Читать книгу Vintage Sterling - Charles A. Witschorik - Страница 6

It was red. That was all he could make out, at first. As Sterling’s eyes slowly opened, his head throbbed with shattering pain and he felt the fierce tug of the seat belt stabbing against his abdomen as it held him suspended in midair. Blood from the wounds covering his body dripped haphazardly down his chest and head, forming pools and streams on the now-inverted roof of his car, sparsely illuminated in the reflected glow of shining headlights and framed by the hum of still-spinning tires. But through the fog of his bewilderment and discomfort there was something taking form in Sterling’s line of sight. Shapeless and shifting at first view, gradually, as his eyes focused, the image came into clearer perspective.

A face. That much was clear by now. Sterling was staring into what resembled a pair of smiling, kind eyes. The drops of his own blood brought the image into sharper relief as they fell, but to Sterling the face was startlingly real. As he looked into the mysterious, beckoning eyes, suddenly he could feel the scene changing around him. From the inverted position of his body inside the overturned car, his consciousness now transitioned as if to an alternate plane.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the kindly eyes, the surrounding scenery finally came into view. He was in his old room, and it felt like home. Standing in the middle of the bedroom in which he’d slept throughout his childhood, Sterling took in the familiar scene before him. A bed, a desk stacked with the storybooks and adventure tales he liked to read as a boy, a shelf filled with memorabilia from childhood sports teams—including several ribbons and trophies from the school swim meets in which he often competed—all of it framed by a panel of windows overlooking a vast expanse of countryside and sky. It was the vineyard in a remote valley just south of San Jose, California that his parents had inherited from his father’s own parents and theirs before, dating back many generations. Long rows of vines stretched out into the distance, ripe for the harvest time he could tell instantly from their size and shape was just a few weeks away. The sun was gently setting over the foothills in the distance, streaming through his window and warming his forehead and arms.

Sterling was just about to turn toward the door of his room, instinctively to head downstairs toward the kitchen and living room, and where he imagined his parents and sister would be, when his eyes met the gaze of the face he had first encountered in the car. Compassionate and wise, he now looked into the eyes and realized they were connected to a body. It was a middle-aged, Hispanic gentleman of medium height and build standing there before him, and Sterling swore he knew him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on where he’d seen the man before, but there was an air of familiarity and friendliness about him. He felt as though the piercing stare from the man’s striking green eyes would bore a hole through the back of his head. It was almost impossible for Sterling to look away from the hypnotic gaze of this seemingly friendly stranger.

And then the man spoke. “Sterling,” he said. “Welcome home.” Startled, Sterling felt a jolt of recognition that he was in fact in a place that was comforting and peaceful. And yet, he was not at all sure what it meant or if he could even believe it. He felt as though he couldn’t trust his senses any longer and would have to rely instead on instinct to guide him through this confusion.

Incredulous and hopeful at the same time, Sterling asked the man, “Who are you, a ghost?” Smiling, the man responded, “No, Sterling. I’m not a ghost, I’m a friend. I’m here to help you come back.”

“Come back?” Sterling replied. “What do you mean? I didn’t know I’d gone anywhere.”

“You’ve gone a lot of places, Sterling,” replied the man. “But how many of them have you really been to? How often were you really there? How much did you actually realize and take in all that was going on around you?”

Sterling wasn’t at all sure how to respond, or even what exactly it was that the man meant. But clearly this was a unique opportunity, and he was never one to turn down an adventure.

“I don’t know,” Sterling finally offered. “But I bet you’re going to show me,” he quipped with the smug playfulness he had perfected as a business owner and passionate aficionado of the good life. He always thought of himself as the world’s best salesman and sometime con artist, with the ability to sell pearls to any oyster in the sea.

The man laughed and said, “You catch on quickly, don’t you?”

“Never miss a beat,” Sterling replied, relishing his ability to charm. “By the way,” Sterling added, “I didn’t catch your name.”

The man smiled and replied. “Well, I thought you’d never ask. My name is Chris.”

“Nice to meet you, Chris,” Sterling answered.

