Kate and Luisa

I am reminded of Kate, my father’s mother; fifteen when she was ‘hired out’.  Married at 16 in order to escape the ‘hire out’.  Beaten and abused, I remember her so well; bronzed skin from years behind the plow, short, thin, graying hair that knew no beauty salon, and hands that did not know how to rest in her lap.  She was always in motion, cotton, flower-printed dress hanging limply on her gaunt frame.

In later years when she came to visit, I encouraged my 3 year old son to kiss Grandma.  He held back and whispered to me, “But Mommy, she’s all cracked.”  Yes, her weather-beaten face would appear that to a child.  He didn’t know what she had known in her hard-scrabble, Indiana life.

The following excerpt from the poem "Ludlow" by David Mason, Colorado Poet Laureate in 2010, brought back sad family memories:

"Luisa," Too Tall stopped to touch her hair.
"Lass, this man's your new employer. Chin up.
Let's look at you." She saw the man's good shoes
when he stepped down, the trousers, buttoned vest.
"George Reed," said Mr. Reed. Don't be afraid."
He swung his hat off, a man of thirty years
with blue eyes and a blond mustache, his hair
parted almost down the middle. "That's it,
good girl." His mustache bristled when he smiled.
"She's not much older'n mine. You say she can read?"
"She's had it hard," said Too Tall.
                               "There's plenty
around here had it hard," said Mr. Reed.
"But we could use the help if she can work.
You can work, can't you, young lady? Luisa,
right? Luisa, you can work, can't you?"
Luisa nodded. "That a girl. Good girl."

They loaded up her apple crates of clothing,
Bible, the wooden santo her mother brought
from a village far away, the carver's name
made shiny by the rub of hands: abuelo.
"No tiene uno ni madre," said
a voice behind her. "Good lass. Good lassie."
"Work hard and don't forget us," said Mrs,
"Good-bye," said the house, the hens, the risen dust."