ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2012

FINISH LINE

Is it possible that, despite everything, including skipping class any time I was in St. Louis--a total of almost 3 months out of the past 6--Chemo might still score a sixth-grade diploma? We should have known by now, since school’s out all over the country, but, graciously, Chemo’s teacher David offered to give Chemo extra classes, basically until he is dragged across the finish line. The classes are in my house, which is quite nice, and the subject is math, which is a deal-breaker. Gives me hives. But for Chemo, I’ll even do long division--with decimals!

At Mass the other day, Padre Manuel lowered the boom on Santa Claus, a “gringo” invention of Coca-Cola advertising, he said. I think that might be the first time I’ve heard someone in his position tell parents, “Don’t tell your children there’s a Santa Claus.” And of course there are kids all over the church. Christmas trees and lights feed the same “myth,” namely, gimme, gimme, gimme. Sorry, Virginia! Now, this is the same Padre Manuel who said, when some poor parishioner asked him why he didn’t talk more about Heaven, “I’ve never been to Heaven, I can’t talk about some place I’ve never seen.” A dash of cold water, just when we’re gearing up for the Posadas, nine nights of visits to homes, like Mary and Joseph looking for lodging in Bethlehem. We sing carols outside till the family flings the door open and turns on the lights and tree to welcome us in, a burst of Christmas as Dickens portrays it in “A Christmas Carol.” But Padre Manuel is simply reminding us of the gospel’s constant theme: the turn to our neighbor, especially the poor, exactly the image of the wretched children Ignorance and Want that the Spirit of Christmas reveals to Scrooge for his conversion.

That’s why Padre Manuel said he wanted to start a holiday tradition here that they have in El Salvador, a big Mass of Thanksgiving. Nothing is abstract for Padre Manuel; by “thanksgiving,” he meant the equivalent of a canned-food drive. Of course, most of our food is not in cans, so folks brought sacks of corn, rice, beans, coffee, flour--I brought 20 pounds of sugar. I guess you could say we played Santa Claus.

The biggest Mass of the year was Confirmation, 52 kids marking their passage to adult faith, including Dionis, Chemo’s cousin, receiving the sacrament from the Bishop of Yoro, Juan Luis. We’re so proud of Dionis (pronounced ‘Johnny,’ in case you forgot!); somehow he has gotten this far against all odds. He’s just 16; Chemo is 18 and he hasn’t even made his First Communion (more classes he missed while I was away).

We were just starting the novenario for Romelia, whose death I noted last month, when tragedy struck again. Romelia’s death was sad enough, at 54, but Carlos Antonio (“Lota”) collapsed and died of a heart attack at only 32! The news spread like a whip, including on FACEBOOK among expatriates in the States, folks grasping for words and reasons. His life touched everyone in town, since he was president of the local soccer club, so the whole team became his pallbearers, taking turns from a gathering in the middle of the soccer field all the way to the cemetery, instead of the usual pick-up truck. Lightning strikes like this chill me to the bone, reminding me of Chemo’s likely fate if he had not gotten his heart surgery.

Irene, Pablito and Chepito’s mother, got an early warning from María, the nurse who works in the local clinic. With all due discretion, María called me to see if I could help follow up some concerns she had about certain “woman problems” Irene was having. Both Pablito and Chepito pled ignorance, but I did take Irene to Dr. Karen Carrión in Victoria, who prescribed some pretty powerful meds--including a dose for Irene’s husband León, the town drunk, who probably infected her in the first place. The results of a pap smear will not come for weeks or even a month, perhaps, since they only send them up to a lab in Yoro when they have accumulated about a dozen tests. But, to tell the truth, cancer is a possibility, the doctor says.

They say the “Latino” vote put Obama over the top in the recent election. Maybe, but I’m not so sure that Jeremías would have endorsed the President. He was rotting in a Texas jail for illegals for the past seven months. Of course, none of us here in Las Vegas had any idea, including his wife, who gave birth to a baby boy while he was away. When I took Irene to Victoria, there was a letter at the post office waiting for me. I check frequently, so it must have just arrived, but it was dated September. It was sent to me, but it was for his parents, a long apology for his stupidities and lack of respect and indifference to his wife and two “girls” and a pledge to do better if he ever gets out. So I trudged to the edge of town where his parents live, to give them the bad news; but, as I approached the house, there sat Jeremías himself, shrunk and defenseless, but smiling. “I just got back yesterday.” He met his son for the first time, and was already planning to get back on his feet. “I’m going to sell firewood, at least for starters.” I guess it’s not official “policy,” but there are some guards in those prison camps who abuse the immigrants, and so I apologized for my country. You know, Jeremías is no innocent; this was the third time he snuck into the States, despite the fact that his brother Marcos was cut in half by a train some years ago when he fell off a boxcar. What you do to survive, let’s not even discuss.

I felt like I was on death row myself, as I waited forever for Chemo to finish his math test the other day. I sat just outside of his view, as his teacher David huddled nearby. I can only assume David was giving him just a little help, or that the power of prayer is really infinite, because CHEMO PASSED WITH 100%! We have two more tests to go. But we  can’t have come this far for nothing; the mere fact that David is actually cutting into his vacation time means, I think, that Chemo will get his ruby slippers.

Of course, Chemo is not the only one who has trouble with math. When I asked little Mariana Teresa how old she was going to be on her birthday, she held up two fingers and said, “Eight.” Her birthday cake said “3,” so that’s what we’re going with. She’s so special because her parents named her for my sister Mary Anne, who died in 2009, and Teresa Jorgen, who has been so good to their family.

Folks are heading to the hills, to “cut” coffee. They’ll be gone for months, most of them. For a lot of people, it’s their major income of the year. Dionis’ family has already taken off, though he stayed behind with his mother Natalia. Chemo and I will be eating supper over there soon, once our usual dinner-date, Santos and Alba and their kids, head out next week. I would love to go, just for the adventure of it--probably for about half a day. I mean, this coffee picking is tedious work, and the pay? A day’s work for what they charge at Starbuck’s for a “grande.”

Have a wonderful Holiday Season! You always convince me that, yes, there is a Santa Claus!

Love, Miguel

THE FOLLOWING THREE PARTS ARE ABOUT THE DEATH OF MY BROTHER BOB,
from October 24, 2012, to present (November 12)

MY DEAR BROTHER BOB, 54, the baby of the family, lies in a coma at Alexian Brothers Hospital in St. Louis, fighting probably for the last time the alcoholism that has bedeviled him since a teenager, with my sisters Barb and Nancy at his side. So I return to St. Louis broken-hearted once again, just hoping to help. (October 29 to November 20, or longer if necessary.) Like Hamlet, I am “even poor in thanks,” as I seek your prayers and life-giving good wishes.
And I’m going to do something I really haven’t done before, dear friends. I’m begging for money, to help pay my way. I’m still trying to pay off the previous two trips this year, so I’m swallowing my pride. What with all the hackers out there, you may doubt this desperate plea. But you can count on the security of PayPay, or you can contact me personally, once I arrive (314-210-5303).
_______________________________________________________________

MY BROTHER BOB'S FUNERAL SERVICE: Saturday, November 10, noon, at Ambruster Mortuary (6633 Clayton, across from the Esquire Theater; 314-863-1300), refreshments to follow. Come a little early, if you wish, for viewing.
Your gifts have been just overwhelming in lovingkindness! In fact, you offered (sacrificed!) enough to even help pay for the funeral, a little expenditure I neglected to calculate when I stuck my hand out--and to give some help to Jen and Nick, Bob's kids. Your prayers and good thoughts, of course, are incalculable.
On the day of Bob's death, his nephew Jason snapped this picture of the stormy sky with a big blue gateway shining through. The ultimate "viewfinder," which my brother John had taught us to appreciate before his death in July, to see better the "beautiful things in the world."
Any questions, call me 314-210-5303
__________________________________________________________________

WONDROUS LOVE

My brother Bob’s funeral last Saturday (Nov. 10) was a wondrous event, fulfilling all the longing and planning we put into it, especially my sisters Barb and Nancy. Emotions were pitched high from the start, even before the beginning, actually, when Bob’s son Nick, currently incarcerated, was permitted a short release on Friday, accompanied by three officers, to view his father at the mortuary and sit with him, quietly weeping and praying in private for at least a half hour.

