Rene Saldana - The Jumping Tree

This book has been long in the making, and without the help of several people, it would not have come to fruition. First off, I'd like to thank God, who gave me the talent for writing and the gumption to use my talent wisely. My parents, Ren and Ovidia, also deserve my deepest gratitude because they have been there throughout it all. They have been among the few who never tried to dissuade me from writing even though they and I knew that it might never come to anything really except a waste of paper and a few good laughs.

My abuelito Federico Garcia can never know how the afternoons weve passed together, him talking and me listening, have influenced my storytelling methods, and my love for the cuento.

David Rice, mi compadre from Edcouch, who helped me with the proverbial foot in the door, I thank from the deepest part of my heart. Nunca sabrs cuanto me has ayudado. And thank you also for teaching me so much about storytelling through your Give the Pig a Chance and Other Stories.

To the great ones who came before, and who set up a very high bar for the new batch of Chicano writers: Don Americo Paredes (may his soul rest in peace), Don Toms Rivera, Don Rolando Hinojosa, Carmen Tafolla, Denise Chavez, Trinidad Sanchez (my Padrino de Poesa), raulrsalinas (el indio), and Sandra Cisneros, who served as my first exposure to Chicano literatureand I had to go all the way to South Carolina to find her work. Imagine that, and me being from South Texas where the majority of us are Mejicanos.

Abrazos para Lauri Hornik, who liked the work enough to give me a shot at finishing the whole thing. You did more than edit my stories; you brought a new perspective to them, and thus, a new way of telling them. And thanks go to Wendy Lamb, who took up this project, saw it through to the end, and looked out for my and the book's best interests.

Thanks to all my friends from the barrio and from the old school days for allowing me to share in their lives. And to all of those in more recent years who have listened to my silly-nilly stories and provided sound criticism, and pats on my back too numerous to mention. LJB, LG and the girls, DG, RF, FM, MHS, and LJHS. A todos, paz!

W hen I was a baby, 'Ap, my father, moved us from South Texas to California. I only remember a few things about the four years we lived there: the squirrels chasing after one another outside my window, music on our neighbors' radios, playing in the backyard with my older sister, Lety, and the tree in our front yard that drooped heavy with fat leaves. Men from the barrio hung out under it, drinking from brown bottles. Sometimes they'd stretch out asleep on our dirt driveway. If we wanted to go out in our bright red car, we couldn't because the men were sprawled out hard asleep.

I also remember the tremors, the shakety shakes. They would sneak up on us. Lety and I would be in bed and we d hear a rumbling sound, like a car far away, getting louder and louder, as if the car was turning the corner. The pictures of my grandparents on the walls would quiver, and some would fall to the floor. Esos temblores fregados, 'Am said; they were creeping up on us, almost one every day.

One night, when I was four, I opened my eyes wide when I felt the bed sink under me and heard Lety crying out, 'Am! 'Ap! What's going on? Then the door swung open. Two hands grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me to the foot of the bed.

Then I was in my mother's arms. She was screaming, Where do we go? I couldn't see her, but I heard her heart beating because she was hugging me so tight to her chest.

'Ap answered from somewhere in the dark, Here, take my hand. Outside! The rumbling was like a plane flying right over my head. I started crying.

As we reached the porch, 'Am said to 'Ap, This is not a baby temblor. It's a big papa earthquake. He herded us all down the few steps and into the front yard, where 'Am prayed and held Lety and me to her chest. Then it hit hard. I heard the kitchen drawers smashing to the floor and spoons, knives, and forks clanging and bouncing on the linoleum. The windows rattled and shattered to pieces. And then our little house slid off its cinder blocks and smashed to the ground.

We huddled together outside on our tiny front lawn, all of us trembling, all of us crying. But not 'Ap. He kept telling us, Everything's going to be okay. Every-thing's going to be okay. I wrapped both my arms around his legs.

After that night, my parents decided to move us back to South Texas to Nuevo Peitas, a town a stone's throw from Mexico. 'Am's parents, my abuelos Ernesto and Estela, lived there, and 'Ap's parents, Nataniel and Milagros, lived in Mier, a town in Mexico about fifty miles away.

Our stucco house was one of the first houses in Nuevo Peitas.'Ap had gotten a job with a paving company. He laid some cement and made a path that led from the porch to the street, and one that went from the side of the house to the back shed where 'Am washed our clothes. 'Am asked 'Ap to plant a tree in the front yard. It's so flat here, she said. A tree will help. South Texas was a dry place, so 'Am watered her little tree every morning and evening.

Most of the other houses were made of brick. An old woman named Doa Susanna lived in the farthest one from our house, and her yard was drenched in pink and red rosales and yellow esperanzas. She lived beside the canalito, a cement irrigation ditch that fed the farmers ' fields next to Nuevo Peitas. On Saturdays, the air became heavy and bitter because of the pesticides sprayed on the fields by yellow planes.

When we first moved into Nuevo Peitas, I stayed close to home. One day, 'Am said, Mi 'jo, go play with the kids down the street. You can make some friends.

I walked down the dusty street where the boys were playing marbles. Some of the bigger kids started pushing me around. You got any canicas? one asked.