I PUT ON my best white shirt, my only white shirt, which came with me from Houston years ago, an Eddie Bauer, and I hoped no one would notice the small iron-on patch low and inside the left sleeve.
There were blue jeans down below and a tweed sport coat, also from my previous Texas life, in an attempt to be “dressed up.” It was the best I could do, or perhaps was willing to do.
I even donned my Dockers loafers instead of my usual Jeep boots. I was looking good, and I was going to a graduation.
The graduate was my favorite nephew whom I used to call the Little Vaquero due to a cowboy hat he wore briefly, his deceased daddy’s idea more than the boy’s. Daddy’s gone now, entombed below the Basilica floor where nobody can see the bullet hole — R.I.P. and good riddance.
I was the boy’s Godfather for this event. He was graduating from Grammar School, and will be entering Junior High toward the end of summer. About the only responsibility I had was to show up (no problem) and to bring a gift, and I brought two, one being his favorite, cash.
Godfather and Godmother are titles tossed about willy-nilly in Mexico. Usually, it’s an “honor” bestowed so money can be extracted from you. See above, cash. This particular gig is a one-day deal. Other Godfather roles are lifelong. I’ve been invited to that show too, more than once, but I have a permanent escape. I’m not Catholic, which is a deal-breaker.
The event was held at a theater downtown, and later the party, such as it was — just us, the kid, mama and a girlfriend of hers, a local dentist — took place here at the Hacienda. We had bowls of green pozole, which is my preferred method of celebrating most anything.
It’s amazing that the boy will be 13 in eight more months. I remember when he was brought home, a big-eared but beautiful baby. Here’s a photo I took not much later of the little bugger. Time passes, and I am passing through it.
As we all are.