As a child, I was something of a nomad. My father was a public health inspector when I was born and he was transferred to various posts during his career. I was born in the foothills of Ciales, a little town known for its coffee and various other farm products. In fact, the townsfolk are known as “come piches” for a type of plantain-like fruit which was widely consumed by the populace for want of more nutritious fare.
By the time I learned to walk, I had passed Ciales, Arecibo, the district head, and was living in Hatillo, one of the tiniest towns in the island. Hatillo was a 3 X 4 street town, 3 running north south and 4 east west. The northernmost street was actually the beach street fronting the Atlantic Ocean. Surrounding that “urban” area were acres and acres of sugar cane fields with coconut groves bordering the beach. The next street to the south was actually the road which connected the towns, Arecibo to the east and Camuy to the west. My family lived on that street on the corner of the first street going into town. This was just a block away from the traditional center of all such towns, the Catholic Church.
The road to Arecibo passed to the north side of our house, at the base of a hill. Three houses up the road, the train tracks traversed it. The train to and from San Juan would cross the street chugging and tooting along spewing black smoke. They ran on coal. The station was on the south west corner of town, close to the cemetery. I loved riding the train. It was early century style. Wicker seats and oil lamps for night travel. It stopped in all towns along the north coast. My favorite stop was Arecibo, close to home and best when we were coming from Manati. There the train went through a short tunnel under the main road and then stopped. A couple of vendors would board and start selling us sandwiches, peanuts and other goodies. The sandwiches were somewhat scrawny, with a mixture of “spiced ham” and yellow cheese thinly spread on white bread, but to me they were ambrosia.
Along the road, in front of our house were 3 tall “almond” trees. The seed is not really the almond we are used to seeing commercially today, but my mom used to make delicious almond brittle with them. In front of the house, we had a “quenepa” tree whose fruit was rather more sour than usual for that fruit. On the south side of the house was a “grosella” tree right in front of the kitchen window. Those grosellas were also subject for a great fruit compote made by my very talented mom. Across the side yard was an avocado tree which did not produce much fruit. I called it the “chicken tree”. It served as roost for our chickens when dusk fell. They would skip from branch to branch until as high as their rank allowed them. Yes, they had a well organized pecking order reflected in their height on the branches. The top banana hen had an extraordinary trick for getting to her lofty perch. She would climb to the top of the grosella tree and then fly across the yard to the top of the avocado tree. Neat trick. Never again saw a hen fly so far.
Those hens were precious to us during the war years. Not many families in town had the nutrients eggs provide in an era when food was rather scarce. My job was egg collector. Every morning I would crawl under the house where they nested and check for eggs among the charcoal sacks. Charcoal was the cooking fuel most everyone in town used. A white egg among black coal was an easy target. Every so often we would allow a hen to sit on fertilized eggs to produce chicks. Fried chicken was my favorite.
My Hatillo days were carefree and happy. I began first grade in my last year in town. Up to then, my life was one long string of games and childhood adventures but by my fifth birthday I was eager to explore our grade school, the big building atop the bluff with a view of the deep blue Atlantic in front. Hatillo’s coast is called “Costa Azul” precisely for the deep blue color of the waters close to shore. That is the “Puerto Rico Trench”, the deepest part of the Atlantic.
Isla De Cabras 