“And to see you again, Sterling. You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before,” Chris added.

“Interesting. I don’t remember,” Sterling interjected.

“Exactly,” added Chris. “That’s what we’re here to do. To help you put it all together again.”

Sterling smiled. He had no idea who Chris was or where all of it was going, but he knew somehow it would all turn out alright. And he was going to enjoy the ride.

Before he realized what was happening, the scene suddenly began to change around him. As he tried to discern the emerging sights, Sterling instantly recognized another sensation. Like a window opening into a world both familiar and distant, Sterling felt immediately transported to childhood as he discerned the sounds of his grandfather’s strumming guitar and booming baritone voice. Now fully immersed in the moment, Sterling recognized the scene around him. He was outside at evening in the back of his family’s farmhouse, the moon beaming gently down on the spreading rows of vines and a small fire burning in the outdoor hearth. Sterling remembered viscerally where he was as he took everything in. Though it was clear that he couldn’t be seen by anyone, he found himself in a familiar place—in fact, one so familiar that he was startled to recognize none other than himself at what must have been age seven or eight. There he was, surrounded by his family, sitting enthralled as his grandfather, abuelo Alfonso, shared the songs he had grown up singing.

His grandfather was the family’s connection to a legacy that went back many generations, all the way to the time when the land stretching out before them had belonged to Spain, and later Mexico. Since at least the early 1800s, Sterling’s family, through his paternal grandfather’s ancestors, had lived on, worked, and eventually owned the land they now called their own. Though his grandfather was a quiet person, he never hesitated to express to Sterling and his other grandchildren the pride he took in their heritage—in the legacy they had received from those who came before. For abuelo Alfonso, there could be no better way to express that pride than through song, especially the traditional folk songs of Mexico that he had learned as a boy and shared with his wife, and Sterling’s grandmother, Lupe. Originally from Jalisco, Mexico, Lupe had made her way north with her own family as a girl to work in the California farm fields that relied on the hard work of so many migrant laborers, and still do. By coincidence, at one point many years before, her family had happened to be working in the area of Alfonso’s farm, and as destiny would have it, the two met and struck up a romance that would soon lead to marriage and a family. Lupe too had grown up singing the songs of rural Mexico, the melodies of love, loss, hope, and humor.

The older Sterling smiled as he observed his younger self swaying and humming along with the music. It would only be a few years later that his abuelo would pass away, and it touched a place deep inside him to be in Alfonso’s presence once again. Often since his passing Sterling had wished he could go back and see his grandfather again. He knew Alfonso had told him stories about his own youth and about their shared ancestors. He knew there had been so many things both of his abuelos had passed on to their grandchildren, and yet it was all too easy to lose track of the contours of those memories as time went by.

What Sterling did know was that Alfonso and Lupe were the last link the family had to the old traditions. In fact, Sterling recalled that he owed not just his life and culture to his grandparents, but his very name. As he observed the scene before him, he smiled to watch his grandfather strum as the nostalgic tunes poured forth, it seemed effortlessly, from somewhere deep within both himself and the guitar. Focusing in more closely on his grandfather’s strong, seasoned hands, he could easily make out the telltale sign of Alfonso’s playing—a small silver coin he used instead of a pick as he strummed the chords of each song. As his parents had told him, in a very real way he was named after his grandfather, and the unusual way that he played the guitar.

Though not called Alfonso, Sterling’s name had come from the proud family tradition that surrounded that little silver coin, whose high quality his parents felt made it seem like sterling, the purest type of silver, and thus a perfect choice as a name for their firstborn child. Though even his abuelo wasn’t exactly sure where it had come from, the firmly held belief in the family was that this unique little silver coin had originated all the way back in the early days of California. According to the story, Alfonso’s own great grandfather had proudly received and kept the coin, which his own father had passed down to him. Apparently, it had originally served as a part of a promissory note from the Spanish government, acknowledging the family’s ownership of the land they had received from the Crown in the early days of the missions, pueblos, and presidios of Old California. While many of their fellow Mexican neighbors had lost their land as the Americans took over in later years, Sterling’s great-great-great-grandfather had found a way to lay claim to his family’s legacy—through the unique vintage of fine wines he had learned to produce on the family land, and, symbolically, through the silver coin he treasured and that he passed on to his children and grandchildren. Ever since, from one generation to the next, the coin had been passed down as a symbol of family pride, heritage, and legacy. It was something that Sterling was very proud of himself—that his name, Sterling, served as a reflection of his family’s endurance and the tenacity of his people over all those many years.

