Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  ROOTS

  OF

  INDIFFERENCE

  BY TERRI RAGSDALE

  ROOTS OF INDIFFERENCE

  "To everything, there is a season and time to every purpose under the heaven…"

  Ecclesiastes 3:1

  PROLOGUE

  Mercedes, Texas – 1980

  Above—the heavens were busy conspiring with the semi-tropical weather that was always stifling and humid, as it had been for thousands of years in the region of the lower Rio Grande Valley of South Texas, a region disturbed by winds that blew forever with pestering vapors. But the constant sea breeze coming from the Gulf of Mexico was a Godsend, a ruffled blessing that created the balance and tempered this hot, torrid land that slumbered in annoying, sweltering heat. Skies remained vitreous, bleached-out, blue enamel.

  Below— amidst earths’ plain—natives stirred with cleverness and savvy.

  *****

  On a sultry September afternoon, a weary, homeless, old man, arrived by bus, halfway between heaven and hell to the quaint little town of Mercedes, Texas. The "Queen City" of the Valley, as it was called, sat peacefully in the heart of Hidalgo County and basked in the dormant heat. It was a friendly, welcoming community that seemed to cast a synthetic, magical spell on all outside visitors and whispered from its ghostly corners, "Stay awhile—visit me. Join us! Glad you're here! Welcome to great Texas hospitality!"

  Fred Juelson had soulfully journeyed all day by bus, struggling with old age and ill health as he crossed the International Bridge from Matamoros, Mexico, into the border town of Brownsville, Texas. He then waited hours for transportation and took the lower Rio Grande Valley transit bus that traveled to the other small towns along the border.

  Many years had passed since the old man had set foot on Texas soil. Several miles north of Mercedes was the town of La Villa, and just north of that patch of ground was the place where he was born. The land called Los Burritos was part of the Ojo de Agua Tract region. This was the original land of his forefathers who had struggled and sacrificed to build the great Juelson cattle empire. And now, coming home, at last, had revived many disturbing memories filled with immense sadness. One thing Fred was certain of—he had come home for his final time. First, he must pay his respects to his sister Victoria's grave, and second, he must decide upon his final resting place.

  The long journey had taken its toll on the still formidable-looking, eighty-year-old man. The spirit of the wretched past was showing its ugly face—karma coming full circle, and, like the salmon swimming against the stream, returning to the place of its birth, he was coming home to die. Too exhausted to continue to his destination, he found comfort on a wooden bench in a small park, where he could rest and regain his thoughts. He placed his heavy old suitcase and a rope-bound cloth bag on the ground next to his feet. They contained all of his worldly possessions—written papers portraying the accumulation of his lifetime accomplishments.

  In his youth, the old soul had been a giant of a man at six-foot-five. Now, his huge shoulders were slightly bent from the long years of service as a humanitarian and a physician, a "buggy doctor," as he was called by many of his patients. He was grave and serious in spite of his shabby, faded and wrinkled shirt and gray suit. He wore an old, greased-lined, beige Stetson that hid his receding hairline and baldness. Large dark circles under his kind, gray eyes gave him a look that was gaunt and hollow.

  Fred had been a man of many talents, considered a "jack-of-all-trades," quick with his tongue, conversant on any known topic. He was fortunate enough to have been well educated, and he attended the finest private schools and medical colleges and was tutored in music and fine arts. He came from a rich and prominent family in South Texas, and his early childhood was lavished with luxury, the prodigy of his family's pride. His adolescence had been a conflicted between the love of music and the intrigue of nature, and he was sympathetic to the significance of life, always asking and inquiring.

  Who would have believed that this charismatic man so dedicated to his profession would sink to the level of his current condition? It was hard to believe that he was now only a shadow of his former self, an unknown, merely existing, resembling more a panhandler than a doctor.

