Even in small villages, expressions are rich and luxurious. There are whole washtubs of fragrant flowers, live music and singing. On May 10, villages and towns hum with reunions, great and small family groups gather in the matriarchal society to honor Mother.
In an old adobe home, a family has gathered to honor Doña Faustina, the vital and kindly force that inspires each and every one of them. Garden flowers adorn the house. The dirt yard is swept clean of leaves dropped by the huge mesquite tree that shades the ample yard. Its long-reaching branches have held many a piñata in this beautiful, humble place that has seen so many baptisms, birthdays, wedding, quinceañeros, and now...another Mother's Day.
Many years ago, the family bought the land for one silver peso a square meter. They built the house of adobe bricks, which they cast themselves. They formed the roof tejas over their thighs. The land nurtured the family. Always on their table were milk and cheese and vegetables, products of their own toil. Their ranchero way-of-life was the backbone of Mexico.
Today Doña Faustina's joy is apparent as she moves from one to another of her great progeny in gesture-punctuated talk. Her thinning gray hair is covered by a rebozo and her carmel colored skin is still tight and shiny. Her walk is almost as smooth as the days of her youth when she carried large cántaras of water on her head. She is a real jewel with a quick wit and eager, open mind, which is rare in tight village society. Her ability goes far beyond tortilla-making.
The earthy rhythms of this independent, proud ranchero family lull one into peace and contentment, as their busy hands fashion equipales, the pigskin-covered furniture seen in many homes. The grunting of pigs and clucking of hens is a pleasant background to their friendly talk as the sun filters through the old mesquite. Material brought from the hills by horse lie strewn about the wet skins hung by the oleander-fringed well.
Today, however, work is laid aside and gaiety pervades the entire household especially the cooking room, where the daughters and granddaughters have formed an assembly line making tamales. Deft fingers put dough into dry cornhusks, then pork in a savory picadillo sauce is buried within the dough. Some are sweet with raisins instead of meat. Lastly, the husks are folded to form neat little packages. Atole,the traditional drink with tamales, today flavored with fresh mashed plums, simmers on the fire.
The crowded courtyard fills with the centuries-old aroma of corn as the tamales cook on their bed of cornhusks in the giant olla, which is supported by three rocks over the leña fire. Smiles widen when jugs of pomegranate ponche are brought out. Besides pomegranate juice, the ponche is made with sugar and alcohol. Peanuts float on top.
The call goes out. The tamales are done! The atole is served in dozens of heavy pottery mugs that normally hang in neat curved patterns on the wall of the cooking-room. Eager hands quickly deplete the heaped platter. Soon all are replete and the mood mellows.
A son strums a few chords on his guitar, thoughtfully seeking a melody and then his rich basso fills the air, followed by two of his sisters, harmonizing. The guitar passes to Don Ramon and there is a respectful hush. His fingers, stiff with years, still recall obscure folksongs. Doña Faustina's sweet high voice joins his, their voices, now thin with age, so beautiful that even the tots are mesmerized.
Shadows deepen. Twilight falls. Chores beckon. Cattle are lowing to be milked and fed. Tranquility reigns. Slowly, with farewell abrazos, visiting family disperses until there remains only a small knot of people around Doña Faustina to ponder the joys of motherhood on this wonderful day.
