Measures of grief, love, and dread have moved me to write about my cousin Alfonso — grief and love as I remember him and dread to commit to paper the sudden, irreversible loss of him.
Just as his architectural signature is pronounced across the landscapes and skylines of cities across this country and others, the kind essence of him endures as a legacy left to those of us who were blessed to have had longstanding relationships with him.
I knew him the entire 7.3 decades of my life, the son of my Tía Delia. I knew him first as Pín, the name my sister Sandra gave him when she couldn’t say “Ponchín.” We three were constant companions at our grandmother’s house on Laredo Street, playing tag or yelling and raising dust on our stick horses outside and then walking into the quiet dignity of her home as though we had transformed sedately from rascals to angels.
The front porch of her house is where we peeled oranges picked from a nearby tree and shared their sticky deliciousness with our faces and clothes until came the late-afternoon siren call from our Tía Ninfa’s house next door — the waft of just-made tortillas coming off the comal. She didn’t have to say “Lavense las manos” twice.
The final signal for the end of the day was the passing of the junk man’s wooden buckboard pulled by a burro down Laredo Street. Long before we saw his haul of old furniture, bottles, and discarded tools, we heard the jangle of the wagon’s metal parts, the creak of its wood, and the clop of the burro’s hooves on the unpaved street. In winter, a lit lantern swung from an upright near the wagon’s bench. It was ritual to watch his passage, to say nothing, and then to go inside.
Some summer days if we were dispatched from my grandmother’s house to buy a necessity at Don Enrique’s store at the end of the block, we were allowed penny treats like ChumGum or candy cigarettes, which we “smoked” on the high porch in front of the tiendita. On a good day, we were allowed a cold bottle of a flavored Buck Brand soda, which you would request as “an orange coke.” The exterior of the store was forrado with expired Texas license plates. Don Enrique and Doña Chole’s house was just beyond the store’s counter through an interior screen door made private with a cloth across it.
We didn’t have permission to cross Cedar Street, but we were allowed to explore the immediate neighborhood to see the neighbor named Angel, who had a pet monkey, or to walk through Mrs. Martinez’s plant nursery that faced Guadalupe.
There was a small metal shed on the side of my grandmother’s house. Among other things it stored toys we had outgrown. Alfonso and I went there like clockwork to crank up an old metal Ferris wheel, fascinated that it still worked.
There was a vine that grew on Tía Ninfa’s fence that when it dried became hard and hollow. Alfonso suggested we smoke it. He thought it looked cool, but I thought it burned too fast too close to my face and didn’t try it again.
It must be said here: Sandra was not traviesa. God gave her the good sense to not partake in impulsive behaviors for which there could be consequences. Alfonso and I must have gotten in the wrong line that day.
We were on our best behavior inside our grandmother’s house in Laredo or San Ygnacio or at the ranch where watchful aunts and uncles kept our collective cousinly behavior in check with love and affection, swooping us up as toddlers into their arms, kissing us, talking to us as they hoisted our little selves onto the leather expanse of an old saddle on a tame horse, walking the horse a bit as we wrapped our hands around the saddle horn.
Romeo B. Gutiérrez, Delia G. Varela holding Alfonso, Sandra Guerra, Santa María Ranch, 1948.
We couldn’t have known then that everything we learned out there as children would prepare us for the day we would have a hand in managing the land as they had through despairs of drought and times of bounty.
The painful attrition of our elders through the years would re-shape the ranch and our later lives.
As it was in Laredo when we were children, Alfonso was our neighbor on the ranch lands.
Never was there a better cup of ranch coffee, “cafecito,” he called it, than the ones we shared as grownups in my grandmother’s casita at the ranch.
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The young dapper ranchero in shades, a white turtleneck, and a wine-colored velour blazer at Santa María Ranch with Meg and Melissa Guerra sometime in the mid-1980s.
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The famous 1991 tube sock photo of Alfonso with Meg and Marcos at the house our great-grandfather built in San Ygnacio.
Remembering Alfonso Varela
Sandra Guerra
Alfonso and I were first cousins. Our family ties were as follows: His mother, Delia Gutiérrez Varela, and my mother, Amanda Gutiérrez Guerra, were sisters. Tía Delia was born in 1918 and my mother and her twin brother, Oscar Manuel Gutiérrez, were born in 1922.