  Fred Juelson had become but a memory to this forgotten, illustrious, racially mixed people. An intelligent instructor of medicine, he had struggled arduously against injustice and discrimination on both sides of the Rio Grande. He had been a sentimentalist, especially for the less fortunate, those who were unlearned and humble, and hungry he would feed. He had become a loner but rationalized his own solitude.

  Fred had a turbulently odd pattern of life. The time had come—he was aware of the alpha and the omega's circle of life.

  His past years had brought out bitter resentments that churned within his tormented spirit. All he had now were his cherished but clouded memories, and hard truths and lessons in life. Old age and death were coming with stealthy steps. It was only a matter of time, as the clock kept ticking, and before long, he would become soil of the earth. Until then, his roots would be impossible to define. In his long, epic journey, and somewhere along his long-lived life, he had forgotten—God.

  Gasping for breath, Fred pivoted and began gazing at the town that once had held his future. Bitter feelings churned in his stomach, leaving a hollow sensation of desperation and loneliness.

  West of the park were young boys playing ball and making a lot of noise. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, withdrawing into himself. He tried to concentrate on the events that had caused him to leave Mercedes and the Rio Grande Valley so many years ago. Too many memories, marked with poignant disappointments, were like dirty water under the bridge.

  His thoughts wandered back to his family, his sister Victoria, and his cherished early childhood.

  From out of nowhere, a rock flew through the air and hit the corner of the wooden bench, startling Fred, breaking his concentration. A frightened, black mongrel dog, lean and hungry, came running toward him. Its ribs were showing and its tongue hung out from thirst. Patches of raw skin bloodied and infected, marred its coat. His tail wagged occasionally, showing his friendliness and desire for affection, but later draped between his legs, indicating signs of defeat. Cowardly, he lay on the ground shaking while observing the old man. The boys had stopped playing, and one was throwing stones and cursing at the animal.

  Fred, angered by this injustice and being very sensitive to any hurt animal, found that his blood boiled. He used all his strength, held on to the edge of the bench with his left hand that steadied him, and stood, partly bent, displaying his lean-built body. Trying to keep his temper in a masterful restraint, he pointed his index finger. "Hey, Cabrón!" he yelled at the boy throwing the stones. "You damn bully, leave the dog alone! Why don't you pick on someone your size?"

  Two of the boys began to laugh and mock and made faces, using insulting words toward the old man.

  "Get away from this park! Go home and help your mother!” Fred shouted again and stood his ground. "Cobardes!" he called them. "Go home and do your homework! Get smart! Get intelligent! You stupid pendejos!"

  The laughter continued until one of the boys picked up the ball and said, “Chale ése!” They decided that the old man meant business. "Oye bató," repeated the other one. "Let's go!" As they left, one of them pointed to his head and circled his finger, indicating that the old man was crazy.

  By now, the black dog sniffed the ground, trying to find a morsel of food.

  Fred managed to sit back in a comfortable position on the bench and looked down at the shaking dog. He fumbled in his ragged cloth bag and brought out a piece of dried bread, then patted the ground with his right foot, getting the dog's attention. "Come, come," he
cooed, showing the animal the food.

  The bewildered dog looked puzzled and stood for a moment and wagged its tail again and cocked its head to one side, not accustomed to any kind gestures. It had been abused and mistreated by people and was not quite sure of the old man's intentions. Fred repeated, "Come, come."

  The dog hesitated, coyly standing inches away, and watched the old man.

  "You little shit," said Fred out loud, knowing that the animal was hungry. He threw the piece of bread on the ground close to his feet but kept a close watch on the dog from the corner of his eye.

  Startled and shaken by the incident with the ornery boys, Fred's hands began to tremble and his legs shook. He had been cursed with incurable Parkinson's disease many years ago. The last four years the illness had become incredibly worse and had gained an irrevocable hold on him, leaving him miserable and chronically fatigued. The man who had tried to cure everything from a man to beast to fowl could not even help himself. No medicine had helped so far, not even the miracle drug, el dopamine. What could cure the fatal disease eating the cells of his brain?

