I’d read once that Salinas, the surname that graces every form of my identity,
was born in the salt mines of old Spain, where many men surely perished. My
uncle Henry, though I’d call him tio, was a Salinas if there ever was one, the
salt so strong in his blood, you could almost taste it when the spit from his
drunken mouth landed on your lips when he would talk up close to you. At
that point, though, it was better to let it sit, to ignore, than wipe the spittle off
or else. When he was in those dark moods, those frequent dark, drinking
moods and the spit from his mouth flowed free, I would remind myself to
listen, laugh, nod my head, listen, and remember that, as much as our lives
were different, as much as our paths out of the mines were not the same, we
were of the same salt and blood.
Salt
