Baloney, Baloney, Baloney!: A Memoir

Settling into the old adobe house took some getting used to.

In September, Waldo, the last Alfaro kid, was born—a fat and happy baby. When Mother brought him home, I asked, “What are you going to name him?”

“His name is Waldo,” she said.

I had never heard the name Waldo. Why he was given that name baffled me. I stared at the pink-faced baby, thinking no Mexican should be named Waldo. Kids are going to make fun of him, I thought. Who names their kid Waldo?

I didn’t ask Mom where the name came from. I simply turned and walked away, scratching my head in total confusion. I thought maybe she was running out of English names.

There were seven Alfaro kids now. The good news was that Mom wasn’t having any more. The bad news was we were still poor, and one more mouth to feed was painful.

Mom was determined to work full-time. She could not rely on Chuy. She didn’t ask for permission. She just went looking for a job, and she found one at a restaurant—a diner—with an Old West-style décor. Railsback Restaurant, on Dickenson Boulevard, would employ her for at least three years. A counter with fixed stools set four or five feet apart added to the look. Against the windows facing the boulevard were red vinyl booths. It wasn’t a big place, but it was popular with the citizenry.

Dickenson Boulevard, the main road running east and west, accommodated traffic leading into and out of town. From San Antonio to El Paso along Interstate 10 is about 551 miles. Fort Stockton is located smack in the middle of this route, making it a natural stopping point for weary travelers. In the 1950s, there weren’t any restaurants along the interstate, so people had to veer off into town to get gas or something to eat. There were plenty of hotels or motels if they chose to stay the night, but few places to eat. So, Railsback attracted hungry travelers. It catered to the locals, but many travelers stopped by for some great grub, including their famous corn biscuits.

It could have been that with seven children under the age of ten and a husband who regularly drank a good portion of his salary, Mom had no choice but to work. That left me, the oldest, to take on more responsibilities around the house. We all did our chores without too many complaints. In a way, we understood Mom had to work if we were going to get out of being the poorest family in town. We certainly needed the extra cash.

“We are not going to live in a poor house any longer. You deserve better,” she would say each night before she went to work.

Respecting her decision was all we could do. We were getting older and demanding more things she knew we couldn’t afford—like black pants and a white shirt for a play. I grew to admire her courage and determination.

For a few months, we continued to struggle. Chuy found a better job—still unskilled labor, but at least it was steady. Now both our parents were working. Mom worked the late shift at the restaurant, and since we didn’t have a car, she walked almost three miles to get there. She could not count on Dad to get her there. So she walked. At night. By herself. She might have complained, but I didn’t hear it. Dad sometimes walked Mom to work, then met her halfway when her shift ended around eleven at night.

There were times she’d bring home a bag of leftover biscuits and cornbread. After a day or two, the biscuits and cornbread would get hard as a rock. Instead of throwing them away, the restaurant would let her take them home. On some mornings, we’d get up to the smell of fresh coffee. Exhausted from the late-night work, she’d get up and make coffee for us all. We all drank coffee in the morning. We found that dipping both the biscuits and the cornbread in coffee lessened the hardness and allowed us to eat without chipping a tooth. It was a much better breakfast than atole, the pasty stuff she used to feed us. This would be our breakfast before leaving for school. I loved the cornbread. It was much better than the biscuits. Corn bread, biscuits and coffee became a staple, and we didn’t complain.

Our parents weren’t deeply religious. But they did practice some of the rituals of the Catholic Church. We respected the Bible and its teachings but didn’t go to church on a regular basis until much later. However, giving us a good education in Christianity was important for both Mom and Dad. So, we four oldest were forced to make our first communion. Mom claimed this would keep us on the righteous path to God. Also, we were all baptized as babies, making us officially God’s children. I was the only one who was confirmed through the church—something I would never wish on anyone. That experience traumatized me for years.

We were beginning to understand the importance of religion because we were dragged to church on Sundays. Our parents believed we needed to attend because we needed all the help we could get. For an hour, we sat, kneeled, stood, sat, sang, prayed, and gave thanks to God and Jesus Christ for all good things, which weren’t that many. I was taught to ask the Lord for forgiveness if I did something wrong. Prayer was the key to getting closer to God, who protected us against evil.

What I didn’t understand was why I had to pray right after I got disciplined. Evil to me was getting whipped with such ferocity that no prayer was going to stop the beating or the pain. Either way, if Jesus prayed, we had to pray. If it was good for him, it was good for us. But I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I asked for food, a TV, a bike, new clothes, and a diamond ring. Perhaps I should have asked for a kinder dad.

Although the older kids learned to pray the Our Father and Hail Mary ever so diligently in both English and Spanish, the younger ones avoided such rituals. They weren’t held to the same standards as the older children were. When we did go to church, not everybody went at the same time. There were too many kids to keep entertained for an hour of worship. By the time Nora and Waldo came along, my parents had given up on them making their first communion. Tiredness coupled with leniency prevailed. I suppose I could have prayed for the younger kids, but I was too busy taking care of my own skin. Mom and Chuy had other things to deal with, just like most parents from the barrio.