Crosses and Rusty Nails By Pancho Francisco L. Gonzales

“Unhook the tailgate so it will open. The goats will jump out by themselves,” shouted my Abuelo.

The goats, on the other hand, did not want to abandon the security of the pickup bed. The bails of hay and the busted grain bag reinforced their commitment to stay put.

I could hear voices in the distance; recognizing my mom and dad, I knew my sisters were not far behind.

Just then our one eyed dog showed up. Generally a quite passive creature, he became very interested in the livestock in the back of what was usually his domain.

Quickly jumping into the pickup truck, he cleared the old battered GMC bed of its interlopers, then made sure to mark the bails of hay, the busted grain bag, and the spare tire. After the dog’s show of ownership, the billy goat was off to munch my grandmother’s rosebush and the two kids and the nanny headed in the direction of the other livestock grazing in the pasture.

Later all the livestock will be put up for the night; the mountain lions and bears are always interested in an easy meal.

The door twisted on the wooden shed as my Abuelo pulled hard on the metal strap, swinging open the ancient portal. The bails of hay were stacked in the corner, and the busted bag of grain was swept up and put into a steel drum.

As the last of the cloud of hay dust cleared my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the barn. Along with fodder for the livestock in this ancient edifice were odd bits of harnesses hanging on rusty nails. A stack of auto tires and rims lined the far corner. Wooden crates covered a large wood burning stove, not in current use and next to that was an assortment of hand farm tools; shovels, rakes, and hoes; some looking to be in good condition, others in disrepair; handles wrapped in black electrical tape, or just missing. Next to the collection of derelict tools stood a large wooden table, nicked and worn, covered with sawdust and wood chips. This sunlit corner served as my Abuelo's workshop. A small trastero was perched, unfinished, on the massive worktable; with handmade knobs, brightly painted cupboard doors and spindly legs. It will hold my grandmother’s ollas, pots and pans.

On the wall hung a variety of wood working tools; rasps, block planes, and saws; polished smooth by current use, others rusted from years of inattention.

Coffee cans filled with nails were placed all about. Leaning against the wall were some wooden crosses used in religious processions and to mark the spot on roadways were someone has lost their life.

Walking out into the New Mexico sunlight, I caught the scent of the Juniper trees, the wood fire, and the toasty sweet smell of my Abuela’s tortillas calling everyone for lunch. We filed into the old house; adobe walls a foot thick, the torn wooden screen door, and the earth floor.

My father dipped water from a galvanized bucket into the blue chipped wash basin that rested on a wooden stand. The small hand towels hung from pegs protruding from a large peeled poll that was part of the structure of the old house. We all washed our hands and sat at the 1950s vintage table, with its large chrome framed chairs, out of place but yet quite fitting for my grandmother’s house.

In the corner of the small house stood an alter; plastic saints, old photographs, candles unlit and pushed aside, and a collection of plastic flowers looking fake and sooty.

It was a surreal sight of deep devotion and commercial influence. The alter filled the sacred place where it sat on a table from my Abuelo's workshop. The crucifix above also bore the skill of his hands.

The slamming of the wood stove door shook the stillness as my Abuela tossed another chunk of pine into the firebox.

The smell of coffee con leche and refried beans, sacred candles and burning pine; I could not tell were the earth and my grandparent’s house joined, it all seemed to blend, held together with rusty nails and earth, peeled pine poles, tortillas, saints and a one eyed dog.