At the funeral itself, the 60 or 70 folks who attended reminded us how big our “family” really is. Bob’s nephews Jason and Dan told personal and funny stories of Bob’s role in “raising” them. Rory Seals, a Dulick by his life-long intimacy with our family, shared his experiences of Bob, including his confidence in Bob’s final grasp for God and faith. But probably the most direct hits on our hearts were a letter from Nick and poems by Bob’s daughter Jenny. It fell to me to read these, because of Nick’s enforced absence and Jenny’s holding tight her two “babies,” Justyne and Jamie. But even I could barely get through it.

Nick wrote, in part:

“I am so sad about my dad, and I just can’t ever stop crying. It’s so hard, but I try to think about the one good thing, that he is no longer suffering.”

And a couple of Jenny’s verses:

Called “Bob” by many,
“Dad” by Jenny and Nick,
God took you from us
Because you were so sick.

It saddened our hearts,
As you took your last breath.
After all these years,
You were finally at rest.

Then, one more twist of the dial when Justyne, 9, surprised us with a letter she had written in crayon to God to take Bob home and give him a “party.” She read it herself, just so, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

We ended the ceremony with “Stairway to Heaven,” Bob’s favorite song, which they had played at the hospital as he passed away.

Thank you all again for the flood of kindness and concern, a grand and sweet embrace that we can never forget.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2012

NOW YOU ARE A MAN, MY (FORMER) SON

For last month’s CASA, check out The Beacon:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/26880/honduras_letter_class_090512

Chemo’s cardio-cath is now scheduled for some time after October 13, when the Brigada arrives for a two-week visit. I’m still nervous about any “intervention,” so please roll out the prayers and best wishes in advance. When it happens, I will send updates, rather than waiting till the next CASA in November.

Meanwhile, Chemo turned 18 on Sunday, September 9, so on Monday we caught the first bus to Victoria to claim his official I.D. at the local office of the National Registry of Persons. He’s come a long way since I first met him in 2006. I was so proud of him, but wondered at my own status, since Chemo’s “majority” means I lose my parental role as his foster-father. I apparently did a little too much thinking out loud, since he kept asking me if he had to move out. I kept re-assuring him--and myself--that our relationship was the same as ever, even closer, best of friends. But it’s a good thing I don’t have to pass any inspection, since I’m just barely qualified as “responsible.”

We had just made our bi-monthly visit to Morazan, where Fermin and María, and the kids, always look for an excuse to keep us “one more day.” This time they made an offer we could not refuse, a birthday party for Chemo! I helped María with the shopping, four different kinds of meat for barbecuing, including two types of sausages, but no cake, since Chemo said he really doesn’t like cake. Who knew? So we had watermelon.

“The kids” include Eduard, who had “class” with Chemo, to work through some more of his Maestro en Casa homework. Eduard has the magic touch, Chemo never gets bored.   And Esly, 17, whose photo still graces the staircase by the Parkway North High library, has her own radio show now, and wished Chemo “Feliz Cumpleaños” every hour on the hour. Arlin, 25, teacher (principal!), wife, and now mother, may not qualify as a “kid,” but Chemo’s party was the perfect opportunity to introduce little Fredi Jr. to us. He’s about the age that I first met Arlin when she was a newborn. Cycle of life!

Back in Las Vegas, Chemo got a little taste of “work” when Elvis invited him to do some woodworking with him. That lasted only a couple days, so I guess we’re not talking a career yet. But we do have to think about the future. It’s scarier than any surgery. And you can’t duck the issue the way the Honduran newspapers are, taking umbrage at the “miscalculation” of the country’s reputation for violence. Seems a United Nations office based their “slander” on a population of 7.8 million when the “real” number is 8.3 million. The U.N. and Honduras agree on the awful number of murders, but, you see, the AVERAGE is more favorable to Honduras’ good name if it’s only 77 per hundred thousand as opposed to 82 per hundred thousand. Enticing, huh? Come on down! The dirty little secret is that Honduras includes the million citizens living in the U.S.A. in its “official” population. Suffice it to say, Chemo’s--and everyone else in Honduras--chances of a violent death increase with each passing day.

But you can’t live like a mope. Life is for the living! Several events marked our faith in a hopeful future.

A convocation of all the Legions of Mary in the area, dedicated to service of the poor, especially elderly and shut-ins, celebrated their annual “open air” event by the river, Padre Manuel offering the Mass, with an abundance of song and socializing and good food and drink.

And Marcos, Chemo’s cousin, finally put a roof on his little house. They’ve had a hard time keeping the rains from melting the adobe walls, but I was waiting till I got a little extra money to help buy the zinc. They only needed 10 panels, and I really never have any “extra” money, but when Marcos finally asked, I couldn’t say no. “I’ll pay you back, Miguel, I promise, when I get some extra money.” Sounds like we’re both in the same boat! Anyway, it was fun to watch them “raising the roof” with their neighbor and expert builder Julio Barahona’s help. Marcos and Dania’s tiny kids--Beatriz, Lindolfito, and Daguito--were actually squealing and dancing around, they were so excited--for a tin roof! I provided refreshments and Natalia, Marcos’s mom, fixed breakfast for the gang.

I don’t know where they got the extra money, but my neighbor’s Jocelyn’s parents went all out for her 15th birthday, the traditional Quinceañera, a girl’s social debut. They invited me to the sit-down dinner and dance in the salón, and asked to borrow my chairs. They even arranged with Padre Jaime for a special Mass, which he graciously celebrated, including having Jocelyn, who is very active in the Youth Group, lead the Psalm reading: “I will walk in the ways of the Lord.” Jocelyn’s violet gown (matching all the decorations at the party) liked like a Rose Bowl float, so elaborate it was. Hope, and beauty.

Celebrating Honduran Independence Day (September 15, 1821) is nothing but hope! Instead of a parade this year, the school organized a “Noche Cultural,” a sort of “Las Vegas Has Talent.” It was fun, and a big crowd packed the salón, cheering and applauding their favorite acts. And there were plenty of performances to choose from, 55 in all!

Another kind of anniversary celebrated the memory of Teofilo Gutierrez and Isidro Velasquez, who were brutally murdered in the tiny community La Cuatro, just up the road, on September 16, 2003. The little village grew out of nothing, when a group, led by Teofilo and Isidro, quietly “invaded” the plot of ground that had been legally ceded to them by the government, provoking the violent attacks by the former “owners,” some 1-per-centers of Victoria. They hired the killers that tortured and dismembered the victims that the community immediately named “Martyrs.” When I arrived amidst a downpour about 6:00 p.m., I was amazed to find the little church ablaze, with electric lights, I mean! “When did you get electricity here?” I gasped. “Two days ago!” came the answer. But only in the church. This is a poor, I’m talkin’ dirt poor, community, so anyone installing lights in their own house will require some “outside” help, like a cousin or someone slaving away in the United States who can send a few bucks down. But so rich in faith--and hope. Kako recounted the history of the community, up to the most recent milestone, the passing of Paulino on August 8, a champion of the campesino his whole life, arrested, jailed, beaten innumerable times, but never beaten down. I took, I guess, the last picture of Paulino, couched fitfully in a hammock, attended by his father and sister, just before I headed up to the States for my brother John’s death in July. Paulino was 66, pretty young as far as I’m concerned, considering I turn 64 this October.

I guess I would be way too cynical to see Issa’s death as a sign of “hope.” I don’t know how to feel, actually. She owned three “depositos,” or liquor stores, the original one in Victoria, then she branched out to Las Vegas, and ultimately to the town of Altamira, up in the mountains. Morbidly obese, she seemed to embody the excesses she poisoned us with. Leon, Pablito and Chepito’s dad, was a frequent customer, wasting every little wage he might get on a liter of “guaro.” And so many others, including fathers from neighboring villages who brought their little sons along to load up a mule or donkey with cases of the stuff, to sell back home. Sunday was usually the busiest day, the corner park littered with men and teens too drunk to move. How does a woman, and a mother, do this, knowing that the real victims of her profit were the wives and children of the men she was destroying? Our little Alcoholics Anonymous could hardly compete. A man would join the group, and a weekend later, be back in the gutter. Not until her death did I learn Issa was diabetic, so she was fighting her own demons. With the deposito closed, I breathed a deep sigh of relief, till I noticed a brand-new one, just a  hole in the wall, you might say, on the same block. Easy come, easy come again. OK, I hope Issa is at peace; I pray that she had some time at the end to turn her heart to the one A.A. calls “Poder Superior,” the Higher Power.

But can God forgive us for “City Mall”? It’s the biggest mall in Central America, just opened in Tegucigalpa. Talk about excesses! You could fit our whole town inside its shiny walls. It’s a money-laundering tribute to our crucial position in the drug transfer from South to North. Reefer madness! A million Issas. But addicts can be confident of their investment--there’s a Popeye’s there, I see from the photos. Maybe Chemo and I will visit, just to say we did, but it’s a long cab ride from our little hotel, practically to the airport, a whole mess of traffic, so just getting there will be expensive.

