by Donnie Ayers
The farmed land had been farmed for so long that the soil was sand. As we played, it was not rare to wear handkerchiefs to cover our face. If not, with a gust, sand would be in our noses and mouth. At night, often it felt like sleeping on the loose grit of some sanding paper. We knew the sand. And we were familiar with losing shoes in
the quicksand made by a summer rain.
Once driving age, I would go to this area of Texas alone. I would drive the two hours or so to get there and drive around and then drive the two hours back. Stomping in puddles had given way to swerving the rear tires of a truck into the mud and then gassing it. Mud would fly. But the three of us had somehow forgotten about the quick sand of
the area. The rear tire sank in the hole till the bumper kept it from sinking even more.
We were miles from the house, and few traveled this county road. We drank a cold Big Red and shared a warm beer and wondered what to do next. After what seemed like an hour being stuck, along came a tractor. He slowed to stop, and studied our predicament, and shrugged his shoulders as to say “I Don’t Know”. We realized he didn’t speak English, and we didn’t speak Spanish.
We looked for things that might communicate that if he would help we would be grateful. We didn’t have money. We looked through the cab and the bed of the truck and finally found something that might help with communication. We showed him a Budweiser twelve pack that was missing one beer. He smiled and got back on the tractor and left. We assumed he was a worker for the turkey farm about a mile away.
“Well, that didn’t work”, one of us said.
Another added, “I can’t think of anything but start walking”.
The debate of whether or not to walk lasted long enough for us to hear an approaching tractor. “Is he coming back”?
It was him, and he had brought with him four of his Turkey Farm coworkers. With a chain, the old tractor, and his coworkers, we were out of trouble in less than ten minutes. He reached in the bed of our truck and grabbed the promised payment. We sat for a moment and watched all five ride away on the tractor with the warm beer. Someone said, “I think that would have went better, if we knew Spanish”.
My senior year in High School I took Spanish I. In College, I took three more semesters of Spanish. But my Spanish was still not that good. It became better when I began working construction.
I was an electrical foreman on new construction multi-family (apartments) job sites. I supervised a crew of about 15 and was responsible for the wiring of the complex. Out of need, my crew became better at English, and my Spanish improved greatly.
I was able to communicate orders, schedules, and have conversations. I was feeling more and more confident in my skills. Often ordering lunch from the food truck on site, the language was becoming more and more useful.
On large job sites, a food truck was often chosen by the site superintendent. The choice of trucks was usually made in a simple manner. The owner of the truck would agree to give some of their earnings to the superintendent. The quality and selection of foods were usually not a driving determining factor for choosing a truck. The workers on site got whatever.
I walked to the truck to see what might be available. The truck was down to lengua (beef tongue). A group of very young men were not far from the truck enjoying a break. I thought I heard one snicker. I took it as a challenge. I was thinking that they did not think I would eat a lengua taco.
I ordered two. Thinking cilantro and salsa could cover up anything, I loaded the tacos. And I walked to the roofing crew (not my electrical crew) and found a place to sit. As a supervisor, although in a different trade, I believed that I needed to be taken seriously. I visited with the crew in Spanish, and I ate. After finishing, I was feeling a bit of pride watching the men sit in silence. I thought that maybe they were impressed by the very white supervisor eating lengua.
And then, in perfect English, one of the men spoke.
“We usually take the taste buds off first.”
About the author:
Donnie Ayers is a lifelong Texan having spent most of the years in and around the Austin area. He is a Husband and a Father of one. He has spent time as a college student, electrician, independent record label owner, graduate school student, mediator, arbitrator, music journalist, Realtor, property manager, leather craftsman, and chronicler. His music journalism works have been read by readers of CMP, the longest country music magazine still in print, based in England. But mostly he writes about his experiences. When not doing any of the above, he enjoys cooking and the company of his family.