, Rosita sometimes cannot find any of you for three days together, in order to give you the photos I take and send her by mail. How could I see Don Pablo in a crowded place like my country?" Then they would ask: "How far away is it? How many days would he go on the train to get there? How is it possible any place is that many days away?" I was sorry not to be able to tell them that I had seen and helped Don Pablo. Rosita had written down my Los Angeles address when 241 DON PABLO EL BRACERO Washington, D. C. "He is in your capital," she told me excitedly. The postmark was illegible, having been through so many hands, but my guess was Washington State, perhaps the apple orchards of Yakima Valley. I tried to imagine Don Pablo in Yakima, that beautiful little farming valley. And yet a world away from Santa Cruz Etla! In Santa Cruz a few families have apple trees in their houseyards, and they eat the sour little apples while they are still hard. In Yakima Don Pablo would have seen acres and acres of big red apples and helped to harvest them by the ton. In Santa Cruz Etla nothing can be grown when there is no rain; the people suffer for water through the rainless season of December, January, February. In Yakima he would see ditches full of irrigation water; the floodgates would be lifted and the orchard land six inches under water overnight. No crop would die for lack of water. But, ah, the winter, the "winter" when Santa Cruz Etla has the dry, hot dust-well, I hope Don Pablo did not stay through January and February in Washington State. If the Washington where Don Pablo worked lay in the western part of the United States, why hadn't I seen Don Pablo in my coun- try of California? This puzzled all the people who chattered with me on Dona Estdfana's portico when I went there to chat that summer of 1945. They couldn't understand then why I hadn't seen him, though in 1954 they would think it perfectly natural that I should not find the Santa Cruz people who were in Mexico City, on my way through the capital. They know Mexico City is a large and confusing place. "But my country is bigger than the whole state of Oaxaca and Mexico City combined," I had to tell them in 1945. "In Oaxaca City, at the market, Rosita sometimes cannot find any of you for three days together, in order to give you the photos I take and send her by mail. How could I see Don Pablo in a crowded place like my country?" Then they would ask: "How far away is it? How many days would he go on the train to get there? How is it possible any place is that many days away?" I was sorry not to be able to tell them that I had seen and helped Don Pablo. Rosita had written down my Los Angeles address when 241 DON PABLO EL BRACERO Washington, D. C. "He is in your capital," she told me excitedly. The postmark was illegible, having been through so many hands, but my guess was Washington State, perhaps the apple orchards of Yakima Valley. I tried to imagine Don Pablo in Yakima, that beautiful little farming valley. And yet a world away from Santa Cruz Etla! In Santa Cruz a few families have apple trees in their houseyards, and they eat the sour little apples while they are still hard. In Yakima Don Pablo would have seen acres and acres of big red apples and helped to harvest them by the ton. In Santa Cruz Etla nothing can be grown when there is no rain; the people suffer for water through the rainless season of December, January, February. In Yakima he would see ditches full of irrigation water; the floodgates would be lifted and the orchard land six inches under water overnight. No crop would die for lack of water. But, ah, the winter, the "winter" when Santa Cruz Etla has the dry, hot dust-well, I hope Don Pablo did not stay through January and February in Washington State. If the Washington where Don Pablo worked lay in the western part of the United States, why hadn't I seen Don Pablo in my coun- try of California? This puzzled all the people who chattered with me on Dona Estefana's portico when I went there to chat that summer of 1945. They couldn't understand then why I hadn't seen him, though in 1954 they would think it perfectly natural that I should not find the Santa Cruz people who were in Mexico City, on my way through the capital. They know Mexico City is a large and confusing place. "But my country is bigger than the whole state of Oaxaca and Mexico City combined," I had to tell them in 1945. "In Oaxaca City, at the market, Rosita sometimes cannot find any of you for three days together, in order to give you the photos I take and send her by mail. How could I see Don Pablo in a crowded place like my country?" Then they would ask: "How far away is it? How many days would he go on the train to get there? How is it possible any place is that many days away?" I was sorry not to be able to tell them that I had seen and helped Don Pablo. Rosita had written down my Los Angeles address when 241  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he came through Oaxaca and told her good-bye, but the wartime braceros were moved in groups from one job to another, their fares paid in advance. When their work was done, they were sent directly back to Mexico City. I knew he would never have been able to see me in Los Angeles. Dona Patrocina's Chico, who had worked briefly with construe- tion machinery on the Pan American Highway, understood, so he said, how a machine could plow; but he surely wanted to ask Don Pablo how machines could harvest corn. Machines did not have sense like an ox, and certainly no ox could harvest corn. Chico sounded pretty scornful of machinery in general, and his scorn per- haps helped him to be contented in Santa Cruz Etla. A good thing he was. I saw in San Pablo at the mayordomia for the Virgin of Carmen the discontent that work as a bracero had created for Don Enrique Mejia, Enrique el Alto, the tall one, as they called him, who spent his money on ease and luxury in Oaxaca be- fore he went back to San Pablo. Don Bernab4 brought him over and introduced him to me, as we were both special guests. He had on flannel slacks, high leather shoes, a red and black lumberjack shirt, a leather belt, and a black felt "store" hat. Immediately he asked me to dance. I inquired about what part of the United States he had visited, and he told me the Salinas Valley of California. When I asked, "What did you do there?" he answered that he had been taught to limpiar las betarragas. This puzzled me at first; the only thing it could mean was "clean the beets." But I knew well the Salinas Valley of California, and I had only to stop and think. There are many acres of sugar beets; the seeds are planted close together; the plants grow in clusters. They must be thinned out across straight rows. Many young plants are hoed out and thrown away so that the strongest may live. The braceros had been taught to "clean" the rows and leave the strongest shoots to grow. He said also that he had lived with other Mexicans and had eaten "fine Mexican food, very rich; the tortillas there are made by a machine, in the town of Salinas, senora." He added: "No one here believes that that is true. Will you tell them that it is possible in your country?" 242 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he came through Oaxaca and told her good-bye, but the wartime braceros were moved in groups from one job to another, their fares paid in advance. When their work was done, they were sent directly back to Mexico City. I knew he would never have been able to see me in Los Angeles. Dona Patrocina's Chico, who had worked briefly with construe- tion machinery on the Pan American Highway, understood, so be said, how a machine could plow; but he surely wanted to ask Don Pablo how machines could harvest corn. Machines did not have sense like an ox, and certainly no ox could harvest corn. Chico sounded pretty scornful of machinery in general, and his scorn per- haps helped him to be contented in Santa Cruz Etla. A good thing he was. I saw in San Pablo at the mayordomia for the Virgin of Carmen the discontent that work as a bracero had created for Don Enrique Mejia, Enrique el Alto, the tall one, as they called him, who spent his money on ease and luxury in Oaxaca be- fore he went back to San Pablo. Don Bernab4 brought him over and introduced him to me, as we were both special guests. He had on flannel slacks, high leather shoes, a red and black lumberjack shirt, a leather belt, and a black felt "store" hat. Immediately he asked me to dance. I inquired about what part of the United States be had visited, and he told me the Salinas Valley of California. When I asked, "What did you do there?" he answered that he had been taught to limpiar las betarragas. This puzzled me at first; the only thing it could mean was "clean the beets." But I knew well the Salinas Valley of California, and I had only to stop and think. There are many acres of sugar beets; the seeds are planted close together; the plants grow in clusters. They must be thinned out across straight rows. Many young plants are hoed out and thrown away so that the strongest may live. The braceros had been taught to "clean" the rows and leave the strongest shoots to grow. He said also that he had lived with other Mexicans and had eaten "fine Mexican food, very rich; the tortillas there are made by a machine, in the town of Salinas, senora." He added: "No one here believes that that is true. Will you tell them that it is possible in your country?" 242 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS he came through Oaxaca and told her good-bye, but the wartime braceros were moved in groups from one job to another, their fares paid in advance. When their work was done, they were sent directly back to Mexico City. I knew he would never have been able to see me in Los Angeles. Dona Patrocina's Chico, who had worked briefly with construc- tion machinery on the Pan American Highway, understood, so he said, how a machine could plow; but he surely wanted to ask Don Pablo how machines could harvest corn. Machines did not have sense like an ox, and certainly no ox could harvest corn. Chico sounded pretty scornful of machinery in general, and his scorn per- haps helped him to be contented in Santa Cruz Etla. A good thing he was. I saw in San Pablo at the mayordomia for the Virgin of Carmen the discontent that work as a bracero had created for Don Enrique Mejia, Enrique el Alto, the tall one, as they called him, who spent his money on ease and luxury in Oaxaca be- fore he went back to San Pablo. Don Bernab4 brought him over and introduced him to me, as we were both special guests. He had on flannel slacks, high leather shoes, a red and black lumberjack shirt, a leather belt, and a black felt "store" hat. Immediately he asked me to dance. I inquired about what part of the United States he had visited, and he told me the Salinas Valley of California. When I asked, "What did you do there?" he answered that he had been taught to limpiar las betarragas. This puzzled me at first; the only thing it could mean was "clean the beets." But I knew well the Salinas Valley of California, and I had only to stop and think. There are many acres of sugar beets; the seeds are planted close together; the plants grow in clusters. They must be thinned out across straight rows. Many young plants are hoed out and thrown away so that the strongest may live. The braceros had been taught to "clean" the rows and leave the strongest shoots to grow. He said also that he had lived with other Mexicans and had eaten "fine Mexican food, very rich; the tortillas there are made by a machine, in the town of Salinas, senora." He added: "No one here believes that that is true. Will you tell them that it is possible in your country?" 242  DON PABLO EL BRACERO Don Enrique el Alto had learned more than that in the United States. He had learned to dance as no hill Indian ever danced with a woman. He had rhythm and grace; he glided and turned. The others always shufle forward and back, barefooted or in sloppy sandals on the rough ground. He was the finest dancer I ever danced with in Oaxaca. In the United States he would be called a "hot number." He knew all the "cheek-to-cheek" techniques. I did not like to keep dancing with him for fear the people would be offended at his style. But they were interested and amused. He had told them he had learned English, and they thought we were gaily talking to each other in my language. However, I was merely gasping out answers to his confused mixture of Span- ish and English words. The people cheered our dancing; it was quite an event. Dona Sofia wondered if Don Pablo would have learned to dance like that. Don Enrique's dancing, his manner, his clothes, his whole attitude are foreign to Santa Cruz Etla, things which forebode too much change. Personally I hope Don Pablo did not learn to dance like that. Dona Estefana's whole household was certainly anxious to have Don Pablo come home. She had said sadly to me, Somos todas gallinas aqus en la gallinera, sin gallo (we are all hens here in this henhouse; there is no rooster). Joel, Cassiano, and Aurelio did not yet count as roosters in her estimation; Don Amado was dead and Don Ignacio, her son, was living in San Pablo. It would almost have been worth a special trip to Santa Cruz Etla to have seen Don Pablo when he first came back in 1946. Then I would have asked him the questions: how did he like harvesting with machinery, irrigating from a ditch larger than the main river of Oaxaca Valley, turning on the electricity in his bunkhouse, etc. I kept thinking about those things the Mexico City authorities wanted their groups of traveling rural teachers, the cultural mis- sionaries, to do. After his experiences in the United States wouldn't Don Pablo have wanted to do some of those things on the list?- plant fruit trees of diversified types (Don Florenzio had long since done that); introduce new crops; build small reservoirs for 243 DON PABLO EL BRACERO Don Enrique el Alto had learned more than that in the United States. He had learned to dance as no hill Indian ever danced with a woman. He had rhythm and grace; he glided and turned. The others always shufie forward and back, barefooted or in sloppy sandals on the rough ground. He was the finest dancer I ever danced with in Oaxaca. In the United States he would be called a "hot number." He knew all the "cheek-to-cheek" techniques. I did not like to keep dancing with him for fear the people would be offended at his style. But they were interested and amused. He had told them he had learned English, and they thought we were gaily talking to each other in my language. However, I was merely gasping out answers to his confused mixture of Span- ish and English words. The people cheered our dancing; it was quite an event. Dona Sofia wondered if Don Pablo would have learned to dance like that. Don Enrique's dancing, his manner, his clothes, his whole attitude are foreign to Santa Cruz Etla, things which forebode too much change. Personally I hope Don Pablo did not learn to dance like that. Dona Estefana's whole household was certainly anxious to have Don Pablo come home. She had said sadly to me, Somos todas gallinas aqui en la gallinera, sin gallo (we are all hens here in this henhouse; there is no rooster). Joel, Cassiano, and Aurelio did not yet count as roosters in her estimation; Don Amado was dead and Don Ignacio, her son, was living in San Pablo. It would almost have been worth a special trip to Santa Cruz Etla to have seen Don Pablo when he first came back in 1946. Then I would have asked him the questions: how did he like harvesting with machinery, irrigating from a ditch larger than the main river of Oaxaca Valley, turning on the electricity in his bunkhouse, etc. I kept thinking about those things the Mexico City authorities wanted their groups of traveling rural teachers, the cultural mis- sionaries, to do. After his experiences in the United States wouldn't Don Pablo have wanted to do some of those things on the list?- plant fruit trees of diversified types (Don Florenzio had long since done that); introduce new crops; build small reservoirs for 243 DON PABLO EL BRACERO Don Enrique el Alto had learned more than that in the United States. He had learned to dance as no hill Indian ever danced with a woman. He had rhythm and grace; he glided and turned. The others always shufle forward and back, barefooted or in sloppy sandals on the rough ground. He was the finest dancer I ever danced with in Oaxaca. In the United States he would be called a "hot number." He knew all the "cheek-to-cheek" techniques. I did not like to keep dancing with him for fear the people would be offended at his style. But they were interested and amused. He had told them he had learned English, and they thought we were gaily talking to each other in my language. However, I was merely gasping out answers to his confused mixture of Span- ish and English words. The people cheered our dancing; it was quite an event. Dona Sofia wondered if Don Pablo would have learned to dance like that. Don Enrique's dancing, his manner, his clothes, his whole attitude are foreign to Santa Cruz Etla, things which forebode too much change. Personally I hope Don Pablo did not learn to dance like that. Dona Estefana's whole household was certainly anxious to have Don Pablo come home. She had said sadly to me, Somos todas gallinas aqui en la gallinera, sin gallo (we are all hens here in this henhouse; there is no rooster). Joel, Cassiano, and Aurelio did not yet count as roosters in her estimation; Don Amado was dead and Don Ignacio, her son, was living in San Pablo. It would almost have been worth a special trip to Santa Cruz Etla to have seen Don Pablo when he first came back in 1946. Then I would have asked him the questions: how did he like harvesting with machinery, irrigating from a ditch larger than the main river of Oaxaca Valley, turning on the electricity in his bunkhouse, etc. I kept thinking about those things the Mexico City authorities wanted their groups of traveling rural teachers, the cultural mis- sionaries, to do. After his experiences in the United States wouldn't Don Pablo have wanted to do some of those things on the list?- plant fruit trees of diversified types (Don Florenzio had long since done that); introduce new crops; build small reservoirs for 243  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS year-round irrigation; study crop rotation; establish hatcheries. A season of picking apples or thinning beets would hardly teach the know-how of all those things. "Electric connections" is not listed, as most villages to be visited by any such missionary groups were much more remote from electric lines than was Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo was still full of the idea of the electricity and had spoken to Don Martin and Don Feliz about it in 1953. There is the new seminario, a training school for the Jesuits, on the same level of foothills not far away, built in 1952. It has both electric lights and a telephone, so the wire between Etla and Oaxaca City has been tapped for local use. Don Martin, at Don Pablo's urging, went to the electric light commissioner's office in Oaxaca to ask about it. He did not understand their answer well enough to explain it to me, but evidently he was told that a local generator, run by gaso- line, would be as cheap as bringing the line down into Santa Cruz. This answer made my scientifically-minded husband snort in dis- gust. "Politics in the woodpile, somewhere! They just don't want to bother with meters and bills and collections from so many little users." At any rate, Don Pablo clung to the idea of the electric line even more strongly when he returned from the United States. But he gave up all his other ideas about farming. Evidently he stayed at home with Dona Sofia through the harvest season of 1947, then he went off to find work in Oaxaca Citv. He came home on Saturdays with the San Lorenzo bus and returned on foot and by train on Sunday night. He turned his money over to Dona Sofia, and she bought the tile roof and then clothes and dishes for herself, though these latter were not quite up to city fashion. Then when the bright little Leopoldo, only child of Sofia and Pablo, was through the four grades of the Santa Cruz school, she sent him, in store- bought clothes, down to the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo. When Leopoldo was in the sixth grade and almost ready to pass the examination for completion, Don Pablo, tired of a small- town job and anxious to work out a future for his son in the city, went to the national capital. There he found work in a factory making glazed tile for fancy, new city floors. Three months after Leopoldo finished school in 1953, Don Pablo took time off from his 244 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS year-round irrigation; study crop rotation; establish hatcheries. A season of picking apples or thinning beets would hardly teach the know-how of all those things. "Electric connections" is not listed, as most villages to be visited by any such missionary groups were much more remote from electric lines than was Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo was still full of the idea of the electricity and had spoken to Don Martin and Don Feliz about it in 1953. There is the new seminario, a training school for the Jesuits, on the same level of foothills not far away, built in 1952. It has both electric lights and a telephone, so the wire between Etla and Oaxaca City has been tapped for local use. Don Martin, at Don Pablo's urging, went to the electric light commissioner's office in Oaxaca to ask about it. He did not understand their answer well enough to explain it to me, but evidently he was told that a local generator, run by gaso- line, would be as cheap as bringing the line down into Santa Cruz. This answer made my scientifically-minded husband snort in dis- gust. "Politics in the woodpile, somewhere! They just don't want to bother with meters and bills and collections from so many little users." At any rate, Don Pablo clung to the idea of the electric line even more strongly when he returned from the United States. But he gave up all his other ideas about farming. Evidently he stayed at home with Dona Sofia through the harvest season of 1947, then he went off to find work in Oaxaca City. He came home on Saturdays with the San Lorenzo bus and returned on foot and by train on Sunday night. He turned his money over to Dona Sofia, and she bought the tile roof and then clothes and dishes for herself, though these latter were not quite up to city fashion. Then when the bright little Leopoldo, only child of Sofia and Pablo, was through the four grades of the Santa Cruz school, she sent him, in store- bought clothes, down to the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo. When Leopoldo was in the sixth grade and almost ready to pass the examination for completion, Don Pablo, tired of a small- town job and anxious to work out a future for his son in the city, went to the national capital. There he found work in a factoryn making glazed tile for fancy, new city floors. Three months after Leopoldo finished school in 1953, Don Pablo took time off from his 244 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS year-round irrigation; study crop rotation; establish hatcheries. A season of picking apples or thinning beets would hardly teach the know-how of all those things. "Electric connections" is not listed, as most villages to be visited by any such missionary groups were much more remote from electric lines than was Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo was still full of the idea of the electricity and had spoken to Don Martin and Don Feliz about it in 1953. There is the new seminario, a training school for the Jesuits, on the same level of foothills not far away, built in 1952. It has both electric lights and a telephone, so the wire between Etla and Oaxaca Citn has been tapped for local use. Don Martin, at Don Pablo's urging, went to the electric light commissioner's office in Oaxaca to ask about it. He did not understand their answer well enough to explain it to me, but evidently he was told that a local generator, run by gaso- line, would be as cheap as bringing the line down into Santa Cruz. This answer made my scientifically-minded husband snort in dis- gust. "Politics in the woodpile, somewhere! They just don't want to bother with meters and bills and collections from so man little users." At any rate, Don Pablo clung to the idea of the electric line even more strongly when he returned from the United States. But he gave up all his other ideas about farming. Evidently he stayed at home with Dona Sofia through the harvest season of 1947, then he went off to find work in Oaxaca City. He came home on Saturdays with the San Lorenzo bus and returned on foot and by train on Sunday night. He turned his money over to Dona Sofia, and she bought the tile roof and then clothes and dishes for herself, though these latter were not quite up to city fashion. Then when the bright little Leopoldo, only child of Sofia and Pablo, was through the four grades of the Santa Cruz school, she sent him, in store- bought clothes, down to the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo. When Leopoldo was in the sixth grade and almost ready to pass the examination for completion, Don Pablo, tired of a small- town job and anxious to work out a future for his son in the eitv, went to the national capital. There he found work in a factory making glazed tile for fancy, new city floors. Three months after Leopoldo finished school in 1953, Don Pablo took time off from his 244  THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO job and came home again. When he returned, Leopoldo went with him. Dona Estefana was already ailing; and though evidently Don Pablo was willing and anxious to take his wife to Mexico City, she felt she could not leave her mother. In 1954 Sofia sat in the dark adobe house and waited on the childish little old invalid, while her menfolks, her "roosters," made good money in the city. "Oh, yes, I will go to Pablo in the city, when la mamacita dies, Dona Elena, what else?" she said. "Naturally, I will have to go. What does one do in the city? How does one make tortillas without wood from the hills? I hear there is no houseyard there, no room for the animalitos. I surely wish, Dona Elena, that Pablo had never gone to your country. Then he would have been happy farming here in Santa Cruz Etla." Leopoldo, in touch with me occasionally by letter from Mexico City, writes that his mother has never yet left Santa Cruz Etla, that month after month, season after season, she has found an excuse to stay alone in the empty house on Dona Estefana's back acre. Probably Don Amado would have discounted Don Pablo, when he came to consider all those who got some education through the school. Don Pablo is intelligent and aggressive, and he has made his son Leopoldo a modernized white-collar worker in the city. But Santa Cruz Etla is no better off because of him. TRYING TO LOOK through Don Amado's eyes, I had thought about the boys who had learned to read and write, as young adults, from Rosita. No one in Santa Cruz ever learned to write any better than either the happy stay-at-home Chico, or the dissatisfied wan- derer Pablo. Yet neither of them is what Don Amado hoped for. Those whom I taught myself in the campana contra analfabetismo are even less so. When I looked again in 1954 to see what a little learning had accomplished for the Ramirez brothers, Elijeo and Eliseo, they 245 THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO job and came home again. When he returned, Leopoldo went with him. Doia Estefana was already ailing; and though evidently Don Pablo was willing and anxious to take his wife to Mexico City, she felt she could not leave her mother. In 1954 Sofia sat in the dark adobe house and waited on the childish little old invalid, while her menfolks, her "roosters," made good money in the city. "Oh, yes, I will go to Pablo in the city, when la mamacita dies, Dofia Elena, what else?" she said. "Naturally, I will have to go. What does one do in the city? How does one make tortillas without wood from the hills? I hear there is no houseyard there, no room for the animalitos. I surely wish, Dona Elena, that Pablo had never gone to your country. Then he would have been happy farming here in Santa Cruz Etla." Leopoldo, in touch with me occasionally by letter from Mexico City, writes that his mother has never yet left Santa Cruz Etla, that month after month, season after season, she has found an excuse to stay alone in the empty house on Dona Estdfana's back acre. Probably Don Amado would have discounted Don Pablo, when he came to consider all those who got some education through the school. Don Pablo is intelligent and aggressive, and he has made his son Leopoldo a modernized white-collar worker in the city. But Santa Cruz Etla is no better off because of him. TRYING To woxr through Don Amado's eyes, I had thought about the boys who had learned to read and write, as young adults, from Rosita. No one in Santa Cruz ever learned to write any better than either the happy stay-at-home Chico, or the dissatisfied wan- derer Pablo. Yet neither of them is what Don Amado hoped for. Those whom I taught myself in the campaha contra analfabetismo are even less so. When I looked again in 1954 to see what a little learning had accomplished for the Ramirez brothers, Elijeo and Eliseo, they 245 THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO job and came home again. When he returned, Leopoldo went with him. Dona Estdfana was already ailing; and though evidently Don Pablo was willing and anxious to take his wife to Mexico City, she felt she could not leave her mother. In 1954 Sofia sat in the dark adobe house and waited on the childish little old invalid, while her menfolks, her "roosters," made good money in the city. "Oh, yes, I will go to Pablo in the city, when la mamacita dies, Dona Elena, what else?" she said. "Naturally, I will have to go. What does one do in the city? How does one make tortillas without wood from the hills? I hear there is no houseyard there, no room for the animalitos. I surely wish, Dona Elena, that Pablo had never gone to your country. Then he would have been happy farming here in Santa Cruz Etla." Leopoldo, in touch with me occasionally by letter from Mexico City, writes that his mother has never yet left Santa Cruz Etla, that month after month, season after season, she has found an excuse to stay alone in the empty house on Dona Estdfana's back acre. Probably Don Amado would have discounted Don Pablo, when he came to consider all those who got some education through the school. Don Pablo is intelligent and aggressive, and he has made his son Leopoldo a modernized white-collar worker in the city. But Santa Cruz Etla is no better off because of him. TRYING TO moxK through Don Amado's eyes, I had thought about the boys who had learned to read and write, as young adults, from Rosita. No one in Santa Cruz ever learned to write any better than either the happy stay-at-home Chico, or the dissatisfied wan- derer Pablo. Yet neither of them is what Don Amado hoped for. Those whom I taught myself in the campana contra analfabetismo are even less so. When I looked again in 1954 to see what a little learning had accomplished for the Ramirez brothers, Elijeo and Eliseo, they 245  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS were not there to look for. I knew that they had one of the worst pieces of land to work in all the Etla Hills and that they really de- pended on the woodcutting. With that source of income becoming more and more difficult to tap and with no children to hold them on the land, all three of them, the two men and Eostolia uprooted themselves and left Santa Cruz Etla after the mother of the brothers died of old age. Strangely enough, they went to Etla town. Being near the Pan American Highway, Etla has had some- thing of a boom after three sleepy centuries, and now it has some permanent refreshment booths in the little church plaza. Here, according to Chico, Eostolia was able to get a license to operate a concession because she could prove she was literate - thanks to those lessons I taught her at the "Ldpez School for Beginners" in the drowsy afternoons at Patrocina's. Now she and Elijeo buy ice from the one ice-cream store in Etla, spend hours shaving it into slush, and then sell the slush in cones, covered with raspberry or other juicy-colored flavoring syrup, a delicacy called raspada. Evi- dently Eliseo does not stay in the booth; he hawks the cones up and down the plaza. They had sent thirty pesos up to Santa Cruz for the new church building, which implied that they were not doing very well. Only Eliseo had come home for the May fiesta in 1954, because over the Cinco de Mayo Eostolia and Elijeo could sell many raspadas in Etla town. I am sorry not to have looked them up in Etla, since I had felt so idealistic about teaching them to read nine years before. At least when they had to leave their tieea, because the land itself did not treat them well, their ability to read and write helped them get into something else. Young and forward-looking, they easily put down roots in some new place. Don Amado would have been dis- appointed in this and would have expected more from the campafa. Don Ceferino Jimenez, who always knew how to read music, who was something of a "masher" and more than willing to dance with his "literacy" teacher when he broke his bass viol at an angelita, showed more promise for Santa Cruz Etla. In 1945 he had an eight- year-old boy in the first grade and a ten-year-old boy in the second, who came to school so seldom I hardly identified them. Father and 246 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS were not there to look for. I knew that they had one of the worst pieces of land to work in all the Etla Hills and that they really de- pended on the woodcutting. With that source of income becoming more and more difficult to tap and with no children to hold them on the land, all three of them, the two men and Eostolia uprooted themselves and left Santa Cruz Etla after the mother of the brothers died of old age. Strangely enough, they went to Etla town. Being near the Pan American Highway, Etla has had some- thing of a boom after three sleepy centuries, and now it has some permanent refreshment booths in the little church plaza. Here, according to Chico, Eostolia was able to get a license to operate a concession because she could prove she was literate - thanks to those lessons I taught her at the "Lpez School for Beginners" in the drowsy afternoons at Patrocina's. Now she and Elijeo buy ice from the one ice-cream store in Etla, spend hours shaving it into slush, and then sell the slush in cones, covered with raspberry or other juicy-colored flavoring syrup, a delicacy called raspada. Evi- dently Eliseo does not stay in the booth; he hawks the cones up and down the plaza. They had sent thirty pesos up to Santa Cruz for the new church building, which implied that they were not doing very well. Only Eliseo had come home for the May fiesta in 1954, because over the Cinco de Mayo Eostolia and Elijeo could sell many raspadas in Etla town. I am sorry not to have looked them up in Etla, since I had felt so idealistic about teaching them to read nine years before. At least when they had to leave their tierra, because the land itself did not treat them well, their ability to read and write helped them get into something else. Young and forward-looking, they easily put down roots in some new place. Don Amado would have been dis- appointed in this and would have expected more from the campana. Don Ceferino Jiminez, who always knew how to read music, who was something of a "masher" and more than willing to dance with his "literacy" teacher when he broke his bass viol at an angelita, showed more promise for Santa Cruz Etla. In 1945 he had an eight- year-old boy in the first grade and a ten-year-old boy in the second, who came to school so seldom I hardly identified them. Father and 246 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS were not there to look for. I knew that they had one of the worst pieces of land to work in all the Etla Hills and that they really de- pended on the woodcutting. With that source of income becoming more and more difficult to tap and with no children to hold them on the land, all three of them, the two men and Eostolia uprooted themselves and left Santa Cruz Etla after the mother of the brothers died of old age. Strangely enough, they went to Etla town. Being near the Pan American Highway, Etla has had some- thing of a boom after three sleepy centuries, and now it has some permanent refreshment booths in the little church plaza. Here, according to Chico, Eostolia was able to get a license to operate a concession because she could prove she was literate - thanks to those lessons I taught her at the "Ldpez School for Beginners" in the drowsy afternoons at Patrocina's. Now she and Elijeo buy ice from the one ice-cream store in Etla, spend hours shaving it into slush, and then sell the slush in cones, covered with raspberry or other juicy-colored flavoring syrup, a delicacy called raspada. Evi- dently Eliseo does not stay in the booth; he hawks the cones up and down the plaza. They had sent thirty pesos up to Santa Cruz for the new church building, which implied that they were not doing very well. Only Eliseo had come home for the May fiesta in 1954, because over the Cinco de Mayo Eostolia and Elijeo could sell many raspadas in Etla town. I am sorry not to have looked them up in Etla, since I had felt so idealistic about teaching them to read nine years before. At least when they had to leave their tierra, because the land itself did not treat them well, their ability to read and write helped them get into something else. Young and forward-looking, they easily put down roots in some new place. Don Amado would have been dis- appointed in this and would have expected more from the campafa. Don Ceferino Jimsnez, who always knew how to read music, who was something of a "masher" and more than willing to dance with his "literacy" teacher when he broke his bass viol at an angelita, showed more promise for Santa Cruz Etla. In 1945 he had an eight- year-old boy in the first grade and a ten-year-old boy in the second, who came to school so seldom I hardly identified them. Father and 246  . . - .  