I’m still hopeful Chemo will make his First Communion. When I accompanied him to his catechism class Wednesday afternoon, his very nice teacher Luisa said it’s the first time he’d come since June! “I even took his name off the list!” Seems that Chemo had taken advantage of my two emergency trips to the States, to drop out. So I just stayed and was as pleasant as possible; Luisa even asked me to do the opening prayer. Chemo, for his part, even answered a question. I didn’t ask Luisa for any favors or special treatment, though if Chemo has to repeat the class next year, he’ll be making his First Communion about the age most people get married! The majority of the kids are 8 or 9 years old. No wonder he’s reluctant. But I would love to bequeath him this legacy of our faith. You know, Catholics consider Communion a miracle; can you really “prepare” yourself for that? And a mystery. A few classes can “explain” it? Most adults can hardly appreciate its magnitude. I’ve known two priests who maybe had a special glimpse of the Real Presence; they would actually cry at Mass. So I’ll know Chemo is a man, when he cries like a baby.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--2012


“YOU GOT THE JUICE, NOW”

https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/26383/dulick_brother_080712

Besides my brother John’s memorial, there were four more funerals, not to mention the two I missed in Las Vegas. I think folks are going to run and hide when they hear I’m coming to town.

I already told you last month about John’s beautiful day (see the link above, to The Beacon). There were about 60 guests, but I never could have imagined how we would multiply. Melissa Pomerantz, who teaches writing at Parkway North High School, exclaimed, “There he is!” when I appeared unannounced at her class, making my “rounds.” Then I noticed, “Dear Dr. Dulick,” on the board. What the ...? Soon she explained, and you won’t believe this! For their first exercise, she had her students write sympathy notes to me for my brother’s death. Not only that. You remember that John’s service was focused, as it were, on his unique idea to make a little viewfinder in a piece of construction paper to better appreciate “so many beautiful things in the world.” Melissa’s class made viewfinders! “I just didn’t want you to mourn alone,” she said, and I just about lost it. She gave me the letters, 26 in all, and you can tell me, from a few excerpts, if they sound like they’re from strangers.

Dear Dr. Dulick,
Today as I woke up I thought today would be just another day of school. Until Ms. Pomerantz’ class. In this class we learned about you and your brother. He is one of  the heroes of the world! Giving back is a huge thing and I’m very sorry for your lost. I don’t know your brother but just by hearing about him I know he’s in Good Hands.
P.S. Keep making us smile!

Dear Dr. Dulick,
I am a student in Ms. Pomerantz’ class. We just heard about your brother’s last voice message and the lesson he left inside. Everyone took a piece of construction paper and cut a box in the middle of it. Then we all found an object in the room and looked at it with more detail. We overlook beautiful things, because we don’t take time to focus on the little things. The view finder in my opinion helps block the negativity in the world and helps find the beauty in normal everyday objects.

Dear Dr. Dulick,
I am not a person of many words. However, your eulogy for your brother sent shivers down my spine and left me with two words, the first one being “beautiful,” and the second being “precious. I would like to thank you and say very sorry for your lost.
Well, you got the juice now, Dr. Dulick.

“Sorry for your LOST.” Not a mistake, really, since that’s how we felt.

When I go to St. Louis, I get very kind invitations to dinner, and folks ask me what I’d like to eat. Maybe a steak? pasta? barbecue? Never in a million years--well, the past 10 years anyway--would it have occurred to me to say, “How about a Thanksgiving dinner?” But dear friends Mary and Larry had a hunch I would enjoy it. Usually they run every item on the menu past me beforehand, so I was a little suspicious when not a single consultation was sought. Thanksgiving Day in the middle of summer! An idea as creative as my brother John’s viewfinder. But, believe me, I didn’t spend much time lookin’ at it; I just dove in. My first turkey dinner since I moved to Honduras in 2003. And gravy, and sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie!

Now, speaking of surprising meals, my sister Barb sure got a mouthful when her son Jason and his wife Sonja invited her to Blueberry Hill for the “official” announcement of the sex of their second baby, due January 15. They handed her this enormous cupcake that had either a pink or blue lollipop inside. Barb took a tentative bite, and then a big gulp. “It’s a boy!” A little brother for Jaslyn. The way we all carried on, the Loop probably thought they had another riot on their hands. Jason is head football coach at Gateway Tech, and some Rams came to the dedication of Gateway’s new field. Just between you and me, I think Jason’s going to have the better season.

If kids don’t motivate you, nothing will. Teresa Jorgen treated me and her nephew Bryan and his mom to “The Lion King” at the Fox. I had never seen the stage show before, and I was overwhelmed. As the lights came up for intermission, Teresa thought something was wrong. “No, no, I’m crying, but I’m happy.” It’s about great losses, a father, a son, a family, impossible odds, life and death--well, you know the story. You got the juice now, Simba.

I couldn’t even say how much I missed Chemo. If only I could have shown up in his sky by night, like the lion king. I did call several times, both looking at the same moon.

I did not get back to Honduras till the end of August, but three major events crammed the schedule.

First, a wedding. Weddings are a rarity around here. Oh, most people are “casados,” but that is, shall we say, a social, not a legal status. And unlike the United States, a church wedding is not legal, either. So when Tania and Dennis put up their status on FACEBOOK as “Married,” I wondered. “Oh, we got married civilly here in San Pedro Sula, but for us, the real wedding will be in Las Vegas, at the church!” Now, of course, the church encourages a sacramental union, but no young couple can imagine a wedding without the bash, and that’s expensive. That’s probably why Tania and Dennis put at the bottom of their wedding invitation: “Your gifts, please, in cash.”

I’ve known Tania all her life. One of Erlinda and Guillermo’s twelve children, among whom are Maricela, mother of Helen and Marité, Tania has that beauty and charm and presence that make all the family natural actors, dancers, performers of all kinds. So a wedding was the perfect stage, and she did not disappoint. Dennis played his part very well, too. Sort of a fairy-tale, but for real!

That was Saturday, August 25. The very next day, another blowout, the annual parish-wide celebration to conclude the Month of the Family, with about 3000 in attendance. Two years ago, Las Vegas played host, and it was a huge amount of work. This year it was Victoria’s turn. The crowd gathered at the clinic at the edge of town and paraded through the streets singing and stopping every now and then for a little preaching from the pastor, Padre Jaime, all the way to the church at the other end of town. Padre Jaime loves these “processions”; it’s his way of reminding everyone of the Catholic culture in the community. But, what with the heat and the distance, I was exhausted by the time we reached our destination. Chemo was being very cooperative, but there was no way we could even get inside the crowded church. So we snuck away a little early to get something to eat. Still, it was a glorious day.

We had to save our strength for the next day, the long bus trip to Tegucigalpa, to celebrate Elio’s birthday. Because of this big parish thing, I had missed Elio’s last three birthdays, so, even though I had just been in Tegucigalpa returning from the States, I headed right back there. Not only me and Chemo, but his nephew Joel and cousin Dionis. I knew it was crazy, but I figured, one, Chemo had not been to Tegus since April, and, two, much as I enjoy Chemo, a kid wants companions his own age. Also, call me morbid, but Chemo’s operation is coming up in October, and anything can happen. Should I be cutting back right now, like the Ryan budget?

If anything, Elio was cutting back, and he apologized that the party was more “modest” this year, due to economic restraints. But with Mema his wife and the rest of his family and friends there, it’s always a “fiesta,” so much love and fun, and dancing! Not to mention the food! If they were cutting back, you sure couldn’t tell. I had two big helpings, at Mema’s insistence, of course.

The next day, the boys played the arcade for four hours straight, interrupted only by supper at Pizza Hut. For some reason, they weren’t even interested in the dodge ’em cars. Joel was already complaining of a headache, so maybe that was it. The non-stop eating made up for the lack of any competition; they were “starving” all the time. And I guess I had super-sized my belly in St. Louis, so I always had room for more, too.

But my diet will have to wait at least one more week. We’re off to Progreso and Morazán, to catch up on our visits there. So we can’t be skimping!

Oh, yes, one more thing. The kids thank you for the donations of clothes! And even a doll!

This just in! When Chepito spotted my copy of the Summer issue of “The Round Table,” published by Karen House, the Catholic Worker shelter for women and children in North St. Louis, he folded it up and snuck it out of the house. He just brought me his full-color version of the striking cover drawing by Carolyn Griffeth. Its theme, “Life Together,” rooted in community. Can we keep that in mind, especially in these contentious times?

