Las Lomas de Eagle Pass, Texas

It's a misty morning, cool, moist. A December day in Eagle Pass, Texas. Our Christmas's were always warm and humid. Rain was the most we could expect for our winter weather. I drove up towards the loma that over looked the old train bridge. El Puente Negro.	I stopped midway down the street. The ruins of an old house caught my eye. They were ruins even during my childhood. An old old house forgotten by time and occupants.
The house was sturdy, built to last ages, to out live its original builders. It was built with the same stones of which the hill was made. A lonely abandoned house that once had been a home to some unknown and now forgotten human. Maybe to a whole family who lived and died and was forgotten. As a small child I would come by and play in the old house. It had no roof, or window frames, or doors. It's floor was smooth dirt, flat and hard, hard as concrete. Kept in place for may years by an owner who swept it, watered it, cared for it with neatness and patience. Grass and weeds could not break through its hard surface, so it remained an old house with four walls and a floor. But time and age will vanquish all, even this old house. The weeds persisted and grass pushed up. They came in one door and went out the other. At one time it had a front door and a back door, which was which?
Each stone laid by caring hands, creating a home out of the very hill they were trying to conquer. Building a home in which to raise a family, raise children, lay roots. Building a place to rest their bones once they had out lived their usefulness. Each stone cut, sized and fitted to create a thick strong wall, to keep out the cold, wind and the heat. To protect this man and his family, his future from Mother Nature. Well, she won this battle but the war to destroy her and ourselves continues.	I continue my drive to the end of the road. The thick mist slowly gave way to the warmth of the earth. Red roofs begin to show, distant dogs barked and a lone rooster announced himself to the residents of this neighborhood. Sleepy cars coughed out white smoke from their tailpipes. The town began to stir, another day begin. From up high, the sights and sounds remained the same as long ago.
Some houses remained the same. Maybe their occupants changed but the habits remain. Old washers, refrigerators, tires, and other reminders of what they had, remain in their backyards. Items that wait for the day to come when, "I will fix it. It's still good, just needs a little fixin'."	The streets are wider. The colors of the houses clearly announce that this is a Mexican neighborhood. Blue, red, yellow and pink houses, yes this is a Mexican neighborhood. I sat on this same rock years ago and dreamed and planned the places I would visit. Summer days, we would lay on this rocks and survey our little town We could name the people that lived in many of the houses we saw from way up here.
The streets are wider now and all have been paved, they use to be cliche. After one of the uncommon rain storms would come through our town the streets would become mud. White sticky mud on which cars would slide, get stuck, lurch forward and leave a snaking trail of four separate wheels.	Young visitors leave their mark on the ancient rocks. Some write their wishes, some their hopes and many their anger. Every marking tells a story. Who they love, who they dislike, who they are.
How old is the writing? Yesterdays, last years, ten years old? The messages are the same. Tomorrow a new hand will come and the same message will be written. Tomorrow another old man will come and read it and remember that somewhere under the newer messages is his old old message. The one he wrote when the world was younger and this rock was larger and it sat higher on the hill. When his message made sense. When it was free speech, poetry, art, not like today's writings. How did age change him? How can the same words now mean something different to him but mean the same to the young people. The young people understand his old message, theirs is the same.
Patty loves someone, X3 is hated by someone. Others are just happy to write their name. Some day they will be famous and others will come and look at this old rock and say, "Patty was here. Patty loved some one." On which rock in this little town did you leave your name, your message, your anger?	This rock was like our youthful life. We lived on the edge, always on the edge. The relationship with our parents, our exploration of love, our search for independence, we were always one step away from the precipice.
We walked this steps so many times. We wore the dirt away until only the rocks remained. We followed the path left for us by those who came to these rocks before us. So many others followed after us. 25 years have passed, so many have walked this same path and so many will walk on it tomorrow and the day after. And then some day it will be gone.....

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