At 96 years old, Berlinda Trujillo still remembers the smell of earth after a good rain in Llama, the small northern New Mexico village where she was born and raised.
“Todo se acaba,” she said softly — everything comes to an end.
Born on Sept. 30,1929 in her family’s home with the help of a midwife from Questa, she grew up surrounded by family, neighbors, and tradition. Her parents, who lived with her grandmother in a large plazuela, raised her alongside three cousins — Orlando, Julie, and Loyola— whom she describes as her brother and sisters.
“There were 14 families in Llama,” she recalled. “And of course, Spanish people have big families. Cousins grew up as brothers and sisters.”
Trujillo attended a one-room school in Llama, where the teacher divided children by grade levels. Older students often helped younger ones learn their lessons — a method that taught both patience and responsibility. “We were told to speak English,” she said. “If you didn’t, you got marks. I don’t remember being spanked — but we learned quickly that we couldn’t speak our native Spanish language without getting in trouble for it.”
Like most northern New Mexico families of her generation, her family’s livelihood followed the rhythm of the land and the seasons. In the spring, men left for Wyoming to herd sheep. By summer, whole families traveled north to Colorado for the potato harvests.
“It was a caravan of families,” she said. “We’d go to Monte Vista to pick potatoes. The men worked the rows, and the rest of us followed behind with plastic sacks, picking and dumping them into the truck. I must’ve been 12 or 13.”
Those trips, she said, were hard but full of laughter, food, and community. “After a long hard day, I recall we’d sit down together and restore our energy as we’d eat a bushel of peas,” she said with a smile. “We didn’t have much, but we had each other.”
She graduated school in Costilla in 1950, where the Loretto nuns taught typing and bookkeeping. Soon after, she attended Highlands University in Las Vegas, N.M. — an experience she still fondly remembers. “It was amazing to get the experience to leave our small community and attend college in Las Vegas. I didn’t finish school, but just having the opportunity to go and experience this new life, it was something great,” she recalled.
Trujillo recalls meeting her husband, Questa native Tony Trujillo, who at first, she developed a crush on. Her good friend would joke with her saying, “vamos hacerle pedo a Tony” suggesting that she flirt and joke with Tony to get his attention.
A love quickly developed, bringing Trujillo back to Questa where she started working at the local post office where her husband served as the post master. She and Tony raised a family and together, they had four children, Tony, Lino ‘LT’, Jaynelle and Berna.
Her husband was instrumental in applying for funding to build a new facility, though construction didn’t begin until after her husband’s passing.
Trujillo recalls one year when she was working at the post office, her husband was contacted by the FBI. They informed him that they would need to surveil the office for a few weeks as a man had moved to Cabresto Road and was expecting a package from overseas. “I remember I was scared and nervous, but Tony told me I needed to act cool and calm, so I did.”
She recalls the agents would go by the Post Office daily, in plain clothes waiting to intercept the package. One day, it arrived, and the agents swiftly apprehended the man and took the package away. “I don’t recall ever hearing what it was, or who the man was, but it was one of the most memorable experiences I had working at the Post Office.”
Her days were grounded in rhythm: beans and chile every week, casseroles cooked with love, and as a special treat for the kids, hamburgers and fries on Fridays. She recalls making biscochitos for special occasions and baked apples in the same oven she used for casseroles.
Asked what advice she would give younger generations, Trujillo didn’t hesitate.
“Make sure family comes first,” she said. “Community service second. Participate in the community. Respect, of course. And get a good education — because you’re going to need it. Then come back home and serve the community.”
Even as the years pass and Questa has changed, Trujillo’s memories remain vivid: the laughter of cousins, the hum of harvest caravans, and the sense of belonging that only a small village can give.
For her, the meaning of life is simple. “Todo se acaba,” she repeats — not as a lament, but as wisdom from a woman who has seen almost a century of change, and who knows that what truly lasts is love, community, and the stories we pass on.