Alfonso, my sister, María Eugenia, and I were close in age. Of the three, I am the eldest, followed by Alfonso, and then by María Eugenia. We were born within a three-year span. For the first five years of my life, my family lived on Laredo Street next door to my grandmother. Tía Delia and Alfonso lived with my grandmother. Because of the proximity of our living arrangement, Alfonso was more of a brother to us than a cousin. His original nickname was “Ponchin.” As a toddler, however, I shortened Ponchin to “Pin.” For years, he was known simply as Pin.
My parents (Joe and Amandita) included Alfonso in many of our family activities. In a recent conversation with Alfonso, we reminisced about our childhood. He reminded me of my family’s Saturday evening ritual after we moved to Price Street. We watched the Perry Mason show on TV at 6:30 p.m. TV trays were set up in the family room so that we could enjoy our evening meal and watch Perry go through the process of finding his client innocent. Our meal consisted of hamburgers from the Glass Kitchen and sodas from Cabello Brothers convenience store. It was the only meal that was not eaten at the kitchen table. Alfonso remembered that he joined us often.
My parents took us to the Texas State Fair in Dallas one October. Of course, Alfonso came with us.
In the late 1950s, early 1960s, we traveled to Hebbronville every Sunday to spend the day at our small ranch named La Perla. Our 1958 Plymouth station wagon had three seats. The third seat faced backwards instead of forward. That’s where Alfonso, María Eugenia, and I would ride. The back window was usually down. It’s hard to imagine the amount of car exhaust we probably inhaled on the way to and from La Perla!
Not that long ago, on one of my trips to Laredo, I stayed with Alfonso and Sandy at the house on Lane Street. In my mind, it is still Tía Delia’s house. I had the great honor of riding with them to Danny’s Restaurant in Tía Delia’s 1981 Buick. The car is in pristine condition! Every time Alfonso drove the Buick to the car wash or the gas station, there were offers to buy it. He had a knack for sharing these stories with you in a way that made you laugh.
My son, Lee Alan Williams, was born in El Paso in 1977. Tía Delia and Alfonso served as godparents when Lee was baptized at St. Patrick’s Church in Laredo. Lee, like Alfonso, earned a college degree in architecture.
I must share one of Alfonso’s favorite quips. He would say: When I grow up, I want to be just like Marcos. Marcos is his son, an exceptionally talented jazz musician.
These are some of my memories of my dear cousin, Alfonso. He was such an integral part of the Guerra Family. I miss you so much already sweet primo, Pin.
Geoff Gibson
When Alfonso came to my house, he never failed to inspect the premises, making sure that objects were not out of place and were properly aligned. The last thing he aligned for me was my new lampshade. And he asked about the missing finial. He was satisfied when I told him I had ordered one and would have it soon.
He looked after me and fretted about my appearance. He wanted me to be “styling.”
Even as he asked things of me, he chastised me for what he saw as me letting people take advantage of me.
He loved me, and I loved him back. He was funny, and oh so quick witted, outrageous sometimes, quick to make fun of the human condition(s), but not meanly.
I thank him for the 50 years of friendship and wish my brother Godspeed.
Susan Freeman Jones
I’m here to live out my life story because of Alfonso. When I became old enough to drive my father bought a Renault that he eventually passed on to me to chauffeur my two siblings. Little did either of my parents know how many of my teenage friends I also chauffeured. We were juniors at Martin High School, soon to be first graduating class of Nixon High School. On this particular day, when we left Martin High my Renault was carrying eight friends soon to be delivered to their respective homes in the area. I safely unloaded four of them, leaving Ree Goodman, Alfonso Varela, and Bill Wise still with me. We turned onto Meadow going South, and Ree asked if she could drive, so we stopped and changed.
Alfonso and Bill remained in the back seat with Alfonso directly behind me. Ree started going and we were cutting up and pretending to fish tail when she hit the curb and tire which was probably already low or damaged blew out, which caused the Renault to flip over but now headed from the direction we were coming from and landed on its side. Since this was before seat belts, I was thrown from the front seat to the back and Alfonso caught my head before it impacted the glass and curb. We all got out with minor bruises, but most importantly I was alive, thanks to my friend Alfonso. By this time word was out in the neighborhood, so plenty of help came. We laughed at our luck, but It was not until I was more mature that I realized what could have happened.
Alfonso and I relived this moment many times, and most recently multiple times on Facebook.
Ree Goodman Huber
Alfonso Varela was my neighbor. He had a smile so heart-warming and so big we could almost see it through the trees of that empty lot that separated our houses.
Alfonso Varela was my friend. He was a friend to everyone who knew him. His laughter, his kindness, his true goodness, and his beautiful drawings were a part of the young boy and the man he became. He became a legend drawing spectacular homes and buildings. He remains a legend as a friend and an artist.
