Planting a Seed

Compassion.

We can never know when the seed of compassion is planted in us. My best guess for me dates back to the early 1950’s, about seventy years ago.

During the summer, we lived full-time on my Dad’s ranch. It was a hard, dry time. Dad had a man working for him named Rafael, who would be known today as an “illegal” “alien”. Both of those terms are offensive to me.

We classified Rafael as a wetback. I use that offensive term intentionally to acknowledge the racism that infested us at that time.

Rafael was an able man. Rafael and Dad entered into a partnership where Rafael would trap coons, fox, squirrels, skunks, and mountain cats, Dad would sell the pelts and the revenue would be split 50% to Manuel and 50% to me, Rafael’s partner.

Rafael’s baby died and Dad took me with him when Dad drove Rafael to his home in Villa Acuña (the name was changed to Ciudad Acuña in 1952). As best I remember, the house had one room (I suppose it could have had two) and the floor was dirt. In the center of the room was a table. Lying on the table was a naked little boy and around the edges of the table were roses.