‘Twas Noche Buena, Christmas Eve. Our new casa in the Mexican mountains was peaceful, the only stirring being sparks crackling through mesquite logs in the fireplace, spilling out onto the hearth. New neighbors and friends, who had joined us for holiday remembrances and cheer, had gone home earlier, disappearing into cars covered in midnight shadows. A full moon skipped through cotton-ball puffs of cloud overhead. In spite of my relative sobriety, my wife Linda's sofa-induced nap and the silence of the night compelled a winding walk skyward up to our mirador. My late-night climb alone was measured, designed to cap yet another wonderful introduction to our Mexican experience. We were newcomers to the country and our first Navidad in Ajijic was going to be special. Somehow we both knew it.
As I climbed the stairs leading to the rooftop mirador, the moon's luster reflected red and yellow hues off the branching bougainvillea below, a mantel for our surrounding brick wall. The glistening green leaves reminded me of the many snow-covered, chilly scenes in our former East Coast Christmas experience. Reaching the mirador and feeling exhausted by the evening's activities, I sat down hard on one of the white wicker chairs nearby. While I threw my feet up on a tiled table and lounged, the Sierra Madre rolled softly toward the heavens on my left; shimmering Lake Chapala crowned the opposite view. My drifting attention was then quickly and permanently captured by a vision that I shall never forget. Racing directly toward me through the bright sky were two burros pulling a farm wagon. Sitting up front in the wagon and leading its charge through the sky was a yellow-vested figure yelling "Andele, Ace. Andele, Burrdad" as the burros and trailing wagon slowed and descended directly into our rooftop, solar-heating system. "Feliz Navidad" the driver yelled to me over the persistent braying of his burro team. "Feliz Navidad to you, too," I replied in a near whisper. I found myself shivering and wondering a bit about my sanity. As the stout, dark-bearded but graying figure approached me, I sat up straight in my chair. He wore a yellow sombrero, yellow boots and orange jeans. His yellow, silky vest fell open, exposing a huge, dark chest underscored by a bulging but muscled belly. In the low light under the mirador I could see that a large, ornate silver buckle adorned his waistline, cinching up the colorful jeans. A bright smile crossed his olive-skinned face as he extended his arms out toward me. "Mucho gusto. I'm Señor Santa," he announced while enveloping me in a bear hug. "I'm Mexico's Santa Claus but only for those who have found new casas south of the border. Church is now over and Mexican families are celebrating and exchanging gifts in their own customary ways. I didn't mean to alarm you in anyway, but I have to make use of a baño-right now. May I use your casita so I don't wake Linda?" he asked. "Si, si" I replied, a little louder this time, wondering how he knew my wife's name and, obviously, her snoozing whereabouts. "It's right over..." "Oh, I know right where it is," he bellowed as he went striding down the spiral staircase toward the casita. The burros somehow steadily maintained their rooftop positions, and I could now see that the farm wagon was filled with brightly decorated gifts. A large orange leather bag was draped over them. It was clearly no peddler's sack. Beautiful white depictions of the Virgin of Guadalupe covered its surface.
Then, as I turned my head and looked all around, back up the mirador stairway, Señor Santa came with a bound. "Thank you so much, Jim," he smiled. Even Señor Santa sometimes needs a good pit stop. "As a favor to you for all of your courtesy on this wonderful eve, I want to grant you three special First Navidad wishes, but they are understandably conditional. I think it would be fair, because you are a gringo and enjoying your new Mexican experience, that your wishes should be made on behalf of the Mexican people and not just for you and Linda. Comprende? Understand?" "Si," I stammered. Then a feeble "bueno."
"Well, here's a marker and some paper. Write down your wishes before my beloved burros start stepping on all of those solar-heating panels." Without delay I wrote out my wish list. First, I wished for less hard labor by Mexicans. I had never seen a people who worked so hard with so little technical assistance at hand. I wanted Senor Santa to grant them some relief. My second written wish was that the children would become even more beautiful, thereby promoting their acceptance by others and, hopefully, enhancing their opportunities in the future. My final wish was for the Mexican family to be made closer so that support would always be available for each of them, particularly the elderly. I handed my list to Señor Santa, sensing his boot-tapping impatience. A deep, wrinkled frown emerged and covered his bearded face. "No, no and no," he muttered, clearly agitated. "We need to talk!
"If I had the time tonight, I would make sure to stuff your stocking with coal," the formerly jolly old elf sputtered. "You haven't lived in Mexico long enough to understand," he lectured, pointing and wagging his stubby, dark index finger in my direction. "Not even God himself would grant these wishes! I suppose, though, that your list does prove that your heart is in the right place at Navidad. For that reason, I'll leave the coal in my wagon and explain instead.
