I grew up in much simpler times. Back in La Joya, Texas, my only real friend on those cool mornings was my grandfather, Mi Welo Tiburcio. The memories come back strong — the smell of fresh wood burning, his coffee in hand while he fed the horse, the cows, the goats. Inside, my Wela was making cream of wheat — atole del negrito, as she called it — with Ramón Ayala playing softly in the background. We didn’t need much, just that quiet time together, me and Welo, nestled close to the old gas calent

La Joya, Texas | El Tejano

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