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2012

“THERE’S SO MANY BEAUTIFUL THINGS IN THE WORLD”

Check out last month’s CASA in THE BEACON:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/25860/honduras_heart_delay_070212

Forest Park, Sunday morning, August 5, nicest weather all summer. A hawk circling overhead, lighting in the nearest oak tree, a loose red balloon rolling up and down the shallow hill. Broadway show tunes filling the air. This was the setting for the “funeral” of my brother John, who died of a heart attack July 21. Not so much a funeral, a celebration of his Wonderful Life. Family and friends offered memories and reflections, including “Bi-State” John, a retired bus driver. “When we first met, we didn’t even like each other; then we decided that was taking too much of our energy, so we quit that, and we were friends for 30 years.” My sister Barb played one of his last voicemails, which was printed on his memory card, featuring a cut-out “viewfinder.”

“I know you’re getting a little bit down. You know, there’s so many beautiful things
in the world, and you can appreciate them. You know what you ought to do? Get
a piece of cardboard and cut a little square inside of it and then walk around the
neighborhood with it like a viewfinder, and try to make beautiful pictures that
balance out, and you can try different things. Turn it all kinds of whichways, and
get all kinds of things in the corner, and just examine, just try different things.
I think you’ll find it kind of fascinating.”

I am in St. Louis till August 21.

Meanwhile, back in Honduras...

Chemo’s education has hit a snag, maybe a wall. His teacher, David, has not been showing up for the Saturday class. “I’ll be there next week,” is all he says when I call. David is the new coordinator for the Youth Group in Victoria, and Saturday is prime time for the teens, most of whom are in school during the week. Then, David’s brother-in-law was murdered in Santa Rita, a town near El Progreso. We get this news from Patricio Palma, another Maestro en Casa teacher, whose own brother, a lawyer working with the poor, was murdered last year in El Progreso. In a sense, Chemo IS getting an education, Murder and Mayhem 101.

Frustrated by David’s absence, I told Chemo we had to strike out on our own. So we were working our way through the lessons, finishing the Spanish section and marching through Social Sciences. Patricio offered to help, at least with the quizzes, and showed us the schedule. He’s got this booklet, three quizzes per subject, and I’m desperately trying to peek over his shoulder to see the questions as he paged through it. Oh, for a photographic memory! Of course, I wouldn’t call it cheating--it’s resourceful.

Speaking of resourceful, Loyda has opened her own business. Devastated by the murder of her husband Gerardo (“Tato”), whose merciless fate I wrote about last month, she was just spinning her wheels in a disfiguring grief, caring for Tatito, their two-year-old, as well as possible, without breaking down. Then her older sister Miriam showed her a way out. Tato’s company, Russell Athletic, quickly paid his life insurance of 6000 Lempiras (about $300), and Miriam suggested they open a little restaurant in a space recently vacated, right by the soccer field. And so they have. When the kids kept telling me Loyda was “working” in the “merendero,” I assumed she was an employee. Finally, I understood, but I was still doubtful; by that time, we were there, so I went in and saw the layout, with Miriam seating some customers, Loyda in the kitchen. “This is yours?” I said. “Ours!” and their smiles lit up their faces. So I turned to the kids, huddling in the doorway. “Let’s eat!” And we all had enchiladas. It’s a little store, too, so I did my best to think of a few items I needed to pick up.

July 20 is the Día de Lempira, honoring the original hero of Honduras who resisted the arrival of the conquering Spanish empire 500 years ago. Chief Lempira, the rare “Indian” who did not wear feathers, was having some success, until the invaders invited him to a “peace conference” and ambushed him on the way. It’s been pretty much downhill ever since. Our currency bears his name, and it’s nice enough that someone like Loyda can continue his proud struggle for independence in some small way.

Honduras scored another triumph against the “mother country,” when the Olympic soccer team eliminated Spain, the current world champion, from the London games, 1-0, in the first round! Of course, thanks to that imperious NBC, most Hondurans could not even watch the game unless they happened to have cable that included an NBC affiliate from, say, Miami. But it didn’t stop the celebration. The agony was, Honduras scored in the first 6 minutes and then had to hold on for the remaining hour and a half to seal the deal. In the second round, Honduras lost to Brazil, the soccer equivalent of Transformers, but Honduras put a scare into them, scoring 2 goals.

Not all teamwork is for competition. In the nearby village of Nueva Palmira, Doña Fausta, in her late 70s, had no place to live once her mean-spirited daughter Dora kicked her out of the house. No good reason; seems Fausta had spoken well of a teen-aged grandson that Dora had already disowned. So neighbors got together to build Fausta a house of her own. A simple thing, of sticks and mud, virtually no cost, but Fausta was thrilled and invited me to the house blessing, a celebración with music and prayer.

Godo, too, needed help. His wife Laura has been waiting for a thyroid operation for three months, shuffling back and forth between Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula, hoping to slip through a picket line somewhere. First, the doctors went on strike, then the medical students went on strike, then the orderlies and housekeepers, then the nurses, then the administration itself when they were replaced with faculty from the medical school. So Godo’s cornfield languished; he barely had time to plant, way late, the little sprouts just inches tall while his neighbors’ crops were already up to their shoulders. So friends gathered one morning to “clean” the rows, that is, hoe the weeds down. We started at 6:00 a.m., to beat the heat. There were 13 of us; I of course was useless, once the rest of the crew realized I couldn’t tell the corn from the non-corn. So for the four hours that we (they!) worked, I was the cheerleader, or, to use an Olympics reference, coxswain. I treated everyone to cold sodas afterwards, as the sun came on full strength.

Let me thank you once more for the messages of sympathy and concern and love and caring and friendship upon the death of my brother John. It means so much to me, more than I can ever say. It proves John’s point, “There’s so many beautiful things in the world.” So many beautiful people.

Love, Miguel

MY BIG BROTHER JOHN DULICK, REST IN PEACE

My brother John, first-born of the family, died suddenly of a heart attack July 21, 2012.

My sister Barb and nephew Dan went to the Muny the night before and had promised to tell John all about "Dreamgirls," a show he loved, when the call came early Saturday morning from Page Manor, where John
was a resident. He really made our whole family sing! As kids, John and I shared a bedroom, and Broadway musicals were always on the record player. Because of him, the first record I ever bought was "West Side Story" in 1957 (NOT the movie, please, the original cast), when I was 10 years old! He quit all jobs to help take care of our mother Alice (better known as Gaga, a name the grandkids gave her), from 1979 when she had a stroke, till her death in 1999, at Barb's house, who cleared out the dining room for a hospital bed. Now, to tell the truth, they were both "strong" personalities, so they'd clash sometimes, but it kept both of them "in shape," you might say! And he'd take her everywhere, in her wheelchair, especially to the Muny, which she loved as much as he did. And to Church's Chicken, which I think John was a fan of maybe a little more than my mother....
My sister Nancy is out in California with her daughter Bec and new baby Isaiah; she was already planning to come back this week, and, according to Barb, all she kept talking about was taking John to the Muny. My brother Bob, the "baby" of the family, 54, texted me in Honduras with all that anyone could say. "I'm very sad. How are you doing?"
Our family is shrinking. My father in 1976 (heart attack), my mother 1999, my sister Mary Anne 2009, now John. We kids were 3 and 3, three boys, three girls; now we're 2 and 2. I never did like math.

I just posted on FACEBOOK:
MY BIG BROTHER JOHN DULICK, 69, died Saturday morning (July 21, 2012) of a heart attack at Page Manor, a group home in St. Louis. Indigent himself, he had an active ministry to the homeless in “Bum Park” downtown, even including puppet shows with a grocery cart for a stage. Never married, his legacy shines in “the lights on Broadway” of the musicals he loved, including “Dreamgirls,” playing at the Muny. Memorial plans have yet to be made. Meanwhile, find him in the Free Seats.
I will be in St. Louis July 25--August 21. Cell 314-210-5303.
_______________________________________________________________________________

As I write this, the "notifications," are pouring in from Facebook in the corner of my computer screen,
one kind note after another. I never loved FACEBOOK so much till just now!