Still, as the older Sterling stood there observing with nostalgia the scene from his youth, he couldn’t help but sense a pang of regret that he had not paid closer attention when his grandfather was singing or telling stories or relating the events of his own youth and the traditions from generations gone by. And then, as he was contemplating the scene, a remarkable thing happened. Finishing his song with a plaintive air of wistfulness and romance, Alfonso lay down his guitar and carefully stowed away the silver coin that still glowed warmly in the light of the fire. Sitting down and calling his children and grandchildren to lean in closer, Alfonso began to speak.

“Sánchez.” The singular word and name emerged from Alfonso’s vigorous throat with solemn authority. “Sánchez is a name, but it is also a story. It is a sign of where our family comes from. It is our legacy.” Sterling marvelled as he took in his grandfather’s words, elated at the chance to hear once more a story he felt as though he had forgotten and yet had always been deeply a part of him.

“Any name has a history,” Alfonso insisted, “but our history is not just any history.” Continuing to speak, Alfonso began to outline the story of the family’s early settlement and later trials and triumphs in Northern California.

“In our family, we trace our origins back to some of the first Mexican settlers of California. At the time, in the late 1700s, Mexico was still part of Spain, and the Spanish were convinced that this area where we now live was in danger. The British, the French, even the Russians, all had an eye on this place, and so the Spanish knew they needed to do something to keep the intruders out. And that’s where we come in. One of your ancestors from many generations ago came as part of the presidios—the military bases the Spanish set up along the coast so they could reinforce their claims.”

“What many don’t remember,” Alfonso continued, emphasizing with gravity the words he chose, “is that this land wasn’t vacant. There were people here before our family arrived, and in fact they are part of our family, too.”

Puzzled, the older Sterling leaned in to hear his grandfather’s words more clearly, smiling knowingly as he noticed his younger self’s eyelids drooping as the story continued.

“When the soldiers, the missionaries, and the other settlers first arrived, of course they didn’t find an empty land. There were people here. There were tribes with their own customs and traditions that had been here for countless generations. And they were truly remarkable. They had learned how to cultivate the land in a way that was sustainable in the long-term. They fished from the rivers, they wove beautiful baskets and other wares with great artistry, they discerned how to care for the forests so that they could prevent devastating forest fires, and they even learned how to supplement their diet with ground acorns! Some of these folks welcomed the people from Mexico, and others resisted, and sadly many died in the process. I’m not proud of what many of the soldiers and the others did to the Indians, but I also know that others carried themselves with honor, and found a way to coexist and try to help the Indians as best they could.”

“What’s amazing about our family’s story,” Alfonso added, “is that we actually come from both the Mexican and the Native American lines. When our ancestor arrived from Mexico, not long afterward he met and fell in love with a girl who was living at the mission and had been separated from her family. They married and started a family, and their children were some of the original californios, the first people, after the Native Americans, to call this land of California home.”

Sterling had heard the family stories many times growing up, and knew quite a lot of the history of his home state from his own studies. Proud to be part of the legacy of those who had first come to California from colonial Mexico, Sterling knew that his ancestors had not led easy lives, either under Spain or Mexico, and certainly not as part of the United States. Originally claiming the territory now encompassed by California and the southwest of the United States as far back as the early 1500s, Spain had come to refer to the territory as “California” by an amusing coincidence of history. As it turned out, many of the early Spanish conquerors had grown up in Spain familiar with a tale, popular at the time, of a mythical island paradise called Califia. Encountering the northwestern regions that stretched beyond central Mexico and that bordered the Pacific ocean, the early explorers christened the place “California,” and the name stuck, though the land lay largely unexplored for centuries. Spain had sent a few initial exploratory expeditions, both by land and by sea, but encountered little in the way of land or resources that it considered worth the time and effort of colonization. In fact, several expeditions sailed right past the incalculably valuable natural harbor of San Francisco Bay without even noticing it, due to its famed fog.

