By Lucy Fischer-West
Lucy Fischer-West understands the ability of birthplace and of borders and rivers. Her memoir starts off with the tale of her mom and dad, one reared in Germany, the opposite in Mexico, and the way they discovered one another at the Texas-Mexico border. Fischer-West's personal trips take her from her delivery within the Hudson River Valley; to her upbringing on each side of the Rio Grande; around the Atlantic to Scotland after which France; and at last to India's River Ganges, midway world wide from the El Paso barrio the place she grew up. Hers is a normal lifestyles made remarkable via its direction and by way of the folks who, having touched and enriched her existence, stick with her, as nurturing to her spirit because the rivers that support her mark time. by means of focusing no longer at the conflicts of border existence yet quite on daily reviews made wealthy by way of her appreciation of them, Fischer-West honors her rivers and the folk who shuttle them, go them, continue to exist their banks, and shower of their waters. Her tale touches at the feelings that bind us to others: anger, sorrow, equanimity, exuberance, and serenity.
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Additional info for Child Of Many Rivers: Journeys To And From The Rio Grande
Though we were accustomed to letting ourselves in, we rang the bell. ”). He said no. By the time she made her appearance, I had put Johnny in his grandfather’s arms. He had enough vision left to distinguish that Johnny’s eyes were almost the same hue as his own. The fact that we had given him Martin for a middle name brought tears to my father’s still beautiful blue eyes. Beaming, he kept wanting reassurance that we would not have to give Johnny back. Before Johnny was two, I took him to Catskill for the first Johnny, age four, playing with his Opa Martin.
My mother was twelve. While the family was burying my grandfather, his brother—who had never approved of my grandmother— stripped the house of all that was valuable. The adobe houses that my grandfather had painstakingly built and was renting were all my grandmother had left to support her children. My mother continued with her schooling, finishing her Educación Primaria Superior at the age of fourteen in the Colegio Bautista in Chihuahua, a boarding school, thanks to an arrangement made before my grandfather’s death.
In the days when stores were not open on Sunday and the Fox Plaza Shopping Center parking lot was empty save for the spots in front of Parkins Cafeteria, I practiced under his patient instruction. I remember going around and around in circles in the lot forever before I ever drove on a real street. If a learner’s permit was required, I don’t think I got one. He led me through driving short distances until I got comfortable. At school during lunch, I practiced in my best friend’s little Renault.