My Grand Uncle Jose’s Farm
Maribel Marrero
The tender memories of my early childhood take place in the city of San Cristobal in the western, cold mountains of The Andes in Venezuela. We used to live in the second highest line of mountains in the world after the Himalayas. The memories I hold so fondly are the fun trips I took with grandma to Barinas’ lower valley, and the time spent as a family in grand uncle Jose’s farm. We partook in all the agricultural activities there, then returned to our home with our hearts full of happy memories and our hands full of fresh, homemade products for the whole family in the city. Those are memories that stayed with me forever because of my family’s love, and I think love is the strongest force in the world.
While my parents were working in another city, I’d stay at my “mamita’s” (my grandmother) little house which I loved more than my own because my “nona” (another way to call my grandma) used to spoil me with her tasty cooking, homemade sweets and fresh baked bread. She was always busy cooking, washing laundry by hand or listening to the news on the radio. Since she was always busy working, I’d get bored until I’d hear her say, “Get your bags ready, we’re going to El Milagro tomorrow” I’d get my bag ready in five minutes and be standing by the door like a little soldier ready to go to war.
The next morning at sunrise my grandma and I would take a 10 minute bus ride to the main bus terminal in La Concordia. The terminal was a festive place; it smelled like a fresh market, full of people, flying chickens, sacks of grain, and big boxes of merchandise. We’d make a line for about 20 minutes to take the bus going to Barinas’ plains. The ride would take us through the narrow streets of the city of San Cristobal until we’d hit the highway to the plains. The road to the plains was fascinating, it used to have different green colors. It would make my heart beat fast. We could see all the little towns along the roadside appear in front of our eyes and we’d enjoy those open views for a long time. Next, we’d see the big farms with black, brown and white horses galloping all over the plains. After, we saw the fat cows with their calves eating grass along their side. A little farther from the cows’ herd, there was a bull with a strong powerful figure that I looked at with admiration. The smell of fresh cut grass and cow manure, the loud typical plains music from the radio, and the hot humid weather would help us realize that we had left the dry cold mountains of San Cristobal.
Then, we stopped at the second terminal where we had to transfer everything to a very worn out van, for our last part of the trip. This was the hardest part because I thought we all were going to die in the crossing of the shaking bridge. That is the only part of my memories that I wasn’t happy about. We usually had to get off the van and cross a small wooden bridge hanging from four big poles and ropes. To get through the bridge, we had to walk carefully to the other side, while the cracking sound of the bridge was right under our feet. It would make my heart stop because I thought the bridge was going to break, and we were going to die. None of the adults would let me know the bridge was strong enough, so I just assumed the worst every time. Afterwards, the van would take us to my grand uncle’s farm a few miles down the dusty road; the driver would turn to the left into a narrow road right in front of a big house. His house was the only one for miles, it was a huge open space separated only by strong wood poles, no full walls or windows. In the middle was the kitchen and dining room with cold a concrete floor, to the right two tiny little bedrooms with windows for protection, and outside a vegetable garden. In the left side of the kitchen was the hen house, a big cage made of wire, full of nests made of straw, and cranky hens hatching their eggs.
The name “El Milagro” means The Miracle. It was a huge piece of land owned by uncle Jose Arcangel Belandria and his wife Celestina. My grandma would bring two big brown bags full of sweet Andean bread, and goodies from the city, especially for them. We’d arrive, hug and kiss each other, while I jumped all over the house from happiness. Then my uncle Jose would rub his unshaven face on my little face just to see me running away and screaming, while everyone else would laugh about it. That was his favorite caress for me.
Every morning the breakfast was ready for us. It consisted of potato soup with eggs, grilled white cheese, boiled yellow sweet plantains with homemade butter and coffee that all came all from the farm. My grandma would help around the house while talking with Celestina for hours, and they’d ask me to go to the hen house to pick up eggs in a basket for the next day’s breakfast. I was always careful to pick up a hen that was not hatching its eggs because they would jump on top of me and try to hit me with their beaks. Inside the big open kitchen, they would start the fire in the wood stove to prepare an early lunch. Celestina would ask me to pick some cilantro, scallions, and mint from the garden. After, I was done, I’d go into the back of the house to fish by myself in a huge, muddy river behind the house. They had a little hook prepared for me and a little bucket filled with river water to put the fishes in. I would spend hours under the sun and the hot river breeze, trying to catch something, but that rarely happened. My only comfort was drinking delicious lemonade and eating sapote fruit while fishing. Then, my grandma would wash our laundry by hand in the cement sink and hang it to air dry on a long line behind the house under the hot sun of the Barinas’ plains.
Every morning that we stayed in the farm, uncle Jose and some of his helpers would cross the street into the cow’s pen to milk the cows. I’d wake up early, grab a tiny cup, and run to them to get some fresh, foamy, warm milk. When they were done, they’d bring a bunch of big jars full of milk, and we’d make white hard cheese, while we felt a mutual feeling of togetherness. Additionally, Celestina and grandma would make butter in a big hot pot in the wood stove, stirring constantly. Later, the other jars would be loaded into a little truck that would take them to the main store in the town to be sold.
After lunch, we’d go to the coffee and cocoa plantations near the house, to pick ripe red coffee beans; and the smelly cocoa plants with big hanging pots with the seed inside. We’d got the ripe, red cocoa bean pots, open them up and put the slimy cocoa seeds, and the coffee apart, to sun dry in two different flat square outdoor patios. After a couple of days, we’d toast the beans and grind the coffee in a small hand operated mill to get a fine powder. But the cocoa would come out like a thick cream, so we all had fun shaping it in small ovals and let air dry to make hot chocolate later. Those were moments that were a pleasure to live and to remember.
By the end of the week, uncle Jose would prepare a lot of sacks and boxes with all the products we made together at his farm, but that meant we had to say goodbye soon. We were a sad bunch of crying babies, we missed one another because we used to live so far away. When we’d leave my uncle’s farm our hearts were full of their love and beautiful family memories. Also, we’d take a lot of food from the farm for our whole family in the city.
We can never go back to those times again. I have passed from the country life style to a city life, but I still love and remember the simple country family life that I experienced back in the mountains of San Cristobal; and the long trips with grandma to the hot Barinas’ plains to visit my grand uncle and his family. I was blessed beyond measure with a caring family that traveled long distances to visit and support one another. They taught me with their example, how to work hard in the farm while spending family time together, how to get fresh vegetables, to milk the cows, to cook from scratch and share all these things with love. These are the memories that I keep in my heart forever.
