Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

I feel guilty about Audrey, so I ask the girls what else they do for fun. I realize that there isn’t really anywhere to go. No malls, movie theaters, or TV. Josefina says they have plenty to do for fun. Tía Dolores has brought many things from Mexico City. She has a piano! She says it as if Tía Dolores has a pet giraffe, but I nod vigorously anyway. Pianos are probably pretty special around here. Josefina says maybe Tía Dolores will play it for them tonight. She’s learning how to play, too.

Josefina continues on to say they dance, and are learning to read and write. They’ve all been studying with Tía Dolores for about a year. All three sisters look very proud. My mouth drops open. They’re just now learning how to read? I shut my mouth with a snap. I don’t want to embarrass them.

Tía Dolores comes up and says there are important tasks, too. The girls’ lessons with Tía Magdalena will one day benefit the whole household. Josefina sees I don’t know what Tía Magdalena does, so she says she’s Papá’s older sister who lives in the village. She’s teaching the girls how to be a curandera. A healer. I nod my head as if I remember.

When we’re done slicing the ristras Josefina and I carry them carefully to pegs in the wall of the courtyard. Josefina takes down the ones already hanging and motions for me to hang the fresh ones. We take the dried ones through another doorway to what seems like a storeroom. I glimpse barrels and bins standing against the walls. Josefina hangs the ristras on wooden pegs in the walls.

I follow Josefina to another large room. It looks like a kitchen. A big adobe fireplace is along one wall, with jars and baskets arranged on a low shelf behind it. Over the fireplace is a long, broad shelf that looks like a bunk bed. A ladder leads up to it and blankets are arranged on top. A wooden table is loaded with melons, peppers, and onions in pottery bowls. The air is hot and smells of roasting meat. Carmen, the cook, is bending over the fireplace, stirring something in a big iron pot.

Ana kneels on the floor, rubbing a cylinder-shaped stone over a flat stone. She’s smushing yellow, grainy powder, and I realize it’s dried corn kernels. The stone must be heavy, because I see sweat beading at her temples. Ana notices me standing there and says it won’t be long till supper. I must be hungry. She’s about to make the tortillas.

I don’t see how she’s going to make tortillas out of yellow flour anytime soon, so I resign myself to a long wait. Ana dumps the flour into a bowl and pours in a thin stream of water from a jug. She mixes it all around until I realize she’s made little dough balls. She flattens them out and lays them on a griddle with legs which is standing over coals raked out of the fireplace. After a moment, she lifts the tortillas off the griddle and piles them onto a plate. It all took as much as two minutes.

My mouth hangs open. If only Dad were here! Ana could give him lessons in New Mexican cooking. As Ana announces supper, my stomach gives a loud gurgle. The sisters look at each and smile.