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Chapter7 Where We Will Hear the True Story of That Mysterious Petite Woman T he following evening at 7, Mrs. Stafford started to share with us her story in the following manner. “My parents were very poor, and, to make matters worse, my loving mother passed away when Elena, my older sister, was 7 years old and I was only 5. My father was very young when mother passed away, for he was barely 31 years of age. Mr. Nollen, my father’s name, endured a great deal taking care of us and was deprived of many things until he had a beautiful idea: to install my sister and me in a convent in Victoria, Texas, the town where we were born. We were admitted, and my poor father now had more time to attend to his business as a Singer sewing machine salesman. He visited us often, and he would bring us clothing and presents, which would make us very happy. The mother superior liked us very much and nicknamed us the ‘little orphan girls.’ “We started school at the convent. My sister was rapidly advancing in her studies, and so was I, swiftly passing from grade to grade. When she was in the tenth grade, I was right behind her in the eighth grade. When Elena was fifteen years old, she was accepted at the University of St. Louis, Missouri; I was also preparing to follow in her footsteps. “I learned Spanish there. Our instructor was a nun who was born and raised in México, so she spoke Spanish perfectly. She would also teach us about the politics and governmental problems of México. That is why I was up to date on what was hap- pening in our sister nation. There I made many little Mexican friends because, when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, I became their instructor. Among them was a precious little child about ten years of age who liked me very much. She was one of the most advanced among them, and frequently Mother Consuelo would select her to assist me. She could speak English well by that time. Her name was Brígida Cano, whose name I could never forget because my father told us a story of his motherland : Ireland.1 His father was Irish and used to say the Irish have a belief in a saint to whom all of them pray for good luck in whatever endeavor or trips they made. They would all commend themselves to Saint Brígida. Every time I would see Brígida, it reminded me of my own ancestors, and that memory probably made me like her immensely—she was also an orphan and had only her mother. Anyway, whatever the reason, that creature was like an angel to me.” Then I interrupted her and told her I knew a child residing at Misión del Refugio who was also named Brígida, but I could not remember her last name. “I believe,” said Mrs. Stafford, “she must be the same child because I remember she told me she was brought from that place to this convent, where the school was.” “Continuing my story, my sister went on to the University of St. Louis, and a year later I also entered the same university. There I studied medicine, and when I became a nurse, we both left at the same time, but she established herself in Galveston, and I went to San Antonio to be in charge of the Santa Rosa Hospital. I had been at the hospital for about eight months when a terrible railroad accident happened between Dallas and Houston, causing many fatalities and injuries, where among them was my husband-to-be, who is now present. He was so badly injured that doctors feared for his life because he had lost his voice and was unconscious. He had internal injuries, and the consensus was that he was a dead man. There was a general call for nurses from the surrounding cities and towns, and the Santa Rosa Hospital sent me as their representative, giving me full authority to use all my knowledge and act according to my experience. As soon as I arrived, they took me directly to see this patient, who was barely breathing. I carefully examined him, and then one of the many doctors who had come to Where We Will Hear the True Story 87 [18.221.208.183] Project MUSE (2024-04-25 01:28...

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