To My Parents
I arrived in August of a particularly steamy summer. I was the fifth child born to a young Manny and Josie Herrera. Two girls and two boys had previously made their appearances into the rapidly growing family.
As an infant, I had a rather unique mode of transportation. I would scoot around on my bottom because I decided crawling was simply far too difficult on the knees. And, because I moved so infrequently, mom would often resort to pulling me in a wheelbarrow. I have a distinct memory of watching her hang the clothes out to dry while I sat in my trusty wheelbarrow eating an orange.
I also remember spending the better part of my days sitting quietly in my crib waiting for someone to help me out of it. I was so fascinated when my younger sister (who was four years younger than I) began to maneuver over the bars of her crib, while I remained seated in mine. I suppose that is why I have such a compulsion to keep myself moving now; I stayed still long enough.
When our family was finally completed, there were four girls in one bedroom, three boys in the second bedroom, and mom and dad in the last bedroom. Somehow, the arrangement didn’t seem fair to me. So, I took it upon myself to even things up. Three to a bedroom sounded like a better deal, so every now and then I would slip into bed with mom and dad. Now that I think about it… it was probably the same year they started locking their bedroom door. I wonder if there’s any connection.
I think my favorite of all family traditions growing up was when we would pile into the car and go to the mountains for a month at a time. Mom would make us clean the house from top to bottom and dad would set off a bug bomb before we left – that was a routine procedure. Then, we would head for the White Mountains where it was cool and beautiful. Talk about family bonding … nine of us compiled snugly in the white station wagon. Mom and Dad in the front seat, Marty, Manny, and David in the middle, and the little ones (Yoli, Beka, Sheila, and James) in the back.
Dad learned how to drive with a trailer quite proficiently and we all learned a new vocabulary by the end of that first summer. Mom, however, said that we were never allowed to use those newly acquired words.
I remember singing “500 miles” all the way up and I thought someone was going to go insane before the trip was over. No names are necessary. I think we can all guess who it was.
When we would finally get to the mountains, the first thing we would do is stretch, and then, we would “police” the area and clean our new home. We would pick up litter left by previous campers, and move every rock in the area to make way for our tent. After sleeping on the tent floor a few days, we understood why it was so important for every rock to be moved.
For a month, we would be surrounded by nothing but nature; it was beautiful. Fishing, playing in the creek, hiking, pine cone fights, playing cards on rainy days, board games, and telling stories around the campfire at night… that was scary because, after the stories, we would have to make our last venture to the outhouse in the dark. We only had one flashlight – between us and had to walk very closely together to monitor the behaviors of any wild animals that might be roaming around us.
Mom would make us bathe once a week – the nerve – so we could go into Show Low and find a church on Sundays. She wasn’t raising heathens, you know.
Luther Standing Bear once said, “Out of the Indian approach to life there came a great freedom–an intense and absorbing love for nature; a respect for life; enriching faith in a Supreme Power; and principles of truth, honesty, generosity, equity, and brotherhood as a guide to mundane relations.”
I thank my parents for teaching me to value each of these things… And, for much, much more.
I love you both eternally,
Beki (your favorite daughter)