I was so lucky to see John just a few weeks ago, and now I return to St. Louis for the final
curtain. But I will extend my time, to visit with as many of you as possible, because you are
"family," too!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2012

To view the June newsletter in HD, click the link to THE BEACON:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/25313/dulick_may_flores_053012

CHEMO ON HOLD

They have postponed Chemo’s cardio-cath operation till October. The folks of the Brigada, composed of world-class doctors and nurses from the United States and elsewhere, are the best people on Earth, but the reason surprised me. “Unfortunately, we do not have a cardiologist in June.” What? They’re doing open-heart surgery on kids and they’re not cardiologists? But, wait. While the catheterization to plug a tiny hole in Chemo’s heart is obviously a much simpler procedure than cutting into a child’s chest cavity, it takes a...cardiologist. All I know is that Dr. Manuel Acuna, who diagnosed Chemo’s problem in April, will be back in October. We’ll just have to wait.

But there is some urgency to Chemo’s situation, or so I thought. By October, Chemo will be 18, and I will no longer be his legal guardian. Everyone is assuring me it will be no problem, because he will be “of age.” He can sign himself into the hospital. OK, but I’m still a little nervous. Please bridge the gap with your kind thoughts and prayers.

I went to St. Louis for two weeks to catch up on my sisters Barb and Nancy, and my brothers John and Bob. Barb loves Mondays, when she babysits her granddaughter Jaslyn, and nieces Jaime and Justine. And Jason and Sonja broke the news that Jaslyn would be getting a little brother or sister next January. Nancy brought her dog Jah to compete in the friendly little neighborhood dog show, where he won “Fluffiest Dog.” Nancy’s son Dan stays the summers at Barb’s house and turned us on to the night drummers in Forest Park. We saw the Chinese Lanterns at Shaw’s Garden. We ate at Crown Candy, where Barb swears she could win the 5-malt challenge. Believe me, any of us Dulicks would like to try! We took John to lunch at Steak n Shake, and he distributed the clippings and articles he collects that he knows will be of interest to one or another of us. I also got to meet my newest little niece, Lara, daughter of Nancy Myia and her husband Geoff. But I still fell short. I could not connect with Bob; living on Social Security disability, he cannot even pay his phone. Ironically, I finally talked with him after I got back to Honduras. The Caller ID said I was calling from Louisiana.

Extending “family” a little, I was so fortunate to see Fr. Dick Dunphy, S.J., just diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. He’s opting out of “treatment,” but he is not sad, much less afraid. With the same luminous serenity that has blessed hundreds of retreatants over the years, he says, “Miguel, I am ready, for the Light.”

I also got to attend Teresa Jorgen’s nephew Bryan’s graduation from Lindbergh High School. The ceremony was at St. Louis U’s Chaifetz Center, where they even built a special ramp for Bryan’s wheelchair. That same weekend, I saw Bryan at Challenger Baseball, where he scored three runs with his patented “slide” into Home.

Former student Jennifer Pittman stepped out of FACEBOOK when she posted that she would be in St. Louis, taking a break from a high-tech consulting stint at Las Vegas, Nevada, hospitals, and could we get together? Class of 2000 at Parkway North, she had to represent all the wonderful students I have been reconnecting with till I come back in September, when I hope to see a lot more.

I got to pet the hand that feeds me when I showed up at The Beacon just to say hi, and they invited me to their staff meeting! There I could see live the fairness, excellence, and commitment that is on display in every edition.

Meanwhile, I started planning my return to St. Louis in September to coincide with the “Labor of Love” walk/run fundraiser for Micah House, a great place in Tegucigalpa that takes kids in off the streets and sponsors their education all the way to university, if they want to go that far. I have visited them a few times, but they have to move to a safer part of the city. Jeanette Sipp-White, who is fighting through the tangles of Honduran bureaucracy to adopt a child, is one of the main organizers. As a Spanish teacher at Parkway South High School, she has already done so much for “my” kids in Las Vegas, and always arranges for my talks to students at South. I already signed up online. Gonna get a free tee-shirt! It’s on Labor Day, see? So “Labor of Love.”
http://www.micah2point0.org/#/micah-20-events/labor-of-love-info?ref=em-A843hlZTfV5G

When Pastor Dennis Lindberg was at St. John’s Mercy on a death-watch following a heart attack, I swore to the family that I would visit him there, in the ICU, as soon as I could get to St. Louis. When a dozen little miracles gave him a chance for recovery, I swore I would visit him in his hospital room, which seemed to change every time his wife Jane posted on Caring Bridge. When he continued to improve, and they secured a place for him at a rehab out on Olive St. Rd., I googled a map so I could visit him there. But, heck, by the time I actually got to St. Louis, he was back home! So we had a wonderful dinner on the deck, all very low-cal, low-salt, low-fat, but still  tasty, including strawberry shortcake, and Dennis never looked better!

Suddenly, Honduras jumped on my back when Gerardo (“Tato”) Barahona, 25, was murdered in San Pedro Sula. It was a robbery after dark, some depraved kid, high or drunk, armed with a broken bottle, gouged a hole in Gerardo’s leg despite the jeans he was wearing, ripping an artery. Gerardo, a husky guy, Army-trained, smart, handsome, a
supervisor at the local Russell Athletic plant, loving husband of Loyda and daddy of a two-year old, Tatito, a proud Las Vegas success story, was lost--he quickly bled to death. I think I read somewhere it only takes 6 pumps of the heart to shoot enough blood out of the body to kill you.

I last saw Gerardo when he came home for Holy Week. And now I shuddered to think of the screams in Las Vegas, where the biggest “news” lately had been a supposed face of Jesus miraculously “carved” into the trunk of a cedar tree near the cemetery. Gerardo’s mother Jacobina, crippled by a twisted leg, is Las Vegas’ go-to baker for the rolls and breads served with coffee at our communal grievings, and a horrible image popped into my mind, if Jacobina baked the breads for her own son’s funeral, poisoning any pleasure in her livelihood forever. But neighbors quickly intervened. Maricela, who lives nearby, assured me, “Miguel, it was never even a question, we did all the baking.”

When I finally got back to Honduras, I saw Jacobina’s ruined face; she was all but destroyed. Mothers--and fathers--who lose their sons, their children, are torn inside out by an unspeakable, unbearable grief, forever stamped in Picasso’s 1937 painting “Woman Weeping.” For the sorry task of emptying all of Gerardo’s stuff in San Pedro, they borrowed a truck and returned with a huge load, including a refrigerator, a washing machine, a bed, sofa, furniture, a ton of clothes. Gerardo had settled into a good life, never expecting a catastrophe. They all went, Jacobina, two other sons Noelvis and Felix, her daughter Nancy and Nancy’s husband Osman, plus her father, old Pedro, the fearless veteran of the fireworks that I talked about last month; a face of granite, but with this blow, water from the rock in unaccustomed tears; I had never before seen him even come close to crying; a man of deep faith his whole life, now his twisted expression seemed to say, helplessly, “Why?”

Management at Gerardo’s work took advantage of the family’s return to present them with a special memorial they had made, a photo of Gerardo framed with their signature shirt “QUALITY.” (In a short video of the funeral that someone showed me, I saw a similar shirt signed by Gerardo’s fellow workers, draping his casket.)

That gave me the idea to ask Chepito to do one of his drawings for Jacobina. He said he would, but after about a week passed, he gave up: “I don’t know what to draw.” Then I remembered that in St. Louis my sister Nancy had picked one of Chepito’s drawings, a heart with wings. So he did that, and he went one better; he also drew a gorgeous emblem of Gerardo’s favorite soccer team, Barcelona. The hardest part was to get Chepito to actually hand the drawings to Jacobina; I finally had to do it, the artist himself    standing at the door. But Jacobina was not shy about her gratitude, and her face softened.

Gerardo is a perfect statistic for Honduras. One of the daily average of 17 violent deaths, up to 500 a month, most of the carnage a human sacrifice to the god of drugs, whose worship prostrates the youth--and other “hipsters”--of the United States. Honduras is just the mailbox, between Colombia, Venezuela, etc., and your local dealer. But it’s a pipeline full of blood. Some say legalize, legalize. Here, the corruption is so wide and deep that the same criminals would no doubt still have all the money even if the laws changed. And in the U.S., the “choom” train runs on tracks of corruption, too, filling for-profit jails with first offenders. Yet I guess I cannot call myself a Christian, or a believer, or even a person, if I do not have a hope of salvation for every human being. Like the father of the poor, bedeviled boy in the gospel, I cry, “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!”

So, the other day, about four weeks after his death, I gathered a group of kids to visit Gerardo’s grave, where we said the Rosary. The load of flowers that had painted the mound of dirt with bright colors were all brown and brittle now, dust to dust.
But there is hope, as long as a baby gets born, or a birthday is celebrated. Maricela’s Helen turned 13, and her brother Felipe made his First Communion, so we combined the celebrations, and Carlota designed the perfect cake for it, a half and half. Santos, 38. and daughter Mirna, 14, share the same birthday, and for them Profe Flor whipped up one of her giant confections with barely a day’s notice. Cristian and Aurora had a baby girl that, after a week or so of debate, they named Yeimi Tatiana, the first so called, I’m sure, in these parts!

