Stories of Lotería

My first memory is of the lake when I was four years old.  I think that's my first memory. Truth is, I can't be sure. Between all the pictures that I've seen, and the countless retelling of events that I've heard, it's hard to distinguish authentic memory from plain old overexposure. I remember being inside an RV. It has got to be my memory because there are no existing pictures of the RV.  I remember heat, a lot of it. My mom and dad were there, along with my Aunt Gloria and Uncle George, and my cousin Lorrie. There were bugs - so many bugs.  And I distinctly recall a night on the road when I crawled up onto the overhead bed and popped my head out of a little sunroof opening, except this night it was better described as a moon roof because I laid eyes on the first amazing moon of my memory. The rest of the trip, filled in by my mom and those yellowing photos pressed firmly against the sticky pages of our 1980's photo albums (Why don't they make 'e

   Salvador Medina and Elena Tapia married in May 1938. It was a jubilant celebration overflowing with family, friends and best wishes. No one was about to miss the festivities, even if it meant riding in on a horse for three days, including Elena's closest cousin, Alberto. He was a few years older than she but they had grown up together, played together, and often confided in each other. Salvador enjoyed Alberto's company very much and understood that the cousins were more like brother and sister. Soon after the wedding, Salvador and Elena moved into their first house together. It was an old-fashioned style structure whose kitchen resembled something like a patio. There was a roof to keep the rain out, and a ledge to store supplies. Often, though, stray cats would sneak onto the ledge and fall asleep there.  Elena diligently attempted to load the ledge with pots, pans, or anything else that would take up space. They enjoyed the house and those early years spent together. Fo

I walked through the front door of my house not too long ago, after an especially energy-sucking day at work, and was met with a quirky tune from my past. Brass horns and bouncing notes reminiscent of a carnival carousel ride.  Except this one actually took me somewhere. It took me back to five years of age... Walking home with Grandpa Salvador after school - sopa de fideo on the stove - Grandma Elena in her apron - and Chavo del Ocho on the television. The little orphan boy who lived in a barrel and played with the kids from the nearby apartment complex was my daily afternoon entertainment. Never did I wonder how a boy could live in a barrel. Never did I notice that each kid was played by an adult in their 30s or 40s.  All I cared about was in what way Chavo would stick it to that bratty Quico with the blow fish cheeks, or what would make that cry-baby Chilindrina wail this time, or if someday Dona Florinda would actually get Don Ramon to notice her, (but before you think I was