With little reason to invest further, Spain’s claim to the area largely remained one in name only until the 1700s, when word of growing incursions into the area by rival empires, among them even the Russians, reached the seat of colonial power in Mexico City. In order to respond to this threat, the colonial government realized it would need people on the ground to solidify its claim; it would need to settle and populate the region, ideally with many families from Mexico, but certainly with enough settlers, missionaries, and soldiers to convert and pacify the local Indian population, and secure a plausible claim to controlling the territory. It was a necessary task, and yet one that did not prove all that attractive to prospective colonists in Mexico. The journey many thousands of miles north was an arduous one, and the dangers and hardships of life on the margins of civilization as they knew it doubtless seemed unattractive at best to many potential recruits for the northward expeditions.

Sterling knew from the classes he had taken on California history that, without a doubt, the individuals who took on the task of exploring, missionizing, and settling California (or Alta California, as they would have called it) were, out of necessity, people of extraordinary determination. Making their way north in several expeditions, by the last few decades of the 1700s they had founded a series of religious missions, military fortifications, and towns that would form the nucleus of the Spanish presence in the land. Of course, for all their courage and bravado, these were flawed, imperfect people, and as Sterling knew, they had also been responsible for displacing, disrupting, and harming the native local peoples in various ways that led to these groups’ rapid decline and impoverishment.

For that reason, it struck Sterling as incredibly remarkable, now that he was hearing his grandfather’s story once more—and really for the first time—that his own family had lived personally the very tensions he knew had formed part of California’s history. Surely, it must have been unimaginable for both of his ancestors—both the presidio soldier, and the young woman who became his bride—to negotiate the challenges and tensions of language, culture, empire, missions, and identity. And yet, here they all were, all these years later, the product of more than two centuries of cultural blending and change.

“What’s amazing,” Alfonso continued as Sterling processed all that was happening, “is that these ancestors never gave up, despite all that they faced. The soldier—his name was Luis—well, he soon learned after marrying his bride—her name was Tami—that his fellow soldiers were often unsympathetic, and even outrightly hostile, to his decision. They made life miserable for him, to the point that he could no longer serve in his role at the presidio, and he and Tami chose to make a go of it on their own, doing the best they could. With what little money they had, they purchased some land, and in the process, acquired this little silver coin.”

Taking the coin out of his pocket, Alfonso held it in the air for his grandchildren to see, while his glance darted toward little Sterling, offering him a wink of recognition of the connection between the boy and the coin.

“Over time,” Alfonso elaborated, “Luis and Tami worked and expanded their land, adding crops, raising livestock, and selling whatever they could to try to make a living and provide for their children. It was very hard work, and there were many setbacks, but with time, their rancho slowly prospered and they earned the respect of people throughout the pueblo of San Jose.”

“Of course, as the years went by,” Alfonso added, his expression clouding with a tinge of sadness, “new neighbors arrived who were not always as friendly. The anglo settlers came in larger and larger numbers. Many of them were good people, but others were out for land and were willing to do anything to get it. Sadly, that’s how Luis and Tami lost most of their land. Either squatters, who came in and just took what they wanted, or the large landlords who took them to court and refused to accept the Spanish documents that they presented as evidence of their rightful ownership—either way, the end result was that Luis and Tami lost most of their land and all that they had worked so hard for over all those years.

“But . . .” Alfonso’s taciturn expression suddenly shifted, as if a ray of light had shined suddenly into a dark cavern. “Even though Luis and Tami felt like they had lost just about everything, there was one small piece of their original land that no one seemed to be interested in. Off in a distant valley in the hills, the land seemed to be good for little of anything other than growing a few grapevines and fruit trees. And yet the silver coin they carried with them told them clearly that the land was theirs—that they had purchased it and that it was publicly recognized as their own.”