And, against all odds, I guess you could say, the parish celebrated its second annual Youth Day, in Victoria. A big crowd gathered to affirm our faith, beg for hope, and choose love.

Yet nothing gold can stay. So, while I was still working on this dreadful letter, this tiny child with a big name, Jeslyn Mercedes Dubon Ramirez, was born; she spent just one day with us and the rest in eternity. Her daddy Oscar with her little casket, the mother Deysi beside herself, we trudged up to the cemetery, past the mournful Jesus in the cedar tree, to console the family as well as we could with sheer numbers. “Mercedes,” of course, means ‘mercy,’ that--would to God!--tempers all our disputes and conflicts and empty longings.

I used to read a Shakespeare play every now and then; it’s been at least a couple years, so I thought I’d try his last one “Henry VIII,” returning to his salad days, when he cut his dramatic teeth on English history. Cardinal Woolsey, the villain of the piece, the very image of corruption, is laid low at last. Chastened and repentant, he seems to mouth Shakespeare’s own hard-won wisdom at the end of his career.

“Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in the right hand carry gentle peace
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not.” (3.2.441-447)

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2012

I’m sending this a little early because I’m making an unscheduled “family visit” to St. Louis May 28-June 12. And then comes Chemo’s operation when I return to Honduras. Your kind thoughts and prayers are much appreciated.

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

The Beacon graced my last report with its special look:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/24803/dulick_chemo_heart_050212

The month of May began with Las Vegas’ annual celebration of our patron “saint,” the Holy Cross. For the first time, thanks to Padre Manuel, a distinction was made between FIESTA (‘feast’)--three days of religious services, the vigil, the processions, two Masses, etc.--and another three days of FERIA (‘fair’)--a parade, contests, dances, the crowning of the “Queen” and her court, the “carnival” grand finale. There was some overlap, with lots of fireworks for both modes, thanks to the fearless Pedro Cruz, who lights the rockets right in his hand. And remarkably few drunks.

With crosses dressed, as it were, in flowers, our little church becomes a jewel. I encourage the kids as much as I can, but those who have become teens barely have enough interest even to look on, much less participate. Every time Chemo does something, I thank him sincerely, you know, without losing my cool. And when, as happens more often, he’s missing in action, I try just as sincerely to re-invite him, without overdoing the guilt trip. But it really is sweet when he’s “there.” The Masses were filled to overflowing.

“Las cintas” is probably everyone’s favorite contest--running a horse at full speed to pluck a tiny ring on a ribbon (a ‘cinta’) off a wire, with only a ballpoint pen. I can’t believe anyone could do it even once, but the winner is the one with the most sashes (also called ‘cintas’) for each ring they snatch. A young wizard from Yorito was the champion with five cintas, but the crowd favorite was old Manuel, who finally got a ring after twenty tries on the very last ride of the afternoon. Of course, by that time, his exhausted horse had slowed down so much that it was just a little easier to aim that pen!

A beauty pageant seems a contradiction to the way the Romans paraded Jesus around before they crucified him, but any excuse for dress-up can not be denied. And this year, crowning the Queen of the Fair seemed to have some special meaning, not totally unrelated to Jesus, the “suffering servant” crowned with thorns. María Josefa, 14, had to drop out of school this year after a series of seizures; for someone always in the mix of things, it’s hard to recede into repose. But her friends did not forget her, and she was their choice for the fanciest title of the week.

Threading through the fiesta/feria was the novenario following the death of Doña Sofía, 103 years old. As I remarked, when it was my turn to lead the prayer, this lovely old lady perfectly timed her passing to keep us all focused on what mattered most, the love that makes our faith real and creates one family of us all. Oh, there were tears, of course, but one of her grandsons, at the burial, said, “We were so blessed to have her with us so long.” A great-great grandson could have given the same speech! I don’t have a picture of Doña Sofía (she moved to Tegucigalpa some years ago, though she did help her daughter Juana feed me meals when I was coming to Las Vegas back in the 80s), so I thought I’d include a photo of one of her “boyfriends,” Chaguito, 105 years old! “We grew up together--we had some fun!” I pass his house a couple times a week, and he’s always sitting out on the porch. You think he’s blind, you think he’s deaf, but nope. “Come on in and visit!” You really can’t say no, thinking he could leave us, too, any day. He loves to sing--and dance! which he does at the annual Seniors Ball during the fiesta.

May brings Mother’s Day, too; here, that becomes a whole month of “las flores” (flowers) for the Virgin Mary. This is especially for the little kids, and they seem to love to put their tiny bouquets at Mary’s statue, “walking” up the short aisle every afternoon on their knees, not really grasping what they’re even doing, but shining in their innocence.

The rainy season began with a bang, a thunderclap, actually, on Saturday, May 12. Chemo and I were eating supper at Alba’s when the huge storm broke like a dam, the rain flying sideways and the winds flattening the outhouse in back like a cardboard box. We all huddled in the kitchen to await our fate. But, as suddenly as it attacked, the storm slunk away. Another just like it burst out at noon Sunday, just as Mass was ending (too bad if you left early!). Since then, the rains have been gentler, daily, sometimes in the morning, or in the afternoon, or evening, or overnight. The soccer field greened up so fast it looked as if it had been painted. This regularity, they say, results from La Niña’s cycling off at last, the weather phenomenon that, in contrast to its more famous “cousin” El Niño, caused droughts in the Latin Americas with warm Pacific winds. (Last year, sporadic rains didn’t start till the end of June.) Now folks are scrambling to start planting--not even waiting for the right Moon (which you can’t see these cloudy nights, anyway) or Pentecost, the luckiest day to sow, some say. Maybe you noticed we’ve already had the first hurricane, Albert, two weeks before the official start of the season; a weak thing, it came and went, just teasing the coast off the Carolinas, nowhere near Honduras. Hopes are that other storms will be similarly even-tempered this year. (And now Beryl is flitting along the same area.)

Speaking of Mass, we have taken a big step toward becoming a whole parish. We now have Mass every Sunday. (It used to be once a month.) Padre Manuel keeps things lively, but he’s got a definite agenda. “Las Vegas is a wonderful faith community, but it lacks one thing: we’ve got to organize!” He’s the one to help us do it, too, because he manages the most efficient meetings you ever saw; no one gets to complain, accuse, or excuse. A problem is identified, a concrete solution proposed, personnel committed, a date set for completion and evaluation. Bang bang bang, not yadda yadda yadda. He’s trying to extinguish the constant phrase, “Si Dios quiere” (‘God willing’). “Don’t worry about God, God will come along if we just get going!”

Well, OK, but I did pray like crazy that Chemo would pass his first big test this past Saturday with Maestro en Casa. And he passed! (Of course, we did study like crazy, too.) I was in Tegucigalpa, ready for my trip to St. Louis, but I kept in close touch. Somehow Chemo recently acquired a cell phone (all I know is, he didn’t steal it!). So I called in the morning, and before the test, and right before the test, and called his teacher David just before the test, and then waited an agonizing hour till Chemo called me with the good news. But David said there’d be another test next Saturday. Well, David has to pass Chemo when he’s the only student in the class, doesn’t he? I mean, God willing! (Chemo looks so scholarly in his new glasses!) Oh, and what was the test? Mostly on accents, aguda, grave, and esdrújula. I had to bite my tongue, you know, lest Chemo question the value of such trivia.

Pastor Dennis Lindberg certainly passed his biggest test. Last month I wrote about his heart attack and miraculous recovery. Six weeks later, he’s now back home, with visits from therapists and such, and making great progress on dancing the foxtrot with his remarkable wife Jane!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2012


ON THE ROAD AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN

Enjoy last month’s newsletter the way it was meant to be, thanks to The Beacon: https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/23933/honduras_knockout_death_in_stlouis_too

Chemo needs another operation. My Facebook “FRIENDS” have already been alerted to this news, but let me fill in the details. 