f I " VFW = e si Apr ( Mgt 311. t". fiQ r JJ i , i r f { t ,y r ApP r n van I' d .. e l } x p : -.. JAY  THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO both sons followed "intellectual" careers, however. They succeeded also in accomplishing something else Don Amado wanted, recog- nition for Santa Cruz Etla at the expense of San Pablo. Whenever music was to be hired for fiestas, it never used to be the Santa Cruz band, which had so few good musicians. Don Mar- tin had hired the San Pablo musicians for the first angelito we ever attended; the orchestra from San Luis Ocotithin always came for the May fiesta, I had been told. I was pleased, therefore, to Rnd five musicians with modern instruments, a good set of drums, and real music stands, summoned quickly by Don Feliz and ready to play for us on the school steps that day in 1954 when we had the oxen pull us out of the mud. This was Don Ceferino's own family orchestra. Giving up the bass viol, he himself always played the fiddle and acted as "conductor." One son played the slide trombone, another the clarinet, instruments he had purchased for them and probably had taught them to play. With a nephew at the drums and another at the cornet, Don Ceferino had a well-trained little group with a big repertoire. Gone were Don Ceferino's sly sallies at things feminine; his hair thinned, his face lined, he looked twenty years older, now that his sons were grown. (But of course, so did his "literacy" teacher.) Santa Cruz Etla was proud of the Jimenez orchestra, though. Chico, with no ill will since he no longer plays the violin outside the family circle, bragged about them. "They were hired for three hundred pesos to play for the San Pablo fiesta in honor of Saint Paul, Dona Elena, isn't that magnifico? There never was a band in San Pablo which knew as many pieces as they." Don Ceferino had given a hundred pesos of this money to the Santa Cruz Etla fiesta fund, though he and his sons, then seventeen and nineteen, had each al- ready paid the church-building fee of a hundred pesos. "I have always been obligated to you that you taught me the letters, so many years ago, Dona Elena," said this new Don Cefe- rino, very formally. (It wasn't so many years ago, though, Don Ceferino, not as the years go for Santa Cruz Etla, nor for you or for me, either.) When he came again with his troupe to play all day the Sunday 247 THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO both sons followed "intellectual" careers, however. They succeeded also in accomplishing something else Don Amado wanted, recog- nition for Santa Cruz Etla at the expense of San Pablo. Whenever music was to be hired for fiestas, it never used to be the Santa Cruz band, which had so few good musicians. Don Mar- tin had hired the San Pablo musicians for the first angelito we ever attended; the orchestra from San Luis Ocotitlin always came for the May fiesta, I had been told. I was pleased, therefore, to find five musicians with modern instruments, a good set of drums, and real music stands, summoned quickly by Don Feliz and ready to play for us on the school steps that day in 1954 when we had the oxen pull us out of the mud. This was Don Ceferino's own family orchestra. Giving up the bass viol, he himself always played the fiddle and acted as "conductor." One son played the slide trombone, another the clarinet, instruments he had purchased for them and probably had taught them to play. With a nephew at the drums and another at the cornet, Don Ceferino had a well-trained little group with a big repertoire. Gone were Don Ceferino's sly sallies at things feminine; his hair thinned, his face lined, he looked twenty years older, now that his sons were grown. (But of course, so did his "literacy" teacher.) Santa Cruz Etla was proud of the Jimenez orchestra, though. Chico, with no ill will since he no longer plays the violin outside the family circle, bragged about them. "They were hired for three hundred pesos to play for the San Pablo fiesta in honor of Saint Paul, Dona Elena, isn't that magnifico? There never was a band ii San Pablo which knew as many pieces as they." Don Ceferino had given a hundred pesos of this money to the Santa Cruz Etla fiesta fund, though he and his sons, then seventeen and nineteen, had each al- ready paid the church-building fee of a hundred pesos. "I have always been obligated to you that you taught me the letters, so many years ago, Dona Elena," said this new Don Cefe- rino, very formally. (It wasn't so many years ago, though, Don Ceferino, not as the years go for Santa Cruz Etla, nor for you or for me, either.) When he came again with his troupe to play all day the Sunday 247 THE RAMIREZ BROTHERS AND DON CEFERINO both sons followed "intellectual" careers, however. They succeeded also in accomplishing something else Don Amado wanted, recog- nition for Santa Cruz Etla at the expense of San Pablo. Whenever music was to be hired for fiestas, it never used to be the Santa Cruz band, which had so few good musicians. Don Mar- tin had hired the San Pablo musicians for the first angelito we ever attended; the orchestra from San Luis Ocotitlin always came for the May fiesta, I had been told. I was pleased, therefore, to nd five musicians with modern instruments, a good set of drums, and real music stands, summoned quickly by Don Feliz and ready to play for us on the school steps that day in 1954 when we had the oxen pull us out of the mud. This was Don Ceferino's own family orchestra. Giving up the bass viol, he himself always played the fiddle and acted as "conductor." One son played the slide trombone, another the clarinet, instruments he had purchased for them and probably had taught them to play. With a nephew at the drums and another at the cornet, Don Ceferino had a well-trained little group with a big repertoire. Gone were Don Ceferino's sly sallies at things feminine; his hair thinned, his face lined, he looked twenty years older, now that his sons were grown. (But of course, so did his "literacy" teacher.) Santa Cruz Etla was proud of the Jimenez orchestra, though. Chico, with no ill will since he no longer plays the violin outside the family circle, bragged about them. "They were hired for three hundred pesos to play for the San Pablo fiesta in honor of Saint Paul, Dona Elena, isn't that magnifico? There never was a band in San Pablo which knew as many pieces as they." Don Ceferino had given a hundred pesos of this money to the Santa Cruz Etla fiesta fund, though he and his sons, then seventeen and nineteen, had each al- ready paid the church-building fee of a hundred pesos. "I have always been obligated to you that you taught me the letters, so many years ago, Dona Elena," said this new Don Cefe- rino, very formally. (It wasn't so many years ago, though, Don Ceferino, not as the years go for Santa Cruz Etla, nor for you or for me, either.) When he came again with his troupe to play all day the Sunday 247  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS we left, and Don Ceferino told me he would take no money from the town funds because his gratitude to me was still so great, I took courage to ask him: "How have you used the reading and writing, Don Ceferino? Often and with ease?" "Oh, not with ease, Dona Elena, I have nothing to read and nothing to write, though I like to see the names of new pieces, and to go into music stores in Oaxaca boldly to write down the names of pieces we would like ordered. But the writing still comes hard, and letters of the alphabet are not so easy to read as the notes of music." So Don Ceferino, with enough push and persistence to have learned to read and write in his mid-forties, had enough push also to create a band for Santa Cruz Etla better than those of the sur- rounding towns, and to keep his sons tied to him with a bond of mutual interest and welfare. There seems to be no other connection between the campaign against illiteracy and Don Ceferino's suc- cess. Don Amado might have been pleased with the success, anyway. .,-k, 6 ,s PERHAPS IT wAs to be the younger people, those who had been in school in 1934, who were to bring the honor and the improvements to Santa Cruz Etla. Perhaps those who got their education while they were of school age would fulfill Don Amado's hopes. Speaking of his dream for a Benito Juarez of Santa Cruz Eta. he had said on one of those long evenings at Doa Estdfana's: "The council should pick a boy and send him to school in Oaxaca with corn money from la parcela. We must give at least one of our young people the best education, in the years below twenty. The years between ten and twenty are the long ten years. These ten years begin a man's real life; after that, ten years, any ten years, are wasted and nothing." It had been Rosita's idea, at the time of my first visit to the school, that some boy from Santa Cruz Etla would be chosen on the Oaxaca State scholarship program and sent to the teacher-training 248 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS we left, and Don Ceferino told me he would take no money from the town funds because his gratitude to me was still so great, I took courage to ask him: "How have you used the reading and writing, Don Ceferino? Often and with ease?" "Oh, not with ease, Doa Elena, I have nothing to read and nothing to write, though I like to see the names of new pieces, and to go into music stores in Oaxaca boldly to write down the names of pieces we would like ordered. But the writing still comes hard, and letters of the alphabet are not so easy to read as the notes of music." So Don Ceferino, with enough push and persistence to have learned to read and write in his mid-forties, had enough push also to create a band for Santa Cruz Etla better than those of the sur- rounding towns, and to keep his sons tied to him with a bond of mutual interest and welfare. There seems to be no other connection between the campaign against illiteracy and Don Ceferino's suc- cess. Don Amado might have been pleased with the success, anyway. _,z 6 J PERoAPS IT wAS to be the younger people, those who had been in school in 1934, who were to bring the honor and the improvements to Santa Cruz Etla. Perhaps those who got their education while they were of school age would fulfill Don Amado's hopes. Speaking of his dream for a Benito Juirez of Santa Cruz Etla. he had said on one of those long evenings at Dona Estefana's: "The council should pick a boy and send him to school in Oaxaca with corn money from la parcela. We must give at least one of our young people the best education, in the years below twenty. The years between ten and twenty are the long ten years. These ten years begin a man's real life; after that, ten years, any ten years, are wasted and nothing." It had been Rosita's idea, at the time of my first visit to the school, that some boy from Santa Cruz Etla would be chosen on the Oaxaca State scholarship program and sent to the teacher-training 248 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS we left, and Don Ceferino told me he would take no money from the town funds because his gratitude to me was still so great, I took courage to ask him: "How have you used the reading and writing, Don Ceferino? Often and with ease?" "Oh, not with ease, Dona Elena, I have nothing to read and nothing to write, though I like to see the names of new pieces, and to go into music stores in Oaxaca boldly to write down the names of pieces we would like ordered. But the writing still comes hard, and letters of the alphabet are not so easy to read as the notes of music." So Don Ceferino, with enough push and persistence to have learned to read and write in his mid-forties, had enough push also to create a band for Santa Cruz Etla better than those of the sur- rounding towns, and to keep his sons tied to him with a bond of mutual interest and welfare. There seems to be no other connection between the campaign against illiteracy and Don Ceferino's suc- cess. Don Amado might have been pleased with the success, anvyavy. .-t, 6 PERHAPS IT wAS to be the younger people, those who had been in school in 1934, who were to bring the honor and the improvements to Santa Cruz Etla. Perhaps those who got their education while they were of school age would fulfill Don Amado's hopes. Speaking of his dream for a Benito Juirez of Santa Cruz Etla. he had said on one of those long evenings at Dona Estfana's: "The council should pick a boy and send him to school in Oaxaca with corn money from la parcela. We must give at least one of our young people the best education, in the years below twenty. The years between ten and twenty are the long ten years. These ten years begin a man's real life; after that, ten years, any ten years, are wasted and nothing." It had been Rosita's idea, at the time of my first visit to the school, that some boy from Santa Cruz Etla would be chosen on the Oaxaca State scholarship program and sent to the teacher-training 248  NICO school, as young El Maestro had been trained, so that he could be returned to teach in his own community-the scientific agricultural teaching of the cultural missions program. Whenever Rosita spoke about this idea, it was Doia Pastorcita's Nico she had in mind. Every time I mentioned him in my 1934 diary, I said: "Nicolis Ldpez, the brightest boy in school." He was in the fourth grade then. Our movies show him sprinkling down the tile floor of the school porch, superintending the moving of chairs and tables, ringing the bell. One movie sequence shows all the boys, Joel, Aurelio, and even Crescencio, at work in the school garden. It is certainly amusing to run the movie over and see them, "frozen" forever as boys of primary-school age, and then to know them as they are now, fathers of the community. But in those movies of the garden, it is always Nico who is working. He waters the roses; he plants the beans; he digs furrows round the corn and spinach. His serious little face is always turned toward the work, never toward the camera. We have thought of Nico through the years as looking just like this. He was a very good student also, the best boy at reading and writing and arithmetic. Often Rosita had him teach the beginning classes; he sang the folk songs and danced the folk dances to show off the school. In short, he was a model pupil and would do justice to the honor of Santa Cruz Etla in any scholarship program. The Oaxaca teacher-training scholarship program ended up by serving only non-Spanish-speaking, primitive Indian communities. In order to go to school in Oaxaca on his own for the teacher-train- ing program, a boy would have to have rural school classes through the sixth grade, which was possible even in San Pablo only when there were four students who wanted to go so far. Nico was needed so much at home; Rosita went to teach in Mitla; Don Amado had waited in vain for a good corn year and could not send on even his own son. I remember saying whenever I showed the movies of Nico gardening: "That is the boy who is going to be sent on schol- arship to learn to be a teacher among his people"; but it was never to come true. It was evident in 1945 that Nico did not mind then, if he ever 249 NICO school, as young El Maestro had been trained, so that he could be returned to teach in his own community-the scientific agricultural teaching of the cultural missions program. Whenever Rosita spoke about this idea, it was Dona Pastorcita's Nico she had in mind. Every time I mentioned him in my 1934 diary, I said: "Nicolis Ldpez, the brightest boy in school." He was in the fourth grade then. Our movies show him sprinkling down the tile floor of the school porch, superintending the moving of chairs and tables, ringing the bell. One movie sequence shows all the boys, Joel, Aurelio, and even Crescencio, at work in the school garden. It is certainly amusing to run the movie over and see them, "frozen" forever as boys of primary-school age, and then to know them as they are now, fathers of the community. But in those movies of the garden, it is always Nico who is working. He waters the roses; he plants the beans; he digs furrows round the corn and spinach. His serious little face is always turned toward the work, never toward the camera. We have thought of Nico through the years as looking just like this. He was a very good student also, the best boy at reading and writing and arithmetic. Often Rosita had him teach the beginning classes; he sang the folk songs and danced the folk dances to show off the school. In short, he was a model pupil and would do justice to the honor of Santa Cruz Etla in any scholarship program. The Oaxaca teacher-training scholarship program ended up by serving only non-Spanish-speaking, primitive Indian communities. In order to go to school in Oaxaca on his own for the teacher-train- ing program, a boy would have to have rural school classes through the sixth grade, which was possible even in San Pablo only when there were four students who wanted to go so far. Nico was needed so much at home; Rosita went to teach in Mitla; Don Amado had waited in vain for a good corn year and could not send on even his own son. I remember saying whenever I showed the movies of Nico gardening: "That is the boy who is going to be sent on schol- arship to learn to be a teacher among his people"; but it was never to come true. It was evident in 1945 that Nico did not mind then, if he ever 249 NICO school, as young El Maestro had been trained, so that he could be returned to teach in his own community-the scientific agricultural teaching of the cultural missions program. Whenever Rosita spoke about this idea, it was Dofa Pastorcita's Nico she had in mind. Every time I mentioned him in my 1934 diary, I said: "Nicolis Ldpez, the brightest boy in school." He was in the fourth grade then. Our movies show him sprinkling down the tile floor of the school porch, superintending the moving of chairs and tables, ringing the bell. One movie sequence shows all the boys, Joel, Aurelio, and even Crescencio, at work in the school garden. It is certainly amusing to run the movie over and see them, "frozen" forever as boys of primary-school age, and then to know them as they are now, fathers of the community. But in those movies of the garden, it is always Nico who is working. He waters the roses; he plants the beans; he digs furrows round the corn and spinach. His serious little face is always turned toward the work, never toward the camera. We have thought of Nico through the years as looking just like this. He was a very good student also, the best boy at reading and writing and arithmetic. Often Rosita had him teach the beginning classes; he sang the folk songs and danced the folk dances to show off the school. In short, he was a model pupil and would do justice to the honor of Santa Cruz Etla in any scholarship program. The Oaxaca teacher-training scholarship program ended up by serving only non-Spanish-speaking, primitive Indian communities. In order to go to school in Oaxaca on his own for the teacher-train- ing program, a boy would have to have rural school classes through the sixth grade, which was possible even in San Pablo only when there were four students who wanted to go so far. Nic was needed so much at home; Rosita went to teach in Mitla; Don Amado had waited in vain for a good corn year and could not send on even his own son. I remember saying whenever I showed the movies of Nico gardening: "That is the boy who is going to be sent on schol- arship to learn to be a teacher among his people"; but it was never to come true. It was evident in 1945 that Nico did not mind then, if he ever 249  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS did. He had exactly the same boyish facial expression as at thirteen, and had grown only a little taller. His talk still had a boyish lisp. None of the boys looks his age, anyway; a Santa Cruz Etla man is often in his mid-twenties before there is anv hair on his face. Beard or no beard, Nico learned early to assume responsibility. During my summer at Doia Patrocina's, in 1945, he worked harder at the farm work than did any of his neighbors. However, Don Amado had had no interest in, nor patience nith, farm work. Would he think that one of the most successful farmers in Santa Cruz, the best farmer of all the younger people who had gone to school, was doing enough for, and in, Santa Cruz Etla to balance missing his chance at being a Benito Juirez? Nico got up at dawn and led the animals one by one across the trail to the brook for a drink. The cultural missions list includes "constructing buildings for animal shelters." Rosita did not teach Nico anything about sheds for the bigger animals, though she kept the school's rabbits in hutches. In 1945 there were no rabbits in Santa Cruz Etla, and Nico still kept his animals tethered in the yard. But the climate is mild there, and the animals were surely well cared for. When Nico tied them up again after the morning drink, he would hurry with a large burro pannier to the little patch of an alfalfa field beyond the mango trees. He would cut enough of the green alfalfa to fill the basket, making quick short strokes with the sickle. One full pannier fed the two oxen, a second the two gray burros, a third the brown burro and the pig. Already Esperanza would be coming back from Don Julio's mill with the corn; Doa Patrocina would have the fires started under the beans and the tortilla griddle; and La Abuelita would be out feed- ing the chickens and turkeys with handfuls of black corn. Chico was also up early to get the burros harnessed with the packs and ready to start for hills or market, and the two young men would have the first hot tortillas. Then Nico would bring up the old black and white ox and get out the yoke. The yoke was four feet wide, carved out of one big timber, with spoon-shaped places for the backs of the oxen's necks. Nico would lay the yoke over the black and white ox's neck right 250 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS did. He had exactly the same boyish facial expression as at thirteen., and had grown only a little taller. His talk still had a boyish lisp. None of the boys looks his age, anyway; a Santa Cruz Etla man is often in his mid-twenties before there is any hair on his face. Beard or no beard, Nico learned early to assume responsibility. During my summer at Doa Patrocina's, in 1945, he worked harder at the farm work than did any of his neighbors. However, Don Amado had had no interest in, nor patience with, farm work. Would he think that one of the most successful farmers in Santa Cruz, the best farmer of all the younger people who had gone to school, was doing enough for, and in, Santa Cruz Etla to balance missing his chance at being a Benito Juarez? Nico got up at dawn and led the animals one by one across the trail to the brook for a drink. The cultural missions list includes "constructing buildings for animal shelters." Rosita did not teach Nice anything about sheds for the bigger animals, though she kept the school's rabbits in hutches. In 1945 there were no rabbits in Santa Cruz Etla, and Nico still kept his animals tethered in the yard. But the climate is mild there, and the animals were surely well cared for. When Nico tied them up again after the morning drink, he would hurry with a large burro pannier to the little patch of an alfalfa field beyond the mango trees. He would cut enough of the green alfalfa to fill the basket, making quick short strokes with the sickle. One full pannier fed the two oxen, a second the two gray burros, a third the brown burro and the pig. Already Esperanza would be coming back from Don Julio's mill with the corn; Doia Patrocina would have the fires started under the beans and the tortilla griddle; and La Abuelita would be out feed- ing the chickens and turkeys with handfuls of black corn. Chico was also up early to get the burros harnessed with the packs and ready to start for hills or market, and the two young men would have the first hot tortillas. Then Nico would bring up the old black and white ox and get out the yoke. The yoke was four feet wide, carved out of one big timber, with spoon-shaped places for the backs of the oxen's necks. Nico would lay the yoke over the black and white ox's neck right 250 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS did. He had exactly the same boyish facial expression as at thirteen, and had grown only a little taller. His talk still had a boyish lisp. None of the boys looks his age, anyway; a Santa Cruz Etla man is often in his mid-twenties before there is any hair on his face. Beard or no beard, Nico learned early to assume responsibility. During my summer at Doa Patrocina's, in 1945, he worked harder at the farm work than did any of his neighbors. However, Don Amado had had no interest in, nor patience with, farm work. Would he think that one of the most successful farmers in Santa Cruz, the best farmer of all the younger people who had gone to school, was doing enough for, and in, Santa Cruz Etla to balance missing his chance at being a Benito Juairez? Nico got up at dawn and led the animals one by one across the trail to the brook for a drink. The cultural missions list includes "constructing buildings for animal shelters." Rosita did not teach Nico anything about sheds for the bigger animals, though she kept the school's rabbits in hutches. In 1945 there were no rabbits in Santa Cruz Etla, and Nico still kept his animals tethered in the yard. But the climate is mild there, and the animals were surely well cared for. When Nico tied them up again after the morning drink, he would hurry with a large burro pannier to the little patch of an alfalfa field beyond the mango trees. He would cut enough of the green alfalfa to fill the basket, making quick short strokes with the sickle. One full pannier fed the two oxen, a second the two gray burros, a third the brown burro and the pig. Already Esperanza would be coming back from Don Julio's mill with the corn; Doa Patrocina would have the fires started under the beans and the tortilla griddle; and La Abuelita would be out feed- ing the chickens and turkeys with handfuls of black corn. Chico was also up early to get the burros harnessed with the packs and ready to start for hills or market, and the two young men would have the first hot tortillas. Then Nice would bring up the old black and white ox and get out the yoke. The yoke was four feet wide, carved out of one big timber, with spoon-shaped places for the backs of the oxen's necks. Nico would lay the yoke over the black and white ox's neck right 250  NICO behind his horns. When it was thoroughly tied with rawhides, he placed a little basket made of woven hemp over the poor ox's mouth, so that he could not eat or drink all day. The black and white ox was always very docile throughout all this. He would stand alone, pulled uncomfortably sideways while the empty half of the yoke dragged the ground. The brown ox was not so mild. Nico twisted the hemp rope around his nose when he led him up to the yoke. As soon as the brown ox was standing beside the black and white, he would quiet down; but Nico often had trouble with him. One day he got away during the harnessing proc- ess and ran across into the schoolyard. I was afraid for the roses growing next door at Dona Paula's, and since I was the only one un- occupied, I helped give chase. I am sure this ox did not like me, anyway; he always glowered at me when I went by him to pick man- goes. This time, just seeing me chase him made him all the more anxious for freedom, and he set off down the ravine and across to the San Lorenzo ridge. Nico, much faster at running through corn- fields than I, was far behind him. The ox got all the way to the house of Don Melitfn Arroyo before we caught him. The oxen of the Etla Hills are seldom that wild, though; remember the time I sat under the nose of a strange one all through a social afternoon in San Pablo. Nico was not usually delayed so much in going to the fields. He would attach the long wooden tongue of the plow to the center of the yoke with more rawhide and go over the brow of the hill to plow. It must have been nearly eight then, on most mornings. Nico himself could always tell time by the sun. When my watch ran down and I had no time, I set the watch on Nico's advice. I did this on the morning the Oaxaca Department of Public Health came to vac- rinate everyone, and I found my watch only one minute wrong when compared with the doctor's. Nico knew when to quit for the midday meal; he and the oxen all knew without looking at the sun. In the harvest season, he told me, he came home and ate hurriedly and returned at once to work in the fields till dark. In the plowing and planting and weeding time, most of the men worked from seven-thirty or eight until about two- 251 NICO behind his horns. When it was thoroughly tied with rawhides, he placed a little basket made of woven hemp over the poor ox's mouth, so that he could not eat or drink all day. The black and white ox was always very docile throughout all this. He would stand alone, pulled uncomfortably sideways while the empty half of the yoke dragged the ground. The brown ox was not so mild. Nico twisted the hemp rope around his nose when he led him up to the yoke. As soon as the brown ox was standing beside the black and white, he would quiet down; but Nico often had trouble with him. One day he got away during the harnessing proc- ess and ran across into the schoolyard. I was afraid for the roses growing next door at Doia Paula's, and since I was the only one un- occupied, I helped give chase. I am sure this ox did not like me, anyway; he always glowered at me when I went by him to pick man- goes. This time, just seeing me chase him made him all the more anxious for freedom, and he set off down the ravine and across to the San Lorenzo ridge. Nico, much faster at running through corn- fields than I, was far behind him. The ox got all the way to the house of Don Melitin Arroyo before we caught him. The oxen of the Etla Hills are seldom that wild, though; remember the time I sat under the nose of a strange one all through a social afternoon in San Pablo. Nico was not usually delayed so much in going to the fields. He would attach the long wooden tongue of the plow to the center of the yoke with more rawhide and go over the brow of the hill to plow. It must have been nearly eight then, on most mornings. Nico himself could always tell time by the sun. When my watch ran down and I had no time, I set the watch on Nico's advice. I did this on the morning the Oaxaca Department of Public Health came to vac- cinate everyone, and I found my watch only one minute wrong when compared with the doctor's. Nico knew when to quit for the midday meal; he and the oxen all knew without looking at the sun. In the harvest season, he told me, he came home and ate hurriedly and returned at once to work in the fields till dark. In the plowing and planting and weeding time, most of the men worked from seven-thirty or eight until about two- 251 NICO behind his horns. When it was thoroughly tied with rawhides, he placed a little basket made of woven hemp over the poor ox's mouth, so that he could not eat or drink all day. The black and white ox was always very docile throughout all this. He would stand alone, pulled uncomfortably sideways while the empty half of the yoke dragged the ground. The brown ox was not so mild. Nico twisted the hemp rope around his nose when he led him up to the yoke. As soon as the brown ox was standing beside the black and white, he would quiet down; but Nico often had trouble with him. One day he got away during the harnessing proc- ess and ran across into the schoolyard. I was afraid for the roses growing next door at Doa Paula's, and since I was the only one un- occupied, I helped give chase. I am sure this ox did not like me, anyway; he always glowered at me when I went by him to pick man- goes. This time, just seeing me chase him made him all the more anxious for freedom, and he set off down the ravine and across to the San Lorenzo ridge. Nico, much faster at running through corn- fields than I, was far behind him. The ox got all the way to the house of Don Melitin Arroyo before we caught him. The oxen of the Etla Hills are seldom that wild, though; remember the time I sat under the nose of a strange one all through a social afternoon in San Pablo. Nico was not usually delayed so much in going to the fields. He would attach the long wooden tongue of the plow to the center of the yoke with more rawhide and go over the brow of the hill to plow. It must have been nearly eight then, on most mornings. Nico himself could always tell time by the sun. When my watch ran down and I had no time, I set the watch on Nico's advice. I did this on the morning the Oaxaca Department of Public Health came to vac- cinate everyone, and I found my watch only one minute wrong when compared with the doctor's. Nicu knew when to quit for the midday meal; he and the oxen all knew without looking at the sun. In the harvest season, he told me, he came home and ate hurriedly and returned at once to work in the fields till dark. In the plowing and planting and weeding time, most of the men worked from seven-thirty or eight until about two- 251  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS thirty. Nico would then unhitch the oxen, lead them one by one to water, and finally come in to his own dinner. After dinner, every day that I stayed around in the afternoon, he was busy with his "yard work"-making a new wooden plow, shelling corn to help the little grandmother with her turkeys, making new padding for the donkey packsaddle. He did not stop work till almost dusk, when it was time to cut three more baskets of alfalfa and to lead the oxen and the burros (if they were home yet) down for another drink. There is no real twilight in Santa Cruz Etla. It is too far south of the Tropic of Cancer. The sun goes down, and bang! it is dark. In the brief light before cena, Nico and the Leon boys would play like schoolboys. One evening I lay napping under the mango tree on the edge of the green alfalfa field. Suddenly I looked up and there were the three friends, all "mature young men on the police force," standing on their hands not six feet from me. They were as surprised to see me as I them, and we joked about it many times afterwards. The main problem of the farm is to decide when to do what. Nico must think of when to plant, and how much seed it will take per acre. This seed he must have saved out from the crop of the year before. The chickens and turkeys must be fed corn the year round, also. All this corn must be set aside from that apportioned out for tortillas for the family. Many families have to buy corn in a bad corn year, but never Dona Patrocina's, if Nico can help it, It was he who decided to take in the grandmother's turkeys when she came to Dofna Patrocina's house to live. "They eat a great deal of corn, Doia Elena, but they make such a good gasto for the fiestas and mayordomias," he said. I had to have someone justify the presence of these vicious, loud-voiced turkeys who made so much noise and took such a violent dislike to me. If they helped Nico, I would accept them. The alfalfa to feed the other animals had to be replanted every third year. Nico had done it three times since he had been in charge of the farming. It gets green in May, as soon as there is a little rain. and stays green, growing up over and over after it is cut, until the last of January. This is a fine thing, for there is usually no rain at 252 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS thirty. Nico would then unhitch the oxen, lead them one by one to water, and finally come in to his own dinner. After dinner, even day that I stayed around in the afternoon, he was busy with his "yard work"-making a new wooden plow, shelling corn to help the little grandmother with her turkeys, making new padding for the donkey packsaddle. He did not stop work till almost dusk, when it was time to cut three more baskets of alfalfa and to lead the oxen and the burros (if they were home yet) down for another drink. There is no real twilight in Santa Cruz Etla. It is too far south of the Tropic of Cancer. The sun goes down, and bang! it is dark. In the brief light before cena, Nico and the Leon boys would play like schoolboys. One evening I lay napping under the mango tree on the edge of the green alfalfa field. Suddenly I looked up and there were the three friends, all "mature young men on the police force," standing on their hands not six feet from me. They were as surprised to see me as I them, and we joked about it many times afterwards. The main problem of the farm is to decide when to do what. Nico must think of when to plant, and how much seed it will take per acre. This seed he must have saved out from the crop of the year before. The chickens and turkeys must be fed corn the vear round, also. All this corn must be set aside from that apportioned out for tortillas for the family. Many families have to buy corn in a bad corn year, but never Dofna Patrocina's, if Nico can help it. It was he who decided to take in the grandmother's turkeys when she came to Dofna Patrocina's house to live. "They eat a great deal of corn, Dona Elena, but they make such a good gasto for the fiestas and mayordomias," he said. I had to have someone justify the presence of these vicious, loud-voiced turkeys who made so much noise and took such a violent dislike to me. If they helped Nico, I would accept them. The alfalfa to feed the other animals had to be replanted every third year. Nico had done it three times since he had been in charge of the farming. It gets green in May, as soon as there is a little rain. and stays green, growing up over and over after it is cut, until the last of January. This is a fine thing, for there is usually no rain at 252 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS thirty. Nico would then unhitch the oxen, lead them one by one to water, and finally come in to his own dinner. After dinner, everv day that I stayed around in the afternoon, he was busy with his "yard work"-making a new wooden plow, shelling corn to help the little grandmother with her turkeys, making new padding for the donkey packsaddle. He did not stop work till almost dusk, when it was time to cut three more baskets of alfalfa and to lead the oxen and the burros (if they were home yet) down for another drink. There is no real twilight in Santa Cruz Etla. It is too far south of the Tropic of Cancer. The sun goes down, and bang! it is dark. In the brief light before cena, Nico and the Lein boys would play like schoolboys. One evening I lay napping under the mango tree on the edge of the green alfalfa field. Suddenly I looked up and there were the three friends, all "mature young men on the police force," standing on their hands not six feet from me. They were as surprised to see me as I them, and we joked about it many times afterwards. The main problem of the farm is to decide when to do what. Nico must think of when to plant, and how much seed it will take per acre. This seed he must have saved out from the crop of the year before. The chickens and turkeys must be fed corn the year round, also. All this corn must be set aside from that apportioned out for tortillas for the family. Many families have to buy corn in a bad corn year, but never Dona Patrocina's, if Nico can help it. It was he who decided to take in the grandmother's turkeys when she came to Donfa Patrocina's house to live. "They eat a great deal of corn, Dona Elena, but they make such a good gasto for the fiestas and mayordomias," he said. I had to have someone justify the presence of these vicious, loud-voiced turkeys who made so much noise and took such a violent dislike to me. If they helped Nico, I would accept them. The alfalfa to feed the other animals had to be replanted every third year. Nice had done it three times since he had been in charge of the farming. It gets green in May, as soon as there is a little rain, and stays green, growing up over and over after it is cut, until the last of January. This is a fine thing, for there is usually no rain at 252  NICO all from December to May. When the alfalfa is no longer green, the oxen must eat corn fodder. "February and March is a sad time, un tiempo triste para os animalitos," said Nico. Corn is planted usually the last of May. Nico puts beans in be- tween the rows of corn in the plot nearest the house, and squashes and chiles in the plot second nearest. Dofia Estefana planted gar- banzos in two acres of her land in 1944; we had chickpeas cooked in meat juice several times at Dona Patrocina's for dinner, so per- haps Nico had planted them the year before, also. Don F6liz Leon has often planted wheat, trigo, on his steep hillside quarter-hectare; he sold the wheat in 1944 for fifty pesos, a very good return on a quarter-hectare in those days. There was so little rain in 1945 that many families were still planting in the last of June. Nico had plowed and Chico had stayed home with him to help with the planting just a week before I came the last of June. Halfway through the summer, Nico was finishing the first plowing to clear weeds, done six weeks after planting. But over on the eroded San Lorenzo ridge, which I could see from the portico at Dona Patrocina's, men were plowing and women were planting after them, silhouetted against the sky, as late as the middle of July. What a contrast in 1954, that good corn year! By the time I came in the middle of July that year, everyone's corn was already lush and green. Twelve weeks after planting, Nico began to plow again. The corn would be harvested in October, toward the end of the rainy season. "A fine time of year, a great harvest festival," said Dofia Patrocina. "Then the rains have lessened. All rain ends by La Navidad, the Christmas time. The trees stay green but the grass turns brown. Everything is dust. It is the time of the very warm days but the very cold nights." I have never been in Santa Cruz Etla except when it is green and beautiful and flowers are everywhere. I would miss the banks of beautiful, white cumulus clouds which roam the sky all day in the rainy season. I am told that the sky is clear, hot, blue, all through the dry months. I know I don't want to be in Santa Cruz Etla when it is any colder. I was never really warm there at night. 253 NICO all from December to May. When the alfalfa is no longer green, the oxen must eat corn fodder. "February and March is a sad time, un tiempo triste para los animalitos," said Nico. Corn is planted usually the last of May. Nico puts beans in be- tween the rows of corn in the plot nearest the house, and squashes and chiles in the plot second nearest. Dona Estlefana planted gar- banzos in two acres of her land in 1944; we had chickpeas cooked in meat juice several times at Dofia Patrocina's for dinner, so per- haps Nico had planted them the year before, also. Don Fliz Letn has often planted wheat, trigo, on his steep hillside quarter-hectare; he sold the wheat in 1944 for fity pesos, a very good return on a quarter-hectare in those days. There was so little rain in 1945 that many families were still planting in the last of June. Nico had plowed and Chico had stayed home with him to help with the planting just a week before I came the last of June. Halfway through the summer, Nico was finishing the first plowing to clear weeds, done six weeks after planting. But over on the eroded San Lorenzo ridge, which I could see from the portico at Dona Patrocina's, men were plowing and women were planting after them, silhouetted against the sky, as late as the middle of July. What a contrast in 1954, that good corn year! By the time I came in the middle of July that year, everyone's corn was already lush and green. Twelve weeks after planting, Nico began to plow again. The corn would be harvested in October, toward the end of the rainy season. "A fine time of year, a great harvest festival," said Dofia Patrocina. "Then the rains have lessened. All rain ends by La Navidad, the Christmas time. The trees stay green but the grass turns brown. Everything is dust. It is the time of the very warm days but the very cold nights." I have never been in Santa Cruz Etla except when it is green and beautiful and flowers are everywhere. I would miss the banks of beautiful, white cumulus clouds which roam the sky all day in the rainy season. I am told that the sky is clear, hot, blue, all through the dry months. I know I don't want to be in Santa Cruz Etla when it is any colder. I was never really warm there at night. 253 NICO all from December to May. When the alfalfa is no longer green, the oxen must eat corn fodder. "February and March is a sad time, un tiempo triste para los animalitos," said Nico. Corn is planted usually the last of May. Nico puts beans in be- tween the rows of corn in the plot nearest the house, and squashes and chiles in the plot second nearest. Dona Estefana planted gar- banzos in two acres of her land in 1944; we had chickpeas cooked in meat juice several times at Dofa Patrocina's for dinner, so per- haps Nico had planted them the year before, also. Don Ftliz Leon has often planted wheat, trigo, on his steep hillside quarter-hectare; he sold the wheat in 1944 for fifty pesos, a very good return on a quarter-hectare in those days. There was so little rain in 1945 that many families were still planting in the last of June. Nico had plowed and Chico had stayed home with him to help with the planting just a week before I came the last of June. Halfway through the summer, Nico was finishing the first plowing to clear weeds, done six weeks after planting. But over on the eroded San Lorenzo ridge, which I could see from the portico at Dofia Patrocina's, men were plowing and women were planting after them, silhouetted against the sky, as late as the middle of July. What a contrast in 1954, that good corn year! By the time I came in the middle of July that year, everyone's corn was already lush and green. Twelve weeks after planting, Nico began to plow again. The corn would be harvested in October, toward the end of the rainy season. "A fine time of year, a great harvest festival," said Dona Patrocina. "Then the rains have lessened. All rain ends by La Nacidad, the Christmas time. The trees stay green but the grass turns brown. Everything is dust. It is the time of the very warm days but the very cold nights." I have never been in Santa Cruz Etla except when it is green and beautiful and flowers are everywhere. I would miss the banks of beautiful, white cumulus clouds which roam the sky all day in the rainy season. I am told that the sky is clear, hot, blue, all through the dry months. I know I don't want to be in Santa Cruz Etla when it is any colder. I was never really warm there at night. 