"First, we Mexicans take pride in all of our work. Our siesta is to guarantee that our work remains at a high level throughout the whole day. Work products become part of our being, you see. To lessen hard work in Mexico would injure the pride of my people. You don't want to do that!" he warned.
"Next, who has gazed into the dark eyes of our children and would ever wish for more? Their brilliant white teeth and shy little smiles only further magnify the effect." Then, laying that short finger to the side of his nose, Senor Santa paused for it moment before going on.
"And finally, Jim, just a few questions for you that require no reply. Have you been in the village late at night and seen the families outside laughing and talking together? Have you been to a wedding in Ajijic yet? And last, have you taken notice of how many of our grandparents are living in our homes and not in assisted-living facilities somewhere else? Senor Santa's point, amigo, is that the Mexican family has a
Beautiful and lasting tradition of closeness and support. There are no barriers, no walls that our families cannot transcend...together. This is something that you should share with friends north of the border. Now that might surely lessen a whole lot of labor on a wall up that way," he grinned while his dark eyes twinkled at the thought of it.
Then, just as quickly as he had arrived, El Senor Santa sprang to his sleigh and whistled at his team. As he drove out of sight he winked at me, shouting "Feliz Navidad y Buenos noches, amigo." I stood transfixed at the sight of him and his magical presence. Eventually, I wound my weary way downstairs and, after spending a few moments enjoying the
glow of remaining embers, I roused Linda from her nap. We had been married for thirteen years but I had to wonder. Dare I tell her of Senor Santa's visit? Was I, at the age of 65, "losing it"? And even if it
weren't so, would she believe I was somehow impaired anyway? I had indulged in three, maybe four, margaritas earlier and my history after two of them had not been exemplary. She claimed that I spoke neither English nor Spanish after more than two but rather, as she put it,
"You're talking in tongues." So I decided to delay, until surely sober at least, the story of my astonishing encounter. That night we slept soundly.
The following morning, Navidad, we unwrapped the few gifts that husbands and wives generally give after many shared years together.
However, an overall nervousness gripped me in spite of myself. Finally, coffee in hand and leaning against the breakfast bar, I spat it out. "Linda, please listen carefully. Last night, after you took your nap, I actually met Senor Santa, Mexico's Santa Claus for gringos. Now, don't start giving me that look yet!" I demanded as she bore in. " I was on the mirador and he visited us briefly...just to use the bano. He went in the casita and then left." I didn't have the heart to go into the three-wishes part with her. "I swear it. I know that it sounds insane but it really happened. I want you to believe me. I was stone-cold sober."
Her chin dropped and her droll little mouth drew up like a bow, but her eyes stayed in contact with my own. "Right, and I met Russell Crowe while you were on the mirador. Said he was just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop in, plant a kiss on this cheek and wish me a Merry Christmas! And I was just as sober as you were. I swear it," she smiled. We both laughed but her laugh was decidedly louder than mine. That's it, I thought. No additional aggravation is necessary on Christmas. I decided to abandon all efforts to convince her, and perhaps myself a bit, of my Noche Buena experience. The remainder of the day was as wonderful as we had come to expect in our new home.
A few days before New Year's, our friend Diego was helping us with a leak in the rooftop solar-heating system. A previous repair had not "taken" and the annoying dripping down onto the lower roof had begun again. Linda and I were having a light lunch out on the back patio while December's temperature remained at 65 degrees. I was wondering aloud what the temperature might be on our porch back on
the East Coast when Diego approached us, gift-wrapped package in
hand. "Senor, Jim," he began, "I was working up there and found this under one of the panels. With that he handed me a large thin package wrapped in green paper with a large red and white bow. A small white card was attached. I read it aloud. "Feliz Navidad, Linda and Jim." Below was the signature. "Senor Santa." Linda began laughing uncontrollably.
"Santa, you are so damn good," she grinned ear to ear. "Very, very clever too!" she teased. I spoke not a word but went right to my work opening the package. Inside was a copy of the book Mexican Mornings by Michael Hogan, an Irishman who had taught in Guadalajara. I later learned that Hogan had adopted Mexico after traveling throughout the country and falling in love with its character. The first line of the book began, "In December in Jalisco the fields lie fallow in the sun." In a flash I understood. I played along with Linda's teasing for the next hour or so, saying nothing of the truth I now knew. Senor Santa had been right. I hadn't been in Mexico long enough to understand at all. But now, with his lesson and blessing, I knew that we would.
(Dedicated to my sister, Pat Rambo, who spent many a Christmas Eve with me awaiting Santa.)
your stocking with coal," the formerly jolly old elf sputtered. "You haven't lived in Mexico long enough to understand," he lectured, pointing and wagging his stubby, dark index finger in my direction. "Not even God himself would grant these wishes! I suppose, though, that your list does prove that your heart is in the right place at Navidad. For that reason, I'll leave the coal in my wagon and explain instead.
