El Rancho Grande
“Amorcita de mi vida, dear little love of my life.”
The song soared over a loudspeaker for all the camp to hear.
Juan. I recognized his voice. During the day he worked in the fields, but each evening he played and sang. Juan’s agile fingers could pick and strum a guitar with skill. He loved music. Joyfully, he sang sad, Mexican love songs.
I walked to where he was playing.
“Magnifico! You sing beautifully, Juan,” I said when the song was finished. The room was crowded with young farm workers who had come to sing or listen.
“Come in,” said Juan.
“Luisa can play the guitar,” said Renaldo. He got up from a bench and offered me his place to sit.
“Play! Play the guitar, Luisa.”
I was caught. To say “no” would be impolite, but my playing skills were definitely limited. I had learned two new chords, but added to the three I already knew, still made only five.
Someone thrust a guitar into my hands and said, “Play and sing for us, Luisa.”
“Only if you turn off the loudspeaker.”
Juan flicked the switch.
“Alla en el rancho grande,” I sang. Juan and Julia, a woman with a vibrant, contralto voice, joined my thin soprano. With their help “El Rancho Grande” sounded good.
Juan took the guitar. “What other songs do you know, Luisa?”
“I think I could sing ‘Besame Mucho’ if you and Julia will sing, too.”
We gave it an emotional rendition.
“What more?” Juan smiled at me. “All Americans know ‘La Cucaracha.’ No?”
“Yes, of course.”
We belted out “La Cucaracha.” We were sounding great, but I had reached the limit of the songs I knew so we did “El Rancho Grande” twice more. Julia led us in another “Besame Mucho.” The chorus went on, over and over.
Someone shouted, “Again, ‘La Cucaracha.’”
“Again! Again!”
“La Cucaracha” filled the room and spilled out the door.
I looked at my watch. English class should have started fifteen minutes before.
“I have to round up my students for class.”
“We will sing again some day,” said Juan. “You sing very well.”
I wasn’t convinced that it was true, but I liked the compliment.
I hurried to Rosalia’s room. “I’m sorry I am late. I was singing and forgot to look at my watch.”
Rosalia laughed. “I knew you were here. I heard you singing over the loudspeaker.”
“The loudspeaker?”
“All the people heard you.”
“Juan! He turned the speaker on again.”
“The music was beautiful,” said Rosalia. “You sing very well.”
Of course it sounded good with the voices of Juan and Julia, but I accepted this new compliment in the only Spanish expression I knew to fit the occasion. “Gracias por las flores, thanks for the flowers.”
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Copyright 2012, Rolf Erickson