253  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Although Nico works as hard as possible, rainy season and dry, he makes just enough for the family to eat-his family, Chico's, Dona Patrocina, and Don Fausto-for Chico still brings in the cash money and Nico does the food-producing for all. In the 1940's a good corn year produced enough to bring seventy or eighty pesos a hectare when sold for cash, fifteen or sixteen dollars in United States money. In the 1950's, with the higher prices all over Mexico, and the de- valuation of the peso, Nico's corn lands brought two hundred pesos' worth of corn a hectare, he figured (though this had about the same dollar value). Of course, since he didn't sell it, it had the same value as always for him-food for the family, fodder for the cattle, seed for the next year. In the 1940's I gave Dona Patrocina a peso (then twenty cents) a day to buy tidbits for me and the rest of the family while I was there, so the hectares of land did not have to support the summer visitor. I sat down to eat with the combined families twice during my 1954 visit, and neither time did they have anything like the fancy fare they had when I provided the peso's worth of dainties, I see in my 1945 notes that I had worried about the expansion of the family in the future. "Esperanza and Chico will have children," I wrote, "Nico will marry; in five years there will perhaps be many more mouths to feed. Even then there will be no more land, and neither Nico or Chico can leave to work elsewhere as they are both so busy with the work at home." Crops were better in 1954, prices were higher, but there were four more mouths to feed. Both young couples and the three little children had more store-bought clothes, and Nico had a factory-made jacket he bought for the May fiesta. He showed it to me with pride, saying, "Now, Dona Elenita, I never need wear a sarape again, this is so much lighter all over and keeps my arms warm too." So there were signs of prosperity in 1954. but no change in the kind of food or the amount each had to eat. No change in the equipment of house or farm, either. Nico made in 1945, and still does make, all the wooden things which the family uses. The boys had some metal tools, a pair of pliers, a sack-sewing needle, an adze, a chisel, an axe, and a machete, that long, all-pur- pose farm knife used by so many Indian peoples in the semi-tropics. 254 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Although Nico works as hard as possible, rainy season and dry, he makes just enough for the family to eat-his family, Chico's, Dona Patrocina, and Don Fausto-for Chico still brings in the cash money and Nico does the food-producing for all. In the 1940's a good corn year produced enough to bring seventy or eighty pesos a hectare when sold for cash, fifteen or sixteen dollars in United States money. In the 1950's, with the higher prices all over Mexico, and the de- valuation of the peso, Nico's corn lands brought two hundred pesos' worth of corn a hectare, he figured (though this had about the same dollar value). Of course, since he didn't sell it, it had the same value as always for him-food for the family, fodder for the cattle, seed for the next year. In the 1940's I gave Dona Patrocina a peso (then twenty cents) a day to buy tidbits for me and the rest of the family while I was there, so the hectares of land did not have to support the summer visitor. I sat down to eat with the combined families twice during my 1954 visit, and neither time did they have anything like the fancy fare they had when I provided the peso's worth of dainties. I see in my 1945 notes that I had worried about the expansion of the family in the future. "Esperanza and Chico will have children." I wrote, "Nico will marry; in five years there will perhaps be many more mouths to feed. Even then there will be no more land, and neither Nico or Chico can leave to work elsewhere as they are both so busy with the work at home." Crops were better in 1954, prices were higher, but there were four more mouths to feed. Both young couples and the three little children had more store-bought clothes, and Nico had a factory-made jacket he bought for the May fiesta. He showed it to me with pride, saying, "Now, Dona Elenita, I never need wear a sarape again, this is so much lighter all over and keeps my arms warm too." So there were signs of prosperity in 1954. but no change in the kind of food or the amount each had to eat. No change in the equipment of house or farm, either. Nico made in 1945, and still does make, all the wooden things which the family uses. The boys had some metal tools, a pair of pliers, a sack-sewing needle, an adze, a chisel, an axe, and a machete, that long, all-pur- pose farm knife used by so many Indian peoples in the semi-tropics. 254 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Although Nico works as hard as possible, rainy season and drv, he makes just enough for the family to eat-his family, Chico's, Dona Patrocina, and Don Fausto-for Chico still brings in the cash money and Nico does the food-producing for all. In the 1940's a good corn year produced enough to bring seventy or eighty pesos a hectare when sold for cash, fifteen or sixteen dollars in United States money. In the 1950's, with the higher prices all over Mexico. and the de- valuation of the peso, Nico's corn lands brought two hundred pesos' worth of corn a hectare, he figured (though this had about the same dollar value). Of course, since he didn't sell it, it had the same value as always for him-food for the family, fodder for the cattle, seed for the next year. In the 1940's I gave Dona Patrocina a peso (then twenty cents) a day to buy tidbits for me and the rest of the family while I was there, so the hectares of land did not have to support the summer visitor. I sat down to eat with the combined families twice during my 1954 visit, and neither time did they have anything like the fancy fare they had when I provided the peso's worth of dainties. I see in my 1945 notes that I had worried about the expansion of the family in the future. "Esperanza and Chico will have children," I wrote, "Nico will marry; in five years there will perhaps be many more mouths to feed. Even then there will be no more land, and neither Nico or Chico can leave to work elsewhere as they are both so busy with the work at home." Crops were better in 1954, prices were higher, but there were four more mouths to feed. Both young couples and the three little children had more store-bought clothes, and Nico had a factory-made jacket he bought for the May fhesta. He showed it to me with pride, saying, "Now, Dona Elenita, I never need wear a sarape again, this is so much lighter all over and keeps my arms warm too." So there were signs of prosperity in 1954, but no change in the kind of food or the amount each had to eat. No change in the equipment of house or farm, either. Nico made in 1945, and still does make, all the wooden things which the family uses. The boys had some metal tools, a pair of pliers, a sack-sewing needle, an adze, a chisel, an axe, and a machete, that long, all-pur- pose farm knife used by so many Indian peoples in the semi-tropics. 254  NICO Nice and Chico had no hammer; they used a homemade wooden mallet for pounding. With this limited equipment they fashioned all the wooden things they used; ox yokes, plows, hooks for saddle cinches, roof beams to replace the sagging ones, and even the chair and table. There was always a large stack of firewood in front of the house, ready to be sent to market. For a small thing like the saddle cinch hook or a new mallet, Nico would merely take a likely looking block of wood from the pile and hack away on it with the machete. I marveled at how smooth and finished everything looked. In the middle of the six-weeks' plowing that year, the old plow wore out. A wooden plow seldom lasts a season. Chico inspected the old plow, and the next night he brought back only two burro- loads of charcoal from the hills. Dragging behind the third burro was tied a section of young tree trunk about a foot in diameter, material to make a new plow. Next day Nico plowed with the old one till noon and then spent the afternoon hacking the bark off the log with his adze. I guess that last day was just too much for the old plow, because it was never even brought home, and Nico stayed in the houseyard working on the new one all day each day until he had finished it. When the log was free of bark, he cut it square on each side with the axe, like the railroad ties which Santa Cruz Etla men sell at Hacienda Blanca station. It took him all the rest of the day to get one end of it narrowed to a point; to do that he used the adze with accurate, quick strokes. Chico went to town with firewood on the second day and returned with a new metal plate and four screws for the point. To figure the exact place where the wood should be grooved for the metal and holes dug for the screws, Nico measured with a little splinter cut from the rough adze handle. "The iron point costs two pesos fifty; we have not had to buy one for three years," he said. Now the point, the share of the plow was made, while Nico worked all day in the houseyard. He had to make the slot in which to fit the long tongue leading up to the yoke, the tongue which ran between the oxen. There was another slot to be made above the 255 NICO Nico and Chico had no hammer; they used a homemade wooden mallet for pounding. With this limited equipment they fashioned all the wooden things they used; ox yokes, plows, hooks for saddle cinches, roof beams to replace the sagging ones, and even the chair and table. There was always a large stack of firewood in front of the house, ready to be sent to market. For a small thing like the saddle cinch hook or a new mallet, Nice would merely take a likely looking block of wood from the pile and hack away on it with the machete. I marveled at how smooth and finished everything looked. In the middle of the six-weeks' plowing that year, the old plow wore out. A wooden plow seldom lasts a season. Chico inspected the old plow, and the next night he brought back only two burro- loads of charcoal from the hills. Dragging behind the third burro was tied a section of young tree trunk about a foot in diameter, material to make a new plow. Next day Nico plowed with the old one till noon and then spent the afternoon hacking the bark off the log with his adze. I guess that last day was just too much for the old plow, because it was never even brought home, and Nico stayed in the houseyard working on the new one all day each day until he had finished it. When the log was free of bark, he cut it square on each side with the axe, like the railroad ties which Santa Cruz Etla men sell at Hacienda Blanca station. It took him all the rest of the day to get one end of it narrowed to a point; to do that he used the adze with accurate, quick strokes. Chico went to town with firewood on the second day and returned with a new metal plate and four screws for the point. To figure the exact place where the wood should be grooved for the metal and holes dug for the screws, Nico measured with a little splinter cut from the rough adze handle. "The iron point costs two pesos fifty; we have not had to buy one for three years," he said. Now the point, the share of the plow was made, while Nic worked all day in the houseyard. He had to make the slot in which to fit the long tongue leading up to the yoke, the tongue which ran between the oxen. There was another slot to be made above the 255 NICO Nice and Chico had no hammer; they used a homemade wooden mallet for pounding. With this limited equipment they fashioned all the wooden things they used; ox yokes, plows, hooks for saddle cinches, roof beams to replace the sagging ones, and even the chair and table. There was always a large stack of firewood in front of the house, ready to be sent to market. For a small thing like the saddle cinch hook or a new mallet, Nico would merely take a likely looking block of wood from the pile and hack away on it with the machete. I marveled at how smooth and finished everything looked. In the middle of the six-weeks' plowing that year, the old plow wore out. A wooden plow seldom lasts a season. Chico inspected the old plow, and the next night he brought back only two burro- loads of charcoal from the hills. Dragging behind the third burro was tied a section of young tree trunk about a foot in diameter, material to make a new plow. Next day Nice plowed with the old one till noon and then spent the afternoon hacking the bark off the log with his adze. I guess that last day was just too much for the old plow, because it was never even brought home, and Nice stayed in the houseyard working on the new one all day each day until he had finished it. When the log was free of bark, he cut it square on each side with the axe, like the railroad ties which Santa Cruz Etla men sell at Hacienda Blanca station. It took him all the rest of the day to get one end of it narrowed to a point; to do that he used the adze with accurate, quick strokes. Chico went to town with firewood on the second day and returned with a new metal plate and four screws for the point. To figure the exact place where the wood should be grooved for the metal and holes dug for the screws, Nico measured with a little splinter cut from the rough adze handle. "The iron point costs two pesos fifty; we have not had to buy one for three years," he said. Now the point, the share of the plow was made, while Nico worked all day in the houseyard. He had to make the slot in which to fit the long tongue leading up to the yoke, the tongue which ran between the oxen. There was another slot to be made above the 255  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS top of the metal plate, in which a wooden handle must be fitted. Both these slots were carefully cut out with the chisel. He did not even measure these slots, nor make any mark with a pencil, but the tongue and handle from the previous plow fitted them exactly. Nico needed to nail these parts into the slots, but he had no nails. So he just took his machete and carved out four wooden pins. His wooden mallet broke in two when he started pounding on the pins. In half an hour he had made a new mallet from another stick of firewood, perfectly shaped, with no loss of temper on the shaper's part, as far as I could see, inasmuch as Nico himself kept on singing one of the songs Chico plays on the fiddle, while the mallet broke and he made another. With all the enthusiasm in the United States today for "make-it-yourself" kits and projects, the "make-it-your- selfer" has a great deal to learn from Nico in improvising tools, in fitting things with accuracy without any measuring implements, and in maintaining serenity through every process. He worked a whole day making the slots and putting the parts of the plow together. The next morning he took two hours more smoothing all the rough places with the adze. It was then too late to hitch up the oxen and plow, so he chose a large stick of wood and started to make something else. "What is it this time?' I asked. "I will need a new little plow, an aradito, for the second plowing, when the corn is hsgh and the rows are too narrow for this one. I will work on it now, for I do not like to see the tools lying idle around the houseyard, Dofia Elenita." (Only Nico and Doia Patro- cina call me Elenita, "little Helen," and they both so tiny. I stand six inches taller and weigh at least thirty pounds more than any one in Patrocina's family and my hair is much whiter than La Abuelita's was when she died.) None of this fine farming, this careful use of the old tools in the old ways, this following of the seasons with the same crops grown by the ancient Mixtecs-none of this that Nico does is what Don Amado had in mind when he hoped for such heroic developments to come from the establishment of the school. Don Amado was never in his lifetime as good a farmer as Nico was at eighteen; he would be disgusted that I took all this time to describe Nico's farm- 256 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS top of the metal plate, in which a wooden handle must be fitted. Both these slots were carefully cut out with the chisel. He did not even measure these slots, nor make any mark with a pencil, but the tongue and handle from the previous plow fitted them exactly. Nico needed to nail these parts into the slots, but he had no nails. So he just took his machete and carved out four wooden pins. His wooden mallet broke in two when he started pounding on the pins. In half an hour he had made a new mallet from another stick of firewood, perfectly shaped, with no loss of temper on the shaper's part, as far as I could see, inasmuch as Nico himself kept on singing one of the songs Chico plays on the fiddle, while the mallet broke and he made another. With all the enthusiasm in the United States today for "make-it-yourself" kits and projects, the "make-it-your- selfer" has a great deal to learn from Nico in improvising tools, in fitting things with accuracy without any measuring implements, and in maintaining serenity through every process. He worked a whole day making the slots and putting the parts of the plow together. The next morning he took two hours more smoothing all the rough places with the adze. It was then too late to hitch up the oxen and plow, so he chose a large stick of wood and started to make something else. "What is it this time?" I asked. "I will need a new little plow, an aradito, for the second plowing, when the corn is high and the rows are too narrow for this one. I will work on it now, for I do not like to see the tools lying idle around the houseyard, Doia Elenita." (Only Nico and Dona Patro- cina call me Elenita, "little Helen," and they both so tiny. I stand six inches taller and weigh at least thirty pounds more than any one in Patrocina's family and my hair is much whiter than La Abuelita's was when she died.) None of this fine farming, this careful use of the old tools in the old ways, this following of the seasons with the same crops grown by the ancient Mixtecs-none of this that Nico does is what Don Amado had in mind when he hoped for such heroic developments to come from the establishment of the school. Don Amado was never in his lifetime as good a farmer as Nico was at eighteen; he would be disgusted that I took all this time to describe Nico's farm- 256 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS top of the metal plate, in which a wooden handle must be fitted. Both these slots were carefully cut out with the chisel. He did not even measure these slots, nor make any mark with a pencil, but the tongue and handle from the previous plow fitted them exactly. Nico needed to nail these parts into the slots, but he had no nails. So he just took his machete and carved out four wooden pins. His wooden mallet broke in two when he started pounding on the pins. In half an hour he had made a new mallet from another stick of firewood, perfectly shaped, with no loss of temper on the shaper's part, as far as I could see, inasmuch as Nico himself kept on singing one of the songs Chico plays on the fiddle, while the mallet broke and he made another. With all the enthusiasm in the United States today for "make-it-yourself" kits and projects, the "make-it-your- selfer" has a great deal to learn from Nico in improvising tools, in fitting things with accuracy without any measuring implements, and in maintaining serenity through every process. He worked a whole day making the slots and putting the parts of the plow together. The next morning he took two hours more smoothing all the rough places with the adze. It was then too late to hitch up the oxen and plow, so he chose a large stick of wood and started to make something else. "What is it this time?" I asked. "I will need a new little plow, an aradito, for the second plowing, when the corn is hsgh and the rows are too narrow for this one. I will work on it now, for I do not like to see the tools lying idle around the houseyard, Dofna Elenita." (Only Nico and Dona Patro- cina call me Elenita, "little Helen," and they both so tiny. I stand six inches taller and weigh at least thirty pounds more than any one in Patrocina's family and my hair is much whiter than La Abuelita's was when she died.) None of this fine farming, this careful use of the old tools in the old ways, this following of the seasons with the same crops grown by the ancient Mixtecs-none of this that Nico does is what Don Amado had in mind when he hoped for such heroic developments to come from the establishment of the school. Don Amado was never in his lifetime as good a farmer as Nico was at eighteen; he would be disgusted that I took all this time to describe Nico's farm- 256  NICO ing in the middle of a section about the students who might parallel Benito Juarez. But the cultural missionaries, the rural school pro- gram-planners in Mexico, intended to do more with agricultural teaching than with any other field. "Modem methods of planting" should be taught, and "plowing done so as to control erosion," and "the best corn saved during harvest to be used as seed," and "both plants and animals are to be improved by careful breeding." Nico may still be using the methods his father used, the methods scorned by both Don Amado and Don Pablo, but his acreage and his crop bear witness to his efficiency. I notice what I wrote in 1945: "Nico will make a girl a flne hus- band. He is so good natured and jolly, works so hard, and has so much sense. Twenty-four is young to marry, but I teased Nico about it." Teasing was fun in that happy family. "Esperanza and Chico are so happy," I remember saying to him one evening, as I watched him cut alfalfa. "Surely you must want a wife also." To my surprise, he answered in a very natural tone of voice, "I have picked one out already. When you come to live with us again I will be married." "Who is she, Nico?" "I will never tell you, Dofia Elenita. You would tell Esperanza and my mother, for women can never keep secrets; they will tell others, who will tell the girl, and all will be spoiled. Even now I do not know if she would want me." "Will you bring her back here to live?" "Where else?" "But suppose Esperanza doesn't like her?" said I, a great en- thusiast for Esperanza. Debe (she'll have to). "And if she doesn't like Esperanza?" Debe tambifn (she'll have to, also). It seems to have worked out as simply as that. Dona Patrocina and two daughters-in-law live happily around the same houseyard, in three separate "apartments," but often sharing meals, and with the same limited amount of household equipment. Nico's wife 257 NICO ing in the middle of a section about the students who might parallel Benito Judrez. But the cultural missionaries, the rural school pro- gram-planners in Mexico, intended to do more with agricultural teaching than with any other field. "Modern methods of planting" should be taught, and "plowing done so as to control erosion," and "the best corn saved during harvest to be used as seed," and "both plants and animals are to be improved by careful breeding." Nico may still be using the methods his father used, the methods scorned by both Don Amado and Don Pablo, but his acreage and his crop bear witness to his efficiency. I notice what I wrote in 1945: "Nico will make a girl a fine hus- band. He is so good natured and jolly, works so hard, and has so much sense. Twenty-four is young to marry, but I teased Nico about it." Teasing was fun in that happy family. "Esperanza and Chico are so happy," I remember saying to him one evening, as I watched him cut alfalfa. "Surely you must want a wife also." To my surprise, he answered in a very natural tone of voice, "I have picked one out already. When you come to live with us again I will be married." "Who is she, Nico?" "I will never tell you, Dofia Elenita. You would tell Esperanza and my mother, for women can never keep secrets; they will tell others, who will tell the girl, and all will be spoiled. Even now I do not know if she would want me." "Will you bring her back here to live?" "Where else?" "But suppose Esperanza doesn't like her?" said I, a great en- thusiast for Esperanza. Debe (she'll have to). "And if she doesn't like Esperanza?" Debe tambicn (she'll have to, also). It seems to have worked out as simply as that. Doa Patrocina and two daughters-in-law live happily around the same houseyard, in three separate "apartments," but often sharing meals, and with the same limited amount of household equipment. Nico's wife 257 NICO ing in the middle of a section about the students who might parallel Benito Juirez. But the cultural missionaries, the rural school pro- gram-planners in Mexico, intended to do more with agricultural teaching than with any other field. "Modern methods of planting" should be taught, and "plowing done so as to control erosion," and "the best corn saved during harvest to be used as seed," and "both plants and animals are to be improved by careful breeding." Nico may still be using the methods his father used, the methods scorned by both Don Amado and Don Pablo, but his acreage and his crop bear witness to his efficiency. I notice what I wrote in 1945: "Nico will make a girl a fine hus- band. He is so good natured and jolly, works so hard, and has so much sense. Twenty-four is young to marry, but I teased Nico about it." Teasing was fun in that happy family. "Esperanza and Chico are so happy," I remember saying to him one evening, as I watched him cut alfalfa. "Surely you must want a wife also." To my surprise, he answered in a very natural tone of voice, "I have picked one out already. When you come to live with us again I will be married." "Who is she, Nico?" "I will never tell you, Dona Elenita. You would tell Esperanza and my mother, for women can never keep secrets; they will tell others, who will tell the girl, and all will be spoiled. Even now I do not know if she would want me." "Will you bring her back here to live?" "Where else?" "But suppose Esperanza doesn't like her?" said I, a great en- thusiast for Esperanza. Debe (she'll have to). "And if she doesn't like Esperanza?" Debe tambifn (she'll have to, also). It seems to have worked out as simply as that. Doa Patrocina and two daughters-in-law live happily around the same houseyard, in three separate "apartments," but often sharing meals, and with the same limited amount of household equipment. Nico's wife 257  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Manuela is certainly not as gay and pretty as Esperanza, and looks much older, though she is three years younger. She has the mark of the pure Indian in her face and is a niece of Don Marciano's raw- boned, Indian-looking wife. But she and Nica are as devoted to each other as Esperanza and Chico. And in 1954 their lovely little girl, Eloisa, showed promise of being the model child in Don Al- fredo's school. 47A- TURNING FRoM Nico who was Rosita's best student in 1934, the discouraged Don Amado might look next to the boy who was then her worst student. Crescencio typified to me in 1945 all the young woodcutters, as Nico typified all the young farmers, and Don Amado certainly did not want the products of the fine school to stay wood- cutters all their lives. For Crescencio had learned to be eficient and conscientious, though not yet tidy or literate, by the mid-1940's. When we drove up in front of the school in the rural director's station wagon in 1944, I saw a tall, eighteen-year-old boy watering oxen at the brook in the schoolyard. He had a thatch of uncombed hair. His clothes were tattered; he did not have even the sandals on his feet that most men wear. I knew immediately that it was Crescencio. Strangely enough, he recognized both my husband and me; and when he saw Rosita in the front seat, his face lit up and he came up to shake hands. The whole time I was there in 1944 he had to be very much in evidence, because Don Esteban, his brother, was president. At the festivals for the rural director he stood right behind the town coun- cil with Miximo, the next older brother. He was clean, but still uncombed, on these occasions. And he certainly had nothing to say. During the summer of 1945 he was more friendly, and often in the evening he came over to Donfa Patrocina's, just acres the alfalfa field, to see what I had painted during the day. He asked after my husband and wanted to know about Rosita's kindergarten. I tried to 258 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Manuela is certainly not as gay and pretty as Esperanza, and looks much older, though she is three years younger. She has the mark of the pure Indian in her face and is a niece of Don Marciano's raw- boned, Indian-looking wife. But she and Nico are as devoted to each other as Esperanza and Chico. And in 1954 their lovely little girl, Eloisa, showed promise of being the model child in Don Al- fredo's school. 47 TURNING FROM Nico who was Rosita's best student in 1934, the discouraged Don Amado might look next to the boy who was then her worst student. Crescencio typified to me in 1945 all the young woodcutters, as Nico typified all the young farmers, and Don Amado certainly did not want the products of the fine school to stay wood- cutters all their lives. For Crescencio had learned to be efficient and conscientious, though not yet tidy or literate, by the mid-1940's. When we drove up in front of the school in the rural director's station wagon in 1944, I saw a tall, eighteen-year-old boy watering oxen at the brook in the schoolyard. He had a thatch of uncombed hair. His clothes were tattered; he did not have even the sandals on his feet that most men wear. I knew immediately that it was Crescencio. Strangely enough, he recognized both my husband and me; and when he saw Rosita in the front seat, his face lit up and he came up to shake hands. The whole time I was there in 1944 he had to be very much in evidence, because Don Esteban, his brother, was president. At the festivals for the rural director he stood right behind the town coun- cil with Miximo, the next older brother. He was clean, but still uncombed, on these occasions. And he certainly had nothing to say. During the summer of 1945 he was more friendly, and often in the evening he came over to Dona Patrocina's, just acres the alfalfa field, to see what I had painted during the day. He asked after my husband and wanted to know about Rosita's kindergarten. I tried to 258 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS Manuela is certainly not as gay and pretty as Esperanza, and looks much older, though she is three years younger. She has the mark of the pure Indian in her face and is a niece of Don iarciano's raw- boned, Indian-looking wife. But she and Nico are as devoted to each other as Esperanza and Chico. And in 1954 their lovely little girl, Eloisa, showed promise of being the model child in Don Al- fredo's school. 47 TURNING FRmo Nico who was Rosita's best student in 1934, the discouraged Don Amado might look next to the boy who was then her worst student. Crescencio typified to me in 1945 all the young woodcutters, as Nico typified all the young farmers, and Don Amado certainly did not want the products of the fine school to stay wood- cutters all their lives. For Crescencio had learned to be efficient and conscientious, though not yet tidy or literate, by the mid-1940's. When we drove up in front of the school in the rural director's station wagon in 1944, I saw a tall, eighteen-year-old boy watering oxen at the brook in the schoolyard. He had a thatch of uncombed hair. His clothes were tattered; he did not have even the sandals on his feet that most men wear. I knew immediately that it was Crescencio. Strangely enough, he recognized both my husband and me; and when he saw Rosita in the front seat, his face lit up and he came up to shake hands. The whole time I was there in 1944 he had to be very much in evidence, because Don Esteban, his brother, was president. At the festivals for the rural director he stood right behind the town coun- cil with Maximo, the next older brother. He was clean, but still uncombed, on these occasions. And he certainly had nothing to say. During the summer of 1945 he was more friendly, and often in the evening he came over to Dona Patrocina's, just acres the alfalfa field, to see what I had painted during the day. He asked after my husband and wanted to know about Rosita's kindergarten. I tried to 258  THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 persuade him to come to the classes for illiterates, but on the men- tion of such a project he would shut up like a clam. Some evenings he came, said a quick buenas noches, and as quickly melted away into the shadows. At least, he was no longer a comedian. As a woodcutter he did the "production end" of the charcoal- burning business, and let Chico do all the selling. It was a sort of partnership. Crescencio would rather cut wood and watch the char- coal burning all day long alone in the woods than ever go to market where he would have to talk to people. In fact, I don't think he had been to Oaxaca City before he was twenty. I remember one evening when Crescencio was stitting with us on the "kitchen floor" after cena, I was telling again of my rides to the sierra. I asked questions about the whole woodcutting business through which so many Santa Cruz families had always made their cash money. I cannot remember just the conversation and who said what, but I know the boys were surprised at my stupid and detailed questions. "Isn't there a charcoal-burning business in your country?" Chico, usually the best informed about things foreign, asked. "Then how is it possible to cook? Does everyone cook with plain pine wood?" In 1945 city folks in Oaxaca, even the wealthiest families, were still cooking over small metal braziers or on tile stoves, using char- coal as the only fuel. Housewives bought it in the market, or at corner stores, or from boys at the door, at three pesos for two kilo- grams in those days. All this carbon was brought down from the surrounding mountains on burro-back by hill-dwelling Indians. Crescencio went to the sierra, up my lovely trail, six days a week. He left as soon as he had watered the stock in the dawn, for it took him two hours to get to the "cutting grounds." On Monday and Tues- day he cut down trees. On Wednesday he cut the trees into stove- wood lengths with his ax and machete. On Thursday he piled his wood into stacks shaped like tepees, with leaves, branches, and bark on the outside. The fresh wood inside was allowed to burn slowly, away from the air, until it became charcoal. Crescencio would come home overnight and leave it burning. I never heard of any forest fire in the sierra, though from the schoolyard we could see little 259 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 persuade him to come to the classes for illiterates, but on the men- tion of such a project he would shut up like a clam. Some evenings he came, said a quick buenas noches, and as quickly melted away into the shadows. At least, he was no longer a comedian. As a woodcutter he did the "production end" of the charcoal- burning business, and let Chico do all the selling. It was a sort of partnership. Crescencio would rather cut wood and watch the char- coal burning all day long alone in the woods than ever go to market where he would have to talk to people. In fact, I don't think he had been to Oaxaca City before he was twenty. I remember one evening when Crescencio was stitting with us on the "kitchen floor" after cena, I was telling again of my rides to the sierra. I asked questions about the whole woodcutting business through which so many Santa Cruz families had always made their cash money. I cannot remember just the conversation and who said what, but I know the boys were surprised at my stupid and detailed questions. "Isn't there a charcoal-burning business in your country?" Chico, usually the best informed about things foreign, asked. "Then how is it possible to cook? Does everyone cook with plain pine wood?" In 1945 city folks in Oaxaca, even the wealthiest families, were still cooking over small metal braziers or on tile stoves, using char- coal as the only fuel. Housewives bought it in the market, or at corner stores, or from boys at the door, at three pesos for two kilo-. grams in those days. All this carbon was brought down from the surrounding mountains on burro-back by hill-dwelling Indians. Crescencio went to the sierra, up my lovely trail, six days a week. He left as soon as he had watered the stock in the dawn, for it took him two hours to get to the "cutting grounds." On Monday and Tues- day he cut down trees. On Wednesday he cut the trees into stove- wood lengths with his ax and machete. On Thursday he piled his wood into stacks shaped like tepees, with leaves, branches, and bark on the outside. The fresh wood inside was allowed to burn slowly, away from the air, until it became charcoal. Crescencio would come home overnight and leave it burning. I never heard of any forest fire in the sierra, though from the schoolyard we could see little 259 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 persuade him to come to the classes for illiterates, but on the men- tion of such a project he would shut up like a clam. Some evenings he came, said a quick buenas noches, and as quickly melted away into the shadows. At least, he was no longer a comedian. As a woodcutter he did the "production end" of the charcoal- burning business, and let Chico do all the selling. It was a sort of partnership. Crescencio would rather cut wood and watch the char- coal burning all day long alone in the woods than ever go to market where he would have to talk to people. In fact, I don't think he had been to Oaxaca City before he was twenty. I remember one evening when Crescencio was stitting with us on the "kitchen floor" after cena, I was telling again of my rides to the sierra. I asked questions about the whole woodcutting business through which so many Santa Cruz families had always made their cash money. I cannot reemember just the conversation and who said what, but I know the boys were surprised at my stupid and detailed questions. "Isn't there a charcoal-burning business in your country?" Chico, usually the best informed about things foreign, asked. "Then how is it possible to cook? Does everyone cook with plain pine wood?" In 1945 city folks in Oaxaca, even the wealthiest families, were still cooking over small metal braziers or on tile stoves, using char- coal as the only fuel. Housewives bought it in the market, or at corner stores, or from boys at the door, at three pesos for two kilo- grams in those days. All this carbon was brought down from the surrounding mountains on burro-back by hill-dwelling Indians. Crescencio went to the sierra, up my lovely trail, six days a week. He left as soon as he had watered the stock in the dawn, for it took him two hours to get to the "cutting grounds." On Monday and Tues- day he sut down trees. On Wednesday he cut the trees into stove- wood lengths with his ax and machete. On Thursday he piled his wood into stacks shaped like tepees, with leaves, branches, and bark on the outside. The fresh wood inside was allowed to burn slowly, away from the air, until it became charcoal. Crescencio would come home overnight and leave it burning. I never heard of any forest fire in the sierra, though from the schoolyard we could see little 259  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS smoke-pillars rising high on the mountainside from each separate stack of smoldering wood. When Crescencio went back on Friday, the fires would have burned out. He took his three burros with him then, their backs carefully covered with packsaddles which Chico had made out of old petates. The charcoal was loaded into hemp nets and tied se- curely to the burros' backs, three netfuls of charcoal on each burro. Each netful, nearly two kilograms, sold for three pesos. With three burros, each loaded with three nets, Crescencio could make twenty- seven pesos a week, of which Chico got nine when he took it to Oaxaca as the middleman. This meant three or four dollars a week for Crescencio by the 1945 exchange rate. Chico never burned charcoal, but on the days when he was in the sierra, he cut wood in special lengths for the pottery kilns in Santa Maria Asumpa. He could cut enough in two days to load the Leon boys' oxcart on a third day for the trip to the kilns. Such a load got twelve pesos in Santa Maria Asumpa in those days. Sometimes Chico took burro-loads of firewood into Oaxaca at a peso a load, but more often he sold Crescencio's charcoal, letting the Le6n boys across the ditch sell his cut wood. They in turn spent what time they were in the sierra cutting railroad ties and roof beams, which were dragged behind burros one by one to the station at Hacienda Blanca. When many ties and beams were ready for transporting, all nine or ten burros from all three families were driven to the sierra at once, perhaps every two or three weeks. I was interested in this division of labor. Why did Crescencio make all the charcoal, the Le6n boys cut the ties, Chico the kiln wood, yet no one actually took his own product to market? "One does that part of the work to which his family has always been ac- customed," Chico told me. In all this description of Crescencio and the woodcutting proc- esses, it is necessary to use the past tense. Both Crescencio and the woodcutting business have changed. Where the boys used to ride or walk with the burros two hours to get up to the woodcutting sierra, gradually, since