"First, we Mexicans take pride in all of our work. Our siesta is to guarantee that our work remains at a high level throughout the whole day. Work products become part of our being, you see. To lessen hard work in Mexico would injure the pride of my people. You don't want to do that!" he warned.
"Next, who has gazed into the dark eyes of our children and would ever wish for more? Their brilliant white teeth and shy little smiles only further magnify the effect." Then, laying that short finger to the side of his nose, Señor Santa paused for it moment before going on.
"And finally, Jim, just a few questions for you that require no reply. Have you been in the village late at night and seen the families outside laughing and talking together? Have you been to a wedding in Ajijic yet? And last, have you taken notice of how many of our grandparents are living in our homes and not in assisted-living facilities somewhere else? Señor Santa's point, amigo, is that the Mexican family has a beautiful and lasting tradition of closeness and support. There are no barriers, no walls that our families cannot transcend...together. This is something that you should share with friends north of the border. Now that might surely lessen a whole lot of labor on a wall up that way," he grinned while his dark eyes twinkled at the thought of it.
Then, just as quickly as he had arrived, El Señor Santa sprang to his sleigh and whistled at his team. As he drove out of sight he winked at me, shouting "Feliz Navidad y Buenos noches, amigo." I stood transfixed at the sight of him and his magical presence. Eventually, I wound my weary way downstairs and, after spending a few moments enjoying the glow of remaining embers, I roused Linda from her nap. We had been married for thirteen years but I had to wonder. Dare I tell her of Señor Santa's visit? Was I, at the age of 65, "losing it"? And even if it weren't so, would she believe I was somehow impaired anyway? I had indulged in three, maybe four, margaritas earlier and my history after two of them had not been exemplary. She claimed that I spoke neither English nor Spanish after more than two but rather, as she put it, "You're talking in tongues." So I decided to delay, until surely sober at least, the story of my astonishing encounter. That night we slept soundly.
The following morning, Navidad, we unwrapped the few gifts that husbands and wives generally give after many shared years together.
However, an overall nervousness gripped me in spite of myself. Finally, coffee in hand and leaning against the breakfast bar, I spat it out. "Linda, please listen carefully. Last night, after you took your nap, I actually met Señor Santa, Mexico's Santa Claus for gringos. Now, don't start giving me that look yet!" I demanded as she bore in. " I was on the mirador and he visited us briefly...just to use the baño. He went in the casita and then left." I didn't have the heart to go into the three-wishes part with her. "I swear it. I know that it sounds insane but it really happened. I want you to believe me. I was stone-cold sober."
Her chin dropped and her droll little mouth drew up like a bow, but her eyes stayed in contact with my own. "Right, and I met Russell Crowe while you were on the mirador. Said he was just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop in, plant a kiss on this cheek and wish me a Merry Christmas! And I was just as sober as you were. I swear it," she smiled. We both laughed but her laugh was decidedly louder than mine. That's it, I thought. No additional aggravation is necessary on Christmas. I decided to abandon all efforts to convince her, and perhaps myself a bit, of my Noche Buena experience. The remainder of the day was as wonderful as we had come to expect in our new home.
A few days before New Year's, our friend Diego was helping us with a leak in the rooftop solar-heating system. A previous repair had not "taken" and the annoying dripping down onto the lower roof had begun again. Linda and I were having a light lunch out on the back patio while December's temperature remained at 65 degrees. I was wondering aloud what the temperature might be on our porch back on the East Coast when Diego approached us, gift-wrapped package in hand. "Señor, Jim," he began, "I was working up there and found this under one of the panels. With that he handed me a large thin package wrapped in green paper with a large red and white bow. A small white card was attached. I read it aloud. "Feliz Navidad, Linda and Jim." Below was the signature. "Señor Santa." Linda began laughing uncontrollably. "Santa, you are so damn good," she grinned ear to ear. "Very, very clever, too!" she teased. I spoke not a word but went right to my work opening the package. Inside was a copy of the book Mexican Mornings by Michael Hogan, an Irishman who had taught in Guadalajara. I later learned that Hogan had adopted Mexico after traveling throughout the country and falling in love with its character. The first line of the book began, "In December in Jalisco the fields lie fallow in the sun." In a flash I understood. I played along with Linda's teasing for the next hour or so, saying nothing of the truth I now knew. Señor Santa had been right. I hadn't been in Mexico long enough to understand at all. But now, with his lesson and blessing, I knew that we would.
(Dedicated to my sister, Pat Rambo, who spent many a Christmas Eve with me awaiting Santa.)