Four years after the open-heart surgery that saved his life, Chemo needs a touch-up. They say it’s a simple thing, placing a tiny stopper up in a valve in the heart by way of catheretization through a vein in the groin. Chemo has something called PDA. When Dr. Manuel Acuna, who had come all the way from Venezuela to join the latest Helping Hands for Honduras brigade (handsforhonduras.org), repeated this a couple times after examining Chemo with an echocardiogram, he finally wrote it down. I guess I had a pretty dumb look on my face. PDA? Public Display of Affection? No, PDA is Patent Ductus Arteriosus. “Let’s talk in English, so the boy won’t get scared.” Too late for that! And, heck, Chemo wasn’t the nervous one--I was scared to death, though doing my best to disguise it. Another problem is myiocardiopathy (who invents these names, Scrabble?), which is treated with medication. Pills the rest of his life, I guess. 

We had gone to Tegucigalpa to pick up my new passport, waiting for me at the U.S. embassy. (Have you seen one of these things? It’s like a little laptop, no doubt embedded with a GPS to track you to Timbuktu.) But we knew the latest brigade was in town, so I wanted to say hi and show off Chemo again to Ron Roll, who loves him like his own kid and regards him as one of their greatest success stories. “Look at you! You’ve got a mustache!” Then he launches into stories about how desperate Chemo’s situation was, his little friends carrying him around on a branch, and how I’m a saint because I rescued him when he had no one, and on and on. 

It was at that point that Brian Smith, one of the volunteers, said, “Well, let’s check him out.” So they wheeled in the ultra-sound machine, and Dr. Manuel made his diagnosis. Ron says, “OK, Chemo, you’ll be first in line in June,” when the brigade returns. Can you keep him in your thoughts and prayers till then? There’s actually a narrowing window of opportunity, since Chemo turns 18 in September, when he no longer qualifies for “pediatric” care. We also snuck in a quick visit to the dentist; despite a year-and-a-half gap since his last check-up, Chemo had no new cavities, a tribute, perhaps, to the whole milk he drinks every day with his breakfast. (It can’t be our brushing regimen, which neither of us is faithful to!) A cleaning sufficed, from a boy doctor who looked to be younger than Chemo! I did not even mention the shard in my own mouth from when I cracked a tooth on...oatmeal (I swear!). It doesn’t hurt--yet--so let’s just ignore it. Age. 

Two weeks earlier, I had an appointment at the embassy to APPLY for my new passport. I imagined it as routine, but it turned into a three-ring circus--namely, Chemo, Joel, and Dionis, his cousins. They begged to go along, and at first I was determined to dash their hopes since Joel and Dionis had both just dropped out of seventh grade. You shouldn’t reward failure, right? But neither should you be a hard-ass. My cap says “PERDON”--FORGIVE--and there’s never enough of that, so I relented. Of course, every expense was tripled, gouging my budget, but what can ya do? They ate and played (mostly Dodge ‘em cars), then they played and ate, and played and played, and ate and ate. Everybody got one shirt and one short, and another item or two. 

And there was still time for Elio to give us a tour of a wind farm near Tegucigalpa. Seems a little too cutting edge for a country like Honduras, where any kind of electricity is still at a premium, but if you got it, flaunt it! 

In between the two Tegus excursions, Chemo and I went to Morazan to see Fermin for some extra help with his Maestro en Casa homework. I knew Fermin would be too busy, with two teaching jobs (high school in the morning, grade school in the afternoon), but Plan B was, in fact, even better. Fermin’s son, Eduard, same age as Chemo, except he’s got a teacher-college degree, also teaches with Maestro en Casa. So they sat down and worked together all afternoon one day, and all morning the next, and Chemo loved it! I wanted to “observe,” but I was obviously a distraction, so I stayed inside. When I did try to snap a picture, Chemo grabbed Eduard’s motorcycle helmet, to remain anonymous.... 

Fermin’s daughter Arlin, also a teacher, is very pregnant with a boy that they’re already calling Fredi, Jr., for daddy. She looks ready to pop any minute, but her due date isn’t until July. How time does pass! First time I ever saw Arlin, she was a new-born herself, covered with flea bites, in Nombre de Dios (go figure!), the remotest, poorest, scruffiest village in the department, where her daddy Fermin had just gotten his first teaching job, at age 19. It was a four-hour walk from Morazan, but I got there--once--and little Arlin cried all night long, all day long, too. The townsfolk loved Fermin, insisted on called him “Profesor,” but he looked me in the eye: “Miguel, we will NOT stay here next year.” True to his word, he got a nice position in the heart of Morazan. 

Any time we go to Morazan, we include a side-step to Progreso, where we celebrate the latest birthdays in Santa’s family, my “girlfriend” (she says). This time it was her daughter Karla, 17, who has a baby boy of her own. On-again, off-again with Jimi’s father, she’s finally dumped him now, she says, “for good.” But the really scary news was Catalina, Santa’s sister-in-law, who is suddenly incapacitated. “She has a brain tumor,” Santa whispered to me. In Honduras, that’s a very general diagnosis, often simply meaning a stroke, which is the case here, I think. Her whole right side is affected. She’s never been as wild as Santa, but they made a great tag-team on “running the numbers” for the daily lotteries. Strokes, including fatal ones, are not uncommon in young women in Honduras. I blame it on the coffee, or maybe the lead-painted coffee cups. I wish I could hope for recovery. 

The month of April began with Holy Week. As we were planning Masses and celebraciones, Padre Manuel suggested we get a real donkey for the Palm Sunday procession commemorating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. But I don’t think even he imagined that the youth group would have “Jesus” ride the little burro all the way up to the church! That was just one of the neat moments during the week, highlighted, literally, by the candlelight vigil on Holy Saturday, awaiting the Resurrection. 

Meanwhile, down at the river it was Spring Break. I went a couple times, but when about a dozen drunken fights broke out at once, I escaped back to “religion.” 

Resurrection might not be too extreme a word for Rev. Dennis Lindberg’s recovery from a heart attack April 12. A pastor dear to many in the Parkway schools, Dennis seemed about to leave us when his extraordinary family gathered, they feared, to say good-bye. But this is a family long dedicated to service, including my “mission” in Honduras, so they know how God hears the cry of the poor. Led by Dennis’ wife Jane, no less a pastor than her husband, the children Mark and Jon (who have visited Honduras) and Laura and Luke poured out their hearts in prayer. One tiny miracle at a time, Dennis edged back from the brink. The turning point might have been when Luke and his wife Jill showed Dennis the newest ultrasound of their baby: it’s a girl, “Lillian Jane”! Dennis’ spontaneous blessing filled everyone with hope. There’s still a long way to go, but your own blanket of blessings should warm all hearts. 

God bless your heart-for-Honduras! 

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2012

When in doubt, BEACON! https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/22984/dulick_prison_030312

THE KNOCK-OUT GAME

Look out! I am back on FACEBOOK. I opted out a few years ago after repeated
hackings, plus it loads so slowwwww on my dinky dial-up Internet. But I can’t stem the tide. See you there!

When my friend Mike Baldwin left a local confectionery in North St. Louis with some snacks to enjoy during the Oscars telecast (because, I guess, he loves foreign films!), he suddenly found himself a victim of the “knock-out game,” a violent assault from behind that includes kicks, cursing, robbery, and, in Mike’s case, a dislocated shoulder. Mike’s wife, Teka Childress, who helped found “Karen House” decades ago for women in crisis, is a constant reminder to me--the big “missionary”--that Honduras can be anywhere, including your own backyard. So when the reaction to the crime began to build, Mike appreciated the sympathy, but he tried to divert attention to other “crimes,” social crimes, such as the chronic boredom, disinterest, hopelessness of his attackers. Who are we if we only play defense, instead of reaching out? Also, why did the police respond quickly to Mike’s case when they had ignored a nearly identical assault on Mike’s son-in-law, who happens to be African American? Can justice flourish even in the bare streets of the Northside?

The knock-out game is played here in Honduras, too, but they don’t come at you from behind. They gouge your eyes out! Doña Tonia was attacked and killed the other day near Nueva Palmira, about a mile from Las Vegas. She was 92 years old! They thought she had money, the “bono” the government gives the elderly from time to time, maybe about 3000 Lempiras (about $150). She had gone to Victoria, but returned empty-handed; these bonuses have a way of disappearing as they change hands, long before they get to the poor. Enraged at their misfortune, I guess, the boys cut up her face with machetes. When I grabbed a moto-taxi to go over there, the driver Raul was practically shaking. “I can’t believe this! I just dropped her off! I guess I’m the last one who saw her alive.” He had given her a ride--for free--from Victoria; he could not cross the little creek or he could have taken her all the way home, the first little house as you approach Nueva Palmira. I would wave to her all the time, coming and going on visits. The next day, the police “tracked down” the killers, shot three of them dead and wounded a fourth. Except--maybe they weren’t the killers, but family of the killers. No one is saying for sure; clarity only opens the door for more violence. We started the novenario, nine days of mourning, and Tonia’s son Eulalio, himself an old man, who had probably never before made a public statement, stammered through his tears, “We forgive everyone, please no more violence, no more killing, my mother loved...people.” What demons had poisoned the souls of those children of God? The folks, in their grief, grasped for words to describe the unspeakable. Someone called Tonia a “martyr,” and it stuck.