the days of the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua, the trip has been lengthened till now more than three hours 260 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS smoke-pillars rising high on the mountainside from each separate stack of smoldering wood. When Crescencio went back on Friday, the fires would have burned out. He took his three burros with him then, their backs carefully covered with packsaddles which Chico had made out of old petates. The charcoal was loaded into hemp nets and tied se- curely to the burros' backs, three netfuls of charcoal on each burro. Each netful, nearly two kilograms, sold for three pesos. With three burros, each loaded with three nets, Crescencio could make twent- seven pesos a week, of which Chico got nine when he took it to Oaxaca as the middleman. This meant three or four dollars a week for Crescencio by the 1945 exchange rate. Chico never burned charcoal, but on the days when he was in the sierra, he cut wood in special lengths for the pottery kilns in Santa Maria Asumpa. He could cut enough in two days to load the Len boys' oxcart on a third day for the trip to the kilns. Such a load got twelve pesos in Santa Maria Asumpa in those days. Sometimes Chico took burro-loads of firewood into Oaxaca at a peso a load, but more often he sold Crescencio's charcoal, letting the Leon boys across the ditch sell his cut wood. They in turn spent what time they were in the sierra cutting railroad ties and roof beams, which were dragged behind burros one by one to the station at Hacienda Blanca. When many ties and beams were ready for transporting, all nine or ten burros from all three families were driven to the sierra at once, perhaps every two or three weeks. I was interested in this division of labor. Why did Crescencio make all the charcoal, the Ledn boys cut the ties, Chico the kiln wood, yet no one actually took his own product to market? "One does that part of the work to which his family has always been ac- customed," Chico told me. In all this description of Crescencio and the woodcutting proc- esses, it is necessary to use the past tense. Both Crescencio and the woodcutting business have changed. Where the boys used to ride or walk with the burros two hours to get up to the woodcutting sierra, gradually, since the days of the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua, the trip has been lengthened till now more than three hours 260 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS smoke-pillars rising high on the mountainside from each separate stack of smoldering wood. When Crescencio went back on Friday, the fires would have burned out. He took his three burros with him then, their backs carefully covered with packsaddles which Chico had made out of old petates. The charcoal was loaded into hemp nets and tied se- curely to the burros' backs, three netfuls of charcoal on each burro. Each netful, nearly two kilograms, sold for three pesos. With three burros, each loaded with three nets, Crescencio could make twenty- seven pesos a week, of which Chico got nine when he took it to Oaxaca as the middleman. This meant three or four dollars a week for Crescencio by the 1945 exchange rate. Chico never burned charcoal, but on the days when he was in the sierra, he cut wood in special lengths for the pottery kilns in Santa Maria Asumpa. He could cut enough in two days to load the Ledn boys' oxcart on a third day for the trip to the kilns. Such a load got twelve pesos in Santa Maria Asumpa in those days. Sometimes Chico took burro-loads of firewood into Oaxaca at a peso a load, but more often he sold Crescencio's charcoal, letting the Ledn boys across the ditch sell his cut wood. They in turn spent what time they were in the sierra cutting railroad ties and roof beams, which were dragged behind burros one by one to the station at Hacienda Blanca. When many ties and beams were ready for transporting, all nine or ten burros from all three families were driven to the sierra at once, perhaps every two or three weeks. I was interested in this division of labor. Why did Crescencio make all the charcoal, the Le6n boys cut the ties, Chico the kiln wood, yet no one actually took his own product to market? "One does that part of the work to which his family has always been ac- customed," Chico told me. In all this description of Crescencio and the woodcutting proc- esses, it is necessary to use the past tense. Both Crescencio and the woodcutting business have changed. Where the boys used to ride or walk with the burros two hours to get up to the woodcutting sierra, gradually, since the days of the guerrita with San Felipe de Agua, the trip has been lengthened till now more than three hours 260  THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 each way are necessary; to that extent they have cut out the wood and "eaten of their own substance," so to speak. Now it is no longer possible to go through the whole charcoal-burning process in the Monday to Friday week in time to meet each Saturday market. True, the prices are higher, but so are the prices of the things they have to buy. True, they can meet the schedule of a two-week cycle, and have four loads ready every second Saturday instead of three loads every Saturday, but that means more burros for hauling and less total profit. About half the number of young men are still cut- ting wood for charcoal as before; not one is making the entire living for his family by it. Besides, the hotels and many newly built, modern-style houses in Oaxaca are using electricity or butane for cooking. Of the four boys in the "wood and charcoal" cooperative effort centering around Chico in 1945, only the Leon boys still work at it regularly. Chico and Nico together farm both their own land and La Abuelita's old acreage, as well as half of Don Fausto's. Chico often takes wood to market for the Leon boys; but, as he told me in 1954, "I have not been up the sierra myself for more than five years, Dona Elena." So what of Crescencio? This seems unbelievable as I write it, but Crescencio is in the Mexican army. Miximo, the only one of Dona Paula's sons still at home, worked with the public works com- mittee in getting our car out of the mud when we came unannounced in 1954, and immediately I asked him about Esteban and Crescencio. All Miximo knew was that Crescencio had enlisted. Don Fiz said later that pressure was brought to bear on the Santa Cruz munici- pality to send someone to the army, as no one from Santa Cruz had ever gone, not even during the activity of World War II. Single, discouraged about the charcoal business, not essential in the farming of Dona Paula's acres, and just one more mouth for Elodia to feed, Crescencio had gone off to Oaxaca and joined up. Probably it was only the third or fourth time he had ever been in to the city. Miximo did not know where he was with the army, or how long he would have to stay. Since everyone left at Dona Paula's is illiterate, and of course so is Crescencio (will the army teach him to read, I won- der), his family had had no word. 261 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 each way are necessary; to that extent they have cut out the wood and "eaten of their own substance," so to speak. Now it is no longer possible to go through the whole charcoal-burning process in the Monday to Friday week in time to meet each Saturday market. True, the prices are higher, but so are the prices of the things they have to buy. True, they can meet the schedule of a two-week cycle, and have four loads ready every second Saturday instead of three loads every Saturday, but that means more burros for hauling and less total profit. About half the number of young men are still cut- ting wood for charcoal as before; not one is making the entire living for his family by it. Besides, the hotels and many newly built, modern-style houses in Oaxaca are using electricity or butane for cooking. Of the four boys in the "wood and charcoal" cooperative effort centering around Chico in 1945, only the Leon boys still work at it regularly. Chico and Nico together farm both their own land and La Abuelita's old acreage, as well as half of Don Fausto's. Chico often takes wood to market for the Leon boys; but, as he told me in 1954, "I have not been up the sierra myself for more than five years, Dona Elena." So what of Crescencio? This seems unbelievable as I write it, but Crescencio is in the Mexican army. Maximo, the only one of Dona Paula's sons still at home, worked with the public works com- mittee in getting our car out of the mud when we came unannounced in 1954, and immediately I asked him about Esteban and Crescencio. All MAximo knew was that Crescencio had enlisted. Don F6liz said later that pressure was brought to bear on the Santa Cruz munici- pality to send someone to the army, as no one from Santa Cruz had ever gone, not even during the activity of World War II. Single, discouraged about the charcoal business, not essential in the farming of Dona Paula's acres, and just one more mouth for Elodia to feed, Crescencio had gone off to Oaxaca and joined up. Probably it was only the third or fourth time he had ever been in to the city. Miximo did not know where he was with the army, or how long he would have to stay. Since everyone left at Dona Paula's is illiterate, and of course so is Crescencio (will the army teach him to read, I won- der), his family had had no word. 261 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 each way are necessary; to that extent they have cut out the wood and "eaten of their own substance," so to speak. Now it is no longer possible to go through the whole charcoal-burning process in the Monday to Friday week in time to meet each Saturday market. True, the prices are higher, but so are the prices of the things they have to buy. True, they can meet the schedule of a two-week cycle, and have four loads ready every second Saturday instead of three loads every Saturday, but that means more burros for hauling and less total profit. About half the number of young men are still cut- ting wood for charcoal as before; not one is making the entire living for his family by it. Besides, the hotels and many newly built, modern-style houses in Oaxaca are using electricity or butane for cooking. Of the four boys in the "wood and charcoal" cooperative effort centering around Chico in 1945, only the Leon boys still work at it regularly. Chico and Nico together farm both their own land and La Abuelita's old acreage, as well as half of Don Fausto's. Chico often takes wood to market for the Leon boys; but, as he told me in 1954, "I have not been up the sierra myself for more than five years, Dona Elena." So what of Crescencio? This seems unbelievable as I write it, but Crescenio is in the Mexican army. Miximo, the only one of Dona Paula's sons still at home, worked with the public works com- mittee in getting our car out of the mud when we came unannounced in 1954, and immediately I asked him about Esteban and Crescenio. All Miximo knew was that Crescencio had enlisted. Don Fliz said later that pressure was brought to bear on the Santa Cruz munici- pality to send someone to the army, as no one from Santa Cruz had ever gone, not even during the activity of World War II. Single, discouraged about the charcoal business, not essential in the farming of Dona Paula's acres, and just one more mouth for Elodia to feed, Crescencio had gone off to Oaxaca and joined up. Probably it was only the third or fourth time he had ever been in to the city. MAximo did not know where he was with the army, or how long he would have to stay. Since everyone left at Dona Paula's is illiterate, and of course so is Crescencio (will the army teach him to read, I won- der), his family had had no word. 261  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When I saw Cassiano in Mexico City in September, 1954, he told me that at Donfia Paula's request he had very recently got in touch with Crescencio through the army, and that a literate fellow- soldier had written for him to Cassiano and through him to all the Santa Cruz people. The short message said that Crescencio was in a corporal's guard riding the freight trains from Tepic to Mlazatlin and then on to the north up the Pacific Coast. What a strange life for Crescencio, down out of his sierra and away from his burros! The train runs along the palm-lined seacoast right across the Tropic of Cancer. Every Mexican train carries a token guard of soldiers, a reminder of the days when train travel was endangered by bandits forty years ago. The guards loaf along the train, sit on top of the freight, chat with the second-class passengers when there is a pas- senger car at the end of the train just before the caboose. If Cres- cencio has his furloughs in Mazatlin, a nice tropical town as dif- ferent from Santa Cruz as towns on the French Riviera are from villages in the Alps, he at least has had a chance to swim in the ocean and to watch the sunset out over the Pacific. No one else in Santa Cruz Etla has ever seen either the Atlantic or the Pacific, ex- cept perhaps Don Pablo in Seattle. I wonder if Crescencio will go back to Santa Cruz when his enlistment is over, a spruce, tidy, well- lettered young man, talkative about his adventures, a good catch for even a San Pablo girl. If so, then how will he live, what work will he do? Would Don Amado be pleased at what Crescencio learned in the army? What of the others who had been school children in 1934? There were the boys in Dona Estffana's family, Aurelio and Joel. Both of them are today good farmers, and either would probably provide just as good a description of farming methods as did Nico. They both had so much more land than Nico to work with, Dona Estd- fana's broad acres which are in a good location and have eroded so little. Aurelio and his father Ignacio farm about ten acres of the old lady's best land; Joel works the five acres that belong to Sofia and a small plot that Don Pablo had owned, and helps his father-in-law as well. In 1944 and 1945 Joel had been a particular friend of mine, and 262 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When I saw Cassiano in Mexico City in September, 1954, he told me that at Dona Paula's request he had very recently got in touch with Crescencio through the army, and that a literate fellow- soldier had written for him to Cassiano and through him to all the Santa Cruz people. The short message said that Crescencio was in a corporal's guard riding the freight trains from Tepic to Msazatlin and then on to the north up the Pacific Coast. What a strange life for Crescencio, down out of his sierra and away from his burros! The train runs along the palm-lined seacoast right across the Tropic of Cancer. Every Mexican train carries a token guard of soldiers, a reminder of the days when train travel was endangered by bandits forty years ago. The guards loaf along the train, sit on top of the freight, chat with the second-class passengers when there is a pas- senger car at the end of the train just before the caboose. If Cres- cencio has his furloughs in Mazatlin, a nice tropical town as dif- ferent from Santa Cruz as towns on the French Riviera are from villages in the Alps, he at least has had a chance to swim in the ocean and to watch the sunset out over the Pacific. No one else in Santa Cruz Etla has ever seen either the Atlantic or the Pacific, ex- cept perhaps Don Pablo in Seattle. I wonder if Crescencio will go back to Santa Cruz when his enlistment is over, a spruce, tidy, well- lettered young man, talkative about his adventures, a good catch for even a San Pablo girl. If so, then how will he live, what work will he do? Would Don Amado be pleased at what Crescencoi learned in the army? What of the others who had been school children in 1934? There were the boys in Dona Estefana's family, Aurelio and Joel. Both of them are today good farmers, and either would probably provide just as good a description of farming methods as did Nico. They both had so much more land than Nice to work with, Dona Este- fana's broad acres which are in a good location and have eroded so little. Aurelio and his father Ignacio farm about ten acres of the old lady's best land; Joel works the five acres that belong to Sofia and a small plot that Don Pablo had owned, and helps his father-in-law as well. In 1944 and 1945 Joel had been a particular friend of mine, and 262 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When I saw Cassiano in Mexico City in September, 1954, he told me that at Dofina Paula's request he had very recently got in touch with Crescencio through the army, and that a literate fellow- soldier had written for him to Cassiano and through him to all the Santa Cruz people. The short message said that Crescencio was in a corporal's guard riding the freight trains from Tepic to Mlazatlin and then on to the north up the Pacific Coast. What a strange life for Crescencio, down out of his sierra and away from his burros! The train runs along the palm-lined seacoast right across the Tropic of Cancer. Every Mexican train carries a token guard of soldiers, a reminder of the days when train travel was endangered by bandits forty years ago. The guards loaf along the train, sit on top of the freight, chat with the second-class passengers when there is a pas- senger car at the end of the train just before the caboose. If Cres- cencio has his furloughs in Mazatlin, a nice tropical town as dif- ferent from Santa Cruz as towns on the French Riviera are from villages in the Alps, he at least has had a chance to swim in the ocean and to watch the sunset out over the Pacific. No one else in Santa Cruz Etla has ever seen either the Atlantic or the Pacific, ex- cept perhaps Don Pablo in Seattle. I wonder if Crescencio will go back to Santa Cruz when his enlistment is over, a spruce, tidy, well- lettered young man, talkative about his adventures, a good catch for even a San Pablo girl. If so, then how will he live, what work will he do? Would Don Amado be pleased at what Crescenco learned in the army? What of the others who had been school children in 1934? There were the boys in Dofia Estefana's family, Aurelio and Joel. Both of them are today good farmers, and either would probably provide just as good a description of farming methods as did Nico. They both had so much more land than Nico to work with, Dona Estd- fana's broad acres which are in a good location and have eroded so little. Aurelio and his father Ignacio farm about ten acres of the old lady's best land; Joel works the five acres that belong to Sofia and a small plot that Don Pablo had owned, and helps his father-in-law as well. In 1944 and 1945 Joel had been a particular friend of mine, and 262  1, ( y nu v(  Y = v 7 .j v . 5' C Y$ 'J T  THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 I had preferred him above Aurelio, whom his grandmother so favored. Aurelio had always seemed serious and stuffy; Joel was a jolly pet of ours in the 1934 school. As a young man he spent many hours talking to me of those "days of Rosita," of the fun he had in school. I wrote of Joel in 1944: "He is so fond of his mother and grandmother, and plans to bring a wife there to live. He scorns any girls he knows now, but then, of course, as he himself says, he has not seen just the right girl. All the girls his own age who went to school when he did are married now to older fellows." Thus, like all serious young Santa Cruz Etla men, Joel bided his time, waiting for someone younger to grow up, someone who had been toddling round the houseyard when he was already through school. If Joel was ten in 1934, he is long past thirty today. He was married at about twenty-six to the smart Teresa of Don Marcelino. She was about twelve in 1945, therefore sixteen or seventeen when she married Joel. By 1954 they had two little boys, and Joel had built a new house for them at the farthest end of Dona Estdfana's acres, under a mango tree at the head of la zanja. He was not at home him- self when I came to call and get a photo of his babies; after three years' service on the public works committee, he was already alcalde of public works and was busy with the ditch in that year of heavy rain. There was also the problem of the road repair so that we could get our car up again for Don FEliz' fiesta. When the road was re- paired and the fiesta in honor of our last departure was held, Joel was busy playing handball, pelota, too busy to have his picture taken with the committee, just as much a boy as ever about the ball game. I think Don Amado would have been pleased with Joel, though. He is literate; he helped teach in the campaign against illiteracy. He is a good farmer, has built a new home in the com- munity, has used his education to work in the service of the town, and still is the same happy extrovert he always was. Both Aurelio and Joel were Don Amado's cousins; both stayed in Santa Cruz Etla when his own sons did not, though their material inheritance was so much better that they had every incentive to stay. Aurelio, the serious and stuffy, born dignified and grown up, has lived most of his life in the shadow of Dona Estdfana's person- 263 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 I had preferred him above Aurelio, whom his grandmother so favored. Aurelio had always seemed serious and stuffy; Joel was a jolly pet of ours in the 1934 school. As a young man he spent many hours talking to me of those "days of Rosita," of the fun he had in school. I wrote of Joel in 1944: "He is so fond of his mother and grandmother, and plans to bring a wife there to live. He scorns any girls he knows now, but then, of course, as he himself says, he has not seen just the right girl. All the girls his own age who went to school when he did are married now to older fellows." Thus, like all serious young Santa Cruz Etla men, Joel bided his time, waiting for someone younger to grow up, someone who had been toddling round the houseyard when he was already through school. If Joel was ten in 1934, he is long past thirty today. He was married at about twenty-six to the smart Teresa of Don Marcelino. She was about twelve in 1945, therefore sixteen or seventeen when she married Joel. By 1954 they had two little boys, and Joel had built a new house for them at the farthest end of Dofna Estefana's acres, under a mango tree at the head of la zanja. He was not at home him- self when I came to call and get a photo of his babies; after three years' service on the public works committee, he was already alcalde of public works and was busy with the ditch in that year of heavy rain. There was also the problem of the road repair so that we could get our car up again for Don Filiz' fiesta. When the road was re- paired and the flesta in honor of our last departure was held, Joel was busy playing handball, pelota, too busy to have his picture taken with the committee, just as much a boy as ever about the ball game. I think Don Amado would have been pleased with Joel, though. He is literate; he helped teach in the campaign against illiteracy. He is a good farmer, has built a new home in the com- munity, has used his education to work in the service of the town, and still is the same happy extrovert he always was. Both Aurelio and Joel were Don Amado's cousins; both stayed in Santa Cruz Etla when his own sons did not, though their material inheritance was so much better that they had every incentive to stay. Aurelio, the serious and stuffy, born dignified and grown up, has lived most of his life in the shadow of Dona Estefana's person- 263 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 I had preferred him above Aurelio, whom his grandmother so favored. Aurelio had always seemed serious and stuffy; Joel was a jolly pet of ours in the 1934 school. As a young man he spent many hours talking to me of those "days of Rosita," of the fun he had in school. I wrote of Joel in 1944: "He is so fond of his mother and grandmother, and plans to bring a wife there to live. He scorns any girls he knows now, but then, of course, as he himself says, he has not seen just the right girl. All the girls his own age who went to school when he did are married now to older fellows." Thus, like all serious young Santa Cruz Etla men, Joel bided his time, waiting for someone younger to grow up, someone who had been toddling round the houseyard when he was already through school. If Joel was ten in 1934, he is long past thirty today. He was married at about twenty-six to the smart Teresa of Don Marcelino. She was about twelve in 1945, therefore sixteen or seventeen when she married Joel. By 1954 they had two little boys, and Joel had built a new house for them at the farthest end of Dona Estdfana's acres, under a mango tree at the head of la zanja. He was not at home him- self when I came to call and get a photo of his babies; after three years' service on the public works committee, he was already alcalde of public works and was busy with the ditch in that year of heavy rain. There was also the problem of the road repair so that we could get our car up again for Don Fdliz' fiesta. When the road was re- paired and the fiesta in honor of our last departure was held, Joel was busy playing handball, pelota, too busy to have his picture taken with the committee, just as much a boy as ever about the ball game. I think Don Amado would have been pleased with Joel, though. He is literate; he helped teach in the campaign against illiteracy. He is a good farmer, has built a new home in the com- munity, has used his education to work in the service of the town, and still is the same happy extrovert he always was. Both Aurelio and Joel were Don Amado's cousins; both stayed in Santa Cruz Etla when his own sons did not, though their material inheritance was so much better that they had every incentive to stay. Aurelio, the serious and stuffy, born dignified and grown up, has lived most of his life in the shadow of Dona Estefana's person- 263  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ality. His pleasant wife, a San Pablo girl like his mother, was sick for a year after the birth of their only child; and Don Ignacio's wife from San Pablo, who had so antagonized the old lady, came to care for her daughter-in-law. All three generations were living with Dona Estefana in 1951. In 1954 only Aurelio's little family oc- cupied Dona Estefana's historic old house, while she herself lay slowly dying in Sofia's hut at the back of the houseyard. Don Ignacio, who lived again in San Pablo and spent Sundays with his mother, said her great delight was in Aurelio's little son (I was asked to take a picture of him wearing his baptismal dress); she remembered to ask for the little boy every day and spent a half- hour lulling him to sleep on her cot. With Leopoldo gone to the city, this child is the principal heir to her house. Aurelio will prosper because Doia Estdfana's land will remain the best in Santa Cruz, uneroded among the trees, producing enough corn for three genera- tions of her descendants. Don Amado would have felt, however, that there was no progress for the town in the picture of Aurelio's placid life. Who else of the children in the "days of Rosita"? Adolfo Soto is working in Oaxaca City. Ord6n, the stodgy but beloved only son of Dofna Enriqueta, works his father's farm and supports his mother, while his father rests, and now Ord6n has his own young wife. The Le6n boys, Francisco still shy and retiring and Felicito newly mar- ried, work with the railroad ties and will inherit their father's five acres between them. Carmita, unkind daughter of the deaf old Dona Carmen, now lives on that nice acreage left by her mother and has her husband's land as well. Augustina is in the high hills, as lost to Santa Cruz Etla as any young man who went to work on the highway or enlisted in the army. Refugio, a sallow, thin, be-goitered child in 1934, has founded a new family for Don Julio. Perhaps Don Julio's Juanita, that pretty little dancer in 1934, would please Don Amado, with her own pretty little daughter and her well-kept, plastered San Pablo house; but of course, living in San Pablo, she contributes nothing to Santa Cruz Etla. Since the girls are more apt to stay in Santa Cruz Etla than the boys, many of them contribute more to the life of the town. A fresh- 264 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ality. His pleasant wife, a San Pablo girl like his mother, was sick for a year after the birth of their only child; and Don Ignacio's wife from San Pablo, who had so antagonized the old lady, came to care for her daughter-in-law. All three generations were living with Dona Estefana in 1951. In 1954 only Aurelio's little family oc- cupied Dosa Estefana's historic old house, while she herself lay slowly dying in Sofia's hut at the back of the housevard. Don Ignacio, who lived again in San Pablo and spent Sundays with his mother, said her great delight was in Aurelio's little son (I was asked to take a picture of him wearing his baptismal dress); she remembered to ask for the little boy every day and spent a half- hour lulling him to sleep on her cot. With Leopoldo gone to the city, this child is the principal heir to her house. Aurelio will prosper because Dona Estffana's land will remain the best in Santa Cruz, uneroded among the trees, producing enough corn for three genera- tions of her descendants. Don Amado would have felt, bowever, that there was no progress for the town in the picture of Aurelio's placid life. Who else of the children in the "days of Rosita"? Adolfo Soto is working in Oaxaca City. Ord6n, the stodgy but beloved only son of Dona Enriqueta, works his father's farm and supports his mother, while his father rests, and now Ord6n has his own young wife. The Le6n boys, Francisco still shy and retiring and Felicito newly mar- ried, work with the railroad ties and will inherit their father's five acres between them. Carmita, unkind daughter of the deaf old Dona Carmen, now lives on that nice acreage left by her mother and has her husband's land as well. Augustina is in the hioh hills, as lost to Santa Cruz Etla as any young man who went to work on the highway or enlisted in the army. Refugio, a sallow, thin, be-goitered child in 1934, has founded a new family for Don Julio. Perhaps Don Julio's Juanita, that pretty little dancer in 1934, would please Don Amado, with her own pretty little daughter and her well-kept, plastered San Pablo house; but of course, living in San Pablo, she contributes nothing to Santa Cruz Etla. Since the girls are more apt to stay in Santa Cruz Etla than the boys, many of them contribute more to the life of the town. A fresh- 264 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ality. His pleasant wife, a San Pablo girl like his mother, was sick for a year after the birth of their only child; and Don Ignacio's wife from San Pablo, who had so antagonized the old lady, came to care for her daughter-in-law. All three generations were living with Dona Estefana in 1951. In 1954 only Aurelio's little family oc- cupied Dons Estefana's historic old house, while she herself lay slowly dying in Sofia's but at the back of the housevard. Don Ignacio, who lived again in San Pablo and spent Sundays with his mother, said her great delight was in Aurelio's little son (I was asked to take a picture of him wearing his baptismal dress); she remembered to ask for the little boy every day and spent a half- hour lulling him to sleep on her cot. With Leopoldo gone to the city, this child is the principal heir to her house. Aurelio will prosper because Donia Estdfana's land will remain the best in Santa Cruz, uneroded among the trees, producing enough corn for three genera- tions of her descendants. Don Amado would have felt, however, that there was no progress for the town in the picture of Aurelio's placid life. Who else of the children in the "days of Rosita"? Adolfo Soto is working in Oaxaca City. Ord6n, the stodgy but beloved only son of Dona Enriqueta, works his father's farm and supports his mother, while his father rests, and now Ord6n has his own young wife. The Leon boys, Francisco still shy and retiring and Felicito newly mar- ried, work with the railroad ties and will inherit their father's five acres between them. Carmita, unkind daughter of the deaf old Dota Carmen, now lives on that nice acreage left by her mother and has her husband's land as well. Augustina is in the high hills, as lost to Santa Cruz Etla as any young man who went to work on the highway or enlisted in the army. Refugio, a sallow, thin, be-goitered child in 1934, has founded a new family for Don Julio. Perhaps Don Julio's Juanita, that pretty little dancer in 1934, would please Don Amado, with her own pretty little daughter and her well-kept, plastered San Pablo house; but of course, living in San Pablo, she contributes nothing to Santa Cruz Etla. Since the girls are more apt to stay in Santa Cruz Etla than the boys, many of them contribute more to the life of the town. A fresh- 264  THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 faced matron whom I approached in 1954, that fiesta Sunday, asked if I remembered her, a little girl named Eleanora at school in 1934 from San Lorenzo, who had her picture taken with the dolls. But it seems she had told me, though I had forgotten I had even asked then what the little girls would be doing in the future, that she was going "to bring many sons into the world." I pretended to remem- ber all about this conversation, and wondered why she giggled shy- ly as she repeated it and asked me to photograph her entire family. Promising to meet them for the photo as soon as she had assembled "all her children," I turned to talk to the other old friends. When she came back and stood her family in a row at the rear of the school building, she had lined up eight daughters, the oldest perhaps fifteen, the youngest three. All smiling with their mother, a cheery, happy group, they made me think that the retiring Dona Eleanora, whose very existence I had forgotten, had perhaps contributed most of all to the happy continuance of Santa Cruz Etla. At home again in Los Angeles, I found the unmistakable face of this Eleanora in the photo of the girls who dressed the dolls, and I saw that twenty years and eight children have aged her very little. When contributions are to be counted, I must think first, though, of my dear friend Chabella, wife of Miguelito, the only son of Don Martin. Chabella was the best girl student in 1934. She was also the neatest seamstress and was allowed to do the embroidery on the dolls from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Like Nico, she appears as a model child in the entire sequence of the movie I took in 1934. Did she marry Miguelito for love, Miguelito so meek, so thin, so retiring, so negative a personality in his father's house? He had had two years of school with Rosita before we came, and he had helped his father with the animalitos and the planting. When he was twenty- five and Chabella fifteen, the two families, the prosperous widow Dofia Rosario, still at fifty as pretty as Chabella, and Don Martin and Dona Pastorcita on their side, had arranged the marriage. If Chabella was dissatisfied, she never showed it. A source of joy and comfort to her in-laws, she was for years the serene mistress of their household, doing half the work of the bakery, keeping the accounts for the store, and supervising the household, always smil- 265 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 faced matron whom I approached in 1954, that fiesta Sunday, asked if I remembered her, a little girl named Eleanora at school in 1934 from San Lorenzo, who had her picture taken with the dolls. But it seems she had told me, though I had forgotten I had even asked then what the little girls would be doing in the future, that she was going "to bring many sons into the world." I pretended to remem- ber all about this conversation, and wondered why she giggled shy- ly as she repeated it and asked me to photograph her entire family. Promising to meet them for the photo as soon as she had assembled "all her children," I turned to talk to the other old friends. When she came back and stood her family in a row at the rear of the school building, she had lined up eight daughters, the oldest perhaps fifteen, the youngest three. All smiling with their mother, a cheery, happy group, they made me think that the retiring Dona Eleanora, whose very existence I had forgotten, had perhaps contributed most of all to the happy continuance of Santa Cruz Etla. At home again in Los Angeles, I found the unmistakable face of this Eleanora in the photo of the girls who dressed the dolls, and I saw that twenty years and eight children have aged her very little. When contributions are to be counted, I must think first, though, of my dear friend Chabella, wife of Miguelito, the only son of Don Martin. Chabella was the best girl student in 1934. She was also the neatest seamstress and was allowed to do the embroidery on the dolls from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Like Nico, she appears as a model child in the entire sequence of the movie I took in 1934. Did she marry Miguelito for love, Miguelito so meek, so thin, so retiring, so negative a personality in his father's house? He had had two years of school with Rosita before we came, and he had helped his father with the animalitos and the planting. When he was twenty- five and Chabella fifteen, the two families, the prosperous widow Dona Rosario, still at fifty as pretty as Chabella, and Don Martin and Dona Pastorcita on their side, had arranged the marriage. If Chabella was dissatisfied, she never showed it. A source of joy and comfort to her in-laws, she was for years the serene mistress of their household, doing half the work of the bakery, keeping the accounts for the store, and supervising the household, always smil- 265 THOSE OTHERS WHO WERE CHILDREN IN 1934 faced matron whom I approached in 1954, that fiesta Sunday, asked if I remembered her, a little girl named Eleanora at school in 1934 from San Lorenzo, who had her picture taken with the dolls. But it seems she had told me, though I had forgotten I had even asked then what the little girls would be doing in the future, that she was going "to bring many sons into the world." I pretended to remem- ber all about this conversation, and wondered why she giggled shy- ly as she repeated it and asked me to photograph her entire family. Promising to meet them for the photo as soon as she had assembled "all her children," I turned to talk to the other old friends. When she came back and stood her family in a row at the rear of the school building, she had lined up eight daughters, the oldest perhaps fifteen, the youngest three. All smiling with their mother, a cheery, happy group, they made me think that the retiring Dona Eleanora, whose very existence I had forgotten, had perhaps contributed most of all to the happy continuance of Santa Cruz Etla. At home again in Los Angeles, I found the unmistakable face of this Eleanora in the photo of the girls who dressed the dolls, and I saw that twenty years and eight children have aged her very little. When contributions are to be counted, I must think first, though, of my dear friend Chabella, wife of Miguelito, the only son of Don Martin. Chabella was the best girl student in 1934. She was also the neatest seamstress and was allowed to do the embroidery on the dolls from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Like Nico, she appears as a model child in the entire sequence of the movie I took in 1934. Did she marry Miguelito for love, Miguelito so meek, so thin, so retiring, so negative a personality in his father's house? He had had two years of school with Rosita before we came, and he had helped his father with the animalitos and the planting. When he was twenty- five and Chabella fifteen, the two families, the prosperous widow Dona Rosario, still at fifty as pretty as Chabella, and Don Martin and Dona Pastorcita on their side, had arranged the marriage. If Chabella was dissatisfied, she never showed it. A source of joy and comfort to her in-laws, she was for years the serene mistress of their household, doing half the work of the bakery, keeping the accounts for the store, and supervising the household, always smil- 265  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ing or singing to herself, grown fat through the years but very pretty still. And like the queen bee in the hive, she produced the young, the beloved grandchildren of Don Martin, eight live births of which she lost only two. Her oldest, Margarita, was fifteen in 1954, and she was my friend and companion during my visit that year. Artemio was thirteen in 1954 in the fifth grade of the school in San Pablo Etla. Adela was in the fourth grade at Santa Cruz, Don Alfredo's shining light as Chabella had been Rosita's in 1934. She was named for her Aunt Adelita who was a good student in the fourth grade with Dona Ofelia in 1945, and who died shortly after Dona Ofelia left. Then there was a beautiful chubby boy named Jesus, the only child so named that I ever knew of in Santa Cruz Etla. He had seemed the sturdiest of the brood in 1945, but he and another little sister died of sarampion, the measles, in 1947, when so many chil- dren had died on the San Sebastiin ridge. Don Martin had a photo- graph that I had taken of him as a baby enlarged and highly tinted and hung up in a gilt frame above his "store counter." The little girl who died was replaced by another, Lupita, the next year. Then came Graciela, and finally, in 1954, there was a six-months-old Gui- llermo, fat and cooing at Chabella's breast, to replace Jesus. Kept clean and tidy in store-bought clothes, living in a house with a tile floor and whitewashed walls so that it was easier to stay clean, these intelligent and happy children of the intelligent and happy Chabella, grandchildren of the intelligent and happy Don Martin, seemed Santa Cruz Etla's best hope. Artemio, the third boy in Santa Cruz who went on to San Pablo for the fifth and sixth grades, owned store-bought shoes and wore them most of the time- shoes in a nation in which "those who wear shoes" are sharply divided from ellos sin zapatas (those without shoes). I understand Don Martin had to fight to get Artemio