  It took a long while before his tremor completely stopped. His breathing became easy and calm. He whimpered with a sharp pain. The signs of old age, he thought and began realizing that his main worries now were only in liniments, creams for his pains, and aching bones. Age was cruel and unfair, getting old was to suffer. If he had only known this when he was young, foolish and uncaring of protecting his body in his early years. He was lucky he still had most of his teeth and could hear fairly well, but sometimes he couldn’t remember where he put things. His eyes fogged with tears.

  He was still angry at the boys' thoughtless stupidity in hurting the small, defenseless dog. What does the immature younger generation know about life? These young boys have no respect, especially for their elders. Calling him crazy! What did they know of the sacrifices it took a person like himself, who overcame discrimination and the hatred prevalent in the Valley in its early years? If they only knew his grandfather, who was one of the pioneers in the region, and how he had struggled to build a life here. And his father, who had fought for human rights until the day he died. Fred noticed that the boys had completely disappeared from the park. The little black dog stood close by his feet, watching him. The old man pushed the dried bread, with the toe of his shoe, nearer to the dog, but it wagged its tail, stood cautiously and never moved toward the bread. The old man gave out another loud wheeze and turned to scrutinize the town.

  *****

  Mercedes was an old town, even as old as Fred. It was a special town because there was nothing special about it. No monumental statues, no skyscrapers, no hotels or motels, no historical or sacred, consecrated grounds, no recreational areas, nothing to attract travelers. Like scores of small border towns, it was the quiet, picturesque, carbon copy of a postcard scene, which offered a natural unseen beauty. Tall arcades of palm trees, nestled in citrus trees and various types of tropical shrubs, sweltered in the summer sultriness'.

  Typical of other small border communities, Mercedes proudly displayed its distinctive water tower, perhaps the tallest structure in town, glaring silver in the blazing, scorching sun and imbued with the spirit as well as the name of the town. The humdrum atmosphere in Mercedes was peaceful and slow-paced. The residents never hurried, taking one day at a time. Most of the natives were related in one way or another, either through marriage or kinship. It was a town sweltering in heat, passion, and malicious, slanderous gossip. The natives made life as interesting as possible by engaging in rumors, prying into other people's lives, making jokes and laughing at one another's problems. The laughter was therapeutic and a pastime habit. They would invent names as a joke, christening the individual with an attached nickname identifying and branding the person for a lifetime. They would giggle and tittle-tattle about their adventures, marriages, and miseries. They spent the hot afternoons behind closed shutters, supposedly taking a siesta, but keenly watching their next-door neighbor's actions.

  At dusk, it was not uncommon to view the older women sitting inside screened porches, talking about worldly issues and gossiping about hushed-up family secrets. Holding a cold drink, they would fan pesky flies or annoying mosquitoes. Old men scratched their crotches and rubbed their testicles. They spat on the ground, passed gas, talked about guns, dogs, women, and their daily dealings, and told stories of the old times and of their hero, Pancho Villa.

  The balmy, breezy nights were special for the young people, almost adventurous and intriguing, becoming a bewitching enticement. There was a strong impulse in human sensuality when the young became impatient, and passion came on strong, taking priority. The coming of the full moon brought romantic energies and thoughts of tantalizing adventures. One thing was clear: no one lacked for love or affection. It flourished. No one knew for sure if the water had anything to do with the romantic encounters or if it was the sultry air, the throb of Spanish guitars, the tangy, spicy foods, or the smell of the tropical vines. Love lived everywhere. Young girls with pangs of adolescence were restless with inquisitive appetites and longing. Boys coming of age savored the camaraderie in an overheated state, preferring the nights when they were stirred by agonizing thoughts, and searching for any female's warm affection.

