Lydon took the wheel of his wife’s car, so Lizzy joined her parents, John, and Mary for the final leg of the journey. A hazy sunshine warmed the coastline, and only the contrails of high-flying jets disturbed the azure of the sky. It was so warm that they were able to open the windows to enjoy the soft ocean breezes in their shirtsleeves. Mrs. Bennet was voluble in her praise of all she saw: the beachside mansions, the green hillsides, the red tile roofs of Santa Barbara, the flowers blooming on the freeway medians, all spoke to her of the new life of wealth and ease that lay within her grasp.
Lizzy took delight in pointing out to John the drama of the scenery that unfolded once they turned off the main highway. The wild peaks of Los Padres National Forest looming over Lake Cachuma were as impressive as they had seemed in her childhood, and lovelier even than her memory of them, seen now for the first time in the lush green of the rainy season, the easternmost peaks capped with snow. As they drifted down into the heart of the Santa Ynez Valley her heart became too full for speech. She was seeing it all through her aunt’s eyes and thinking of what she had gained and lost from Evelyn Bennet’s life and passing.
When they left the road at the Lambtown exit, Mrs. Bennet looked askance at the rows of dilapidated mobile homes squatting under bare-branched cottonwoods by the offramp. But she scarcely had time to exclaim, “This can’t possibly be Lambtown! Evelyn would never live in a place like this!” before the road had swept around a bend and they found themselves in a spruce village of Queen Anne structures and commodious ranch houses. The center of town, swiftly attained, consisted of cheerfully painted century-old buildings whose signs proclaimed them to be wine tasting rooms, art galleries, cafés, and boutiques.
As much as Mrs. Bennet was relieved, Lizzy was dismayed: such tourist-friendly trappings must be the development of the past few years, for they formed no part of her memory of the place. From her youthful visits she recalled a sleepy town with old-fashioned, practical shops catering mostly to ranching families, and while Aunt Evelyn had mentioned changes, she had touched on them only lightly and with her customary mix of philosophy and humor. Still, it was Lambtown, and Lizzy was happy to be back.
They found a motel on the dusty edge of town, overlooking a wide pasture, and gratified the manager by booking nearly half the rooms for an indefinite period of time. John and Lizzy left Lydon and Jenny exploring the HBO channels and Mary the Gideon Bible while they sallied forth to stretch their legs in a walk through the town before dinner.
The winter dusk was falling and the air was rapidly turning pleasantly chilly as they peered into the windows of the closing shops. A sizable cluster of people, gathered on the corners of a cross street up ahead, caught their attention, so they strolled over to see what was afoot. On closer inspection, the crowd proved to be groups of families lining the sidewalks, most dressed in the day’s work clothes but some in Sunday finery, even a few women wearing long, layered skirts and lacy blouses of the kind traditional in parts of Mexico. Fathers had hoisted small children on their shoulders and older siblings watched over youngsters, while everywhere the rhythmic syllables of Spanish fell upon the ear, along with some words in another language unfamiliar to Lizzy and John. The sound of guitars, drums, and trumpets, a trifle discordant from the distance, could be heard a few blocks away.
“It’s a parade!” cried John. At the sound of words spoken in English, some of the nearest adults turned and acknowledged his presence with a wary courtesy. They stepped aside to make room for John and Lizzy to cross the street, but after a little hesitation moved back into their positions when it became clear that the two were stopping to watch.
Lizzy looked about her with the liveliest interest, enjoying the challenge of figuring out family relationships and the drift of conversations without understanding most of the words used. She had learned some Spanish at Ohio State and spoke a casual hybrid Spanglish with a few of her landscape workers, but the swift, idiomatic exchanges going on around her were beyond her skill. John spoke no Spanish at all, but his open, happy face and silly pantomimes soon secured the trust of the children in his vicinity. Before long he had several little ones swinging off his arms with squeals of delight while others clamored to show him their own imitations of barnyard animals.
Lizzy, observing this scene with smiling indulgence, did not fail however to notice that John’s friendly overtures were regarded with some uncertainty by the parents, and with surprise and disapproval by the occasional Anglo passerby. Indeed, the mostly white shopkeepers and salespeople were hurrying to depart the commercial district, brushing past the loitering families to reach their cars. A few drivers even made some show of honking at those in the crowd who had stepped into the roadway to watch for the parade’s approach, chasing them back onto the sidewalk before roaring off.
She was curious about this display of impatience with what seemed to be a festive occasion. But her attention was soon diverted by a small group of people loitering on the opposite corner who had the well-groomed look of the wealthy, and at least one of whom seemed to be charmed by John’s games with the children. She had just drawn her brother’s attention to his admirer when the procession came into view. Young girls in white dresses appeared first, solemnly guarding the flames of candles in glass holders, followed closely by women holding up elaborately dressed dolls and men bearing wide bowls full of what appeared to be grain.
“I wonder what the story is with the dolls,” John murmured.
An older man who had been standing nearby answered him. “You’re interested in our traditions? The figures they are carrying are called Niños Dioses. They’re images of the young Jesus being brought to the temple. You can see that many of the figures are crowned to show that this is the Holy Son. They’re also dressed with sandals, huarachitos, which represent Jesus in his human incarnation.”
Lizzy turned to the gentleman eagerly. “Would you explain the rest to us? We’re new here, and we don’t even know what holiday is being celebrated.”
“It’s Día de la Candelaria, or Candlemas in English,” he said. “It’s a day of purification and blessings. The girls’ candles stand for the sun beginning to return as winter fades—that symbolism goes back to before Christianity, of course. The men are carrying seeds to be blessed by the priest before they’re planted, although in this climate some of the planting has already been done—”
At this point he was interrupted by the blare of music as a series of small bands, each not more than three to six people strong, strode by. Each band was playing a different tune, in fine disregard of its rivals; and each group wore a different outfit, some as simple as white pants and shirt with a colored sash, others very elaborate costumes with frogged and embroidered jackets, hats with tassels, and decorated boots.
“Those are different social clubs,” the gentleman raised his voice over the hubbub. “Each one has its own uniform, its own regalia and passwords and traditions. Some of the groups are of Mexican descent, and others are from Peru. Many of the sheepherders who work in this area are Peruvian, so we have a variety of traditions coming together in this parade.”
“Oh, there’s the Virgin of Guadalupe,” cried Lizzy, as a bier went by carried by six young men, carefully balancing a large statue on top. It was a tall, dark-skinned female figure in a rose-colored robe covered with a mantle spangled with stars, perched atop a sickle moon held aloft by an angel; gold waves radiated outward from all around her.
The older man looked pleased. “So you recognize la virgen. Our church in town is Our Lady of Guadalupe, so she is our patron saint here as well as for the Mexican immigrant workers.”
After a few more enthusiastic, discordant bands tramped by, the end of the procession was marked by a small cluster of shiny new pickup trucks, driven at a crawl by waving, exuberantly honking young men.
“Pickups are sacred to the Virgin as well?” remarked Lizzy,
