11/3/09: This was written by me some time back. I hope you like it.
It was some years back. We were laying out the Napa vineyard. My father was driving the tractor which pulled a small trailer filled with vineyard stakes. Myself and two of my kids followed the trailer pulling off the stakes and throwing them near the small white markers indicating where the plant and stakes will eventually go in the ground.
I had the row to the left and my sons Zeke, named after my father, and Albert, named after my uncle (my father's brother), were responsible for placing the stakes for the row on the right. We had been working that morning for just two hours when Zeke then age seven, shouted out over the roar of the tractor, "Dad, how much are we getting paid."
Thinking of this story as I am writing it down, brings a smile to my face. I remember just before Zeke's interruption of our morning work, I glanced over to see how they were handling the work when I saw the two of them conversing. I saw in them the many times I watched my own father and his brothers talk as they would work in the vineyards and in turn I saw myself with my brothers talking as we carried out our labor on this same plot of soil. I knew then that they would always be near to one another, despite what their futures held in store for them. No doubt they will have their share of bickering and arguments, but I knew all too well that they would like-wise have their share of laughing and camaraderie. This gave me a deep sense of pride in our family.
I shouted back, "What?" knowing full well what he had asked. He looked at me as if it was difficult to ask the question, eventually he found his voice. "How much are we making?" he yelled once again, with a quick turn of his head to his brother making sure he had his attention as if to say watch how I do this.
"Ask your grandpa," I responded flipping my finger towards their grandfather who sat upon the iron horse, and continued without pause throwing the stakes upon the ground. I attempted to appear as if all my attention was on my task but I was waiting to see how my son handled my suggestion.
I guess this would be a good time to tell you a little about my father. He was then sixty-one years old, a very fit and sound body and an even sharper mind. He stood about five-nine but was beginning that elder shrinking period. He had long ago taken the place of his father who past away ten years prior. Some would say he and his father were one in the same and those who said that would not be all wrong. You see, when Zeke was only seven years old, my grandfather (his father) Lucio, took him on as his right arm. He would have Zeke interpret for him and even drive him around when needed. My father spoke of this time in his life to me when he was five or six years from meeting his maker. He told me that he never had a child-hood. He remembered telling his father that he should ask his older brothers to help him, but his father, for his own reasons felt that his son Zeke was the right one to help him provide for the family. And so, my father was very old school, very responsible, very strict and all times very protecting and loving of his family.
It was this person whom Zeke was named after, who he was now called upon to approach and I was not so sure he could do it.
Once again, Zeke looked back at his brother Albert and then once again in my direction. "Grandpa!" Zeke shouted out over the roar of the iron contraption. There was no change, the iron horse kept it's vacuous pace, the clouds of dust continued to swirl, all workers continued their work. "Grandpa!" he shouter even louder. Still no change.
My son glanced in my direction as if to petition my help and all I did was gesture with my hand and a nod of my to head to try again. Deep inside I was smiling. My gestures only served to elicited a frown from Zequiel. But then I saw what I needed to see, it was that determination, found in many of us Perez's.
Where he found that voice I do not know, but it has been with him ever since, "Grandpa!". Everything seemed to be affected; the wind calmed, the dust dispersed, the workers began to slow as if in slow motion, even the birds that followed us settled to the ground and looked as if they stood at attention waiting for instructions. As if all were a set of dominoes, finally his grandfather, sitting atop the iron horse, pulled back on the rains quieting the thunderous hoves of the mechanical beast and slowly turned, yet nothing came to a complete stop.
I definitely heard my son deeply swallow, as if to say, my god what have I done. Looking over, I saw even Albert grab his older brother's shirt sleeve as if to warn him, let it go, it's not that important, let it go. Yet Zeke pulled his shirt from his brother's grasp and looked back at him with an assurance only an older brother can give.
As the moment began to catch up with itself and as slow motion now brought its pace up to match reality, Zeke looked into his namesake's ageing eyes and said, "Grandpa, how much are we getting paid?"
My father now turned his sights to me. Seeing me smile he shook his head very slowly as if to say what kind of boy are you raising? Then turning back to Zeke, he whispered these words that could be heard for miles, "You're earning your name." Then as if nothing had interrupted our work he turned in his seat and once again pushed us on to complete our days work but not before cocking his head back to meet my gaze as if to say thanks for that opportunity to be a part of your lives.
Nothing more was said that day, we were too busy earning our names.
11/3/09: Gary was an attorney in a large law office. He had a way about him that lead many people to believe he was a complainer, a disgruntled employee, wimpish in presentation. If I were to ask you what Gary's favorite wine was, what would be your answer?
(Answer: "But your honor!" You have to imagine this in a whiny voice.)
