Closed Patios

Although it was already late in April, the breeze that swept over the mud flats of San Diego Bay was damp and chilly. Cold drafts slithered under the heavy wooden doors and the windows of the adobe house.

Doña Lupita poked a stick of driftwood into the stove, stirred the beans that boiled in the large kettle and then set them farther back to simmer. She was glad her father-in-law was dozing. It would give her a respite from a most difficult day. When she tucked the serape around his shoulders, she noticed that the letter she had brought from the post office that morning had slipped from the old man's fingers. She picked it up and sighed. It was that letter which caused don Antonio such anger and had made the day so disagreeable. The letter was written in English. Doña Lupita knew if her father-in-law could wait until her daughter Carmela came home from work, she could translate it for him and write the reply. Nevertheless, the old man sent doña Lupita to fetch someone to read it to him. "¡Pronto!" he ordered.

The daughter-in-law hurried down the hill to don Lencho's store and was fortunate enough to see don Alejo unloading a supply of vegetables from his farm in Mission Valley to be sold.

When doña Lupita explained her mission, the kind farmer replied, "Si, como no. I was intending to stop by for a chat anyway."

As soon as the invited guest entered the house, don Antonio thrust the letter into his hand, forgetting the customary formal greeting which made inquiries about the health and well-being of his family. "Read that," he said.

The letter contained a formal offer to purchase don Antonio's parcel of land on the hill close to the Presidio. The message was not a surprise to anyone since rumors had been flying, but it unleashed a torrent of angry words.

¡Caramba!" don Antonio exploded, "I'll not sell one yard, one foot, one inch of my land."

"As I see it, Compadre, that hill's no good for grazing," don Alejo replied.

"I don't care what you think, Alejo, I'll not sell."

The visitor, shaking his head, stated, "Many others have sold. Yours is only a small section. The city wants to buy it for a park. They'll plant trees, and it will benefit us all. It will be a place for the children to play and for the entire community to enjoy."

"Let them build their park some place else, not on my land," don Antonio grumbled.

"But you can certainly use the money, Compadre."

As soon as don Alejo mentioned the money, he knew he shouldn't have done so. Don Antonio's face reddened. "Dinero, dinero," he trembled as his voice rose. "So it's come to that, don Alejo. Money! For me, it's the principle. Do you realize that soon there won't be one Mexican with land he can call his own?" The old man paused to catch his breath. "Look what has happened to poor proud Inez Ortega, one of the best ranchers in these parts. I'm glad death took him before he had to see his son selling like a peon. Yes, today Juan pushes a vending cart selling tamales in the streets of San Diego." Don Antonio sank back in his chair exhausted by the outburst.

"Perhaps you are right," don Alejo said, rising to leave. It was time to go since his friend has addressed him by the formal title of "don" instead of the familiar Compadre.

Doña Lupita had left the two men alone in the living room. She had borne the old man's complaints all morning, but when she heard the guest prepare to leave, she returned and begged don Alejo to stay for a hot drink. "I just brewed some lemon-grass tea," she said, placing her best tea-pot on the table. The lemony- flavored aroma filled the room. Their friend took a cup but didn't sit down.

"Mil gracias, Lupita. It's good, but I must hurry along. The fog hangs heavy in the valley these days, and I must stop at the dry goods store. You know how you women are. Angelina gave me a long list of things to buy, and I dare not forget." He turned to don Antonio. "Hasta luego, Compadre."

Don Antonio could not be turned away so quickly from the disagreeable subject. He rose on shaky legs. "And don't think you can send me anyone to persuade me to sell. Mary my words, Amigo, even your farm will go. That beautiful valley will be cut up with roads, houses and stores. Where will you plant your garden then?" Don Antonio's voice rose to a shout, then he fell back into his chair, pale and shaking.

Don Alejo looked at his old friend with pity and empathy. The once strong tall ranchero had shriveled into a bitter old man. The hand that clutched the cane was wrinkled and bony, and the once thick shock of dark hair was now thinning and gray. But a worse change was a bitterness of soul, not that he didn't have a reason for it.

"Pay us a visit as soon as your illness has passed," don Alejo said cheerfully, remembering the good times the two families had shared.

Don Alejo had been there during the early afternoon, but it was doña Lupita who had to cope with her father-in-law's disagreeable mood the rest of the day. Now, outside the patio where she stood, she watched the streetcar as it swayed its way for central San Diego to this section of the city called Old Town, or Pueblo Viejo, as the local Mexicans preferred to call it.

As she stood there waiting, hoping her daughter, Carmela, was on that car, she thought of the many changes, changes that had come with such frightening swiftness that she could never get used to them. Many of the friends she'd known had moved away. Frame houses were rapidly supplanting the adobe homes of the earlier days all through the town, and people she didn't know had moved in. Strange Americanos whizzed by in their automobiles. Even the old wooden bridge was now being replaced by a new one. But the most disturbing change of all had come a few weeks earlier. It had become necessary for Carmela to seek employment. Her daughter now had to travel several miles to the new business section where she worked as a sales girl in Marston's Dry Goods Store. But what else was there to do? The calves would not be old enough to see for two more months, and her sewing was not bringing in enough to purchase the basic needs.