The Mason Who Built More Than Buildings

By M. E. Avila

There is something about Sunday on San Antonio's West Side that feels like coming home. Maybe it's the smell of barbacoa or the bottles of Big Red waiting on the table, the familiar church bells calling families to Mass, or the streets that hold generations of memories. Every Sunday reminds me that I am exactly where I belong.

Living on the West Side is more than having an address. It is living among the stories of my family. It is walking streets that my grandparents once walked, attending churches where generations of our family prayed, and knowing that the history of our family is woven into the history of this community.

Whenever Sunday comes around, I think about my grandfather, Jose Avila. His story did not begin with comfort. It began with unimaginable loss.

As a young boy, my grandfather lost both of his parents. Rather than growing up in Texas, he was taken to Mexico, where his aunts raised him. Although life had taken so much from him at such a young age, it never took away his determination. He later returned to San Antonio and settled here to raise his family while carrying with him lessons that could never be taught in a classroom.

My grandpa was entirely self-taught.

He never had the opportunity to pursue the kind of education many people associate with success today. Instead, he educated himself through observation, discipline, curiosity, and an extraordinary work ethic. He learned the masonry trade from the ground up, mastering a craft that required precision, patience, creativity, and tremendous physical strength.

Eventually, he established his own masonry company, Nueva Era, earning the respect of people throughout San Antonio and South Texas. His reputation grew because he believed his word was his bond and he believed that if something was worth building, it was worth building well.

Later, he became a masonry teacher, sharing his knowledge with others who wanted to learn the trade. He understood something that I have come to appreciate even more as I've grown older: knowledge is one of the few things that becomes more valuable when it is shared.

Years after my grandfather passed away, I learned something that made me smile. One of his former students was local San Antonio artist Joe Villarreal. Joe also has since passed away, but discovering that connection reminded me that my grandfather's influence extended far beyond our family. His legacy wasn't limited to the buildings he constructed. It also lived through the people he taught, the craftsmen he mentored, and the work they carried forward into our community.

https://sanantonioreport.org/joe-r-villarreal-westside-san-antonio-artist-public-sculptures/

When I think about him, though, I don't think first about buildings. I think about his hands. They were rough, weathered, and incredibly strong. One finger was even missing the tip due to a table saw accident. They carried the marks of decades spent lifting brick, mixing mortar, and shaping stone. They were the hands of someone who worked honestly for everything he earned. As a little girl, I remember those hands more than anything else. Back then, I didn't understand that they represented resilience.

Today, I do. Those hands survived heartbreak, the loss of his two eldest sons as infants. Those hands built opportunity. Those hands built a family. Those hands built a future that eventually made my own life possible.

Some of my favorite memories of my grandpa are beautifully ordinary. He loved Blue Bell Strawberry ice cream. He loved stopping at the H-E-B Mercado at 24th and Popular, where he always picked up H-E-B glazed donuts. To most people, those are ordinary memories. To me, they are priceless.

I can still picture him walking through the store, his rough mason's hands pushing the grocery cart while choosing his favorite ice cream and a fresh box of glazed donuts. Those little moments have stayed with me because they remind me that love often lives in ordinary routines.

Sunday was never just another day. Our family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa's. We went to Mass then the cousins all went to CCD. Every one of my cousins made their sacraments because our Catholic faith wasn't simply something we practiced. It shaped the rhythm of our family life. Church was followed by food, conversation, laughter, and children running through the yard while the adults caught up on another week gone by.

Looking back, I realize those Sundays were quietly teaching me everything I needed to know about community. Community isn't built only through organizations or institutions. It begins around family tables. It begins inside neighborhood churches. It begins with grandparents who show up every Sunday. It begins with traditions that seem ordinary until enough years have passed for you to realize they became part of who you are.

My grandfather rarely talked about legacy. He didn't have to. He lived it. He taught me that dignity comes from honest work, that your word matters, and that caring for your family is among life's greatest responsibilities. He showed me that success is not measured by titles or recognition but by the life you build and the people you leave better because you were here.

As a child, I could never have imagined how deeply those lessons would shape the woman I would become.

Years later, I would realize that although my education happened in classrooms, some of my greatest teachers had never stood behind a podium. One of them stood behind a wheelbarrow instead.

As I have grown older, I have come to appreciate my grandfather in ways I never could as a child. When you're young, you simply know your grandparents as the people who love you, spoil you, and gather everyone together on Sundays. You don't yet understand everything they survived before you were born. You don't realize that the life you inherited was built one sacrifice at a time.

Today, when I drive through the West Side, I don't just see streets and buildings. I see pieces of my family's story. I wonder which buildings my grandpa helped build, who learned the masonry trade from him, and how many families found shelter inside walls he helped create.

People often think success means leaving your neighborhood behind. I used to believe that, I don't anymore. I love living on the West Side. I love that my granddaughters are growing up where generations of our family have lived, worked, prayed, and celebrated together. I love that they know these streets not simply as roads on a map but as part of their family's story.

All of my granddaughters carry the Avila last name, and every time I hear it, I smile. That name carries the story of a little boy who lost his parents and was raised by his aunts in Mexico before returning to San Antonio to build a life through honest work.

It carries the story of a self-taught mason who built a business, taught others his craft, and believed that anything worth doing was worth doing well. It carries the story of a family whose Sundays revolved around Mass, CCD, Grandma and Grandpa's house, barbacoa, Big Red, Blue Bell Strawberry ice cream, and H-E-B glazed donuts.

Those traditions may seem small to someone else. To me, they are everything. I don't want my granddaughters to remember only what our family accomplished. I want them to remember who we were. That we worked hard. That we kept our faith. That we took care of one another. That we stayed connected to our community.

Today is Sunday. Maybe I'll stop by H-E-B Mercado at 24th and Popular and pick up a carton of Blue Bell Strawberry ice cream, just like Grandpa used to do.

Not because it's extraordinary. But because ordinary traditions become extraordinary when they carry the people we love with them.

My grandfather built with brick, stone, mortar, and his own hands. The buildings he left behind will someday weather with time. But the family he built, the values he lived, and the traditions he passed on continue every Sunday around our table.

Sometimes the strongest foundations aren't made of concrete. Sometimes they're made of faith, family, and the people who teach us what home feels like. That's what my Grandpa Jose Avila built.

And I'm grateful that his foundation is still the one my family stands on today.