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La Muerte - The Death




Many stories about my grandparents impress me with their examples of strength and fortitude, but there is one in particular that literally clenches my heart and doesn't let go until I can find proper distraction. Every time I try to write it I feel I never do it justice so I'll share it here the only way I know how - the way it was told to me.



In July of 1950 my grandmother, Elena, was traveling by train from Mexicali to Guadalajara. A very popular 48 hour trip in that time, as I understand it. While my grandfather stayed in Los Angeles to work, she planned to visit her family and had by her side her five children ranging in age from 10 years to 5 months. It was near impossible to keep 4 children behaved and entertained while looking after an infant, and the summer heat provoked irritability more than a sense of adventure.



Well into the first night, Elena's youngest, Alfredo, developed a high fever. By the second night his fever had gone beyond 104 degrees. While struggling to bring her boy's fever down, Elena begged for help from people on the train. All they could do was recommend that she get off at the next stop and find a doctor. She did just that. A sympathetic lady who had been on the train offered to look after the other four kids at her home while Elena rushed to the hospital. Faced with limited options, she trusted the lady with her children. According to the 4 kids (my aunts and uncles) this lady and her husband were God-sends in a dire situation. They would be fed well and provided with comfortable beds for a few nights. Back at the hospital, Alfredo was supposedly so hot with fever that his skin crackled at the touch and blood ran from his small nose. He died there. No one remembers the name of the town but it was what one would call a poor shanty town, full of boxcars that people made into their homes. On July 17th Alfredo was buried in the nameless town and without a gravestone. No one else in our family ever visited the grave site again and I'm not sure anyone knows where to go if they wanted to. Perhaps because Alfredo was only 5 months old, but there were no pictures ever taken of him. Hardly any proof of him at all.


Elena boarded the train a second time, back to Los Angeles, with her 4 children, and just a pair of Alfredo's shoes.



On July 17th, 1951, exactly one year later from his burial, my mother was born. She was named Sylvia Consuelo - consuelo, which means to comfort in a time of grief.








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  1. Film ChildJune 20, 2011 at 7:09 PM

    And in 1958, they would keep Alfredo's memory alive by adding "Alfredo" to their son David's name. My dad's middle name, never knew the origin til now. Thanks. :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. LorrieJune 22, 2011 at 9:16 PM

    My nephew Alfred was also named after Aldredo. Thanks for sharing the story. I never really knew the whole thing. Miss you grandma.

    ReplyDelete

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