willing to stay in this "upper class" of society, but as of 1954 he was winning out. And as for Margarita, only Don Martin's death prevented her from going on to the highest education Santa Cruz had ever known. When Cha- bella's husband became the master of the family and moved it to the city, on Don Martin's death, Chabella herself had to leave Santa Cruz, and with her most of the children. If they today are receiving 266 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ing or singing to herself, grown fat through the years but very pretty still. And like the queen bee in the hive, she produced the young, the beloved grandchildren of Don Martin, eight live births of which she lost only two. Her oldest, Margarita, was fifteen in 1954, and she was my friend and companion during my visit that year. Artemio was thirteen in 1954 in the fifth grade of the school in San Pablo Etla. Adela was in the fourth grade at Santa Cruz, Don Alfredo's shining light as Chabella had been Rosita's in 1934. She was named for her Aunt Adelita who was a good student in the fourth grade with Dofia Ofelia in 1945, and who died shortly after Dona Ofelia left. Then there was a beautiful chubby boy named Jesus, the only child so named that I ever knew of in Santa Cruz Etla. He had seemed the sturdiest of the brood in 1945, but he and another little sister died of sarampion, the measles, in 1947, when so many chil- dren had died on the San Sebastiin ridge. Don Martin had a photo- graph that I had taken of him as a baby enlarged and highly tinted and hung up in a gilt frame above his "store counter." The little girl who died was replaced by another, Lupita, the next year. Then came Graciela, and finally, in 1954, there was a six-months-old Gui- llermo, fat and cooing at Chabella's breast, to replace Jesus. Kept clean and tidy in store-bought clothes, living in a house with a tile floor and whitewashed walls so that it was easier to stay clean, these intelligent and happy children of the intelligent and happy Chabella, grandchildren of the intelligent and happy Don Martin, seemed Santa Cruz Etla's best hope. Artemio, the third boy in Santa Cruz who went on to San Pablo for the fifth and sixth grades, owned store-bought shoes and wore them most of the time- shoes in a nation in which "those who wear shoes" are sharply divided from ellos sin zapatas (those without shoes). I understand Don Martin had to fight to get Artemio willing to stay in this "upper class" of society, but as of 1954 he was winning out. And as for Margarita, only Don Martin's death prevented her from going on to the highest education Santa Cruz had ever known. When Cha- bella's husband became the master of the family and moved it to the city, on Don Martin's death, Chabella herself had to leave Santa Cruz, and with her most of the children. If they today are receiving 266 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ing or singing to herself, grown fat through the years but very pretty still. And like the queen bee in the hive, she produced the young, the beloved grandchildren of Don Martin, eight live births of which she lost only two. Her oldest, Margarita, was fifteen in 1954, and she was my friend and companion during my visit that year. Artemio was thirteen in 1954 in the fifth grade of the school in San Pablo Etla. Adela was in the fourth grade at Santa Cruz, Don Alfredo's shining light as Chabella had been Rosita's in 1934. She was named for her Aunt Adelita who was a good student in the fourth grade with Doa Ofelia in 1945, and who died shortly after Doha Ofelia left. Then there was a beautiful chubby boy named Jesus, the only child so named that I ever knew of in Santa Cruz Etla. He had seemed the sturdiest of the brood in 1945, but he and another little sister died of sarampion, the measles, in 1947, when so many chil- dren had died on the San Sebastiin ridge. Don Martin had a photo- graph that I had taken of him as a baby enlarged and highly tinted and hung up in a gilt frame above his "store counter." The little girl who died was replaced by another, Lupita, the next year. Then came Graciela, and finally, in 1954, there was a six-months-old Gui- llermo, fat and cooing at Chabella's breast, to replace Jesus. Kept clean and tidy in store-bought clothes, living in a house with a tile floor and whitewashed walls so that it was easier to stay clean, these intelligent and happy children of the intelligent and happy Chabella, grandchildren of the intelligent and happy Don Martin, seemed Santa Cruz Etla's best hope. Artemio, the third boy in Santa Cruz who went on to San Pablo for the fifth and sixth grades, owned store-bought shoes and wore them most of the time- shoes in a nation in which "those who wear shoes" are sharply divided from ellos sin zapatas (those without shoes). I understand Don Martin had to fight to get Artemio willing to stay in this "upper class" of society, but as of 1954 he was winning out. And as for Margarita, only Don Martin's death prevented her from going on to the highest education Santa Cruz had ever known. When Cha- bella's husband became the master of the family and moved it to the city, on Don Martin's death, Chabella herself had to leave Santa Cruz, and with her most of the children. If they today are receiving 266  THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DOA OFELIA greater opportunities in Oaxaca City than Santa Cruz Etla could give them and are going on to make names for themselves there, they would still be a disappointment to Don Amado because they did not stay in Santa Cruz. -s 8 csx OF ALL THE BOYS IN SANTA Cuz, Don Marcelino's Perfecto is the only one still living there who ever went to school in San Pablo Etla for the fifth and sixth grades. This gave him the status of an intellec- tual. Though not a student of Dofna Ofelia, having finished the fourth grade even before Don Solomfn's time, he was the only per- son in Santa Cruz of whom Dona Ofelia really approved, the only bookish intellectual she found there. Moreover, he could draw, when he could get pencil and paper, and could make pictures of al- most anything. "This importance has not spoiled him," I wrote in 1945. "He works quietly with his father and helps with the plowing. His father tells me he is muy delicado, very delicate, and they are just waiting for a good corn year to send Perfecto into teacher-training school in Oaxaca." This was exactly the kind of thing Don Amado had hoped would happen. Meanwhile, Per- fecto stayed in Santa Cruz, went to school in San Pablo for the advanced work when it was later offered there, helped teach the classes for illiterates, and often wrote the town records for Don Bartolo and subsequent presidents. He it was who decorated the walls of the municipal building with geometric designs, as a public offering apart from work done as laborers by his father and himself. Then when the idea of the church began to materialize, Perfecto made a front-view pencil drawing of what it should be, quite ac- curate for a person with no training in rendering; and with Panfilo's plans, it was a guide in the entire building project. I asked Perfecto about the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo, taught by the husband member of the fine, public-spirited matri- monio who ran the school there. This man would teach the ad- 267 THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DORA OFELIA greater opportunities in Oaxaca City than Santa Cruz Etla could give them and are going on to make names for themselves there, they would still be a disappointment to Don Amado because they did not stay in Santa Cruz. -s, 8 se OF ALL THE BOYS IN SANTA Cuz, Don Marcelino's Perfecto is the only one still living there who ever went to school in San Pablo Etla for the fifth and sixth grades. This gave him the status of an intellec- tual. Though not a student of Dona Ofelia, having finished the fourth grade even before Don Solomon's time, he was the only per- son in Santa Cruz of whom Dofa Ofelia really approved, the only bookish intellectual she found there. Moreover, he could draw, when he could get pencil and paper, and could make pictures of al- most anything. "This importance has not spoiled him," I wrote in 1945. "He works quietly with his father and helps with the plowing. His father tells me he is muy delicado, very delicate, and they are just waiting for a good corn year to send Perfecto into teacher-training school in Oaxaca." This was exactly the kind of thing Don Amado had hoped would happen. Meanwhile, Per- fecto stayed in Santa Cruz, went to school in San Pablo for the advanced work when it was later offered there, helped teach the classes for illiterates, and often wrote the town records for Don Bartolo and subsequent presidents. He it was who decorated the walls of the municipal building with geometric designs, as a public offering apart from work done as laborers by his father and himself. Then when the idea of the church began to materialize, Perfecto made a front-view pencil drawing of what it should be, quite ac- curate for a person with no training in rendering; and with Panfilo's plans, it was a guide in the entire building project. I asked Perfecto about the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo, taught by the husband member of the fine, public-spirited matri- monio who ran the school there. This man would teach the ad- 267 THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DORA OFELIA greater opportunities in Oaxaca City than Santa Cruz Etla could give them and are going on to make names for themselves there, they would still be a disappointment to Don Amado because they did not stay in Santa Cruz. .-, 8 a OF ALL THE BOYS IN SANTA CUz, Don Marcelino's Perfecto is the only one still living there who ever went to school in San Pablo Etla for the fifth and sixth grades. This gave him the status of an intellec- tual. Though not a student of Dona Ofelia, having finished the fourth grade even before Don Solomon's time, he was the only per- son in Santa Cruz of whom Dona Ofelia really approved, the only bookish intellectual she found there. Moreover, he could draw, when he could get pencil and paper, and could make pictures of al- most anything. "This importance has not spoiled him," I wrote in 1945. "He works quietly with his father and helps with the plowing. His father tells me he is muy delicado, very delicate, and they are just waiting for a good corn year to send Perfecto into teacher-training school in Oaxaca." This was exactly the kind of thing Don Amado had hoped would happen. Meanwhile, Per- fecto stayed in Santa Cruz, went to school in San Pablo for the advanced work when it was later offered there, helped teach the classes for illiterates, and often wrote the town records for Don Bartolo and subsequent presidents. He it was who decorated the walls of the municipal building with geometric designs, as a public offering apart from work done as laborers by his father and himself. Then when the idea of the church began to materialize, Perfecto made a front-view pencil drawing of what it should be, quite ac- curate for a person with no training in rendering; and with Panfilo's plans, it was a guide in the entire building project. I asked Perfecto about the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo, taught by the husband member of the fine, public-spirited matri- monio who ran the school there. This man would teach the ad- 267  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS vanced classes on his own time whenever there were four or more pupils from all the surrounding communities interested in going on. The students had to buy expensive books, an outlay of fifteen or twenty pesos in 1945, books on world geography, formal grammar, arithmetic through square roots and percentages, natural sciences, and Mexican history. The teacher, who taught thirty or forty San Pabloites in the third and fourth grades every day, could give these advanced scholars only a few minutes out of every hour to recite lessons. Really they taught themselves from the books. The boys would take two years to each grade level, finishing with the equiva- lent in subject matter of the eighth or ninth grade in the United States, or more often falling by the wayside after a year or two when the families needed them at home. Perfecto had finished both classes in a single three-year period. "Perfecto should make a good rural teacher, and will do well if he ever gets to the Oaxaca teacher-train- ing school," I wrote in 1945. In 1951, when Don Marcelino, was municipal president, Perfecto came down in an oxcart to meet us at the highway, and then he assumed responsibility for our entertain- ment throughout the day's visit, rounding up people we asked to see, helping Don Martin's family serve us food, and driving us back down at dusk to our waiting car. He was very quiet for such an erudite scholar, and really I never saw in him Don Amado's idea of another Benito Juarez. He and Don Marcelino gave up early any idea of his ever leaving Santa Cruz Etla. Don Marcelino broke his leg in 1953, and it did not set straight. Now Perfecto and his brother-in-law Joel, who married the little sister Teresa, must work Don Marcelino's land. Accepting this future philosophically, Perfecto married a girl whom he had first seen as a little first grader in San Pablo when he was ready to "graduate" from the school there. He watched her grow up and asked for her with the usual formality, education or no. Still excited about the fine wedding he had, he condoled with me in 1954 for not being able to attend. He would have liked to have waited for the church he designed to be finished, but his wife's people wanted the wedding held in San Pablo. That would not have pleased Don Amado, and the "waste" of Perfecto's education wouldn't have either, 268 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS vaned classes on his own time whenever there were four or more pupils from all the surrounding communities interested in going on. The students had to buy expensive books, an outlay of fifteen or twenty pesos in 1945, books on world geography, formal grammar, arithmetic through square roots and percentages, natural sciences, and Mexican history. The teacher, who taught thirty or forty San Pabloites in the third and fourth grades every day, could give these advanced scholars only a few minutes out of every hour to recite lessons. Really they taught themselves from the books. The boys would take two years to each grade level, finishing with the equiva- lent in subject matter of the eighth or ninth grade in the United States, or more often falling by the wayside after a year or two when the families needed them at home. Perfecto had finished both classes in a single three-year period. "Perfecto should make a good rural teacher, and will do well if he ever gets to the Oaxaca teacher-train- ing school," I wrote in 1945. In 1951, when Don Marcelino, was municipal president, Perfecto came down in an oxcart to meet us at the highway, and then he assumed responsibility for our entertain- ment throughout the day's visit, rounding up people we asked to see, helping Don Martin's family serve us food, and driving us back down at dusk to our waiting car. He was very quiet for such an erudite scholar, and really I never saw in him Don Amado's idea of another Benito Judrez. He and Don Marcelino gave up early any idea of his ever leaving Santa Cruz Etla. Don Marcelino broke his leg in 1953, and it did not set straight. Now Perfecto and his brother-in-law Joel, who married the little sister Teresa, must work Don Marcelino's land. Accepting this future philosophically, Perfecto married a girl whom he had first seen as a little first grader in San Pablo when he was reade to "graduate" from the school there. He watched her grow up and asked for her with the usual formality, education or no. Still excited about the fine wedding he had, he condoled with me in 1954 for not being able to attend. He would have liked to have waited for the church he designed to be finished, but his wife's people wanted the wedding held in San Pablo. That would not have pleased Don Amado, and the "waste" of Perfecto's education wouldn't have either, 268 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS vanced classes on his own time whenever there were four or more pupils from all the surrounding communities interested in going on. The students had to buy expensive books, an outlay of fifteen or twenty pesos in 1945, books on world geography, formal grammar, arithmetic through square roots and percentages, natural sciences, and Mexican history. The teacher, who taught thirty or forty San Pabloites in the third and fourth grades every day, could give these advanced scholars only a few minutes out of every hour to recite lessons. Really they taught themselves from the books. The boys would take two years to each grade level, finishing with the equiva- lent in subject matter of the eighth or ninth grade in the United States, or more often falling by the wayside after a year or two when the families needed them at home. Perfecto had finished both classes in a single three-year period. "Perfecto should make a good rural teacher, and will do well if he ever gets to the Oaxaca teacher-train- ing school," I wrote in 1945. In 1951, when Don Marcelino, was municipal president, Perfecto came down in an oxcart to meet us at the highway, and then he assumed responsibility for our entertain- ment throughout the day's visit, rounding up people we asked to see, helping Don Martin's family serve us food, and driving us back down at dusk to our waiting car. He was very quiet for such an erudite scholar, and really I never saw in him Don Amado's idea of another Benito Judrez. He and Don Marcelino gave up early any idea of his ever leaving Santa Cruz Etla. Don Marcelino broke his leg in 1953, and it did not set straight. Now Perfecto and his brother-in-law Joel, who married the little sister Teresa, must work Don Marcelino's land. Accepting this future philosophically, Perfecto married a girl whom he had first seen as a little first grader in San Pablo when he was ready to "graduate" from the school there. He watched her grow up and asked for her with the usual formality, education or no. Still excited about the fine wedding he had, he condoled with me in 1954 for not being able to attend. He would have liked to have waited for the church he designed to be finished, but his wife's people wanted the wedding held in San Pablo. That would not have pleased Don Amado, and the "waste" of Perfecto's education wouldn't have either, 268  THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DONA OFELIA though that old idealist would have been pleased with the drawing of the church. I had hopes in 1945 for Isaias Psrez and Ger6nomo and Auoelia, those good students in Dona Ofelia's fourth grade. Isaias Perez works as a woodcutter, one of the few boys in the younger generation who still do, and sells his own charcoal in Oaxaca. How long will he stay in the woodcutter's trade when he goes in so often to the city, sees so many phases of "the new life," and has an increasingly hard time making a living in the charcoal burner's life? I did not get to talk to Isafas long enough in 1954 to ask how he felt about this; I could only notice how clear his eyes were (a credit to Dofa Patro- eina's treatments) and how fast he was at basketball on Sunday. Gernomo remembered me very well, having come to see me as soon as he heard I was at Don Martin's. He wanted to know how often I had ridden a horse in the United States in the years since he had helped me that first morning we went to ask Don Marciano for el caballo. He had heard that I could drive the car myself, and he wanted to make sure, for none of the Santa Cruz Etla people, no matter how often they went to town, ever saw a woman driving in Oaxaca. Geronomo was a leader in Los Policias, wore store-bought clothing and a Yankee-style dungaree jacket on Sundays, and owned a pair of shoes. With all this modernity, he seemed very immature as he talked to me about cars and horses, not half as serious as Nico or Joel or Perfecto had been at twenty-one or twenty-two. Like Don Bartolo's son, he works as a goatherd a great deal of the time, or helps his father with the hogs, and perhaps has not rubbed against life enough to be concerned about it. "A casamiento for me, Dona Elena? Why I am not yet a man, to plan on a household," he said, laughing, in answer to my teasing question. No hopes for Don Amado's Benito Juarez in Dona Ofelia's fourth graders. There is still Leopoldo, however, who was a first grader with Dona Ester in 1945 when I helped her make models for the chil- dren's writing. Also a grandson of Dona Estefana, the only child of Sofia by Don Pablo, Leopoldo always showed promise in school. I took pictures of him, eager and interested in the schoolwork, in that first-grade year. After Perfecto and before Artemio, he went 269 THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DONA OFELIA though that old idealist would have been pleased with the drawing of the church. I had hopes in 1945 for Isaias Prez and Ger6nomo and Aurelia, those good students in Doia Ofelia's fourth grade. Isafas Prez works as a woodcutter, one of the few boys in the younger generation who still do, and sells his own charcoal in Oaxaca. How long will he stay in the woodcutter's trade when he goes in so often to the city, sees so many phases of "the new life," and has an increasingly hard time making a living in the charcoal burner's life? I did not get to talk to Isaias long enough in 1954 to ask how he felt about this; I could only notice how clear his eyes were (a credit to Doia Patro- eina's treatments) and how fast he was at basketball on Sunday. Ger6nomo remembered me very well, having come to see me as soon as he heard I was at Don Martin's. He wanted to know how often I had ridden a horse in the United States in the years since he had helped me that first morning we went to ask Don Marciano for el caballo. He had heard that I could drive the car myself, and he wanted to make sure, for none of the Santa Cruz Etla people, no matter how often they went to town, ever saw a woman driving in Oaxaca. Ger6nomo was a leader in Los Policias, wore store-bought clothing and a Yankee-style dungaree jacket on Sundays, and owned a pair of shoes. With all this modernity, he seemed very immature as he talked to me about cars and horses, not half as serious as Nico or Joel or Perfecto had been at twenty-one or twenty-two. Like Don Bartolo's son, he works as a goatherd a great deal of the time, or helps his father with the hogs, and perhaps has not rubbed against life enough to be concerned about it. "A casamiento for me, Dofna Elena? Why I am not yet a man, to plan on a household," he said, laughing, in answer to my teasing question. No hopes for Don Amado's Benito Juirez in Dofia Ofelia's fourth graders. There is still Leopoldo, however, who was a first grader with Doa Ester in 1945 when I helped her make models for the chil- dren's writing. Also a grandson of Dofa Estefana, the only child of Sofia by Don Pablo, Leopoldo always showed promise in school. I took pictures of him, eager and interested in the schoolwork, in that first-grade year. After Perfecto and before Artemio, he went 269 THE CHILDREN OF THE DAYS OF DONA OFELIA though that old idealist would have been pleased with the drawing of the church. I had hopes in 1945 for Isafas Perez and Ger6nomo and Aueelia, those good students in Dofa Ofelia's fourth grade. Isaas Perez works as a woodcutter, one of the few boys in the younger generation who still do, and sells his own charcoal in Oaxaca. How long will he stay in the woodcutter's trade when he goes in so often to the city, sees so many phases of "the new life," and has an increasingly hard time making a living in the charcoal burner's life? I did not get to talk to Isafas long enough in 1954 to ask how he felt about this; I could only notice how clear his eyes were (a credit to Dona Patro- cina's treatments) and how fast he was at basketball on Sunday. Ger6nomo remembered me very well, having come to see me as soon as he heard I was at Don Martin's. He wanted to know how often I had ridden a horse in the United States in the years since he had helped me that first morning we went to ask Don Marciano for el caballo. He had heard that I could drive the car myself, and he wanted to make sure, for none of the Santa Cruz Etla people, no matter how often they went to town, ever saw a woman driving in Oaxaca. Ger6nomo was a leader in Los Policias, wore store-bought clothing and a Yankee-style dungaree jacket on Sundays, and owned a pair of shoes. With all this modernity, he seemed very immature as he talked to me about cars and horses, not half as serious as Nico or Joel or Perfecto had been at twenty-one or twenty-two. Like Don Bartolo's son, he works as a goatherd a great deal of the time, or helps his father with the hogs, and perhaps has not rubbed against life enough to be concerned about it. "A casamiento for me, Dona Elena? Why I am not yet a man, to plan on a household," he said, laughing, in answer to my teasing question. No hopes for Don Amado's Benito Juirez in Dona Ofelia's fourth graders. There is still Leopoldo, however, who was a first grader with Dona Ester in 1945 when I helped her make models for the chil- dren's writing. Also a grandson of Dona Estifana, the only child of Sofia by Don Pablo, Leopoldo always showed promise in school. I took pictures of him, eager and interested in the schoolwork, in that first-grade year. After Perfecto and before Artemio, he went 269  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS on to the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo, his books and his store- bought clothes purchased with the outside money Don Pablo sent home. Leopoldo had finished the San Pablo school in 1952 when he was fifteen. He has written me recently, incidentally, that his class was the last to do so at San Pablo Etla, that the erosion of the soil on the bare San Pablo hillsides had driven so many people to find work away from the land that there are now not enough children to keep two teachers busy in the school there. The matrimonio, after nine- teen years in San Pablo, has gone down to found a new big school at Pueblo Nuevo in the valley, where some of the San Pablo people have taken up land. So Santa Cruz Etla won on that score, in the long run of two decades. The Santa Cruz school still has two teachers and a larger enrollment than it has ever had, and Don Alfredo told me he would give the fifth and sixth grades himself if he staved in Santa Cruz. This is surely a victory for Santa Cruz, an eventual solving of one of those "problems" we presented to Don Luis Varela in 1944; and it would have been a source of pride to Don Amado. Leopoldo, another of Don Amado's cousins, would also be a source of pride to him, though not in terms of Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo came home to get him when he had finished school and took him to Mexico City. There Rosita helped him to find a job as errand boy in the office of a big clothing store. It is surprising that Leopoldo learned his way around the city so quickly. Rosita says that the clothing-store office manager, a friend of Rosita's doctor husband, speaks very well of Leopoldo. Told on the phone that a profesora americana wanted to talk to Leopoldo and to arrange an afternoon off for him to meet old friends, the office manager was loath to let him go, not because he disliked granting the boy a favor, but because he was "afraid the senora americana was planning to take Leopoldo off to the States." "If he only had a little typing and bookkeeping training, he would move up rapidly in the commercial field," the manager told Rosita. "Why can't Leopoldo have such training?" I demanded when Rosita told me. "Aren't there commercial high schools free here in Mexico City? Leopoldo has had the fifth and sixth grades," I added, 270 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS on to the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo, his books and his store- bought clothes purchased with the outside money Don Pablo sent home. Leopoldo had finished the San Pablo school in 1952 when he was fifteen. He has written me recently, incidentally, that his class was the last to do so at San Pablo Etla, that the erosion of the soil on the bare San Pablo hillsides had driven so many people to find work away from the land that there are now not enough children to keep two teachers busy in the school there. The matrimonio, after nine- teen years in San Pablo, has gone down to found a new big school at Pueblo Nuevo in the valley, where some of the San Pablo people have taken up land. So Santa Cruz Etla won on that score, in the long run of two decades. The Santa Cruz school still has two teachers and a larger enrollment than it has ever had, and Don Alfredo told me he would give the fifth and sixth grades himself if he stared in Santa Cruz. This is surely a victory for Santa Cruz, an eventual solving of one of those "problems" we presented to Don Luis Varela in 1944; and it would have been a source of pride to Don Amado. Leopoldo, another of Don Amado's cousins, would also be a source of pride to him, though not in terms of Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo came home to get him when he had finished school and took him to Mexico City. There Rosita helped him to find a job as errand boy in the office of a big clothing store. It is surprising that Leopoldo learned his way around the city so quickly. Rosita says that the clothing-store office manager, a friend of Rosita's doctor husband, speaks very well of Leopoldo. Told on the phone that a profesora americana wanted to talk to Leopoldo and to arrange an afternoon off for him to meet old friends, the office manager was loath to let him go, not because he disliked granting the boy a favor, but because he was "afraid the senora americana was planning to take Leopoldo off to the States." "If he only had a little typing and bookkeeping training, he would move up rapidly in the commercial field," the manager told Rosita. "Why can't Leopoldo have such training?" I demanded when Rosita told me. "Aren't there commercial high schools free here in Mexico City? Leopoldo has had the fifth and sixth grades," I added, 270 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS on to the fifth and sixth grades in San Pablo, his books and his store- bought clothes purchased with the outside money Don Pablo sent home. Leopoldo had finished the San Pablo school in 1952 when he was fifteen. He has written me recently, incidentally, that his class was the last to do so at San Pablo Etla, that the erosion of the soil on the bare San Pablo hillsides had driven so many people to find work away from the land that there are now not enough children to keep two teachers busy in the school there. The atrimonio, after nine- teen years in San Pablo, has gone down to found a new big school at Pueblo Nuevo in the valley, where some of the San Pablo people have taken up land. So Santa Cruz Etla won on that score, in the long run of two decades. The Santa Cruz school still has two teachers and a larger enrollment than it has ever had, and Don Alfredo told me he would give the fifth and sixth grades himself if he stayed in Santa Cruz. This is surely a victory for Santa Cruz, an eventual solving of one of those "problems" we presented to Don Luis Varela in 1944; and it would have been a source of pride to Don Amado. Leopoldo, another of Don Amado's cousins, would also be a source of pride to him, though not in terms of Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo came home to get him when he had finished school and took him to Mexico City. There Rosita helped him to find a job as errand boy in the office of a big clothing store. It is surprising that Leopoldo learned his way around the city so quickly. Rosita says that the clothing-store office manager, a friend of Rosita's doctor husband, speaks very well of Leopoldo. Told on the phone that a profesora americana wanted to talk to Leopoldo and to arrange an afternoon off for him to meet old friends, the office manager was loath to let him go, not because he disliked granting the boy a favor, but because he was "afraid the seora americana was planning to take Leopoldo off to the States." "If he only had a little typing and bookkeeping training, he would move up rapidly in the commercial field," the manager told Rosita. "Why can't Leopoldo have such training?" I demanded when Rosita told me. "Aren't there commercial high schools free here in Mexico City? Leopoldo has had the fifth and sixth grades," I added, 270  DON AMADO'S OWN SONS knowing that a diploma for these last two years is necessary for any secondary school work in Mexico. Such an idea had not occurred to Don Pablo, but it had to Leo- poldo. He had inquired through others in his office and had found an instituto, or secondary school, in the neighborhood which gave commercial classes at night. He was unwilling to leave his good daytime job, at which, as a little "apprentice," he made a hundred twenty pesos a month. In 1954 this was about ten dollars. Don Pablo was also unwilling to have him stop working but glad to have him "keep occupied in the evenings in this big city." The instituto night classes are free, but there is a fee for the practice on the type- writer, and there is the cost of books and paper and beginners' book- keeping kits. Still, five dollars from me is more than sixty pesos for Leopoldo, and fifty pesos was all that Leopoldo needed to enter the instituto when a new monthly registration took place September 1. As of the present writing (1958), he has needed no further five- dollar "scholarship," is making rapid progress, and should get a diploma of secondary commercial-technical education in another year. He also learned some English and has written me a few care- ful letters in it. I was impressed with Leopoldo when I saw him in Mexico City. He is short and slight like the Mixters, and he has the Indian countenance, which still works against him in Mexico City; but he is very ambitious and has the drive and will to succeed. Dona Sofia, shy product of the Etla Hills, would be lost with these two grown men, fifty-five-year-old Don Pablo and twenty-year-old Leopoldo, in their sophisticated Mexico City environment. I am glad that Leopoldo is successful, but this commercial "get-ahead- yourself" advance is not what Don Amado wanted. I HAD ASKED DON AMADO, one of those evenings at Dona Estefana's in 1944, what would happen if each family had many sons survive. Wouldn't the people outgrow the land? 271 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS knowing that a diploma for these last two years is necessary for any secondary school work in Mexico, Such an idea had not occurred to Don Pablo, but it had to Leo- poldo. He had inquired through others in his office and had found an instituto, or secondary school, in the neighborhood which gave commercial classes at night. He was unwilling to leave his good daytime job, at which, as a little "apprentice," he made a hundred twenty pesos a month. In 1954 this was about ten dollars. Don Pablo was also unwilling to have him stop working but glad to have him "keep occupied in the evenings in this big city." The instituto night classes are free, but there is a fee for the practice on the type- writer, and there is the cost of books and paper and beginners' book- keeping kits. Still, five dollars from me is more than sixty pesos for Leopoldo, and fifty pesos was all that Leopoldo needed to enter the instituto when a new monthly registration took place September 1. As of the present writing (1958), he has needed no further five- dollar "scholarship," is making rapid progress, and should get a diploma of secondary commercial-technical education in another year. He also learned some English and has written me a few care- ful letters in it. I was impressed with Leopoldo when I saw him in Mexico City. He is short and slight like the Mixtecs, and he has the Indian countenance, which still works against him in Mexico City; but he is very ambitious and has the drive and will to succeed. Dona Sofia, shy product of the Etla Hills, would be lost with these two grown men, fifty-five-year-old Don Pablo and twenty-year-old Leopoldo, in their sophisticated Mexico City environment. I am glad that Leopoldo is successful, but this commercial "get-ahead- yourself" advance is not what Don Amado wanted. I HAD ASKED DON AMADo, one of those evenings at Dona Estefana's in 1944, what would happen if each family had many sons survive. Wouldn't the people outgrow the land? 271 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS knowing that a diploma for these last two years is necessary for any secondary school work in Mexico. Such an idea had not occurred to Don Pablo, but it bad to Leo- poldo. He had inquired through others in his office and had found an nstituto, or secondary school, in the neighborhood which gave commercial classes at night. He was unwilling to leave his good daytime job, at which, as a little "apprentice," he made a hundred twenty pesos a month. In 1954 this was about ten dollars. Don Pablo was also unwilling to have him stop working but glad to have him "keep occupied in the evenings in this big city." The instituto night classes are free, but there is a fee for the practice on the type- writer, and there is the cost of books and paper and beginners' book- keeping kits. Still, five dollars from me is more than sixty pesos for Leopoldo, and fifty pesos was all that Leopoldo needed to enter the instituto when a new monthly registration took place September 1. As of the present writing (1958), he has needed no further five- dollar "scholarship," is making rapid progress, and should get a diploma of secondary commercial-technical education in another year. He also learned some English and has written me a few care- ful letters in it. I was impressed with Leopoldo when I saw him in Mexico City. He is short and slight like the Mixtecs, and he has the Indian countenance, which still works against him in Mexico City; but he is very ambitious and has the drive and will to succeed. Doia Sofia, shy product of the Etla Hills, would be lost with these two grown men, fifty-five-year-old Don Pablo and twenty-year-old Leopoldo, in their sophisticated Mexico City environment. I am glad that Leopoldo is successful, but this commercial "get-ahead- yourself" advance is not what Don Amado wanted. I HAD ASKED DON AMADO, one of those evenings at Dona Estefana's in 1944, what would happen if each family had many sons survive. Wouldn't the people outgrow the land? 271  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "No, it is not more land we need, but more sons," he had replied. "Few of us have had more than two sons survive. A fortunate man who had many sons survive could work with them all, tilling all the land together, not dividing it three or four ways. Thus, he could get several crops in a good year, corn, and beans, and then sometimes beans again. We do not have enough workers now, Dona Elena. A people without many surviving sons is a poor people-and a poor people will always remain a poor people." What a strange prophecy for his own family! He himself fathered three fine sons, intelligent, eager, idealistic, all three. But Don Amado died before the youngest son was old enough to go to school at all. At the time of his death, Don Amado left three acres of very poor land, a thatched house (three sides made of adobe, one side made of bamboo and wattle), a team of very old oxen, and two burros. And he left Margarito, aged six, Martiniano aged nine, and Cassiano aged sixteen. Cassiano as a person is worth many, many teams of oxen and hundreds of acres of land. Cassiano is not handsome like Aurelio and Perfecto, nor gay like Nico and Joel. He is just good and honest and smart and sincere. In 1945 he was the only one of the older boys who came regularly every night to teach the illiterates, and this after a hard day's work plowing with his father's oxen in his father's fields. When the work on the three acres needed no attention, he went to cut wood in the sierra, one of the youngest boys to do so regularly, and Don Martin would take it into Oaxaca to sell for him when he took the oxcart. After he finished the fourth grade in the Santa Cruz Etla school -he had been in Rosita's last primary class before she went to Mitla-he had waited two years for a good corn year so that he might go to the fifth grade in San Pablo Etla. Then his father had died. and he had shouldered the burden of the weedy three acres-and his shoulders were not yet seventeen years old. In addition, he helped in the municipio, working with Chico keeping records for Don Bartolo, for he wrote a very fine hand. He was determined in those years to be like his father, to stay in Santa Cruz Etla and to do all he could to improve the school and the community. He said to me one day, walking along behind his 272 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "No, it is not more land we need, but more sons," he had replied. "Few of us have had more than two sons survive. A fortunate man who had many sons survive could work with them all, tilling all the land together, not dividing it three or four ways. Thus, he could get several crops in a good year, corn, and beans, and then sometimes beans again. We do not have enough workers now, Dona Elena. A people without many surviving sons is a poor people-and a poor people will always remain a poor people." What a strange prophecy for his own family! He himself fathered three fine sons, intelligent, eager, idealistic, all three. But Don Amado died before the youngest son was old enough to go to school at all. At the time of his death, Don Amado left three acres of very poor land, a thatched house (three sides made of adobe, one side made of bamboo and wattle), a team of very old oxen, and two burros. And he left Margarito, aged six, Martiniano aged nine, and Cassiano aged sixteen. Cassiano as a person is worth many, many teams of oxen and hundreds of acres of land. Cassiano is not handsome like Aurelio and Perfecto, nor gay like Nico and Joel. He is just good and honest and smart and sincere. In 