Her name was La Rosa,
Alvarado by name.
A handsome country woman,
but don’t be mistaken, my friend;
like a lioness, a fierceness she’d summon!
She knew every proverb of the land;
to the huaso who dared to flatter,
she’d silence him where he’d stand!
The woods were her home and her place;
at her ease, she walked through that space.
Whole mornings gathering the murta
until her basket was full to the brim.
Then she’d seek out the wild mosqueta
and in flour sacks she’d strain it with care.
From murta and from mosqueta,
no richer jams are found anywhere!
How many students of this noble art
did La Rosa leave with a piece of her heart?
Scattered through Chile’s southern lands,
who even today miss her helping hands!
She had all of her animals;
chickens, and sheep, and cows.
To rescue her wandering sheep,
she’d go wherever the path allows!
From the very jaws of the lion,
she’d snatch them back, every one!
With that wool of purest white,
sweaters for everyone were spun;
with the spindle and the whorl,
until late, her weaving was done!
And it seemed just like magic
whenever she’d call to the cows:
Like a Christian they’d understand,
emerging from the brush and the brows!
Very early she would milk them,
filling her good pails to the top!
And the rest was for the calf,
waiting by Rosa’s side for his drop.
Loaded with murta and mosqueta,
and many a pail of milk to hand,
she’d set off toward her boat;
but not without a kiss for the land,
parting from the mother who raised her…
it was her grandma, you understand!
Never has a granddaughter shown
a love for her grandmother so grand!
How many a lucky young lad
by his grandma was raised and made glad!
Sky-blue was the color of her boat,
a skiff so light and slender,
but it wrestled with the waves;
like its owner, who’d never surrender!
Together they crossed to Tres Espinos,
to Niebla and Mancera they’d steer.
With nothing but oars for her boat,
leaving a wake as she’d near;
and if a south wind started to blow,
Rosa would set a sail for the show!
Steering the boat with an oar,
that’s how you get there for sure!
The old women of the islands,
just before the noon of day,
would wait with their baskets
for the girl from San Juan’s way.
She brought them a bit of everything
from across the Great Bay;
cilantro, shallots, and parsley,
green beans, murta, and rosehip spray,
milk for making their cheeses,
and above all, the best talk of the day!
On her way back she’d go fishing,
handlining with a hook and a worm.
Silverside, rockfish, and hake,
making those giant snooks squirm!
She’d set her course toward Corral,
with her boat tied steady and tight;
by the fort she’d leave it anchored,
with her fish well covered from sight.
From her namesake, Rosa Peña,
a great sack of flour she’d buy,
she’d heave it onto her shoulder,
and back to the boat she’d hie.
Then she’d head back to her home;
rowing and whistling along;
with only a single cigarette
to keep her company and strong.
But if all of this should seem to you
no more than a country tale,
take a trip down to San Juan
and ask the elders on the trail:
“Fast as the wind itself,
on horseback you would’ve seen her!
Galloping down the road,
striking sparks from the gravel!
As far as Naguilán she’d go,
past Los Morritos she would ride.
The finest rider in the land,
the one they call ‘Los Ríos’ with pride.”
She wanted to be a pianist;
since she was a girl, that was her dream,
but for lack of a piano,
a guitar was her golden beam!
She loved the tangos and milongas,
and Violeta Parra’s polkas, it would seem!
By watching, she learned to read,
and the notes upon the staff.
Her father, Don Dámaso,
would sing along on her behalf.
Rosa’s mother was not there;
she left her as a child with her dad.
Some say the old man was the villain;
others, that the mother was the bad.
She grew up with that thorn
driven deep inside her chest.
And everywhere that Rosa went,
for her mother, she’d never cease her quest.
She finally found her in Temuco!
The lady was old and grey.
And do you think a seed of grudge
in Rosa’s heart had come to stay?
She held her tight just like a child,
the past was swept away!
Rosa had no grand ambitions,
but one thing she’d pray for and crave:
To leave behind a house so fine
for the children and grandchildren she raised.
Through many a winter she spent there nailing,
with fingers numbed by the chill,
every board of her humble home
for her young ones, with all of her will!
“So they have a place for the summer
when I’ve finally gone over the hill.”
Time catches up with everyone,
even the swiftest boat or steed.
When Rosa went up to the heavens,
on the twenty-seventh of January,
the priest spoke at the funeral mass
of her life and every legendary deed:
“Heavy are the labors of the field,
my hands ache when the wood I split.
But they say that Rosa, on her own,
could fell a whole tree, bit by bit!
The Navy men tell stories
of how they’d close the bay
whenever storms were roaring;
how in the wild and salt-torn spray
not even the most giant ships
would dare to sail away.
‘There goes Rosa!’
the folks of Corral would cry.
They’d cross themselves when her boat
beneath the waves would lie,
only to see her rise again;
the girl from San Juan passing by,
carrying her heavy load
of sacks of flour piled high,
to survive the southern winter
where the winds of frozen fury fly.”
The priest said that never so full
since the day he reached the town
had he seen the church’s pews;
and that finally brought him down
to believe that everything said of her
was a truth of great renown.
Can you believe that for the house,
once its owner was no longer there,
they fought and pulled each other’s hair,
with many a brawl and a bitter glare!
“That board is mine!” one would shout,
“I own that nail!” another would swear.
But it all vanished in a heartbeat,
consumed by a fire’s hungry flare.
I believe it was only then,
that those who didn’t understand, grew aware.
I give you my testimony, sir,
that of all we have spoken here,
every single word is true:
I have watched this woman near.
I myself spent so much time
walking the woods by her side.
Didn’t I tell you I was lucky?
By my grandma, I was raised and made glad!
That is how a legend is composed;
the story of Rosa Alvarado.