By Sorayda Díaz
No one knows what my dad died of, or if he actually died when they say he did; all I remember is that sometime around 1932, he went to Pachuca one day to sell guitars and never came back.
Francisca—better known as “Quica”—my mom, used to say that he was one of the few people in town who made guitars, and of those few, he was the best: Don Jerónimo Amezcua.
At least that was his name while he was alive, because the alias he used when he died was “Juan García.” It turns out that when he went to Pachuca, he rented a room in a woman’s house. There, I imagine, drunk on aguardiente, he decided to be someone else—or the person he’d always wanted to be—and then, well, he figured it was better to just die, because he wasn’t sick with anything; it was just all that drinking that made him feel a little under the weather.
They say that the woman who rented him the room took him to the hospital and sent a telegram here asking someone to come see him; but the telegrams took so long to arrive, and there was no one else but Refugio—the son she’d had before marrying Quica—to go see him. When he arrived at the hospital, there was no one left who matched my dad’s description. “A man named Juan García was admitted,” the nurses and doctors said, but since many days had passed since his death, they couldn’t keep his body any longer, and the only things they gave Refugio were the guitars and the wooden crate he had brought with him as luggage.
Quica said it wasn’t true that he had died; the only thing that was true was that he had left her with the burden of six children: Fidel, the youngest, whom she never got to know; Coty, Paula, and María, who had to sew a lot of clothes to help Quica support us; and Gerónimo, the luckiest of them all, because he inherited the skill of knowing how to make guitars. And me—he left me scraping by and doing odd jobs in other people’s homes.
Yes, I had to drop out of school to start working, too—even though I was smart; I once won a contest for writing a letter. But I left in third grade, and by the time I was seven, I was already taking care of other people’s children. I worked as a maid in my godfather Ignacio Juárez’s house for a long time. I looked after his children, one of whom is now a doctor and the other an engineer.
My godfather’s wife told me not to do anything other than take care of the children, but when she went out to run errands, I’d take the opportunity to clean the house. Once, after I finished my chores, they invited me to stay for dinner. My godmother had made a comal full of tortillas and beef offal. My godfather asked me, “What do you like, dear? Help yourself to as much meat as you want.” I asked for the “bofe,” and he told me to take something else because the “bofe” was for the dogs. That was the first time—though unfortunately not the last—that I ate offal, or what would essentially be beef tripe, which, with tortillas and salt, didn’t taste so bad anymore.
My godparents lived right next door to our house, just a block away, so my mom let me go work with them. I worked there until I was about nine years old. I liked it because sometimes they’d take us to the neighboring town for a walk and buy us things. The only downside was that my godmother wasn’t a very good cook.
The first time they took us to town, my mom was really excited. She dressed me in the best pleated “naguas” we had. They were pretty, with bright colors, but thick and heavy. Underneath, I wore woolen underwear; over that, a petticoat to make the skirt look nice; and on top, a velvet and lace apron, like the ones I wore on special occasions. I felt like the “Guananchita” statue in the ranch’s temple. Yes, I looked pretty, especially because they’d also braided my hair with colorful bows and it was long. But I couldn’t even move anymore. At one point, I hid behind the door and, pulling on the string of my underwear, took them off. I left them lying in the entryway and ran off toward my godfather’s house, but I didn’t realize that my brother Guillermo had seen me and was chasing me with the panties in his hand, yelling, “Clementina, you’re going to have to explain to my mom why you took off your panties!” I kept running, and he couldn’t catch up to me.
That night I stayed over with my godparents. They had a daughter my age named Salud, and sometimes we played together when I wasn’t looking after her brothers or doing chores. That night we all went to bed early because we had to leave for town early the next day to make it in time for the 4:00 p.m. showing at the movie theater. That’s how it was back then. We rode on donkeys: Salud and I on one, my godmother with the now-doctor on another, and my godfather with the now-engineer on the third. In town, we stayed at an inn—a large courtyard with adobe roofs—where people left their donkeys and horses to spend the night before returning to the ranch the next day. My godfather took us to the town square and the Odeon movie theater. I remember that the movies were silent and in black and white. That was the first time I went to the movies.
The walk back to the ranch was beautiful, with lots of trees, cornfields, cows, calves, and sheep. We would stop on the hillsides to use the restroom or take a break from riding the donkey. My godmother fed the children. She was tired and hungry, just like everyone else.
Unfortunately for me, they invited me to stay for dinner when we arrived at their house. My godmother made beef broth (her specialty).
“Look at all the meat they gave me!” I thought. I forced myself to eat the broth, but I barely chewed the meat; instead, I tucked it under my white lace and purple velvet apron. “In a little while, I’ll go out and throw it into the courtyard,” I thought. But just before almost everyone got up from the table, I pretended I was going to the bathroom in the courtyard. I threw the meat away, but I didn’t realize my godfather was there too. The meat landed right on him. Out of sheer embarrassment, I quickly went back to the dining room and stayed seated at the table, finishing the little meat that was left.
When my godfather arrived and asked me, “Sweetie, didn’t you like the meat?” I replied, “Oh no, Uncle, it’s just that I don’t like leftovers.”
These stories are part of my family legacy—the ones I grew up with and hold dear in my heart. I write them to honor the memory of my beloved grandmother, Doña Clementina Amezcua Reyes, and to preserve her legacy of love, strength, and joy. They are a tribute to her exquisite cooking, her wisdom, and her grace. I write them to remember the cherished days spent sitting in her kitchen, and later, the Tuesday phone calls during which we would talk for hours—me from the United States and her from our home on “0009,” our local phone number. Those conversations were my refuge, a source of peace and a connection to my roots.
I’m sharing these with you in her honor, because Doña Clementina was more than just a grandmother—she was a beacon of light in our lives.
*Some names in this story have been changed, either because I can't remember them or because I didn't have permission to use them. Likewise, their words are paraphrased from my memory.