I apologize in advance if this offends anyone.
About a week ago, Paul and I were coming home from Leo and Alba’s. We hadn’t stayed long this time, which meant we only consumed one bottle of wine, not our customary two bottles. This turned out to prove itself useful.
When we left, it was about 5:00 pm. While we were there, sitting on their balcony eating, we were entertained by a howling wind; welcomed indeed because it had been very hot that day. We ate, we drank, we left early.
The trip back home is generally short. It’s about four miles from our house to theirs. The road changes dramatically as you leave their somewhat suburban area where houses line the roads perhaps one every hundred feet and farms are between half an acre and four acres, to our neck of the woods. In the campo, countryside, things thin out a bit. One can easily drive a half mile between houses, not all of which sit on the road, and farms are pretty consistent, measuring between 15 and 20 acres. Another dissimilarity is that the road narrows considerably from their hood to ours.
Once we leave suburbia and are in BFE, something else you notice is that landslides aren’t quickly cleaned away and this can sometimes cause a bit of a calamity. There’s no place to go but down on our narrow road and so if a tree falls or if the mountain gives way a bit, depending on your preparedness, you might be screwed until someone comes along.
Less than mile to go to our house, we encountered a felled tree on the road. We have to hand it to the city who thought enough of us jíbaros (hillbillies) to give us street lights that correspond to each house on the property. Unfortunately we were between farms and so it was pitch black.
We get out of the car to asses the situation. As we approach the tree we hear a faint voice. It’s a woman. I’m able to walk over some of the fallen branches, although it’s impossible for our car to drive around the tree because to its right is a considerable drop.
On the other side are two petite women, both in floor length skirts. My initial guess was Pentecostal. I ask if they are okay. One explains that they were visiting their sister down the hill and the road was fine two hours ago but now it’s impassable. Consistent with our version.
I speak. I tell her, “mi esposo tiene une machete en nuestro carro.” although grammatically I am correct when I conveyed that my husband has a machete in the car, my sentence structure in Spanish is jacked. I think I was supposed to say, in the car, have a machete my husband or something equally elusive. I’m not sure but I’ve given away the tell-tale sign that I didn’t grow up speaking Spanish.
“Oh, are you the Americans who bought Pepin’s farm?”
I’ll save that story for later but usually when I tell people we bought Pepin’s farm, we hear many stories about this legend. “si.”
By this time Paul has his machete in hand and is whacking away. One sister asks, “what church do you attend?”
Given that we are probably the only atheists on the island, this is not something we divulge. At least in these parts, if you’re not catholic, you’re Pentecostal, Jehovah or 7th day Adventist. It’s possible you’re Muslim but you believe in some kind of god.
I reply, “mi dios es en mi corazón. No tengo una iglesia.” My god is in my heart; I don’t have a church.
This was a bit much for the other sister, who hitherto had been the observant type. She begins to pray, perhaps for me who doesn’t attend church, perhaps for Paul who is now hacking away at tree branches. It’s what he does all day long, so I’m not as nervous as I used to be.
In between prayers the sister looks up long enough to say, “cuidado!” This means careful. Her prayers become louder as does her concern for Paul.
After about the fifth or sixth “cuidado,”
Paul responds, “gracias, señora.” now with each hack, it’s not clear whether Paul’s response is for the last cuidado, or whether he’s now a few ahead of her.
In the meantime, sister number one says to me, “please come to our church. God is waiting for you there.”
I ask where her church is. She gives me the road name and neighborhood. “oh! It’s the Pentecostal church just before you get to the area where the family Rivera lives.”
“you know our church, then?”
I know your church because when we were renting Leo and Alba’s other house, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday night until 11 a (insert expletive here) clock and on Sunday from 4 in the (insert expletive here) morning until at least noon, although we lived almost a mile away, it sounded like y’all were in our (insert expletive here) living room. Your pastor should have been an auctioneer and the only break we got from the yelling/sorry preaching was when you sang hymns. Made me wish we had had a catholic church nearby with an organ and a choir.
I don’t mean to sound rude but three nights and one day a week of something that loud of anything is way more than enough. I don’t want to listen to my dogs that loudly or my favorite music that loudly four days a week for that many hours. But of course I was thinking all this to myself and responded…
“yes,” I tell her, we know where your church is. It’s a beautiful building.”
The back and forth between sister number two and Paul by this point has a rhythm to it. Pray for 20 seconds, “cuidado,” followed by, “gracias señora.”
I look up in time to see the last branch fall and say, “gracias a dios!”
“you see, nena! God hears your prayers.” she pauses, “we have service every…”
“Tuesday, Thursday and Friday nights from 7:00 to 11:00 and on Sundays from 4 en la manana to 12:00.”
We shake their hands, wish them well with the customary, “novenos,” which means seen you later, sort of.
Posted in FP, Puerto Rico Stories
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