The story behind the elephant trees is little more than legend now, whispered here and there in fragments by abuelitas as the niños drift off and the moon hangs high. And no one believes it—really believes—except for the few who know that legends are the truths of this earth that we are too afraid to believe in, that only reveal themselves once in many a man’s lifetime and only when it is time. I do not know why they chose that night, as Ramona and I walked back from the shore to our little house after a slow summer evening collecting clams during a remarkably low tide. I do not know why they chose us or whether it was just chance, but on that night I first began to see the things that few people dream about and even fewer encounter face to face.
It was the summer after a year of many changes for us: a year that saw the gray, serpentine road that had stealthily slipped through the mountains and vast desert toward our tiny seaside town, slither all the way to our casita which, along with the Ramirez, Otoño and Saliero houses, marked the edge of what we knew as civilization; a year that, after five consecutive wins, Papa and Senor Otoño lost the Yellow Tail Cup to a “Roger Benson” from up North who came with a slew of other white men with polished boats and polished teeth and slicked back hair and fishing gadgets we had never seen the like of. It was the summer after a year that Papa started spending his evenings at Rosita’s bar, not coming home until after Ramona and Mama and little Antonio and I were asleep; and a year that I had to work after school at Consuelo’s market sweeping floors and picking out the rotten produce so that Mama would not worry so much about money. It was the summer before my final year of schooling unless I was to move with Tia Adela where they had a high school; and it was the summer after the year I turned thirteen and was old enough to understand that sometimes life doesn’t get better, even when we hope, pray and say it will.
“How many do you have, hermano? I’m tired and look the sun’s already winking at us! Look, it’s just a sliver…oooop there it goes….going…going…gone! Yummmmm, was that good Mr. Ocean?” She said to the sea, smacking her lips, hands on her hips. Then she pointed above the horizon to the opaque moon climbing it’s way up slowly, steadily. “Here comes la luna. Can we pleeeease go home now?” Ramona complained as she flopped herself down upon the sand next to her small tin bucket of clams. “Oh stop being so over dramatic Mona” I said, adding to my bucket three more of the smiling hard-shelled creatures, standing up and wiping my sandy hand on my shorts. I had some twenty in my bucket plus Ramona’s made just enough for a good clam soup for tomorrow. Mama would be pleased. “Let’s go then,” I said offering my little sister a hand. Reaching up, her hand hovered for a second over mine before she quickly pulled away, jumped up and sprinted toward the path shouting “Last one to the clearing is the rotten egg!” Behind me I heard the crunch of gravel under child feet intermingled with the giggles of a self-satisfied seven year old. As much as I liked playing the big brother role and loved her, Ramona was going through the annoying stage that all kids do, experimenting with trickery, jokes, and pushing one’s patience. I let her go, poured the contents of her bucket into mine, and began to walk to where I knew she would be waiting, victorious, collecting laurels from the creatures of her imagination.
