LA VELITA NARANJITO
Her name was La Velita Rosalita Carmelita Celestina Naranjito and she was hand-picked to go far in this world. It could have been different. Nestled there in her dark leafy green bower, a beautiful cluster of white blossoms highlighting La Velita's graceful proportions, she watched with trembling apprehension the day the great shaking took her sisters and brothers from her life. That was the day people still call The Great Fall.
A shapely creature, La Velita seemed to draw the warmth and glow of sunlight to her without pretense. She was not given to fluttering her eyelashes like some young things from even warmer climes. Yes, in La Velita, all the romance, legend and beauty of Old California were still alive. The people looked at her and knew that the blood that flowed through her veins ran fresh and full of promise. Anyone could see she was without blemish, almost. After all, which one of us can say they have reached their best years without a scrape? Without a tumble?
One faint scar, only one faint shadow and that seen only by the very worst mannered busy-bodies who squinted from behind their faded J.C. Penney's machine-washable curtains. Apart from that, La Velita might have a little beauty mark in an unexpected part of her anatomy, but who's keeping track of these things? Who is the judge in these matters? Is this our right, to be staring at others, looking for little imperfections? What's the world coming to? It wasn't this way in our grandparents' day, I can tell you that! No! In those days, it was the whole person that mattered.
It was the whole of La Velita who stood proudly before the bespectacled man with a mostly white-haired goatee. Of course, she had learned to stand like that, to present a fearless picture of herself to the world. But it was a performance. She was in fact a little uncertain and more than a little afraid. What was he doing? Taking notes? Drawing? Look at him! Now he chooses a red pencil. Now a blue. Now a green. What is he doing? She stood stock still, petrified.
For what it was worth, Miguel Diablo liked to keep meticulous records of his food. That's right! He was going to eat poor La Velita. Where is this story going, you may well wonder. The next thing you know, Miguel's incisors will begin to show themselves like Swiss Army pocket knives from beneath his upper lip. Admittedly, he is twisting his mouth somewhat as he draws and writes. Perhaps he's seen her beauty mark. Or maybe he's seen that faint scar. Is he wondering how that happened? Is he thinking to himself, this is a story standing before me, a story waiting to be told.
Once upon a time, there was a rustling in the house, the top rungs of a ladder being thrust into the leaves and branches. Was anyone awake who would hear? Only La Velita, poor abandoned La Velita, the day after The Fall. No brothers and sisters. No mother and father. Grandfathers and grandmothers long since in the ground. She was alone. And now she feared for her life.
Suddenly she was twisted awake but she couldn't speak or scream. Not a sound from her. Quickly the darkness enclosed her, the soft folds of burlap sacking, the smells of the field, the granary, the sweat of hard labor. Bumping down the tall ladder, bumping against something with a pleasant voice, bumping over the country roads, bumping from sunrise to sunset. Long hours she lay there. At first there was the crazy rolling around but there was no way out in that claustrophobic softness. And then quiet. A guitar. The crackling of twigs in the early life of a fire set in a circle of stones. A song bird settling down in nearby branches. The sound of surf and the tumble of smooth stones at the edge of the sea. Where was she? What was happening?
How can this story end without blood being shed? That is what you are asking, isn't it? Let's see, the young man playing the guitar is taken by surprise by the farmer and skedaddles, leaving poor hapless La Velita there in the scrub-grass and mesquite perimeter where the light from a hastily built fire is subsumed by endless night. Next morning Old Blue, that flea-bitten mongrel who fell out of a beat up '53 Chevy pickup truck with wraparound windows, comes sniffing around the smoldering fire pit. Can you imagine? That cracked nose that used to be shiny and wet, now poking around the sack that holds our precious La Velita? Sniffing and pushing, that big hungry nose pushed past its desire for a discarded piece of filet mignon steak specially wrapped up in a doggy bag by the local diner, to find our heroine, cowering. How the vehicle of abduction becomes a sanctuary! And now that sanctuary broken open by a four-legged question mark in the next chapter of La Velita's convoluted story.
Gingerly, Old Blue caught ahold of La Velita, careful not to bite down too hard. He didn't know the what or why of his actions but the next thing you know, he set off down the dusty road. It was a fine spring day, with a kind of spooky stillness and no sign of rain. In the distance could be heard the big trucks signing their weight in tire tracks down the long north-south west coast highway. No place for a rambling homeless dog like Old Blue. He stuck to the back roads and byways.
Imagine the sight of Old Blue delicately conveying a brightness named La Velita along the weedy margins of the world. Imagine the delight of the runaway girl called Cordelia. Three days on the road, in the fields, hiding out in the woods, fording creeks, sleeping in abandoned sheep sheds, all to get away from her angry, out-of-control stepfather. All the pain and hurt of those months spent enduring his abuse fell away when Cordelia caught sight of La Velita. The girl crouched low so as not to scare off Old Blue and made little clicking sounds and held out her hand. The dog stopped. La Velita looked like a little sun on the end of his dried up nose. With a better look at Old Blue, Cordelia got a better idea. Water. She slowly and carefully reached down and found the plastic water bottle and said outloud, "water, dog, here's some water for you, come on, boy, here's some water, c'mon boy, want some water?"
Now Old Blue knew a well-mannered girl when he saw one, so he went right up to Cordelia to see what she was on about. The closer he got, the more he could smell the life-giving water. Who knows why all the creek beds and usual puddles were dry, but the stuff was scarce, Old Blue knew it in his bones. He got within a tail's length of the girl and saw clearly she was going to share that water. Down went La Velita, out shot the girl's hand, and thus began the next chapter in what was becoming a very long-winded story.
Old Blue and Cordelia made a natural partnership, one for which the dog was quite happy to surrender that small bit of sunshine he'd been carrying so far. In return, the girl stepped up her search for food and water, sharing everything with her new companion.
Now it's a known biological and botanical fact that La Velita's lifespan was far shorter than this story. Cordelia knew this but for some reason known only to a higher muse, she took good care of Old Blue's present, treating La Velita like a precious friend, a jewel, a keepsake, a good luck charm. Besides, it gave Cordelia an idea.
Across the tracks, watch out for the 12:19! Over the far ridge. Yikes, a snake! Lucky. He just had a mouse for breakfast. See the lump right there in that long colored rope of a body? Through the pecan orchard. Hey! Old Blue recognized that pit bull. See how their tails are wagging. Good thing, too. Behind that rusted out abandoned school bus. Under the big water tank. Down the dried up creek bed. Tiptoe past the old lady's washing line waving its faded denim jeans, red bandanas and more underwear and socks than Cordelia had ever seen in her life. Stumble across the stony corn field and whoa! Look at that! A rice field, kind of wet. Endless citrus orchards...Old Blue, come on! I know where we are now!
Until...until the unlikely threesome turned a corner round a handsome cedar barn and found Cordelia's uncle's house, hideaway of the infamous Miguel Diablo Naranjito. Here she knew they would be safe.
She remembered the family stories about her uncle. Once a great revolutionary hero, long since disappeared from the public eye, all he ever wanted to do with his days was read, write, draw pictures and sleep. A good place, dear reader, to leave you, as the sun goes down in this part of the world, where water is still scarce, but love can still be found.