This neighbor, my friend, Alfonso, will continue shining his radiant smile from Heaven on all of us.
Arabella Guzman García
We were very close as babies. We shared the same playpen while our mothers, who were good friends, visited. We became great playmates as toddlers. He was a sweet boy and that is how I remember him.
Bill Rountree
Alfonso and I were best of friends for 54 years. We first met during our senior year at J.W. Nixon H.S. when we both enrolled in an elective course — drafting, which somehow launched Alfonso into a lifetime of extraordinarily successful architectural design projects. I say “somehow” because my singular memory of the drafting class was the two of us getting permission from the drafting teacher to miss most classes so we could feed our non-existent calves, which were part of our non-existent participation in a FFA club. In truth, we just went to Sanchez Pool Hall to shoot pool. After high school I went to the Air Force Academy and Alfonso went to UT-Austin. A few years later I transferred to UT-Austin, and appropriately, we ran into one another in front of his College of Architecture. We have remained close ever since.
I believe the measure of a person and your friendship with that person is directly related to the number of entertaining stories you can tell (and some you should not tell publicly) about that person — with Alfonso, I could easily fill a book. Alfonso was unusually perceptive in finding humor in all sorts of people, situations, concepts, politics, aging and life in general, which usually evolved into laughter, frivolity, exaggerations and eventually, an entertaining story. He was never hesitant to laugh at himself and his own idiosyncrasies if it added to the general humor of the moment. He was a great storyteller, very intelligent, witty, compassionate, and capable of seeing life through the eyes of others. There were very few mundane, dull, or routine moments around Alfonso.
I have never known a person who was as passionate about so many important and less than important parts of his life. To listen to him describe the beautiful architectural subtleties of a building or home was both infectious and enjoyable. At the other end of the spectrum, he could become “passionately” impatient when encountering a less than skillful driver who innocently impeded/delayed his ability to get to where he wanted to go. He was passionate about his beliefs, politics, cars, loyalty to friends, and his family. With all his strengths and weaknesses, his love for Sandy and Marcos brought balance, harmony, and purpose to his life. Few have been blessed with a life as full as his.
Although he will be deeply missed, his charm and the “Alfonsoisms,” will continue to be a part of our lives. Each of us will continue to laugh, share, and enjoy the Alfonso stories, and thanks to him our wonderful memories will survive for years and years to come. Even though he left us much too soon, we all are blessed to have had Alfonso in our lives — our lives have been greatly enriched because of Alfonso.
Good bye for now my friend. One day when it is my time, we will again certainly share more stories, laughter and another game of pool.
Wanda Garner Cash
When Meg asked me for a story about Alfonso, it was like asking which is my favorite Bob Dylan song.
Too many stories, too much laughter, so many adventures spread out over more than 55 years of friendship.
Alfonso has been my friend even as time and geography conspired to keep us apart.
One afternoon when we were in Nuevo Laredo, he decided we should get the street photographer to take our picture: me, Linda Jacaman, Margie Richter, and Mike Hodges.
The whole time, Alfonso asked the guy questions about his technique, dropping names like Ansel Adams and Robert Capa.
He offered to buy the fellow’s equipment to display at the Smithsonian.
He pestered the poor guy so much that the photographer got flustered and forgot to charge us the $2 for the picture.
Before we walked away, Alfonso gave him $10.
John Dromgoole
Alfonso Varela was the most interesting of my friends back in the sixties. His life with his mother was different from mine. You could feel their respect for each other. He protected her, and she protected him in the more obvious way that mothers do.
I don’t have a memory of him being out of sorts. He got along with everyone because he was pleasant.
He was a quipper, and we bounced jokes off each other. We had cars in common. He never mellowed out about them. He was always interested in their look, their speed.
There was pristine detail to his cars, his house, and his work.
We put in a good amount of time at the Town & Country. He was a friend to many, though I have no memory of him running with just one crowd.
I was lucky to count him as a true friend of mine.
Beautiful Meg.❤️
As always, Meg evokes memories with her vivid descriptions. This tribute to Alfonso elevates that storytelling to new heights.
Gracias María Eugenia for this.
Me sacastes las lágrimas.
There is much to envy of your families’ story, of the lovely stories shared in this article.
Bill R. and Wanda and John D. all said things I can relate to about Alfonso.
There is so much about this complex and passionate man, and the impact he had on us all, that we will never run out of stories to share whenever we come together, and so, he lives on as long as we do.
Que descanses en paz mi querido Alfonso
Meg, as always so eloquently written and the detail of your memories is amazing. Con mucho carino