1945 he was the only one of the older boys who came regularly every night to teach the illiterates, and this after a hard day's work plowing with his father's oxen in his father's fields. When the work on the three acres needed no attention, he went to cut wood in the sierra, one of the youngest boys to do so regularly, and Don Martin would take it into Oaxaca to sell for him when he took the oxcart. After he finished the fourth grade in the Santa Cruz Etla school -he had been in Rosita's last primary class before she went to Mitla-he had waited two years for a good corn year so that he might go to the fifth grade in San Pablo Etla. Then his father had died, and he had shouldered the burden of the weedy three acres-and his shoulders were not yet seventeen years old. In addition, he helped in the municipio, working with Chico keeping records for Don Bartolo, for he wrote a very fine hand. He was determined in those years to be like his father, to stay in Santa Cruz Etla and to do all he could to improve the school and the community. He said to me one day, walking along behind his 272 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS "No, it is not more land we need, but more sons," he had replied. "Few of us have had more than two sons survive. A fortunate man who had many sons survive could work with them all, tilling all the land together, not dividing it three or four ways. Thus, he could get several crops in a good year, corn, and beans, and then sometimes beans again. We do not have enough workers now, Dona Elena. A people without many surviving sons is a poor people-and a poor people will always remain a poor people." What a strange prophecy for his own family! He himself fathered three fine sons, intelligent, eager, idealistic, all three. But Don Amado died before the youngest son was old enough to go to school at all. At the time of his death, Don Amado left three acres of very poor land, a thatched house (three sides made of adobe, one side made of bamboo and wattle), a team of very old oxen, and two burros. And he left Margarito, aged six, Martiniano aged nine, and Cassiano aged sixteen. Cassiano as a person is worth many, many teams of oxen and hundreds of acres of land. Cassiano is not handsome like Aurelio and Perfecto, nor gay like Nico and Joel. He is just good and honest and smart and sincere. In 1945 he was the only one of the older boys who came regularly every night to teach the illiterates, and this after a hard day's work plowing with his father's oxen in his father's felds. When the work on the three acres needed no attention, he went to cut wood in the sierra, one of the youngest boys to do so regularly, and Don Martin would take it into Oaxaca to sell for him when he took the oxcart. After he finished the fourth grade in the Santa Cruz Etla school -he had been in Rosita's last primary class before she went to Mitla-he had waited two years for a good corn year so that he might go to the fifth grade in San Pablo Etla. Then his father had died, and he had shouldered the burden of the weedy three acres-and his shoulders were not yet seventeen years old. In addition, he helped in the municipio, working with Chico keeping records for Don Bartolo, for he wrote a very fine hand. He was determined in those years to be like his father, to stay in Santa Cruz Etla and to do all he could to improve the school and the community. He said to me one day, walking along behind his 272  DON AMADO'S OWN SONS burros as I led Don Marciano's horse: "My father was the best educated man in all the hills. He spent much time with me, helping me to be serious. The greatest pity is that he is not here to help my little brothers." I recorded this conversation in my 1945 notes, and added: "Cas- siano will help his little brothers; he will help everyone while he neglects himself." In those days he never even combed his hair, and he looked as neglected as his father before him. Just before I left in 1945, he came to see me at Dona Patrocina's to have his picture taken as a souvenir for me. She, motherly soul, got out Chico's wooden comb and tried to make his cowlicks lie down. "Give him twenty years, and he will be Santa Cruz Etla's absent-minded pro- fessor," I wrote then. I notice that I concluded those 1945 notes on Don Amado's family by saying, "Martiniano, aged nine, seems stuffy and serious, but Mar- garito, who already reads as well as his nine-year-old brother, has his mother's happy nature. Perhaps it is left for Margarito to go on to the fifth and sixth grades away from home, and then to the city for secondary school, so that he can become the second Benito Juairez his father so hoped for." Margarito never got to the sixth grade while in the hills. Doia Rufina herself, the boys' mother, died in the spring of 1954, just a few months before I came to visit. If she had lived, all might be different for the sons of Don Amado. Her gay spirit hushed, the house empty, Cassiano did not know which way to turn. He had hoped to many a pretty little cousin of Chabella named Marta, so he told me later. How could he bring her home to an empty house, to the heavy cooking for three men, to a life on such poor acreage? The oxen had died, and Cassiano could not replace them for less than 1,200 pesos. He did not want to work the farm through another season by borrowing Joel's team. Money from the sierra came in very slowly by then for the charcoal burners. What could he do for his little brothers, for naturally he thought of them first? He told me in Mexico City that his mother, knowing for several days that she was going to die (no one in Santa Cruz could tell me what it was she died of), had asked Cassiano to look again through 273 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS burros as I led Don Marciano's horse: "My father was the best educated man in all the hills. He spent much time with me, helping me to be serious. The greatest pity is that he is not here to help my little brothers." I recorded this conversation in my 1945 notes, and added: "Cas- siano will help his little brothers; he will help everyone while he neglects himself." In those days he never even combed his hair, and he looked as neglected as his father before him. Just before I left in 1945, he came to see me at Dona Patrocina's to have his picture taken as a souvenir for me. She, motherly soul, got out Chico's wooden comb and tried to make his cowlicks lie down. "Give him twenty years, and he will be Santa Cruz Etla's absent-minded pro- fessor," I wrote then. I notice that I concluded those 1945 notes on Don Amado's family by saying, "Martiniano, aged nine, seems stuffy and serious, but Mar- garito, who already reads as well as his nine-year-old brother, has his mother's happy nature. Perhaps it is left for Margarito to go on to the fifth and sixth grades away from home, and then to the city for secondary school, so that he can become the second Benito Juirez his father so hoped for." Margarito never got to the sixth grade while in the hills. Dona Dufina herself, the boys' mother, died in the spring of 1954, just a few months before I came to visit. If she had lived, all might be different for the sons of Don Amado. Her gay spirit hushed, the house empty, Cassiano did not know which way to turn. He had hoped to marry a pretty little cousin of Chabella named Marta, so he told me later. How could he bring her home to an empty house, to the heavy cooking for three men, to a life on such poor acreage? The oxen had died, and Cassiano could not replace them for less than 1,200 pesos. He did not want to work the farm through another season by borrowing Joel's team. Money from the sierra came in very slowly by then for the charcoal burners. What could he do for his little brothers, for naturally he thought of them first? He told me in Mexico City that his mother, knowing for several days that she was going to die (no one in Santa Cruz could tell me what it was she died of), had asked Cassiano to look again through 273 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS burros as I led Don Marciano's horse: "My father was the best educated man in all the hills. He spent much time with me, helping me to be serious. The greatest pity is that he is not here to help my little brothers." I recorded this conversation in my 1945 notes, and added: "Cas- siano will help his little brothers; he will help everyone while he neglects himself." In those days he never even combed his hair, and he looked as neglected as his father before him. Just before I left in 1945, he came to see me at Dona Patrocina's to have his picture taken as a souvenir for me. She, motherly soul, got out Chico's wooden comb and tried to make his cowlicks lie down. "Give him twenty years, and he will be Santa Cruz Etla's absent-minded pro- fessor," I wrote then. I notice that I concluded those 1945 notes on Don Amado's family by saying, "Martiniano, aged nine, seems stuffy and serious, but Mar- garito, who already reads as well as his nine-year-old brother, has his mother's happy nature. Perhaps it is left for Margarito to go on to the fifth and sixth grades away from home, and then to the city for secondary school, so that he can become the second Benito Juirez his father so hoped for." Margarito never got to the sixth grade while in the hills. Dona Rufina herself, the boys' mother, died in the spring of 1954, just a few months before I came to visit. If she had lived, all might be different for the sons of Don Amado. Her gay spirit hushed, the house empty, Cassiano did not know which way to turn. He had hoped to marry a pretty little cousin of Chabella named Marta, so he told me later. How could he bring her home to an empty house, to the heavy cooking for three men, to a life on such poor acreage? The oxen had died, and Cassiano could not replace them for less than L200 pesos. He did not want to work the farm through another season by borrowing Joel's team. Money from the sierra came in very slowly by then for the charcoal burners. What could he do for his little brothers, for naturally he thought of them first? He told me in Mexico City that his mother, knowing for several days that she was going to die (no one in Santa Cruz could tell me what it was she died of), had asked Cassiano to look again through 273  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS those letters and papers of Don Amado which she had shown me ten years before. Among them was a letter from the family of the soldier friend of Don Amado's grandfather, the one who had taken Don Amado to Mexico City when he was young. Evidently on the last trip the "sage of Santa Cruz Etla" had made to the city to get the town's official papers, he visited with the family of this old friend. Then letters had come from this family before Don Amado died. Cassiano wrote to the still-living widow of the old family friend and asked for advice about coming to the city. The old comadre had written in return to say, with the usual courtesy of the old-time Mexican families, that her house was his house. Neanwhile, Don Pablo had been home for the May fiesta and had promised to try to get Cassiano a job in the tile factory where he was working. Cassiano stayed in Santa Cruz long enough after his mother's death to finish a double stint of work on the new church, since he did not have a hundred pesos to pay into the church fund. Marti- niano, then eighteen, worked also, mixing concrete and laying bricks. Then after the May fiesta, which Cassiano celebrated "with tears in my heart, Dona Elena," he and the brothers prepared to leave. Cas- siano sold his two burros, gave Doffa Sofia what little supplies he had left in his empty house, and closed the house door. He had just enough money to pay for three fares to Miexico City on the second-class train. He and the younger boys had nothing but their white, countrified clothes and their worn old sandals. The old comadre in Mexico City, probably none too happy that these far-distant country "connections" had taken seriously her offer of hospitality, had sent them to other relatives of hers who rented out the whole top floor, the azotea, of a downtown tenement building. Here in a garret room the boys laid down petates, and they have stayed there since, four staircases up, without being asked for rent. I did not see the place, but I have seen other azoteas, rabbit-warren rooms in the tenements of Mexico City; and I know in my heart that Cassiano and his little brothers, or anyone else for that matter, would be better off in the meanest adobe hut in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo, true to his word and to his loyalty to all the rela- tives of his mother-in-law, Doffa Estfana, had been able to per- 274 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS those letters and papers of Don Amado which she had shown me ten years before. Among them was a letter from the family of the soldier friend of Don Amado's grandfather, the one who had taken Don Amado to Mexico City when he was young. Evidently on the last trip the "sage of Santa Cruz Etla" had made to the city to get the town's official papers, he visited with the family of this old friend. Then letters had come from this family before Don Amado died. Cassiano wrote to the still-living widow of the old family friend and asked for advice about coming to the city. The old comadre had written in return to say, with the usual courtesy of the old-time Mexican families, that her house was his house. Nteanwhile, Don Pablo had been home for the May fiesta and had promised to try to get Cassiano a job in the tile factory where he was working. Cassiano stayed in Santa Cruz long enough after his mother's death to finish a double stint of work on the new church, since he did not have a hundred pesos to pay into the church fund. Marti- niano, then eighteen, worked also, mixing concrete and laying bricks. Then after the May fiesta, which Cassiano celebrated "with tears in my heart, Doffa Elena," he and the brothers prepared to leave. Cas- siano sold his two burros, gave Doffa Sofia what little supplies he had left in his empty house, and closed the house door. He had just enough money to pay for three fares to Miexico City on the second-class train. He and the younger boys had nothing but their white, countrified clothes and their worn old sandals. The old comadre in Mexico City, probably none too happy that these far-distant country "connections" had taken seriously her offer of hospitality, had sent them to other relatives of hers who rented out the whole top floor, the azotea, of a downtown tenement building. Here in a garret room the boys laid down petates, and they have stayed there since, four staircases up, without being asked for rent. I did not see the place, but I have seen other azoteas, rabbit-warren rooms in the tenements of Mexico City; and I know in my heart that Cassiano and his little brothers, or anyone else for that matter, would be better off in the meanest adobe but in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo, true to his word and to his loyalty to all the rela- tives of his mother-in-law, Doffa Estefana, had been able to per- 274 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS those letters and papers of Don Amado which she had shown me ten years before. Among them was a letter from the family of the soldier friend of Don Amado's grandfather, the one who had taken Don Amado to Mexico City when he was young. Evidently on the last trip the "sage of Santa Cruz Etla" had made to the city to get the town's official papers, he visited with the family of this old friend. Then letters had come from this family before Don Amado died. Cassiano wrote to the still-living widow of the old family friend and asked for advice about coming to the city. The old comadre had written in return to say, with the usual courtesy of the old-time Mexican families, that her house was his house. Meanwhile, Don Pablo had been home for the May fiesta and had promised to try to get Cassiano a job in the tile factory where he was working. Cassiano stayed in Santa Cruz long enough after his mother's death to finish a double stint of work on the new church, since he did not have a hundred pesos to pay into the church fund. larti- niano, then eighteen, worked also, mixing concrete and laying bricks. Then after the May fiesta, which Cassiano celebrated "with tears in my heart, Doffa Elena," he and the brothers prepared to leave. Cas- siano sold his two burros, gave Dona Sofia what little supplies he had left in his empty house, and closed the house door. He had just enough money to pay for three fares to Miexico City on the second-class train. He and the younger boys had nothing but their white, countrified clothes and their worn old sandals. The old comadre in Mexico City, probably none too happy that these far-distant country "connections" had taken seriously her offer of hospitality, had sent them to other relatives of hers who rented out the whole top floor, the azotea, of a downtown tenement building. Here in a garret room the boys laid down petates, and they have stayed there since, four staircases up, without being asked for rent. I did not see the place, but I have seen other azoteas, rabbit-warren rooms in the tenements of Mexico City; and I know in my heart that Cassiano and his little brothers, or anyone else for that matter, would be better off in the meanest adobe hut in Santa Cruz Etla. Don Pablo, true to his word and to his loyalty to all the rela- tives of his mother-in-law, Doffa Estefana, had been able to per- 274  DON AMADO'S OWN SONS suade his foreman to hire this country cousin in the tile factory on the night shift. Building is booming in Mexico City; building- material factories work twenty-four hours a day, seven days in the week. Cassiano's job is from ten at night to six in the morning. He has one day off a week, a different day each week, but never Sun- day. Factory laborers are strongly unionized in Mexico City, and he is sure of social security in the way of health services and accident insurance. He puts in only a forty-eight hour week, and in 1954 he was receiving a standard eighty pesos a week in wages. But the factory was across the city from the azotea; he could not be around in the daytime to watch and help the younger boys. He saw the temptations all around for them and was sorely troubled. Martiniano, less stodgy than he had been as a child, went with Leopoldo and Don Pablo to a small restaurant where they always ate supper, having no woman to make tortillas for them. Here Mar- tiniano arranged to clear the plates and wash the dishes in return for two meals a day. Occasionally people tipped him, and the res- taurant owner gave him money to buy a real Yankee-style, colle- giate, red corduroy jacket. Martiniano felt that Cassiano should be very pleased with him and not worry any more, for he got good meals and had some new clothes. As of this writing he is a waiter in a much bigger place. There remained the problem of Margarito, who had so far found nothing to do save join the throng of little boys-and he seemed a little boy with his very short stature of the Etla Hills people and his childish, open face-who rush up to every parking motorist in Mexico City and offer to watch the car. Less aggressive than the city boys, he seldom got any cash for doing even this. Rosita had helped Don Pablo and Leopoldo when they first came to Mexico City, since she had once been a comadre of Sofia for the child that had died. However, once Leopoldo was placed in a job, Don Pablo had hesitated to bother her further with the prob. lems of other Santa Cruz Etla "exiles." And that is why Cassiano had been in Mexico City six weeks when I came to Mexico in the summer of 1954, and Rosita did not know that he was there, did not know even that Rufina was dead. 275 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS suade his foreman to hire this country cousin in the tile factory on the night shift. Building is booming in Mexico City; building- material factories work twenty-four hours a day, seven days in the week. Cassiano's job is from ten at night to six in the morning. He has one day off a week, a different day each week, but never Sun- day. Factory laborers are strongly unionized in Mexico City, and he is sure of social security in the way of health services and accident insurance. He puts in only a forty-eight hour week, and in 1954 he was receiving a standard eighty pesos a week in wages. But the factory was across the city from the azotea; he could not be around in the daytime to watch and help the younger boys. He saw the temptations all around for them and was sorely troubled. Martiniano, less stodgy than he had been as a child, went with Leopoldo and Don Pablo to a small restaurant where they always ate supper, having no woman to make tortillas for them. Here Mar- tiniano arranged to clear the plates and wash the dishes in return for two meals a day. Occasionally people tipped him, and the res- taurant owner gave him money to buy a real Yankee-style, colle- giate, red corduroy jacket. Martiniano felt that Cassiano should be very pleased with him and not worry any more, for he got good meals and had some new clothes. As of this writing he is a waiter in a much bigger place. There remained the problem of Margarito, who had so far found nothing to do save join the throng of little boys-and he seemed a little boy with his very short stature of the Etla Hills people and his childish, open face-who rush up to every parking motorist in Mexico City and offer to watch the car. Less aggressive than the city boys, he seldom got any cash for doing even this. Rosita had helped Don Pablo and Leopoldo when they first came to Mexico City, since she had once been a comadre of Sofia for the child that had died. However, once Leopoldo was placed in a job, Don Pablo had hesitated to bother her further with the prob- lems of other Santa Cruz Etla "exiles." And that is why Cassiano had been in Mexico City six weeks when I came to Mexico in the summer of 1954, and Rosita did not know that he was there, did not know even that Rufina was dead. 275 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS suade his foreman to hire this country cousin in the tile factory on the night shift. Building is booming in Mexico City; building- material factories work twenty-four hours a day, seven days in the week. Cassiano's job is from ten at night to six in the morning. He has one day off a week, a different day each week, but never Sun- day. Factory laborers are strongly unionized in Mexico City, and he is sure of social security in the way of health services and accident insurance. He puts in only a forty-eight hour week, and in 1954 he was receiving a standard eighty pesos a week in wages. But the factory was across the city from the azotea; he could not be around in the daytime to watch and help the younger boys. He saw the temptations all around for them and was sorely troubled. Martiniano, less stodgy than he had been as a child, went with Leopoldo and Don Pablo to a small restaurant where they always ate supper, having no woman to make tortillas for them. Here Mar- tiniano arranged to clear the plates and wash the dishes in return for two meals a day. Occasionally people tipped him, and the res- taurant owner gave him money to buy a real Yankee-style, colle- giate, red corduroy jacket. Martiniano felt that Cassiano should be very pleased with him and not worry any more, for he got good meals and had some new clothes. As of this writing he is a waiter in a much bigger place. There remained the problem of Margarito, who had so far found nothing to do save join the throng of little boys-and he seemed a little boy with his very short stature of the Etla Hills people and his childish, open face-who rush up to every parking motorist in Mexico City and offer to watch the car. Less aggressive than the city boys, he seldom got any cash for doing even this. Rosita had helped Don Pablo and Leopoldo when they first came to Mexico City, since she had once been a comadre of Sofia for the child that had died. However, once Leopoldo was placed in a job, Don Pablo had hesitated to bother her further with the prob- lems of other Santa Cruz Etla "exiles." And that is why Cassiano had been in Mexico City six weeks when I came to Mexico in the summer of 1954, and Rosita did not know that he was there, did not know even that Rufina was dead. 275  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I went to Santa Cruz Etla in July, visited with Don Miartin, painted pictures for Don Feliz, held Dona Estefana's hand in the dark hut, and asked for Rufina and Cassiano. Joel thought I should have already seen the boys in Mexico City, though Don Msartin, who had been there within the past year, knew how hard it is to find even people you are definitely looking for, once you get to the metropolis. At any rate, Sofia had a postcard from Leopoldo with a "develop while you wait" photo on the back of it taken in Chapul- tepee Park the Sunday before Cassiano went to work, when Leo- poldo was taking pleasure in showing his country cousins around the city. There in the photo stood Cassiano, Martiniano, Margarito, and Leopoldo, all very grown up and serious. I determined to reach them all through Rosita when I returned to the city, get some photos myself, and ask about their seeming new prosperity. Rosita, with her usual concern for Santa Cruz Etla people, stirred in addition by fond memories of the little Cassiano when he was in her primary class, immediately contacted Leopoldo's em- ployer by telephone, and through Leopoldo got in touch with the other boys. She and I sent a taxi around to collect them and bring them to Rosita's from the azotea, from the restaurant, from the tile factory, from the clothing store. They all came, even Don Pablo briefly, to pay respects to me and my husband and to greet Rosita and her family. Then we took the four boys out to dinner near the great church of Guadalupe and ordered fancy steaks for them. This last was a thoughtless kindness on my part. Leopoldo, the sophisticated one, could eat skillfully with knife and fork; but the boys from the country, so recently away from sitting on the ground and eating with hands and chunks of tortilla, were lost with the knife and fork and could not cut the steak. I plied Cassiano with questions, inconsiderate in my requests that he tell all about his mother's death, his trip to the city, the decline of the charcoal- burning business, the cost of a new team of oxen, his plans for the future. Though twenty-six years old, he was deeply sensitive, and he was trying to choke back his tears. He could not at the same time choke down his steak, especially when he did not know how to cut it up, and hesitated to pick it up in his fingers. Margarito and 276 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I went to Santa Cruz Etla in July, visited with Don Martin, painted pictures for Don Feliz, held Dona Estifana's hand in the dark hut, and asked for Rufina and Cassiano. Joel thought I should have already seen the boys in Mexico City, though Don Martin, who had been there within the past year, knew how hard it is to find even people you are definitely looking for, once you get to the metropolis. At any rate, Sofia had a postcard from Leopoldo with a "develop while you wait" photo on the back of it taken in Chapul- tepee Park the Sunday before Cassiano went to work, when Leo- poldo was taking pleasure in showing his country cousins around the city. There in the photo stood Cassiano, Martiniano, Margarito, and Leopoldo, all very grown up and serious. I determined to reach them all through Rosita when I returned to the city, get some photos myself, and ask about their seeming new prosperity. Rosita, with her usual concern for Santa Cruz Etla people, stirred in addition by fond memories of the little Cassiano when he was in her primary class, immediately contacted Leopoldo's em- ployer by telephone, and through Leopoldo got in touch with the other boys. She and I sent a taxi around to collect them and bring them to Rosita's from the azotea, from the restaurant, from the tile factory, from the clothing store. They all came, even Don Pablo briefly, to pay respects to me and my husband and to greet Rosita and her family. Then we took the four boys out to dinner near the great church of Guadalupe and ordered fancy steaks for them. This last was a thoughtless kindness on my part. Leopoldo. the sophisticated one, could eat skillfully with knife and fork; but the boys from the country, so recently away from sitting on the ground and eating with hands and chunks of tortilla, were lost with the knife and fork and could not cut the steak. I plied Cassiano with questions, inconsiderate in my requests that he tell all about his mother's death, his trip to the city, the decline of the charcoal- burning business, the cost of a new team of oxen, his plans for the future. Though twenty-six years old, he was deeply sensitive, and he was trying to choke back his tears. He could not at the same time choke down his steak, especially when he did not know how to cut it up, and hesitated to pick it up in his fingers. Margarito and 276 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS I went to Santa Cruz Etla in July, visited with Don iartin, painted pictures for Don F6liz, held Dona Estefana's hand in the dark hut, and asked for Rufina and Cassiano. Joel thought I should have already seen the boys in Mexico City, though Don Martin, who had been there within the past year, knew how hard it is to find even people you are definitely looking for, once you get to the metropolis. At any rate, Sofia had a postcard from Leopoldo with a "develop while you wait" photo on the back of it taken in Chapul- tepee Park the Sunday before Cassiano went to work, when Leo- poldo was taking pleasure in showing his country cousins around the city. There in the photo stood Cassiano, Martiniano, Margarito, and Leopoldo, all very grown up and serious. I determined to reach them all through Rosita when I returned to the city, get some photos myself, and ask about their seeming new prosperity. Rosita, with her usual concern for Santa Cruz Etla people, stirred in addition by fond memories of the little Cassiano when he was in her primary class, immediately contacted Leopoldo's em- ployer by telephone, and through Leopoldo got in touch with the other boys. She and I sent a taxi around to collect them and bring them to Rosita's from the azotea, from the restaurant, from the tile factory, from the clothing store. They all came, even Don Pablo briefly, to pay respects to me and my husband and to greet Rosita and her family. Then we took the four boys out to dinner near the great church of Guadalupe and ordered fancy steaks for them. This last was a thoughtless kindness on my part. Leopoldo. the sophisticated one, could eat skillfully with knife and fork; but the boys from the country, so recently away from sitting on the garound and eating with hands and chunks of tortilla, were lost with the knife and fork and could not cut the steak. I plied Cassiano with questions, inconsiderate in my requests that he tell all about his mother's death, his trip to the city, the decline of the charcoal- burning business, the cost of a new team of oxen, his plans for the future. Though twenty-six years old, he was deeply sensitive, and he was trying to choke back his tears. He could not at the same time choke down his steak, especially when he did not know how to cut it up, and hesitated to pick it up in his fingers. Margarito and 276  DON AMADO'S OWN SONS Martiniano wolfed theirs down, Martiniano with some help from the knife and fork due to his experience in the restaurant. Cassiano, hungry as he must have been for good, rich meat, did not actually eat one bite; and I never thought of the explanation for it till my husband called it to my attention afterwards. Naturally, Rosita thought of fewer questions and more helpful plans. She had another friend with an errand-running job up her sleeve for Margarito, though this friend, a medical-supply man, wanted only boys who had the diploma for completion of the sixth grade. Still, in the free night school, about which we had made plans earlier in the evening for Leopoldo and the business-practice classes, there were also night school classes in the fifth and sixth grades; so many Mexico City employers want that higher standard of education, so many adults want to get that diploma so they can attend evening institutos, or secondary schools. Again there was the problem of fifth-grade books for Margarito, but I did not even have to offer another five dollars since Rosita has access to many such books that Margarito could borrow. Few problems are solved so easily. Since Rosita sponsored him, the employer took Margarito without the certificate and promised to pay him more as soon as he finished the fifth-grade work. By October he was enrolled in the night classes, and Cassiano was delighted that Margarito was busy all the time. His pay of twenty pesos a week, a dollar sixty United States, has been a great help to Cassiano. Of all the Santa Cruz Etla people, Margarito has written to me most often. Finished with the fifth and sixth grade and in pos- session of a diploma, he has been attending the instituto at night and has taken classes in English. His letters in English are much better than mine in Spanish, and it is my fault at this end when our cor- respondence lags. No longer a mere errand boy, he finds his in- creased knowledge an asset to his employer; and he now owns three corduroy jackets and a black business suit as well. I am afraid his letters imply that he would much prefer a life in Los Angeles to one back in Santa Cruz Etla. In the long run, the success of the two younger boys in finding work in Mexico City only complicated Cassiano's own life. If he 277 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS Martiniano wolfed theirs down, Martiniano with some help from the knife and fork due to his experience in the restaurant. Cassiano, hungry as he must have been for good, rich meat, did not actually eat one bite; and I never thought of the explanation for it till my husband called it to my attention afterwards. Naturally, Rosita thought of fewer questions and more helpful plans. She had another friend with an errand-running job up her sleeve for Margarito, though this friend, a medical-supply man, wanted only boys who had the diploma for completion of the sixth grade. Still, in the free night school, about which we had made plans earlier in the evening for Leopoldo and the business-practice classes, there were also night school classes in the fifth and sixth grades; so many Mexico City employers want that higher standard of education, so many adults want to get that diploma so they can attend evening institutos, or secondary schools. Again there was the problem of fifth-grade books for Margarito, but I did not even have to offer another five dollars since Rosita has access to many such books that Margarito could borrow. Few problems are solved so easily. Since Rosita sponsored him, the employer took Margarito without the certificate and promised to pay him more as soon as he finished the fifth-grade work. By October he was enrolled in the night classes, and Cassiano was delighted that Margarito was busy all the time. His pay of twenty pesos a week, a dollar sixty United States, has been a great help to Cassiano. Of all the Santa Cruz Etla people, Margarito has written to me most often. Finished with the fifth and sixth grade and in pos- session of a diploma, he has been attending the instituto at night and has taken classes in English. His letters in English are much better than mine in Spanish, and it is my fault at this end when our cor- respondence lags. No longer a mere errand boy, he finds his in- creased knowledge an asset to his employer; and he now owns three corduroy jackets and a black business suit as well. I am afraid his letters imply that he would much prefer a life in Los Angeles to one back in Santa Cruz Etla. In the long run, the success of the two younger boys in finding work in Mexico City only complicated Cassiano's own life. If he 277 DON AMADO'S OWN SONS Martiniano wolfed theirs down, Martiniano with some help from the knife and fork due to his experience in the restaurant. Cassiano, hungry as he must have been for good, rich meat, did not actually eat one bite; and I never thought of the explanation for it till my husband called it to my attention afterwards. Naturally, Rosita thought of fewer questions and more helpful plans. She had another friend with an errand-running job up her sleeve for Margarito, though this friend, a medical-supply man, wanted only boys who had the diploma for completion of the sixth grade. Still, in the free night school, about which we had made plans earlier in the evening for Leopoldo and the business-practice classes, there were also night school classes in the fifth and sixth grades; so many Mexico City employers want that higher standard of education, so many adults want to get that diploma so they can attend evening institutor, or secondary schools. Again there was the problem of fifth-grade books for Margarito, but I did not even have to offer another five dollars since Rosita has access to many such books that Margarito could borrow. Few problems are solved so easily. Since Rosita sponsored him, the employer took Margarito without the certificate and promised to pay him more as soon as he finished the fifth-grade work. By October he was enrolled in the night classes, and Cassiano was delighted that Margarito was busy all the time. His pay of twenty pesos a week, a dollar sixty United States, has been a great help to Cassiano. Of all the Santa Cruz Etla people, Margarito has written to me most often. Finished with the fifth and sixth grade and in pos- session of a diploma, he has been attending the instituto at night and has taken classes in English. His letters in English are much better than mine in Spanish, and it is my fault at this end when our cor- respondence lags. No longer a mere errand boy, he finds his in- creased knowledge an asset to his employer; and he now owns three corduroy jackets and a black business suit as well. I am afraid his letters imply that he would much prefer a life in Los Angeles to one back in Santa Cruz Etla. In the long run, the success of the two younger boys in finding work in Mexico City only complicated Cassiano's own life. If he 277  ira oil 9/  MARARITPA MARARITSA MARArINTA abityd theymugerboy.haowCit, to tkhis l tw hsm iat fteyugrgy i eto iy otk i w oadsibSofth ungerboy inMedeaCity t ak B Wtw hosn paes ad go home. Then he coo 'tay lDon Asrado's ghost by getting his ron deep again in the Santo Cruz soil and represent Don Aooodo and Resits there for halo rst of his mie. I cov nows, stomehow to help fulfill Don Mendioa dreom of bogiesg honor to Sorts Cane Ella and improvemoents to the woll people, and when I lent there in 1015, I had laid a plan myself to send on a Benito Wirerz.' It was to have hero not a boy, but a girl, Don Mastics smart bale granddaughter Margarita; I thtoghtthere was aalcaacet.gisehberanrduevation in monoor mediown By this means we would have bey, able to imoprove the health of Saner Come, a problem that Don Arrads did not even moow ceaod he tckled. ban Martin had visitrd Itositr in Menies City i. May of 1954, eight after the spring fiesta, before the ptantng season and nost before Coosisno canoe.t the city. Den Martin had arrived nwils his wift Pootorcita and his comear Does Booarlthe mothee of Cha- belle, though whose distant Santa Maria Asaoopo eonsts now en Menico City they had atl had a place to strep. With this loi of the diguifled older generation from Santa Cru had ceme the pretty idt Margarit, Chabetta's aldest child. The waooea of Don Mar' tins isit was to ask the advise of Rtosits and of the Sata Maia cousins about further edotaon. cttfed or otherwise, for Margarita. She wanted to bea nurse, or a doctor, or a something which helped hahies live longer. Don Martin hnew that Boalta's husband was a doctor. Ilseogo hiss they cold find ot if a careeri thoel ed o psoblia health was a fit thing for . wantam if wuonly girls coud ever dt sooth a thing. This ides for Mrganst was act s ta-fetched no yos might think. Every tsacher -poor and inditterent as the Santa Onto teachers had been daring Margaritas work ap through the toeth V79 pe and be homne. Thea he can lay Don Aansa's ghost" by getag his roots deep again in the Santa Cras soil ond represent Don Aoando and Rtasier there for the rest ot his life. + To A Inw Moran somehow to help fulfll Don Aosado'o dream of bringing honor to Santa Cron etas and improvemnonts to the hilf people, and whonIlefttheore Wl194,tIhad laida planmyself to "send o. a Bnits Jameas.