Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was " A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. ![]() In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room.
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