Stories by Janet Baal

Old Guerrera

The Mexican town of Old Guerrera was abandoned when Falcon Dam was built on the Rio Grande River in 1953, creating a water reservoir that flooded much of the area. The townspeople were moved to New Guerrera several miles away. This year, a washout upstream flooded the old town’s church, which local families had struggled to save for decades.

Mesquite floors that remember the tread ofApache moccasins, S
panish riding boots, Yanqui spurs,
And the penitent knees of generations of townsfolk
Now feel only the rank embrace of the rising river.
The little Madonna is gone from her Place of honor in the old church.
In village streets, above the waterline,
Weeds elbow cobblestones from their footing,
Cactus chokes roses in parched yards
And proud arches built for eternity
Shelter doorways, but roofs and windows
Gape open to the indifferent sky.
The hotel with its second story ballroom,
The school, the store, the market square,
Once busy gathering places,
Are quietly strangling in vines.
Higher still, Guerrera’s burial ground lies desolate,
Rusted gates stand open between tumbled brick walls,
And insolent-eyed goats graze between
Fallen tombstones, each with its story engraved.
Where are the children who should
Tend our graves, the silent dead ask.
Miles away, the “new town” is a sterile plot
With mass-produced homes, treeless streets.
Inside the largest cement block building,
The one that calls itself a church,
The little Madonna wonders what happened
To her people and her past.

The first round-up

Every spring, the cowboys of Matagorda bring the cows and their calves from their coastal island winter pasture to ranches inland, away from the threat of hurricane season. In late fall, when the storm season is over, they are herded back to the island again in a drive that lasts several days.

All I knew was sweet salt grass,
The rush of water on the beach,
The soaring blue skies over the island
And the endless winds of the Texas coast.
All I knew was the nicker of wild ponies,
The sound of my rollicking hooves ,
The startled rise of shore birds
And the warm tongue of my mother.
Then came the terror: strange creatures riding shackled horses
Whistling and shouting, cruel ropes circling overhead;
The dash to the water, to escape them, choking in the waves,
My mother calling somewhere in the stampede:
Keep up! Keep up!
More terrible creatures waiting on the other side
Herding us down a road, the hard surface bruising our feet,
Into a pen thick with the smell of fear, close together
Wheeling and twisting in despair and panic.
Don’t be afraid little one,
The lovely island is still there ,
When hurricane season ends
We will return, my mother says.