- It woo to have been soot a boy, but agirl. Dasn Martla/o smart little granddaughter Margarita; I thoght tery was a ehasce o give her an edoali on in nstemg or moedicine, By this mean we would have bean able to improve the health of Ssat. Crz, a problem that Don Aenado did sot even know cossld be asled. Don Martnhbad isitedlRosier in Mexio City is May of Debt, right ofler the spring fiesta betr. the trana seema. and jnot befoweosCanc metWothe city. Don Marain had aeivsd with hio wife Fstauna. sod loin cotoose Does Boaedo, the moher of Ohs- halls, throngh whose distant Santa Maria Ansenpa -.Bem now no Moeh City they bad all bad a place tosleep. With this tro of the dignified older geseton from Santo Ores hod tome the pretty little Margarita, Cbabellas oldest child. Toe purepose of Don Mar- ah in'siswatoasoktheadvice ofllsiaaad oftdes Santa Maria ma ues about flurter eduention, citifled or otherwise, for Margarita. She wasted. tbe a am., or a doctr, or a somethiag whirls helped babies live longer. Don Marirahnew thatlRooto'sbhusband wsa docto. Theongh him they tosold ont if a cran In the field of public healah war a fit thing fraawoman, if country girls mould ever, do such a theing. This idea foe Margarita was not so frtbbed no yon might think. Every teseher-poor and indifferent s the Santa Coo teacher; hod ben during Margarita'. wvork up though the fourtho 27. pae and go home. Thes be can 'ay Doo Asnados ghoste by getting his roots deep again in the Santa Cruz soil and represent Don Amoado and Rio there for the rest of his life. aPs '0 45p. I eve wores somehow to help fulifil ban Amada dteam of bringing honor to San.a Cruz Ed. sad imoprovemento to the hill people, and when I left there in 1954, Shoad laid a pins myself to send ona Benit julne. tR was to have been art a bay, but a girl, Don Martin'asmoart lite granddaughter Margaritea I thouoght there was a chance to give her an eduastinW nosing or meedicin. By this means we wold hae bees able to improve sloe health of Santo Cane, a problem that buo Anade did sot even hnow ound be acled. Dom Martin had vilited Itosit in Monie City in May of 1914, night altar the spring fiesta, begar. the plning season and Ins before Cassinn came to the city Don Martin had arrived with his wife Pstromlt and his romasdre Dots BSara, the mother of 0ha- bells, through whose dtoant Santa Maia Asumpa coosiss tow in Motin City they had all bad a plane to iftep. With thin tro of the dignified elder generation ter Santa Onto had re the prty little Margarita, Cluobello's oldest child. The purpose at Dan Mar- his's visit was to ask the advice of Bonito and of the Santa Maria consis shout foorohe edncatin, etifled ar otherwise, foe Margarita She wonrted. toeh a nse, or a do-, or a something whieh helped babies live longer. Don Martin knew that fosite's husband was a dotter, Tionugh him they cmuld Bladout if a taeer in the field of puoblic heslth was aft thing for a woman, if tosuntry galts could roar do sueh a thing. This ta for Margaria wan not as foc-fesebed as yon might think. Every teacher-pori and indierent ah Santa Cane teacehers had hero during Mangoras week up though the faourth  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS grade-every teacher who had known her had considered her in- telligence unusual and had spoken to Don Martin about it. She had finished the fourth grade just when Don Martin, acting at the re- quest of the town council, had occasion to contact church authori- ties in Oaxaca City about building the church. Though Santa Cruz received no financial help and no supervision from city church leaders, several of them were interested in the community effort, including the teachers at the seminary which was just then being built on the hills within sight of Santa Cruz Etla. When Don Mar- tin brought up the subject of his bright little granddaughter and asked advice of the seminary teachers about sending her on foot to the San Pablo Etla school, where no Santa Cruz girl had gone before, these church authorities made arrangements for her with a convent school for girls in Oaxaca City which offered the fifth and sixth grades. So Margarita, beginning in the March term in 1952, lived with the kind nuns in the convent, away from her family in Santa Cruz; and in two years of hard study she passed both the fifth and the sixth grades. Convent-bred children have a chance to study harder and longer than Santa Cruz children, and under better supervision, and they are expected to finish one grade every year. This instruc- tion was not free for Don Martin; he sent thirty pesos a month to buy her food and provided books and uniforms at untold expense. The store had been prospering; the family made every other sacrifice; the church fee of a hundred pesos had to be paid in in- stallments, even though Don Martin himself was the chief instigator of the church project. Margarita was thus the first child from Santa Cruz Etla who ever finished the fifth and sixth grades by going away from home to school. Inspired by this very unusual opportunity, she studied harder than ever, and the nuns had the same kind things to say for her possibilities as had the teachers in Santa Cruz Etla. The next steps would not be so easy. Even if she got a tuition-free scholar- ship to a Catholic secondary school in Oaxaca-and such a thing is seldom offered-the nuns in Oaxaca told Don Martin that it would still cost him a hundred pesos a month to keep Margarita in the 280 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS grade-every teacher who had known her had considered her in- telligence unusual and had spoken to Don Martin about it. She had finished the fourth grade just when Don Martin, acting at the re- quest of the town council, had occasion to contact church authori- ties in Oaxaca City about building the church. Though Santa Cruz received no financial help and no supervision from city church leaders, several of them were interested in the community effort, including the teachers at the seminary which was just then being built on the hills within sight of Santa Cruz Etla. When Don Mar- tin brought up the subject of his bright little granddaughter and asked advice of the seminary teachers about sending her on foot to the San Pablo Etla school, where no Santa Cruz girl had gone before, these church authorities made arrangements for her with a convent school for girls in Oaxaca City which offered the fifth and sixth grades. So Margarita, beginning in the March term in 1952, lived with the kind nuns in the convent, away from her family in Santa Cruz; and in two years of hard study she passed both the fifth and the sixth grades. Convent-bred children have a chance to study harder and longer than Santa Cruz children, and under better supervision, and they are expected to finish one grade every year. This instruc- tion was not free for Don Martin; he sent thirty pesos a month to buy her food and provided books and uniforms at untold expense. The store had been prospering; the family made every other sacrifice; the church fee of a hundred pesos had to be paid in in- stallments, even though Don Martin himself was the chief instigator of the church project. Margarita was thus the first child from Santa Cruz Etla who ever finished the fifth and sixth grades by going away from home to school. Inspired by this very unusual opportunity, she studied harder than ever, and the nuns had the same kind things to say for her possibilities as had the teachers in Santa Cruz Etla. The next steps would not be so easy. Even if she got a tuition-free scholar- ship to a Catholic secondary school in Oaxaca-and such a thing is seldom offered-the nuns in Oaxaca told Don Martin that it would still cost him a hundred pesos a month to keep Margarita in the 280 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS grade-every teacher who had known her had considered her in- telligence unusual and had spoken to Don Martin about it. She had finished the fourth grade just when Don Martin, acting at the re- quest of the town council, had occasion to contact church authori- ties in Oaxaca City about building the church. Though Santa Cruz received no financial help and no supervision from city church leaders, several of them were interested in the community effort, including the teachers at the seminary which was just then being built on the hills within sight of Santa Cruz Etla. When Don Mtar- tin brought up the subject of his bright little granddaughter and asked advice of the seminary teachers about sending her on foot to the San Pablo Etla school, where no Santa Cruz girl had gone before, these church authorities made arrangements for her with a convent school for girls in Oaxaca City which offered the fifth and sixth grades. So Margarita, beginning in the March term in 1952, lived with the kind nuns in the convent, away from her family in Santa Cruz; and in two years of hard study she passed both the fifth and the sixth grades. Convent-bred children have a chance to study harder and longer than Santa Cruz children, and under better supervision, and they are expected to finish one grade every year. This instrec- tion was not free for Don Martin; he sent thirty pesos a month to buy her food and provided books and uniforms at untold expense. The store had been prospering; the family made every other sacrifice; the church fee of a hundred pesos had to be paid in in- stallments, even though Don Martin himself was the chief instigator of the church project. Margarita was thus the first child from Santa Cruz Etla who ever finished the fifth and sixth grades by going away from home to school. Inspired by this very unusual opportunity, she studied harder than ever, and the nuns had the same kind things to say for her possibilities as had the teachers in Santa Cruz Etla. The next steps would not be so easy. Even if she got a tuition-free scholar- ship to a Catholic secondary school in Oaxaca-and such a thing is seldom offered-the nuns in Oaxaca told Don Martin that it would still cost him a hundred pesos a month to keep Margarita in the 280  MARGARITA boarding school where she could get high-school credit. That would be for three years. Then nurses' training, which is not free either, would be three years more, Rosita had few helpful suggestions for Don Martin about train- ing in Mexico City. Her husband could get Margarita into nurses' training there, but not before she had finished the secondary school. Already Rosita was helping two young cousins from Oaxaca finish their education in the capital; she could not take on in addition the responsibility for a fifteen-year-old girl from Santa Cruz Etla. Per- haps when her youngest girl cousin, who lived in Rosita's flat, finished the secondary school near Rosita's home, perhaps next year -well, Rosita surely hated the fact that she could not offer to help, but she could only tell Don Martin to wait a year and to keep in touch with her. Don Martin, the patient and philosophical, seeking only advice and not expecting financial help, took his feminine fol- lowing back to Santa Cruz Etla, all of them having enjoyed the city with its sights and lights and famous shrine of Guadalupe. Rosita told me of Don Martin's visit when I saw her on my way south in early July of 1954. "I should have told Don Martin right out that the whole project is impossible," she sighed, "such a long train- ing period, so much difficulty in getting the high-school education first. I mean to help all the Santa Cruz people I can, but to see a girl through nurses' training is just out of the question for us now. I see so many children every day in the kindergarten here who need help worse; I just have to put the needs of the Santa Cruz Etla people out of my heart. However did a girl as isolated as Margarita get the idea of public health nursing, or the study of medicine?" I knew exactly how Margarita, or any other girl in Santa Cruz Etla, got that idea, and it was partly because of Rosita herself. And now it is worth going back again to the "days of Don Bartolo" to describe one more incident. "Remember that Don Bartolo claimed to be sick with the paludisno that day we came in 1945," I reminded Rosita. "You yourself believed him, took the whole matter so seriously, and re- ported malaria in Santa Cruz Etla as soon as you got back to Oaxaca and could go to the Departimiento de Salubridad." 281 MARGARITA boarding school where she could get high-school credit. That would be for three years. Then nurses' training, which is not free either, would be three years more. Rosita had few helpful suggestions for Don Martin about train- ing in Mexico City. Her husband could get Margarita into nurses' training there, but not before she had finished the secondary school. Already Rosita was helping two young cousins from Oaxaca finish their education in the capital; she could not take on in addition the responsibility for a fifteen-year-old girl from Santa Cruz Etla. Per- haps when her youngest girl cousin, who lived in Rosita's flat, finished the secondary school near Rosita's home, perhaps next year -well, Rosita surely hated the fact that she could not offer to help, but she could only tell Don Martin to wait a year and to keep in touch with her. Don Martin, the patient and philosophical, seeking only advice and not expecting financial help, took his feminine fol- lowing back to Santa Cruz Etla, all of them having enjoyed the city with its sights and lights and famous shrine of Guadalupe. Rosita told me of Don Martin's visit when I saw her on my way south in early July of 1954. "I should have told Don Martin right out that the whole project is impossible," she sighed, "such a long train- ing period, so much difficulty in getting the high-school education first. I mean to help all the Santa Cruz people I can, but to see a girl through nurses' training is just out of the question for us now. I see so many children every day in the kindergarten here who need help worse; I just have to put the needs of the Santa Cruz Etla people out of my heart. However did a girl as isolated as Margarita get the idea of public health nursing, or the study of medicine?" I knew exactly how Margarita, or any other girl in Santa Cruz Etla, got that idea, and it was partly because of Rosita herself. And now it is worth going back again to the "days of Don Bartolo" to describe one more incident. "Remember that Don Bartolo claimed to be sick with the paludismo that day we came in 1945," I reminded Rosita. "You yourself believed him, took the whole matter so seriously, and re- ported malaria in Santa Cruz Etla as soon as you got back to Oaxaca and could go to the Departimiento de Salubridad." 281 MARGARITA boarding school where she could get high-school credit. That would be for three years. Then nurses' training, which is not free either, would be three years more. Rosita had few helpful suggestions for Don Martin about train- ing in Mexico City. Her husband could get Margarita into nurses' training there, but not before she had finished the secondary school. Already Rosita was helping two young cousins from Oaxaca finish their education in the capital; she could not take on in addition the responsibility for a fifteen-year-old girl from Santa Cruz Etla. Per- haps when her youngest girl cousin, who lived in Rosita's flat, finished the secondary school near Rosita's home, perhaps next year -well, Rosita surely hated the fact that she could not offer to help, but she could only tell Don Martin to wait a year and to keep in touch with her. Don Martin, the patient and philosophical, seeking only advice and not expecting financial help, took his feminine fol- lowing back to Santa Cruz Etla, all of them having enjoyed the city with its sights and lights and famous shrine of Guadalupe. Rosita told me of Don Martin's visit when I saw her on my way south in early July of 1954. "I should have told Don Martin right out that the whole project is impossible," she sighed, "such a long train- ing period, so much difficulty in getting the high-school education first. I mean to help all the Santa Cruz people I can, but to see a girl through nurses' training is just out of the question for us now. I see so many children every day in the kindergarten here who need help worse; I just have to put the needs of the Santa Cruz Etla people out of my heart. However did a girl as isolated as Margarita get the idea of public health nursing, or the study of medicine?" I knew exactly how Margarita, or any other girl in Santa Cruz Etla, got that idea, and it was partly because of Rosita herself. And now it is worth going back again to the "days of Don Bartolo" to describe one more incident "Remember that Don Bartolo claimed to be sick with the paludismo that day we came in 1945," I reminded Rosita. "You yourself believed him, took the whole matter so seriously, and re- ported malaria in Santa Cruz Etla as soon as you got back to Oaxaca and could go to the Departimiento de Salubridad." 281  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When she had made the report, the doctor at the Health De- partment had asked her: "Have the people been vaccinated against smallpox, la viruela? There is smallpox in Tehuantepec, and with the Pan American Highway going all the way through there now, people from Tehuantepec come to market in Oaxaca. We have new funds to vaccinate everyone in the villages. A station wagon can get up there now, can't it? Then we will send a doctor to help the malaria cases and three nurses to vaccinate the people. They will come on Thursday of this week." Rosita didn't remember his exact words to this extent, but I have them in my old diary notes as she had told them to me. She had sent the words to me at Santa Cruz in a letter via Chico. "You must tell the community to be ready," she wrote. When I told Doia Patrocina about it, the wise old lady said: "That is more serious than paludismo. One sees many faces marked with it in Oaxaca. When I was a child, we had it here in the hills, and many died, including the brother of Don Martin. He had it himself, Dona Elena, I remember, and you can see the marks still on his face. We will all be fortunate indeed this time that you and Rosita came, if it can be prevented." This from the cure woman who by all reports should oppose modern medicine. She sent Nico to get Don Bartolo. I read him the letter. He "prepared the community" by talking to the children at the school on Wednesday. He was by this time recovered from the "malaria" and was his old self again. Even in front of the serious little school children lined up to hear him, he could not help saying, "We shall have a happy day, perhaps the nurses will be pretty." The children all came to school the next day in starched, clean clothes, the little girls in pink, white, blue, or yellow dresses down to their ankles; the little boys in clean, white "pajama" outfits. Don Martin, with his pock-marked face and his lifelong fear of small- pox among little children, sent Chabella to the school with the little ones, Margarita (then almost six), Artemio, Adela, and the baby Jesss, all of them as clean and starchy as the children al- ready in school. Other mothers brought their baby children, and when the station wagon arrived, a camioneta just like that of the 282 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When she had made the report, the doctor at the Health De- partment had asked her: "Have the people been vaccinated against smallpox, la viruela? There is smallpox in Tehuantepec, and with the Pan American Highway going all the way through there now, people from Tehuantepec come to market in Oaxaca. We have new funds to vaccinate everyone in the villages. A station wagon can get up there now, can't it? Then we will send a doctor to help the malaria cases and three nurses to vaccinate the people. They will come on Thursday of this week." Rosita didn't remember his exact words to this extent, but I have them in my old diary notes as she had told them to me. She had sent the words to me at Santa Cruz in a letter via Chico. "You must tell the community to be ready," she wrote. When I told Dona Patrocina about it, the wise old lady said: "That is more serious than paludismo. One sees many faces marked with it in Oaxaca. When I was a child, we had it here in the hills, and many died, including the brother of Don Martin. He had it himself, Doia Elena, I remember, and you can see the marks still on his face. We will all be fortunate indeed this time that you and Rosita came, if it can be prevented." This from the cure woman who by all reports should oppose modern medicine. She sent Nico to get Don Bartolo. I read him the letter. He "prepared the community" by talking to the children at the school on Wednesday. He was by this time recovered from the "malaria" and was his old self again. Even in front of the serious little school children lined up to hear him, he could not help saying, "We shall have a happy day, perhaps the nurses will be pretty." The children all came to school the next day in starched, clean clothes, the little girls in pink, white, blue, or yellow dresses down to their ankles; the little boys in clean, white "pajama" outfits. Don Martin, with his pock-marked face and his lifelong fear of small- pox among little children, sent Chabella to the school with the little ones, Margarita (then almost six), Artemio, Adela, and the baby Jesds, all of them as clean and starchy as the children al- ready in school. Other mothers brought their baby children, and when the station wagon arrived, a camioneta just like that of the 282 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS When she had made the report, the doctor at the Health De- partment had asked her: "Have the people been vaccinated against smallpox, la viruela? There is smallpox in Tehuantepec, and with the Pan American Highway going all the way through there now, people from Tehuantepec come to market in Oaxaca. We have new funds to vaccinate everyone in the villages. A station wagon can get up there now, can't it? Then we will send a doctor to help the malaria cases and three nurses to vaccinate the people. They will come on Thursday of this week." Rosita didn't remember his exact words to this extent, but I have them in my old diary notes as she had told them to me. She had sent the words to me at Santa Cruz in a letter via Chico. "You must tell the community to be ready," she wrote. When I told Dona Patrocina about it, the wise old lady said: "That is more serious than paludismo. One sees many faces marked with it in Oaxaca. When I was a child, we had it here in the hills, and many died, including the brother of Don Martin. He had it himself, Doia Elena, I remember, and you can see the marks still on his face. We will all be fortunate indeed this time that you and Rosita came, if it can be prevented." This from the cure woman who by all reports should oppose modern medicine. She sent Nico to get Don Bartolo. I read him the letter. He "prepared the community" by talking to the children at the school on Wednesday. He was by this time recovered from the "malaria" and was his old self again. Even in front of the serious little school children lined up to hear him, he could not help saying, "We shall have a happy day, perhaps the nurses will be pretty." The children all came to school the next day in starched, clean clothes, the little girls in pink, white, blue, or yellow dresses down to their ankles; the little boys in clean, white "pajama" outfits. Don Martin, with his pock-marked face and his lifelong fear of small- pox among little children, sent Chabella to the school with the little ones, Margarita (then almost six), Artemio, Adela, and the baby Jess, all of them as clean and starchy as the children al- ready in school. Other mothers brought their baby children, and when the station wagon arrived, a camioneta just like that of the 282  MARGARITA rural education director, children and mothers were lined up out in the road. I have never seen anything in Mexico done more efficiently and thoroughly than was that vaccination. Heading the expedition was a citified doctor about thirty-five, in a business suit. He it was who "brushed off" our short, insignificant-looking little president, Don Bartolo; but I liked the patient way he dealt with the children. Don Bartolo was disappointed in the nurses. Only one was really pretty, but the second was fat and jolly and the third exceedingly business- like. I am sure every little girl in school was very impressed with the glamor of the nurses. The efficient one stayed at the schoolhouse. The little primary teacher, Doia Ester, listed every child's name for her on a long official blank. Dona Rosario's Adelita and Don Lalo's Aurelia helped swab a clean place on each child's arm with disinfectant solution. The children knew their own ages and told the nurse as they came by for the quick scratch of the vaccination. No one was afraid; no one cried, at least not at the school. The other two nurses started out, Don Marcelino's Teresa with one and Dona Paula's Alicia with the other, the pretty nurse to the south ridge, the fat one to the north. They went into every house; they vaccinated every member of every family. Mothers were told to wake the tiniest babies, to call men in from the fields. I heard later that the pretty one had gone into the mill to catch every young woman who was waiting there for corn to be ground, probably making a disturbance for Don Julio. When the efficient, snappy nurse finished at the school, she went to the nearby houses on the central ridge, catching Esperanza and Nico and Dona Patrocina at our house. Even La Abuelita, calling on the blessed saints under her breath to help her against this invasion of modernism, submitted without too much cringing. Meanwhile, the doctor talked on the porch to the teachers, the mothers, and Don Bartolo about malaria and left instructions to cover open stagnant water with oil, to report any large numbers of mosquitos and any cases of "heats and colds." He told about the sarampion raging in valley towns beyond Hacienda Blanca, and 283 MARGARITA rural education director, children and mothers were lined up out in the road. I have never seen anything in Mexico done more efficiently and thoroughly than was that vaccination. Heading the expedition was a citified doctor about thirty-five, in a business suit. He it was who "brushed off" our short, insignificant-looking little president, Don Bartolo; but I liked the patient way he dealt with the children. Don Bartolo was disappointed in the nurses. Only one was really pretty, but the second was fat and jolly and the third exceedingly business- like. I am sure every little girl in school was very impressed with the glamor of the nurses. The efficient one stayed at the schoolhouse. The little primary teacher, Dofia Ester, listed every child's name for her on a long official blank. Dofia Rosario's Adelita and Don Lalo's Aurelia helped swab a clean place on each child's arm with disinfectant solution. The children knew their own ages and told the nurse as they came by for the quick scratch of the vaccination. No one was afraid; no one cried, at least not at the school. The other two nurses started out, Don Marcelino's Teresa with one and Dona Paula's Alicia with the other, the pretty nurse to the south ridge, the fat one to the north. They went into every house; they vaccinated every member of every family. Mothers were told to wake the tiniest babies, to call men in from the fields. I heard later that the pretty one had gone into the mill to catch every young woman who was waiting there for corn to be ground, probably making a disturbance for Don Julio. When the efficient, snappy nurse finished at the school, she went to the nearby houses on the central ridge, catching Esperanza and Nico and Doffa Patrocina at our house. Even La Abuelita, calling on the blessed saints under her breath to help her against this invasion of modernism, submitted without too much cringing. Meanwhile, the doctor talked on the porch to the teachers, the mothers, and Don Bartolo about malaria and left instructions to cover open stagnant water with oil, to report any large numbers of mosquitos and any cases of "heats and colds." He told about the sarampion raging in valley towns beyond Hacienda Blanca, and 283 MARGARITA rural education director, children and mothers were lined up out in the road. I have never seen anything in Mexico done more efficiently and thoroughly than was that vaccination. Heading the expedition was a citified doctor about thirty-five, in a business suit. He it was who "brushed off" our short, insignificant-looking little president, Don Bartolo; but I liked the patient way he dealt with the children. Don Bartolo was disappointed in the nurses. Only one was really pretty, but the second was fat and jolly and the third exceedingly business- like. I am sure every little girl in school was very impressed with the glamor of the nurses. The efficient one stayed at the schoolhouse. The little primary teacher, Dofia Ester, listed every child's name for her on a long official blank. Dona Rosario's Adelita and Don Lalo's Aurelia helped swab a clean place on each child's arm with disinfectant solution. The children knew their own ages and told the nurse as they came by for the quick scratch of the vaccination. No one was afraid; no one cried, at least not at the school. The other two nurses started out, Don Marcelino's Teresa with one and Dona Paula's Alicia with the other, the pretty nurse to the south ridge, the fat one to the north. They went into every house; they vaccinated every member of every family. Mothers were told to wake the tiniest babies, to call men in from the fields. I heard later that the pretty one had gone into the mill to catch every young woman who was waiting there for corn to be ground, probably making a disturbance for Don Julio. When the efficient, snappy nurse finished at the school, she went to the nearby houses on the central ridge, catching Esperanza and Nico and Dona Patrocina at our house. Even La Abuelita, calling on the blessed saints under her breath to help her against this invasion of modernism, submitted without too much cringing. Meanwhile, the doctor talked on the porch to the teachers, the mothers, and Don Bartolo about malaria and left instructions to cover open stagnant water with oil, to report any large numbers of mosquitos and any cases of "heats and colds." He told about the sarampion raging in valley towns beyond Hacienda Blanca, and 283  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS warned the Santa Cruz mothers to keep children warm, rested, and away from the light if the sarampidn came. The sarampion did come in a very virulent form, in a later year when I wasn't there, and it hit the family of Chabella and Margarita hard, taking Cha- bella's sister Adelita, Chabella's youngest girl, and the baby Jesas. The vaccination incident ended as do all such affairs in Santa Cruz Etla; there were long speeches by the municipal president, the visiting dignitaries, the teachers, and the Mothers' Club mem- bers. The doctor thanked Don Bartolo for the cooperation. Don Bar- tolo thanked the doctor and the nurses for the salubridad, as he said, the "health." There has never been viruela in Santa Cruz Etla since, although all this 'vaccination day" happened much longer ago now than the seven years it takes a vaccination to become ineffective. Only Don Martin and two of the other older Santa Cruz Etla people were ever pock-marked. Doubtless this whole incident, which had so impressed me, had impressed the bright-eyed little Margarita even more. After all, most of the work had been done by the three woman. I remem- ber that on that day Chabella, as a leader among the young mothers, stayed on the school porch in the thick of it all day with all her children. Margarita remembered a great deal about it when I chatted with her in 1954. In the crowded room at Don Martin's she slept in the bed with me, and I had a chance to talk to her often of her days in school. All through the years I had been depressed at the unsanitary conditions of Santa Cruz Etla, no worse than other rural mountain villages in Latin America, but surely no better. There was the dys- entery we got in 1934 when Augustina washed all our dishes in the ditch, the water sickness which hit me again so very hard at Dona Patrocina's when we used the old wells, the little attack again in 1954 from Chabella's luscious, white, goat's-milk cheese, in spite of the preventative pills I was taking then. Such water sickness causes the death of many little children in Santa Cruz Etla, and it will take a long program of education, a large expenditure for a purifed water supply, to get it stopped. Rosita as a young teacher in the school had been provided with an enema can, a hypodermic needle, 284 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS warned the Santa Cruz mothers to keep children warm, rested, and away from the light if the sarampidn came. The sarampidn did come in a very virulent form, in a later year when I wasn't there, and it hit the family of Chabella and Margarita hard, taking Cha- bella's sister Adelita, Chabella's youngest girl, and the baby Jesss. The vaccination incident ended as do all such affairs in Santa Cruz Etla; there were long speeches by the municipal president, the visiting dignitaries, the teachers, and the Mothers' Club mem- bers. The doctor thanked Don Bartolo for the cooperation. Don Bar- tolo thanked the doctor and the nurses for the salubridad, as he said, the "health." There has never been viruela in Santa Cruz Etla since, although all this "'vaccination day" happened much longer ago now than the seven years it takes a vaccination to become ineffective. Only Don Martin and two of the other older Santa Cruz Etla people were ever pock-marked. Doubtless this whole incident, which had so impressed me, had impressed the bright-eyed little Margarita even more. After all, most of the work had been done by the three woman. I remem- ber that on that day Chabella, as a leader among the young mothers, stayed on the school porch in the thick of it all day with all her children. Margarita remembered a great deal about it when I chatted with her in 1954. In the crowded room at Don Martin's she slept in the bed with me, and I had a chance to talk to her often of her days in school. All through the years I had been depressed at the unsanitary conditions of Santa Cruz Etla, no worse than other rural mountain villages in Latin America, but surely no better. There was the dys- entery we got in 1934 when Augustina washed all our dishes in the ditch, the water sickness which hit me again so very hard at Dona Patrocina's when we used the old wells, the little attack again in 1954 from Chabella's luscious, white, goat's-milk cheese, in spite of the preventative pills I was taking then. Such water sickness causes the death of many little children in Santa Cruz Etla, and it will take a long program of education, a large expenditure for a purifed water supply, to get it stopped. Rosita as a young teacher in the school had been provided with an enema can, a hypodermic needle, 284 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS warned the Santa Cruz mothers to keep children warm, rested, and away from the light if the sarampidn came. The sarampidn did come in a very virulent form, in a later year when I wasn't there, and it hit the family of Chabella and Margarita hard, taking Cha- bella's sister Adelita, Chabella's youngest girl, and the baby Jesds. The vaccination incident ended as do all such affairs in Santa Cruz Etla; there were long speeches by the municipal president, the visiting dignitaries, the teachers, and the Mothers' Club mem- bers. The doctor thanked Don Bartolo for the cooperation. Don Bar- tolo thanked the doctor and the nurses for the salubridad, as he said, the "health." There has never been viruela in Santa Cruz Etla since, although all this "vaccination day" happened much longer ago now than the seven years it takes a vaccination to become ineffective. Only Don Martin and two of the other older Santa Cruz Etla people were ever pock-marked. Doubtless this whole incident, which had so impressed me, had impressed the bright-eyed little Margarita even more. After all, most of the work had been done by the three woman. I remem- ber that on that day Chabella, as a leader among the young mothers, stayed on the school porch in the thick of it all day with all her children. Margarita remembered a great deal about it when I chatted with her in 1954. In the crowded room at Don Martin's she slept in the bed with me, and I had a chance to talk to her often of her days in school. All through the years I had been depressed at the unsanitary conditions of Santa Cruz Etla, no worse than other rural mountain villages in Latin America, but surely no better. There was the dys- entery we got in 1934 when Augustina washed all our dishes in the ditch, the water sickness which hit me again so very hard at Dona Patrocina's when we used the old wells, the little attack again in 1954 from Chabella's luscious, white, goat's-milk cheese, in spite of the preventative pills I was taking then. Such water sickness causes the death of many little children in Santa Cruz Etla, and it will take a long program of education, a large expenditure for a purifed water supply, to get it stopped. Rosita as a young teacher in the school had been provided with an enema can, a hypodermic needle, 284  MARGARITA and a clinical thermometer as part of the equipment for a rural teacher in those early days; but she had no bandages, no antiseptics, no other medicines, and of course no skill or training in using even what she had. Though she would doubtless be horrified if I re- minded her of it now, she washed the hypodermic needle in the brook herself and used the enema can to keep chalk in. Dona Patrocina knows no scientific way to prevent death in childbirth, of either mother or baby, and she is still the one who delivers the babies of Santa Cruz Etla. The Mexican government's health program, separate now from rural schools and cultural missions, can help in all these things when and if the communities ask for help, and when the small staffs of the health service can reach the communities. Don Martin knew all this; he knew of the viruela which marked him when he was a boy, of the sarampion which took his pet grandchild Jess, of the deaths due to bad water, of the loss of all Pastorcita's chil- dren save Miguelito. He wished with all his heart that he could ded- icate Margarita to helping in public health work; but "Oh, Dona Elena, the hundred pesos a month for the secondary school alone! Some months we can be sure of it, but other months no. And in a bad corn year, the store and the bakery suffer with the rest of Santa Cruz Etla. It would perhaps be a mistake to send her away, build up her hopes, and then not be able to continue such an expensive plan." Don Martin knew enough arithmetic to figure that three years of high school plus three years of nurses' training makes more than seventy months, and seventy months at a hundred pesos a month is seven thousand pesos, more than the church itself cost the whole community. Meanwhile I visited at Don Martin's, became attached to the sweet little Margarita, took her with me to visit other houses, con- doled with her about the impossibility of further education, an- swered her questions about girls growing up to be doctors, as well as nurses, in the United States. But still no thought on my part that here was a possible answer to Don Amado's hopes for a Benito Juirez. We went back to Oaxaca City in time for the Lunes del Cerro, 285 MARGARITA and a clinical thermometer as part of the equipment for a rural teacher in those early days; but she had no bandages, no antiseptics, no other medicines, and of course no skill or training in using even what she had. Though she would doubtless be horrified if I re- minded her of it now, she washed the hypodermic needle in the brook herself and used the enema can to keep chalk in. Dona Patrocina knows no scientific way to prevent death in childbirth, of either mother or baby, and she is still the one who delivers the babies of Santa Cruz Etla. The Mexican government's health program, separate now from rural schools and cultural missions, can help in all these things when and if the communities ask for help, and when the small staffs of the health service can reach the communities. Don Martin knew all this; he knew of the viruela which marked him when he was a boy, of the sarampidn which took his pet grandchild Jesds, of the deaths due to bad water, of the loss of all Pastorcita's chil- dren save Miguelito. He wished with all his heart that he could ded- icate Margarita to helping in public health work; but "Oh, Dona Elena, the hundred pesos a month for the secondary school alone! Some months we can be sure of it, but other months no. And in a bad corn year, the store and the bakery suffer with the rest of Santa Cruz Etla. It would perhaps be a mistake to send her away, build up her hopes, and then not be able to continue such an expensive plan." Don Martin knew enough arithmetic to figure that three years of high school plus three years of nurses' training makes more than seventy months, and seventy months at a hundred pesos a month is seven thousand pesos, more than the church itself cost the whole community. Meanwhile I visited at Don Martin's, became attached to the sweet little Margarita, took her with me to visit other houses, con- doled with her about the impossibility of further education, an- swered her questions about girls growing up to be doctors, as well as nurses, in the United States. But still no thought on my part that here was a possible answer to Don Amado's hopes for a Benito Juarez. We went back to Oaxaca City in time for the Lunes del Cerro, 285 MARGARITA and a clinical thermometer as part of the equipment for a rural teacher in those early days; but she had no bandages, no antiseptics, no other medicines, and of course no skill or training in using even what she had. Though she would doubtless be horrified if I re- minded her of it now, she washed the hypodermic needle in the brook herself and used the enema can to keep chalk in. Dona Patrocina knows no scientific way to prevent death in childbirth, of either mother or baby, and she is still the one who delivers the babies of Santa Cruz Etla. The Mexican government's health program, separate now from rural schools and cultural missions, can help in all these things when and if the communities ask for help, and when the small staffs of the health service can reach the communities. Don Martin knew all this; he knew of the viruela which marked him when he was a boy, of the sarampidn which took his pet grandchild Jesds, of the deaths due to bad water, of the loss of all Pastorcita's chil- dren save Miguelito. He wished with all his heart that he could ded- icate Margarita to helping in public health work; but "Oh, Doaa Elena, the hundred pesos a month for the secondary school alone! Some months we can be sure of it, but other months no. And in a bad corn year, the store and the bakery suffer with the rest of Santa Cruz Etla. It would perhaps be a mistake to send her away, build up her hopes, and then not be able to continue such an expensive plan." Don Martin knew enough arithmetic to figure that three years of high school plus three years of nurses' training makes more than seventy months, and seventy months at a hundred pesos a month is seven thousand pesos, more than the church itself cost the whole community. Meanwhile I visited at Don Martin's, became attached to the sweet little Margarita, took her with me to visit other houses, con- doled with her about the impossibility of further education, an- swered her questions about girls growing up to be doctors, as well as nurses, in the United States. But still no thought on my part that here was a possible answer to Don Amado's hopes for a Benito Juarez. We went back to Oaxaca City in time for the Lunes del Cerro, 285  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that big fiesta of regional dances honoring Benito Juirez which is held there in mid-July every year. We reported at Rosita's old "townhouse flat," in the down-at-the-heels colonial mansion divided into housekeeping rooms where she used to keep her mother, her uncle, and her aunt, and where Aunt Mercedes and Uncle Octa- viano live still. Doia Mercedes and Don Octaviano went with us in our car to the top of the hill to see the dances, and I chatted with them about things as they are in Santa Cruz Etla today. "If only I had a young person in the house with me," said Aunt Mercedes. "All the young nieces and nephews are gone; the youngest preferred to go to secondary school in Mexico City with Rosita rather than live with me and go to the Oaxaca Instituto. I wish some little girl from Santa Cruz Etla-they are such fine people up there-would want to go to secondary school and live with Octa- viano and me. Well, it's impossible, I suppose. No girl will have finished the fifth and sixth grades, and I would at least want a high- school-age girl. Besides, it would cost fifty or sixty pesos a month to feed her; I could not afford just to hire her to work for her board, food for a young person is so expensive, and we cannot ask Rosita for any more than she sends us. No one in Santa Cruz Etla could afford to pay for a child's board, I suppose. Still it would surely be a gladsome thing to have a pretty little girl from Santa Cruz, un- spoiled by town ways, to keep us company." Thus the old Dona Mercedes rambled on, while Uncle Octa- viano nodded assent; and I watched the plumed Indian dancers jumping around on the Lunes del Cerro stage, hardly bothering to think through the meaning of Doffa Mercedes' Spanish, as I busily snapped pictures on Kodachrome film and adjusted the lens to the changing light. Suddenly the light snapped on in my head. A pretty little girl from Santa Cruz Etla? To live with you and go to secondary school, Doffa Mercedes? There is no one who passed the sixth grade? Oh, yes there isl "How much did you say it would cost to keep a girl with you, Doffa Mercedes?" I asked aloud. "Sixty pesos a month would pay for everything?" 