Looking out my Backdoor: A fiesta on the Rancho

We gringos were all invited to attend a double christening for a great-granddaughter and a great-grandson of Delia, the Rancho owner.

In preparation, Jim and I went into town to get gifts the day before the event. We figured since we were specially invited, we should bring gifts. Unfortunately, we went with flawed information. We, separately, understood, or misunderstood as the case would be, the ages of the children to be around 8 and 10 years.

We don’t know the children and have never met the mother and father or Delia’s daughter, Rosa, the grandmother hosting the party. But we wanted to give an appropriate gift. Maybe a simple silver cross and chain for each. Price checking stomped down that idea. Whoo — expensive, even splitting the cost.

So we asked Leo for advice, giving him the information we had. “Chocolates,” he said. So we went to Guadalajara Farmacia in town and bought two nicely presented containers of chocolates, complete with giant bows.

The morning of the Baptismal Mass we discovered our mistake. The children were babies, the girl just toddling and the boy six months. Chocolate suddenly became inappropriate. Toys seemed the better choice. We’ll suck it up and eat the chocolates ourselves. We can’t let good chocolates go to waist — I mean — waste.

So we went to town early, found a place to park directly across the street from what I call a “plastics” store. “Jim, this tienda carries a small selection of toys. Let’s check here.”

Perfect. The selection not so immense that one’s mind becomes bumfuzzled trying to make a choice. Like magnets, the stuffed animals pulled us. Jim chose an alligator for the boy and I chose a lamb for the girl. Sexist or not, we chose toys we would have wanted for ourselves.

On the way to the Cathedral, Jim received a text that the service had been moved from 11 to noon. You might have heard of “Mexican time”? We’ve learned to be flexible.

We meandered around the plaza. Jim saw Patty and Pedro, a California couple he had met last year. We visited with them a while. They are building a house near Etzatlan. Then we walked on over to the Cathedral square and sat on a bench. As noon came and went, nobody we recognized was entering the Cathedral. We nabbed a stranger, turned out he was the boy’s godfather, and learned there’d been a change of venue. Mass was to be held in the small chapel across the street.

I was glad I wore a dress. So many beautiful people in beautiful garb. The baptismal ceremony was part of the Mass. Language barrier was no problem. We got the message quite clearly that by participating, we were now all responsible for the care and spiritual lives of these two children.

We knew that with the delay, the 1:30 Fiesta would likely begin at 2:30 which really means 3:30 (see notation about “time”). People were just beginning to arrive, the party in infant stage. A constant stream of guests followed behind us.

And, oh, my goodness, gosh. Awnings covered acres of lawn, tables were ornately decorated, slipcovers hid folding chairs, flowers everywhere. Waiters served drinks and kept a flow of snacks to each table.

No Mexican party is complete without loud music. Adjective intentional. A karaoke singer performed beautifully heart-rending romantic love songs. I wanted to take him home, put him in a box and take him out to sing a couple hours each day. Three other women my age told me to get in line. We later learned he spoke perfect English and heard every word we said, which explained “that” smile.

People kept coming. Babies got to ride horses. The godfathers threw a rain of coins to all the children. We ate. We drank. Our little gringo group stayed about three hours. The karaoke singer was wrapping up while another band began setting up with quadruple power speakers. We figured that was our signal to go home.

Home is a short walk to the other corner of the Rancho. We could hear the band quite clearly until about 10 that night. There was nothing romantic (to me, dinosaur that I am) about “banda” music.

Then a Mariachi band had everyone capable on their feet, dancing and singing to traditional Mariachi songs. Mariachi carried the night into the morning fireworks, near 1.

As community columnists used to write in the old Harlem News, a good time was had by all.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].