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""Leno and Maria: A Success Story"" by Vincent P. Cano - 1985

Page 3

"I had that dream, papa. I was jefe of all the haciendas in Guanajuato. Not just the Hacienda de Pantoja...and I owned my own oxen and burros and had many servants."

   The excitement in his voice did not betray the few hours of sleep he had gotten of the small chuco de queso that fed this now familiar dream of his. The dampness of the morning and the poor lighted casita seemed to be things he took for granted: a condition that would not last for him. There was no mould growing in the corner of his eyes. It was impossible to tell his age as his small frame was no clue to his true years. To be certain, very few, if any, could tell you their age as their days were measured by "TIME TO PLANT" and "TIME TO HARVEST."

   Regardless, zeferino dressed himself hurriedly as of something special was in store for him and he wanted to be ready. After a small breakfast, the old man and the young boy together walked out of the small house into the darkness of the new day. An hour walk would take them to a large field where a crop of corn and beans waited to be tended. A hint of another hot day could be felt as the heat from the ground pierced the thin soles of their sandals. In his eagerness, Zeferino had left his father many steps behind along with a few neighbors who had joined them in another fourteen hour day.

   It was the golden age of Diaz in Mexico in the late nineteenth century. El Porfiriato, the history book would call it. In terms of purchasing power compared with the price of corn of cheap cloth, the Mexican peon during the Porfirio Diaz era was twelve times poorer that the United States laborer.

   "Senor Juan," a neighbor asked as more workers joined their group. "where does young Zeferino muster up such energy? I barely have the strength to face the day. You have not been stealing meat from the majordomo, have you? If so, I would advise you to tell the boy to at least disguise his high spirits. Just last week, the majordomo decided Flaco was gaining too much weight, accused him of stealing food from the Tienda de Raya and gave him ten lashes for it." During the conversation, the others had moved in closer to the two men and Juan sensed their curiosity in this matter.

   "Be still with your accusations." he replied defensively. "Least the others choose to take your empty words as fact and decide to rob me of what I do not have. I have no extra food. It is not meat that nourishes my son but that dream of his...wanting to be like Don Luis Terrazas."

   "Don Luis Terrazas! Not the hacendado from the state of Chicuahua? Really?' The neighbor responded in astonishment. "I hear that Don Luis owns about fifty ranches with at least seven million acres of land. Not even the richest gringo owns as much." The curiosity of the crowd switched suddenly to laughter as they turned to one another shaking their heads at such foolishness. Juan's temporary embarrassment was quickly replaced by his sense of fatherhood to defend his son

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"I had that dream, papa. I was jefe of all the haciendas in Guanajuato. Not just the Hacienda de Pantoja...and I owned my own oxen and burros and had many servants." The excitement in his voice did not betray the few hours of sleep he had gotten of the small chuco de queso that fed this now familiar dream of his. The dampness of the morning and the poor lighted casita seemed to be things he took for granted: a condition that would not last for him. There was no mould growing in the corner of his eyes. It was impossible to tell his age as his small frame was no clue to his true years. To be certain, very few, if any, could tell you their age as their days were measured by "TIME TO PLANT" and "TIME TO HARVEST." Regardless, zeferino dressed himself hurriedly as of something special was in store for him and he wanted to be ready. After a small breakfast, the old man and the young boy together walked out of the small house into the darkness of the new day. An hour walk would take them to a large field where a crop of corn and beans waited to be tended. A hint of another hot day could be felt as the heat from the ground pierced the thin soles of their sandals. In his eagerness, Zeferino had left his father many steps behind along with a few neighbors who had joined them in another fourteen hour day. It was the golden age of Diaz in Mexico in the late nineteenth century. El Porfiriato, the history book would call it. In terms of purchasing power compared with the price of corn of cheap cloth, the Mexican peon during the Porfirio Diaz era was twelve times poorer that the United States laborer. "Senor Juan," a neighbor asked as more workers joined their group. "where does young Zeferino muster up such energy? I barely have the strength to face the day. You have not been stealing meat from the majordomo, have you? If so, I would advise you to tell the boy to at least disguise his high spirits. Just last week, the majordomo decided Flaco was gaining too much weight, accused him of stealing food from the Tienda de Raya and gave him ten lashes for it." During the conversation, the others had moved in closer to the two men and Juan sensed their curiosity in this matter. "Be still with your accusations." he replied defensively. "Least the others choose to take your empty words as fact and decide to rob me of what I do not have. I have no extra food. It is not meat that nourishes my son but that dream of his...wanting to be like Don Luis Terrazas." "Don Luis Terrazas! Not the hacendado from the state of Chicuahua? Really?' The neighbor responded in astonishment. "I hear that Don Luis owns about fifty ranches with at least seven million acres of land. Not even the richest gringo owns as much." The curiosity of the crowd switched suddenly to laughter as they turned to one another shaking their heads at such foolishness. Juan's temporary embarrassment was quickly replaced by his sense of fatherhood to defend his son