286 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that big fiesta of regional dances honoring Benito Juirez which is held there in mid-July every year. We reported at Rosita's old "townhouse flat," in the down-at-the-heels colonial mansion divided into housekeeping rooms where she used to keep her mother, her uncle, and her aunt, and where Aunt Mercedes and Uncle Octa- viano live still. Doffa Mercedes and Don Octaviano went with us in our car to the top of the hill to see the dances, and I chatted with them about things as they are in Santa Cruz Etla today. "If only I had a young person in the house with me," said Aunt Mercedes. "All the young nieces and nephews are gone; the youngest preferred to go to secondary school in Mexico City with Rosita rather than live with me and go to the Oaxaca Instituto. I wish some little girl from Santa Cruz Etla-they are such fine people up there-would want to go to secondary school and live with Octa- viano and me. Well, it's impossible, I suppose. No girl will have finished the fifth and sixth grades, and I would at least want a high- school-age girl. Besides, it would cost fifty or sixty pesos a month to feed her; I could not afford just to hire her to work for her board, food for a young person is so expensive, and we cannot ask Rosita for any more than she sends us. No one in Santa Cruz Etla could afford to pay for a child's board, I suppose. Still it would surely be a gladsome thing to have a pretty little girl from Santa Cruz, un- spoiled by town ways, to keep us company." Thus the old Doffa Mercedes rambled on, while Uncle Octa- viano nodded assent; and I watched the plumed Indian dancers jumping around on the Lunes del Cerro stage, hardly bothering to think through the meaning of Dona Mercedes' Spanish, as I busily snapped pictures on Kodachrome film and adjusted the lens to the changing light. Suddenly the light snapped on in my head. A pretty little girl from Santa Cruz Etla? To live with you and go to secondary school, Dona Mercedes? There is no one who passed the sixth grade? Oh, yes there is! "How much did you say it would cost to keep a girl with you, Dona Mercedes?" I asked aloud. "Sixty pesos a month would pay for everything?" 286 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS that big fiesta of regional dances honoring Benito Juarez which is held there in mid-July every year. We reported at Rosita's old "townhouse flat," in the down-at-the-heels colonial mansion divided into housekeeping rooms where she used to keep her mother, her uncle, and her aunt, and where Aunt Mercedes and Uncle Octa- viano live still. Dona Mercedes and Don Octaviano went with us in our car to the top of the hill to see the dances, and I chatted with them about things as they are in Santa Cruz Etla today. "If only I had a young person in the house with me," said Aunt Mercedes. "All the young nieces and nephews are gone; the voungest preferred to go to secondary school in Mexico City with Rosita rather than live with me and go to the Oaxaca Instituto. I wish some little girl from Santa Cruz Etla-they are such fine people up there-would want to go to secondary school and live with Octa- viano and me. Well, it's impossible, I suppose. No girl will have finished the fifth and sixth grades, and I would at least want a high- school-age girl. Besides, it would cost fifty or sixty pesos a month to feed her; I could not afford just to hire her to work for her board, food for a young person is so expensive, and we cannot ask Rosita for any more than she sends us. No one in Santa Cruz Etla could afford to pay for a child's board, I suppose. Still it would surely be a gladsome thing to have a pretty little girl from Santa Cruz, un- spoiled by town ways, to keep us company." Thus the old Dona Mercedes rambled on, while Uncle Octa- viano nodded assent; and I watched the plumed Indian dancers jumping around on the Lunes del Cerro stage, hardly bothering to think through the meaning of Doffa Mercedes' Spanish, as I busily snapped pictures on Kodachrome film and adjusted the lens to the changing light. Suddenly the light snapped on in my head. A pretty little girl from Santa Cruz Etla? To live with you and go to secondary school, Dona Mercedes? There is no one who passed the sixth grade? Oh, yes there is! "How much did you say it would cost to keep a girl with you, Doffa Mercedes?" I asked aloud. "Sixty pesos a month would pay for everything?" 286  MARGARITA Sixty pesos a month was then less than five dollars. In the East Los Angeles Junior College I was teaching a class of young would- be social workers, most of them themselves of Mexican ancestry, and sending them out to do practice work in boys' clubs and social centers. The children they worked with were sometimes but one generation removed from the Santa Cruz Etlas of many parts of Mexico. I have talked a great deal about this service to the Los Angeles under-privileged community, but the actual truth is that I got more than five dollars an hour extra for the four hours a week I put in supervising the social-work students in the evenings. How could my conscience rest easy, when Margarita could go to secondary school a whole month with only one of these easily earned five-dollar bills? The money could be sent in an international bank draft every month to Dofia Mercedes in Oaxaca for a ten-cent fee. Dofia Mercedes and Don Octaviano, close friends through the years to many of the Santa Cruz Etla people, were delighted at the thought of taking Margarita and sending her to the Institute, only three blocks from their "flat." Fortunately, Don Martin had brought most of his family to the Lunes del Cerro on the special San Lorenzo bus. They stopped by, at the end of the festival, at Dofia Mercedes' apartment, having arranged to come there and bid us one more good-bye before we went. Don Martin, Chabella and Miguelito, and Margarita herself in charge of the baby Guillermo, all came by. If I had expected exuberance at my plan, I would have been disappointed. Don Martin was deeply appreciative, but he did not want to feel obligated to me. Chabella looked at Miguelito, a glad hope in her eyes for her oldest daughter. Miguelito looked at his father, for Don Martin was then head of the family and made all its decisions. None of us felt Miguelito's own opposition then. I looked at Margarita and saw her eyes full of tears for fear that her grandfather would say no. Don Octaviano broke the long silence. It would be a favor not only to Don Martin, but to them as well, the old relatives of Rosita. Rosita herself would be distressed to hear that Don Martin had refused to let them have this gay young companion. Surely they had 287 MARGARITA Sixty pesos a month was then less than five dollars. In the East Los Angeles Junior College I was teaching a class of young would- be social workers, most of them themselves of Mexican ancestry, and sending them out to do practice work in boys' clubs and social centers. The children they worked with were sometimes but one generation removed from the Santa Cruz Etlas of many parts of Mexico. I have talked a great deal about this service to the Los Angeles under-privileged community, but the actual truth is that I got more than five dollars an hour extra for the four hours a week I put in supervising the social-work students in the evenings. How could my conscience rest easy, when Margarita could go to secondary school a whole month with only one of these easily earned five-dollar bills? The money could be sent in an international bank draft every month to Dofia Mercedes in Oaxaca for a ten-cent fee. Dona Mercedes and Don Octaviano, close friends through the years to many of the Santa Cruz Etla people, were delighted at the thought of taking Margarita and sending her to the Instituto, only three blocks from their "flat." Fortunately, Don Martin had brought most of his family to the Lunes del Cerro on the special San Lorenzo bus. They stopped by, at the end of the festival, at Dofia Mercedes' apartment, having arranged to come there and bid us one more good-bye before we went. Don Martin, Chabella and Miguelito, and Margarita herself in charge of the baby Guillermo, all came by. If I had expected exuberance at my plan, I would have been disappointed. Don Martin was deeply appreciative, but he did not want to feel obligated to me. Chabella looked at Miguelito, a glad hope in her eyes for her oldest daughter. Miguelito looked at his father, for Don Martin was then head of the family and made all its decisions. None of us felt Miguelito's own opposition then. I looked at Margarita and saw her eyes full of tears for fear that her grandfather would say no. Don Octaviano broke the long silence. It would be a favor not only to Don Martin, but to them as well, the old relatives of Rosita. Rosita herself would be distressed to hear that Don Martin had refused to let them have this gay young companion. Surely they had 287 MARGARITA Sixty pesos a month was then less than five dollars. In the East Los Angeles Junior College I was teaching a class of young would- be social workers, most of them themselves of Mexican ancestry, and sending them out to do practice work in boys' clubs and social centers. The children they worked with were sometimes but one generation removed from the Santa Cruz Etlas of many parts of Mexico. I have talked a great deal about this service to the Los Angeles under-privileged community, but the actual truth is that I got more than five dollars an hour extra for the four hours a week I put in supervising the social-work students in the evenings. How could my conscience rest easy, when Margarita could go to secondary school a whole month with only one of these easily earned five-dollar bills? The money could be sent in an international bank draft every month to Dofia Mercedes in Oaxaca for a ten-cent fee. Dofia Mercedes and Don Octaviano, close friends through the years to many of the Santa Cruz Etla people, were delighted at the thought of taking Margarita and sending her to the Instituto, only three blocks from their "flat." Fortunately, Don Martin had brought most of his family to the Lunes del Cerro on the special San Lorenzo bus. They stopped by, at the end of the festival, at Dofia Mercedes' apartment, having arranged to come there and bid us one more good-bye before we went. Don Martin, Chabella and Miguelito, and Margarita herself in charge of the baby Guillermo, all came by. If I had expected exuberance at my plan, I would have been disappointed. Don Martin was deeply appreciative, but he did not want to feel obligated to me. Chabella looked at Miguelito, a glad hope in her eyes for her oldest daughter. Miguelito looked at his father, for Don Martin was then head of the family and made all its decisions. None of us felt Miguelito's own opposition then. I looked at Margarita and saw her eyes full of tears for fear that her grandfather would say no. Don Octaviano broke the long silence. It would be a favor not only to Don Martin, but to them as well, the old relatives of Rosita. Rosita herself would be distressed to hear that Don Martin had refused to let them have this gay young companion. Surely they had 287  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS another few years to live; the girl would finish secondary school while they were still on earth to enjoy and take pride in her. Still Don Martin hesitated; any young girl is more responsibility than she is help. Finally I had to make a little speech, reminding them of the pride we had always felt, all of us there, in the young people of Santa Cruz Etla. We should all have been inspired by the old Don Amado ten years before to do something which would bring special honor to the town. Now here was Margarita, the best stu- dent the Santa Cruz Etla school had produced, and her family was trying to withhold from Santa Cruz the honor of her further educa- tion. I told them that if Margarita was ambitious, she might be able to become a woman doctor, for there was one already then working for the Departimiento de Salubridad in Oaxaca. Of course, it would take nine years altogether for Margarita to get such training. But Don Martin should know that nine years is nothing; already it had been twenty years since he, as municipal president, had first wel- comed me to the porch of the Santa Cruz Etla school. The amount of money involved even for medical school, which is tuition-free to the best students in Mexico, would be a very small amount of United States money, stretched out through the years. Stirred by such oratory, Don Martin swallowed his pride for the sake of his greater pride in the town-the free, successful, independ- ent town of Santa Cruz Etla. The arrangements were made; Marga- rita entered happily the Oaxaca Instituto in the new term; Rosita sent letters full of praise and congratulations. And if any of the hundreds of my own splendid students of Mexican ancestry in East Los Angeles who heard about this wondered why I was sending money down to Mexico every month, from 1954 to 1956, when the need for funds for medical education are just as great among them, I could only answer sadly: "Find me a way that I can send a Los An- geles city student of Mexican ancestry through any American medi- cal school at a total of five dollars a month, and I will surely do it." So I left Oaxaca in the fall of 1954 smugly pleased with my plan. Then I threw myself into my own busy life, traveled elsewhere in the summers, wrote in a dilatory fashion when I sent the monthly pittance of money, and answered such letters as I received from the 288 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS another few years to live; the girl would finish secondary school while they were still on earth to enjoy and take pride in her. Still Don Martin hesitated; any young girl is more responsibility than she is help. Finally I had to make a little speech, reminding them of the pride we had always felt, all of us there, in the young people of Santa Cruz Etla. We should all have been inspired by the old Don Amado ten years before to do something which would bring special honor to the town. Now here was Margarita, the best stu- dent the Santa Cruz Etla school had produced, and her family was trying to withhold from Santa Cruz the honor of her further educa- tion. I told them that if Margarita was ambitious, she might be able to become a woman doctor, for there was one already then working for the Departimiento de Salubridad in Oaxaca. Of course, it would take nine years altogether for Margarita to get such training. But Don Martin should know that nine years is nothing; already it had been twenty years since he, as municipal president, had first wel- comed me to the porch of the Santa Cruz Etla school. The amount of money involved even for medical school, which is tuition-free to the best students in Mexico, would be a very small amount of United States money, stretched out through the years. Stirred by such oratory, Don Martin swallowed his pride for the sake of his greater pride in the town-the free, successful, independ- ent town of Santa Cruz Etla. The arrangements were made; Marga- rita entered happily the Oaxaca Instituto in the new term; Rosita sent letters full of praise and congratulations. And if any of the hundreds of my own splendid students of Mexican ancestry in East Los Angeles who heard about this wondered why I was sending money down to Mexico every month, from 1954 to 1956, when the need for funds for medical education are just as great among them, I could only answer sadly: "Find me a way that I can send a Los An- geles city student of Mexican ancestry through any American medi- cal school at a total of five dollars a month, and I will surely do it." So I left Oaxaca in the fall of 1954 smugly pleased with my plan. Then I threw myself into my own busy life, traveled elsewhere in the summers, wrote in a dilatory fashion when I sent the monthly pittance of money, and answered such letters as I received from the 288 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS another few years to live; the girl would finish secondary school while they were still on earth to enjoy and take pride in her. Still Don Martin hesitated; any young girl is more responsibility than she is help. Finally I had to make a little speech, reminding them of the pride we had always felt, all of us there, in the young people of Santa Cruz Etla. We should all have been inspired by the old Don Amado ten years before to do something which would bring special honor to the town. Now here was Margarita, the best stu- dent the Santa Cruz Etla school had produced, and her family was trying to withhold from Santa Cruz the honor of her further educa- tion. I told them that if Margarita was ambitious, she might be able to become a woman doctor, for there was one already then working for the Departimiento de Salubridad in Oaxaca. Of course, it would take nine years altogether for Margarita to get such training. But Don Martin should know that nine years is nothing; already it had been twenty years since he, as municipal president, had first wel- comed me to the porch of the Santa Cruz Etla school. The amount of money involved even for medical school, which is tuition-free to the best students in Mexico, would be a very small amount of United States money, stretched out through the years. Stirred by such oratory, Don Martin swallowed his pride for the sake of his greater pride in the town-the free, successful, independ- ent town of Santa Cruz Etla. The arrangements were made; Marga- rita entered happily the Oaxaca Instituto in the new term; Rosita sent letters full of praise and congratulations. And if any of the hundreds of my own splendid students of Mexican ancestry in East Los Angeles who heard about this wondered why I was sending money down to Mexico every month, from 1954 to 1956, when the need for funds for medical education are just as great among them, I could only answer sadly: "Find me a way that I can send a Los An- geles city student of Mexican ancestry through any American medi- cal school at a total of five dollars a month, and I will surely do it." So I left Oaxaca in the fall of 1954 smugly pleased with my plan. Then I threw myself into my own busy life, traveled elsewhere in the summers, wrote in a dilatory fashion when I sent the monthly pittance of money, and answered such letters as I received from the 288  MARGARITA other Santa Cruz people. Chico was being considered for president, Don FEliz served again as the public works chairman, Leopoldo and Cassiano's little brothers did well in the city. Eventually I kept an old promise to myself and began the preparation of this manu- script. When it was almost finished, I received two letters in black- bordered envelopes, one from the town council, one from Chabella writing in Miguelito's name. Both announced the sudden death of Don Martin while at work on the spring planting. Miguelito's letter ended by thanking me for all the help to Margarita, then in her fifth term in the secondary school, and saying how tragic it was that her grandfather's death ended her career. A subsequent short, sad note from Margarita herself hinted that her father, long the minor member of the family, had always op- posed her education and now meant to concentrate on sending her brother Artemio on to be a lawyer. After all, Benito Juirez was him- self a lawyer, product of Oaxaca's own law school. Thus, Artemio whom I had never known well, who was at school in San Pablo Etla in the fifth grade the year that I lived at Don Martin's on my last visit, whom I had always considered rather badly spoiled by his sisters, as well as by his grandparents and parents-this Artemio was to be the one to get the highest education of all the youngsters of Santa Cruz. This will undoubtedly come true, for Miguelito has moved most of his family to Oaxaca. Having sold the farm land Don Martin owned in Santa Cruz Etla piece by piece to other farmers after the harvest in 1956, he took the money and set up a bakery booth on the edge of the Oaxaca City market. Here he bakes bread and Cha- bella stands at the counter persuading the tonto Indians from the high sierra to try wheat bread when in town. Pastorcita, his mother, with the two youngest of his girls, runs the bakery in Santa Cruz Etla in the whitewashed house where the tonto hired man still makes the bread, though surely she will not keep this up many years into her old age. After a term of absence from school due to all these changes in her life, Margarita was allowed by her father to go back and finish her last term at the instituto, so that now she is a high-school gradu- 289 MARGARITA other Santa Cruz people. Chico was being considered for president, Don F41iz served again as the public works chairman, Leopoldo and Cassiano's little brothers did well in the city. Eventually I kept an old promise to myself and began the preparation of this manu- script. When it was almost finished, I received two letters in black- bordered envelopes, one from the town council, one from Chabella writing in Miguelito's name. Both announced the sudden death of Don Martin while at work on the spring planting. Miguelito's letter ended by thanking me for all the help to Margarita, then in her fifth term in the secondary school, and saying how tragic it was that her grandfather's death ended her career. A subsequent short, sad note from Margarita herself hinted that her father, long the minor member of the family, had always op- posed her education and now meant to concentrate on sending her brother Artemio on to be a lawyer. After all, Benito Juairez was him- self a lawyer, product of Oaxaca's own law school. Thus, Artemio whom I had never known well, who was at school in San Pablo Etla in the fifth grade the year that I lived at Don Martin's on my last visit, whom I had always considered rather badly spoiled by his sisters, as well as by his grandparents and parents-this Artemio was to be the one to get the highest education of all the youngsters of Santa Cruz. This will undoubtedly come true, for Miguelito has moved most of his family to Oaxaca. Having sold the farm land Don Martin owned in Santa Cruz Etla piece by piece to other farmers after the harvest in 1956, he took the money and set up a bakery booth on the edge of the Oaxaca City market. Here he bakes bread and Cha- bella stands at the counter persuading the tonto Indians from the high sierra to try wheat bread when in town. Pastorcita, his mother, with the two youngest of his girls, runs the bakery in Santa Cruz Etla in the whitewashed house where the tonto hired man still makes the bread, though surely she will not keep this up many years into her old age. After a term of absence from school due to all these changes in her life, Margarita was allowed by her father to go back and finish her last term at the instituto, so that now she is a high-school gradu- 289 MARGARITA other Santa Cruz people. Chico was being considered for president, Don Feliz served again as the public works chairman, Leopoldo and Cassiano's little brothers did well in the city. Eventually I kept an old promise to myself and began the preparation of this manu- script. When it was almost finished, I received two letters in black- bordered envelopes, one from the town council, one from Chabella writing in Miguelito's name. Both announced the sudden death of Don Martin while at work on the spring planting. Miguelito's letter ended by thanking me for all the help to Margarita, then in her fifth term in the secondary school, and saying how tragic it was that her grandfather's death ended her career. A subsequent short, sad note from Margarita herself hinted that her father, long the minor member of the family, had always op- posed her education and now meant to concentrate on sending her brother Artemio on to be a lawyer. After all, Benito Juirez was him- self a lawyer, product of Oaxaca's own law school. Thus, Artemio whom I had never known well, who was at school in San Pablo Etla in the fifth grade the year that I lived at Don Martin's on my last visit, whom I had always considered rather badly spoiled by his sisters, as well as by his grandparents and parents-this Artemio was to be the one to get the highest education of all the youngsters of Santa Cruz. This will undoubtedly come true, for Miguelito has moved most of his family to Oaxaca. Having sold the farm land Don Martin owned in Santa Cruz Etla piece by piece to other farmers after the harvest in 1956, he took the money and set up a bakery booth on the edge of the Oaxaca City market. Here he bakes bread and Cha- bella stands at the counter persuading the tonto Indians from the high sierra to try wheat bread when in town. Pastorcita, his mother, with the two youngest of his girls, runs the bakery in Santa Cruz Etla in the whitewashed house where the tonto hired man still makes the bread, though surely she will not keep this up many years into her old age. After a term of absence from school due to all these changes in her life, Margarita was allowed by her father to go back and finish her last term at the instituto, so that now she is a high-school gradu- 289  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ate. But as of this writing, she is kept most of the time waiting in the bakeshop. Artemio, on the other hand, with no chores to do. no stock to feed, is kept in a very fine secondary boys' school in Oaxaca City, though I am afraid he has none of the enthusiasm for it that Margarita would have had. Rosita writes me not to worry too much about this, since Dona Mercedes, her aunt, has been ill a great deal and has needed more care than Margarita could have given her. As soon as a really good year comes in the bakery, Rosita says, Miguelito can be persuaded to send Margarita and her younger sister Adela both on to teacher-training school or into nurse's training. But with the whole family, now that Don Martin is dead, having set up headquarters in Oaxaca City, I do know that neither Mslar- garita nor Adela, whether as teacher, public-health nurse, doctor, or even happy housewife, will ever go back to serve Santa Cruz Etla. -r II rSS As I FINISHED this little manuscript on Santa Cruz Etla and read it through a last time before sending it to the publisher, I felt dis- turbed at the sour tone it left in the air. The forest has been overcut; the soil is eroding; the peppiest, most progressive young people are in the city. My own contacts with the town grow fewer through the years, as everyone, myself included, grows older. If I were to go back in 1964, I say to myself, how many other old friends will be gone, besides Don Amado and Don Martin and Dona Estfana? The young matrons in 1964 with whom I would have to live will be those who were older girls in school with Don Alfredo in 1954, whom I scarcely got to know. Where would I now find the old, warm welcome? And much as I wanted to see the community improve when I first went there at twenty-five, now at forty-nine I dread change almost as much as did La Abuelita. I do not want to know if the bus comes to the main ridge, if everyone is wearing "store clothes." if the tonto pipers have never again played at a mayordomia. I hate 290 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ate. But as of this writing, she is kept most of the time waiting in the bakeshop. Artemio, on the other hand, with no chores to do, no stock to feed, is kept in a very fine secondary boys' school in Oaxaca City, though I am afraid he has none of the enthusiasm for it that Margarita would have had. Rosita writes me not to worry too much about this, since Dona Mercedes, her aunt, has been ill a great deal and has needed more care than Margarita could have given her. As soon as a really good year comes in the bakery, Rosita says, Miguelito can be persuaded to send Margarita and her younger sister Adela both on to teacher-training school or into nurse's training. But with the whole family, now that Don Martin is dead, having set up headquarters in Oaxaca City, I do know that neither Mar- garita nor Adela, whether as teacher, public-health nurse, doctor, or even happy housewife, will ever go back to serve Santa Cruz Etla. 4f, II A As I FINISHED this little manuscript on Santa Cruz Etla and read it through a last time before sending it to the publisher, I felt dis- turbed at the sour tone it left in the air. The forest has been overcut; the soil is eroding; the peppiest, most progressive young people are in the city. My own contacts with the town grow fewer through the years, as everyone, myself included, grows older. If I were to go back in 1964, I say to myself, how many other old friends will be gone, besides Don Amado and Don Martin and Dona Estefana? The young matrons in 1964 with whom I would have to live will be those who were older girls in school with Don Alfredo in 1954, whom I scarcely got to know. Where would I now find the old, warm welcome? And much as I wanted to see the community improve when I first went there at twenty-five, now at forty-nine I dread change almost as much as did La Abuelita. I do not want to know if the bus comes to the main ridge, if everyone is wearing "store clothes," if the tonto pipers have never again played at a mayordomia. I hate 290 SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS ate. But as of this writing, she is kept most of the time waiting in the bakeshop. Artemio, on the other hand, with no chores to do. no stock to feed, is kept in a very fine secondary boys' school in Oaxaca City, though I am afraid he has none of the enthusiasm for it that Margarita would have had. Rosita writes me not to worry too much about this, since Dona Mercedes, her aunt, has been ill a great deal and has needed more care than Margarita could have given her. As soon as a really good year comes in the bakery, Rosita says. Miguelito can be persuaded to send Margarita and her younger sister Adela both on to teacher-training school or into nurse's training. But with the whole family, now that Don Martin is dead, hasing set up headquarters in Oaxaca City, I do know that neither Mar- garita nor Adela, whether as teacher, public-health nurse, doctor, or even happy housewife, will ever go back to serve Santa Cruz Etla. Afit0 II tS As I FINIsHED this little manuscript on Santa Cruz Etla and read it through a last time before sending it to the publisher, I felt dis- turbed at the sour tone it left in the air. The forest has been overcut; the soil is eroding; the peppiest, most progressive young people are in the city. My own contacts with the town grow fewer through the years, as everyone, myself included, grows older. If I were to go back in 1964, I say to myself, how many other old friends will be gone, besides Don Amado and Don Martin and Dona Estdfanaa? The young matrons in 1964 with whom I would have to live will be those who were older girls in school with Don Alfredo in 1954, whom I scarcely got to know. Where would I now find the old, warm welcome? And much as I wanted to see the community improve when I first went there at twenty-five, now at forty-nine I dread change almost as much as did La Abuelita. I do not want to know if the bus comes to the main ridge, if everyone is wearing "store clothes." if the tonto pipers have never again played at a mayordomia. I hate 290  SANTA CRUZ ETLA ITSELF to see the ending of all that was "quaint and picturesque," subject alike for camera and for water-color sketch pad. What a selfish attitude! How often have I lectured about the great improvements in the Mexican nation as a whole, its rapid advance in the modern world. And now comes to my hand the Amdricas magazine, official publication of the Pan American Union, for October, 1957. Its lead article (by Carl C. Taylor, pages 3-7), called "The Awakening Village," is writen by a rural sociologist in the employ of the United Nations and of the Ford Foundation who has studied village life all over the world. In particular he writes of grass-roots improvements in India, where he has "seen the same national spirit and idealism" as "in Latin America." Change is "in- evitable and necessary," he writes, "and national leaders must insist that the program develop from the bottom up.... To build a new society in any country, we must build from the ground up. This means building one sound community after another by arousing the people to work for undertakings that benefit them directly and that indirectly contribute to the country's development." It is partially because the Santa Cruz Etlas of Mexico have been "awakening villages" that Mexico's modernization has been so rapid. That Margarita works in a better bakery in town, that Leo- poldo and Margarito have white-collar jobs in the city-these de- velopments that I have deplored have "indirectly contributed to the country's development." All Mexico will be better off when the Cassianos who live on eroded land can work for guaranteed union wages in the city, when the Artemios wear shoes and go to second- ary school, when the Chicos and Nicos who stay home can afford to wear store-bought jackets, when all the young fathers of the community can take time off on a Sunday afternoon to play basket- ball with a factory-made ball thrown through factory-made hoops. Not any one individual was doing exactly what Don Amado had hoped a second Benito Juarez would do, but Santa Cruz Etla as a whole was helping to accomplish what Benito Juarez himself had wanted for the Mexican nation-the elevation of a whole people. Thus I have come full circle to realize that change is as good a thing as I thought in 1934 that it would be. I have also come to 291 SANTA CRUZ ETLA ITSELF to see the ending of all that was "quaint and picturesque," subject alike for camera and for water-color sketch pad. What a selfish attitude! How often have I lectured about the great improvements in the Mexican nation as a whole, its rapid advance in the modern world. And now comes to my hand the Americas magazine, official publication of the Pan American Union, for October, 1957. Its lead article (by Carl C. Taylor, pages 3-7), called "The Awakening Village," is writen by a rural sociologist in the employ of the United Nations and of the Ford Foundation who has studied village life all over the world. In particular he writes of grass-roots improvements in India, where he has "seen the same national spirit and idealism" as "in Latin America." Change is "in- evitable and necessary," he writes, "and national leaders must insist that the program develop from the bottom up.... To build a new society in any country, we must build from the ground up. This means building one sound community after another by arousing the people to work for undertakings that benefit them directly and that indirectly contribute to the country's development." It is partially because the Santa Cruz Etlas of Mexico have been "awakening villages" that Mexico's modernization has been so rapid. That Margarita works in a better bakery in town, that Leo- poldo and Margarito have white-collar jobs in the city-these de- velopments that I have deplored have "indirectly contributed to the country's development." All Mexico will be better off when the Cassianos who live on eroded land can work for guaranteed union wages in the city, when the Artemios wear shoes and go to second- ary school, when the Chicos and Nicos who stay home can afford to wear store-bought jackets, when all the young fathers of the community can take time off on a Sunday afternoon to play basket- ball with a factory-made ball thrown through factory-made hoops. Not any one individual was doing exactly what Don Amado had hoped a second Benito Juarez would do, but Santa Cruz Etla as a whole was helping to accomplish what Benito JuArez himself had wanted for the Mexican nation-the elevation of a whole people. Thus I have come full circle to realize that change is as good a thing as I thought in 1934 that it would be. I have also come to 291 SANTA CRUZ ETLA ITSELF to see the ending of all that was "quaint and picturesque," subject alike for camera and for water-color sketch pad. What a selfish attitude! How often have I lectured about the great improvements in the Mexican nation as a whole, its rapid advance in the modern world. And now comes to my hand the Amdricas magazine, official publication of the Pan American Union, for October, 1957. Its lead article (by Carl C. Taylor, pages 3-7), called "The Awakening Village," is writen by a rural sociologist in the employ of the United Nations and of the Ford Foundation who has studied village life all over the world. In particular he writes of grass-roots improvements in India, where he has "seen the same national spirit and idealism" as "in Latin America." Change is "in- evitable and necessary," he writes, "and national leaders must insist that the program develop from the bottom up.... To build a new society in any country, we must build from the ground up. This means building one sound community after another by arousing the people to work for undertakings that benefit them directly and that indirectly contribute to the country's development." It is partially because the Santa Cruz Etlas of Mexico have been "awakening villages" that Mexico's modernization has been so rapid. That Margarita works in a better bakery in town, that Leo- poldo and Margarito have white-collar jobs in the city-these de- velopments that I have deplored have "indirectly contributed to the country's development." All Mexico will be better off when the Cassianos who live on eroded land can work for guaranteed union wages in the city, when the Artemios wear shoes and go to second- ary school, when the Chicos and Nicos who stay home can afford to wear store-bought jackets, when all the young fathers of the community can take time off on a Sunday afternoon to play basket- ball with a factory-made ball thrown through factory-made hoops. Not any one individual was doing exactly what Don Amado had hoped a second Benito Juarez would do, but Santa Cruz Etla as a whole was helping to accomplish what Benito Juarez himself had wanted for the Mexican nation-the elevation of a whole people. Thus I have come full circle to realize that change is as good a thing as I thought in 1934 that it would be. I have also come to 291  SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS know many other things from my years of contact with this partic- ular "awakening village." I have learned that people, at heart, are the same everywhere. The people of Santa Cruz Etla longed for knowledge for their children, for prestige for their community above other communities, for material improvements in their lives, as would the people of Paris or New York or Mexico City or Los Angeles. Only they do seem to have built their lives around these longings in a so much warmer and friendlier way! SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS know many other things from my years of contact with this partic- ular "awakening village." I have learned that people, at heart, are the same everywhere. The people of Santa Cruz Etla longed for knowledge for their children, for prestige for their community above other communities, for material improvements in their lives, as would the people of Paris or New York or Mexico City or Los Angeles. Only they do seem to have built their lives around these longings in a so much warmer and friendlier way! SANTA CRUZ OF THE ETLA HILLS know many other things from my years of contact with this partic- ular "awakening village." I have learned that people, at heart, are the same everywhere. The people of Santa Cruz Etla longed for knowledge for their children, for prestige for their community above other communities, for material improvements in their lives, as would the people of Paris or New York or Mexico City or Los Angeles. Only they do seem to have built their lives around these longings in a so much warmer and friendlier way! 292 292 292  _ -