  The local habitants lived and died from generation to generation with their quintessential ways, and their ethnicity taught them to become better patriots and peaceful, loving citizens. A handful of hyperactive individuals stubbornly pursued their dreams elsewhere and moved away, usually to the northern states to find better jobs in larger cities. They had learned, as they aged, that all the riches, money, and all the materialism in the world, could not replace the close relationship of the family bond. Many succeeded there and returned only to visit.

  *****

  In the early days there were large ranchos, owned by American citizens of Spanish and Mexican descent, and for hundreds of years, the vast land with thousands of acres had belonged to them and their families. In all those years, the land had stood idle and undeveloped in spite of many hurricanes and weather conditions that changed the environment and the land; however, unwanted vegetation proliferated, producing millions of cactus, mesquite, chaparral, and formidable shrubbery, lacing skyward.

  But then in the early 1900s, something exciting happened along the Texas border. A great change came among the peaceful natives, snowballing into a bombshell. Crafty-minded, intelligent white men brought the railroad and the vision of opportunity into the terra firma. In 1905, the railroad developers began manipulating and lured the owners of the ranchos into selling their land, hiring cheap Mexican laborers to clear the mesquite and cacti and obstinate bushes. The white man envisioned great dreams, reflecting on their greedy wallets and fortunes. The rattlers, tarantulas, and cockroaches were not pleased with the earth-shattering project, they protested—but it progressed.

  Fred was seven years old when the town of Mercedes was established. First, it was called Mercedes City as an early township. Now, as he gazed around, Fred analyzed the old town. Few of the palm trees that had been planted in the early years remained; those that did remain were tall and translucently wispy. The streets from east to west were named after each state of the union. The stores and mercantile buildings faced each other on a two-block main street. Two of the original drug stores that had competed in business against each other still stood. The new Hidalgo Bank was built on the corner of Texas and the old Highway 83 where the old but grand Mercedes Hotel had once stood. He viewed Texas Street, the two-way, one-traffic-light that had been the main drag of the community, especially on Saturday night's payday for many of the laborers and agricultural workers in the vicinity, who came into town to spend their money on groceries and commodities.

  The old railroad depot north of the park and across from Highway 83 stood empty; its faded grooved red tile roof still remained, surviving many harsh years of hurricanes and torrid heat. A stubborn magenta bougainvillea vine clung to its brick side, while many u
nattended pink and white oleander bushes surrounded the grounds. The outskirts of the town were fertile, alluvial soil, dedicated to flatland agriculture, where cotton was raised on hundreds of acres; other fields raised citrus, melons, tomatoes and a diversity of vegetables.

  North of the railroad depot across the tracks stood rotten, faded, boarded-up and empty packing-plant buildings, reminiscent of the early '40s, '50s, and early '60s. From these, millions of cartons of citrus, tomatoes, melons, and vegetables had been shipped to all parts of the United States. Mercedes had been the mecca of this enterprise.

  Across the tracks, lived the majority of the Mexican people in heavily populated barrios. The railroad tracks that had served very effectively were a grim reminder of the early prejudice land planners had in dividing the town—an intimidating barrier to segregate the Mexican and Anglo population. El barrio Mejicano was a one-block street with a barbershop, the Mexican theater, a Mexican drug store, two grocery stores, a gas station, and small novelty shops. Homes in the barrios were surrounded by brick fences with wrought-iron entrances and a flourishing array of colorful flowers and tropical plants. There were also drab shacks with peeling paint and bare yards full of junk. North of the tracks, there were always more children, more dogs, and loads of laughter. Occasionally, strong corridos music would be heard from the cantinas along north Main Street, with the loud laughter of unemployed men playing pool, drinking beer, and bragging about their past romantic conquests, displaying their machismo.

  Large flatbed trucks, heavy with loads of picked cotton, rumbled onto Texas Street, heading to the cotton gins north of the town, leaving a trail of diesel fumes and dust. A large canal came from the Mercedes pumps located south of the town and supported the area with water. To the far west, Highway 83 went over a bridge under a large levee, led to the town of Weslaco.