Of these I’ve known who had herds
In the mountain’s of Spaniards.
Once there was a small girl child
Too many years ago in memory filed,
Her father’s father’s, father, was of Spain.
Y uno patron on the plain.
“Now,” she says, “They call me Mes’can.”
“And say, over the border I ran.
She said, “It is fruitless to tell about my uncle so fine,
Who fought on the island of Iwo Jima, held the line.”
For me, I knew a little gentleman of humility,
Hired him to work with his ability
This red, hard clay soil
And with a pick axe he did toil,
To bring me lovely rose bed,
Tall trees who their shade, shed.
His folks had been here for two generation
Or somewhere along that duration.
His grandparents he said came long before him
And all he knew of Mexico was their whim,
Of places told to the children of flowers
Southern breezes, trees and bowers.
Then there was another quiet small man,
Who worked his whole life with a plan.
His family joined to form up a café
Taco, burrito, enchilada, the first I think,
Before the food of Mexico made a link.
It is a wonderful, delightful experience,
Even today we enjoy food and drinks.
Before he died did express this thought,
“Mexico is so far away, too far to be bought.”
“Long ago,” he said, “my grandparents worked the railroad.”
“Of this nation they carried the load.”
So the surnames are of Mexico, it is true,
But the blood, the love, the loyalty, it is blue
American, through and through.