Beaming with pride, Alfonso continued: “And so Luis and Tami built a new life for themselves and their family in the backcountry of the pueblo of San Jose. They built a home and carved out a farm and eventually found they could make a living with the grapes and the fruit that their land provided. And you know what, I’m convinced they’re laughing with us from heaven now, because sure enough it turned out that they were sitting on a gold mine much richer than the ones the forty-niners looked for during the rush for gold in the mid-1800s, that made a very few people very rich in California and a whole lot of other people very, very poor.

“As it turned out,” Alfonso went on, “the miners who came in 1849 and later years needed food and supplies and, when they were flush with cash, they also wanted wine, and so our family had the good fortune to be in the right place at the right time to provide them with those very things. Luis and Tami’s children grew the vineyard and the fruit fields and found ways to can the fruit and get it to the miners and refine the techniques of wine cultivation that our family still follows. So even though it felt like they had lost everything in those years when they had to leave behind what they had built and start again, in time they were able to start a new life that brought them, and now all of us, so many blessings.”

“In a way,” Alfonso mused, holding up the silver coin once more, “it all really comes down to this little coin—this sterling coin—and what it represents: all the hard work and creativity and determination that has brought our family through rough times and helped us to build the farm and the vineyard that are still our livelihood today.”

As Sterling listened intently to his grandfather’s words, he knew instinctively that they were true. Against remarkable odds, his family, over many generations, had been part of establishing a culture that would live on in spite of many obstacles. It was this culture, this inheritance of a tradition deeply rooted in his people’s presence in the land, that made Sterling proud to be who he was, a descendant of one of the original californio families, the Sánchez clan.

“Sánchez,” Alfonso continued, as if in harmony with the ruminations of Sterling’s memory, “is a name and a legacy to be proud of. Sánchez, our name, symbolizes the hard work and the pain and the joy and the perseverance that have all gone into making us who we are over all these many, many years. And it is all of you, the next generation, proud of who you are and where you come from, who will continue to pass on that legacy to your own children and grandchildren.”

As Sterling took in his grandfather’s words, weaving together the strands of family and local history that formed his heritage, his mind turned to the legacy of this proud past for the present. While aware of what his ancestors had lived through during the original Spanish colonial times, Sterling was also proud of what they had endured and successfully overcome in more recent years. It wasn’t always easy being Latino and facing discrimination and misunderstanding, especially in a business world that often singled out and marginalized those who were different. Though he had many regrets, this was one thing Sterling could be proud of—something that he could say with confidence connected him deeply to who he really was.

Lost in thought, Sterling only realized when he looked up, back at his grandfather as he was finishing his story, that Chris had joined him. Startled, Sterling felt the need to ask where this was all going.

“Chris, I know physically where we are, but, seriously, where are we? How is all of this happening? What is happening to me?”

“Sterling, there’s no need to fear,” Chris responded with reassurance. “You’re here because this is where you need to be right now.”

“Hmm, well I guess I’ll just have to trust you then.”

“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Chris said with a smile.

“This all seems pretty crazy, though,” Sterling added with some trepidation.

Not missing a beat, Chris replied, “In time you’ll see there’s a method to my madness!”

With that the scene faded and shifted around them. The strains of Alfonso’s music still ringing nostalgically in his ears, gradually the tone shifted, as the ringing turned high pitched and deafening. Perhaps it was the realization that he was still suspended within his demolished car, or that his blood pressure was spiraling downward due to the loss of blood—this horrific feeling of being trapped, with the thought of his own demise coming fast and furious. Sterling could feel the panic welling up inside his chest. With his heart racing out of control, he suddenly realized that he really had no other choice—he would have to surrender himself to this journey that Chris was offering him, whatever it really was and wherever it would lead. Feeling a sense of deep peace come over him, and hearing once more the strains of his grandfather’s voice and the music of his guitar, Sterling felt confident that he could surrender to whatever lay ahead. Resting his thoughts for now, he knew that trusting and letting go would be the course he would need to take as long as this crazy journey lasted.