The newspapers report an “express” version of the same game in the big cities. Grab someone, threaten them, take them to the nearest ATM, empty their account--and let ‘em go. I’m just bracing myself for my options. Whoever jumps me will not be impressed with my wallet or my account! I guess I have to joke, because I go crazy when I think of what could happen, especially if Chemo is with me. If it were only random, it wouldn’t be so scary, perhaps. But these are tentacles of organized crime--drug trafficking--that offers instant money and protection for anyone aimless enough to latch onto a “sure thing.”

Death sometimes does its own knocking out. Abel, 28, so reclusive and inward he would not even tell his family how much pain he was in till his appendix finally burst. They got him to the hospital in Tegucigalpa--5 hours away over dirt roads--where a first operation was quickly followed by a second, and that was that. They brought his body back to Las Vegas, and we gathered at the same house where about a year before his brother Dixi had a heart attack at age 24. So many families in Honduras--more statistically than anywhere else in the world--lose their children to violence; so should sudden infirmities get to up the ante? I don’t know which is worse, the violence or the bolt from the blue. One day during Abel’s novenario, there was just a handful of us, me and about five women, and I tried to be as conversational with the biblical readings as possible (you know, the bible actually lends itself to that approach!). Soon enough, Reina, Abel’s mother, who had been with him to the end, related in calm detail how her son had slipped away. “I saw the half-open wound from the first operation; I knew then it was very bad, and he was so afraid, but I just kept touching him, assuring him,” not unlike, I suppose, Yossarian comforting the fatally wounded Snowden in “Catch-22,” “There, there. There, there.” Soon, everyone, mothers all, told their stories, too.

One more “knock-out,” a bureaucratic one, but no less blind-siding for that. You may remember my upbeat story last year about Wilfredo keeping his job at the school thanks to the flamboyant intervention of Gladys, who charmed the pants off her cousin the superintendent. Well, the guy sobered up, I guess, and now Wil is out. It’s all political; “they” are purging anyone who’s not a Nationalist. Wil sells t-shirts with Che on the front, so that’s enough. They knocked him out the old-fashioned way. Since they couldn’t justify firing him, they eliminated his position! He taught computer science, and we are the only high school in the area, outside of Victoria, to even have such a class, supposedly mandated by the same “new” law that shut Chemo out for being too old for fifth grade. Suddenly, the school just didn’t have the “funds” for a computer class. Now, the parents are pressuring the administration to re-instate the position, which they might do, just not with Wil. They’ll plug in someone who doesn’t know a mouse from a megabyte, like the English teacher who has taught for years, “I have, you have, he have.”

Chemo’s family--or families--finally returned home after four months picking coffee in the mountains of El Transito. Their “patrón” and his son drove them back in pick-ups piled high with all their worldly possessions, including two dogs roped tightly to the sidehooks. If you’d seen this, you would have sworn the trucks were heading for the dump, a load of junk. But no! Every flimsy little mattress, every rusty pot and pan, every well-worn piece of clothing was carefully returned to its place. Migrant workers are an embarrassment to anyone’s “economy.” If you’re good--and it helps if your kids are with you--you can fill a hundred-pound bag of coffee beans in about 3 hours; that’s a “quintal,” for which you’re paid 120 Lempiras, about six dollars. Now, considering, as one Missouri politician I just read about was too dumb to know, minimum wage is $7.25 an HOUR, coffee pickers work all week for what a burger-flipper might get at McDonald’s in one day. Just think of that next time you’re in the drive-thru for your Supercoffee-fragilisticexpialidocious.

Still, folks manage to save some money. Marcos and Dania came home with enough cash to build on an extra room to Natalia’s house for their little family. It helps that they’re making the “bricks” of adobe; mud is free. Santos and Alba had enough to get a new horse, a pretty white filly named “Sombra” (‘shadow’).

Worth his weight in gold--at least when he’s behaving!--Chemo has begun his Saturday classes with Maestro en Casa. He’s the only one in his “level,” fifth/sixth grade, so he practically has his own private teacher, David Suarez, who divides his time with the 5 kids (adults!) in the seventh grade and Chemo. David is so good with Chemo! I’m sure I was not supposed to be hanging around (and I don’t anymore), but it’s that maternal instinct in me. I didn’t want him out of my sight! especially when he’s at his best. During the week, we work on his homework, and review previous material. No matter what, we study every day. Chemo doesn’t fight me too much on this, since I let him sleep till 8. (When he was “in school,” he had to get up at 6.)

Chemo will turn 18 just in time (next September) to vote for Nelson Martinez for mayor in the November election! Nelson runs the coffee cooperative that has benefited this community so much, and if he wins, he’ll be just about the only honest politician in the whole country. I did notice that I was seeing him here and there more than usual; then he asked to borrow my chairs for the kick-off of his campaign. So how about that? I’m his SuperPac! He’s a gentle, gentlemanly, dedicated, humble man, a lovely family man. Incorruptible, will he even be allowed to win?

As the full moon turns its light on us to celebrate Passover and Holy Week, may we live in peace, safe from the big crimes that crush our spirit, and free of the tiny crimes that bind our hearts and minds, and open ourselves to all God’s children.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2012

Go to the light! https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/11400/dulick_021712

HEARTS ON FIRE

"Honduras is the most murderous country in the world, ravaged by violent street gangs, rampant police corruption, dysfunctional courts and brutal drug cartels." (AP News)

When Maria Magdalena from Nueva Palmira came to my door a couple weeks ago, I had a funny feeling, a dread, let us say. The news had just broken the night before (Valentine’s Day, no less) of the inferno at the Comayagua prison that claimed over 350 lives as the flames swept like a hurricane from cellblock to cellblock in a matter of minutes. When Maria arrived, I had the television on. “You’re watching the news about the fire,” she said. My heart sank. “My husband is there.”

I switched my mode to calm, as I had been taught way back when I had to handle emergencies at Holiday Valley swimming pool, but my fingers were trembling as I got on the Internet to look through the preliminary list of the dead published by the newspaper. It went by cellblock. “He was in Number 6.” According to reports, that’s where the fire started! Over a fight for a mattress. But Julian Dominguez Rodriguez was NOT on the list of 98 dead, the most for any cellblock. Maria was hardly relieved, and by the next morning she couldn’t take it anymore. “I have to go. Everybody’s telling me I have to go.” She asked for a “loan.”

So horrible a story (http://news.yahoo.com/many-300-killed-honduras-prison-fire-221239375.html) broke through the red-carpet gaffes of celebrities on Yahoo News and the posturing of presidential candidates on Drudgereport, and you would think the whole world would catch its breath at the sheer scale of the tragedy--the crime!--bodies melted into each other, fused to cell bars, shot by panicking guards who “couldn’t find” the keys, a young neighbor’s iPhone recording the screams from a hundred yards away, Honduras, the shame of the world. But did you see any of the “comments” left by readers? Check it out:

--”Looks like they were just cleaning house.”
--”Burn the whole country! LOL
--”Too bad some innocents got crisped, but as long as the majority were gang-bangers, I say good riddance to bad rubbish. Clean the vermin by any means necessary! Bravo!”
--”They should do that in every prison!”
--”No pity here. No big loss, the #$%$ of the human race just lost a few. Too bad more didn’t burn to hell. Just think of the money saved not feeding them anymore.”
--”Time for a second fire.”
--”I only wish the entire prison would have burned to the ground. Oh well, good start :)”

That last one came from someone in Aspen, Colorado. Probably runs a film festival. Why do news sources even indulge our narcissism by inviting such comments? The display of depravity is as depressing as the news itself.

On the other hand, the “cleaning house” theory is a likely one, since the same thing has happened twice before, when Honduran prisons have burned off their overcrowded inmates like a farmer burning off last year’s growth for a new planting. Another, more complicated theory, again with the guards’ heftily bribed compliance, is a fire to cover up a general break-out. If so, the guards may have double-crossed the gangs by setting so voracious a blaze that no one could escape. Whatever, I am sick.

You know what? I didn’t even know about the fire, till your emails came pouring in. Sheila Merrell, former librarian at Parkway North, was first: “Condolences for families of prisoners.” What? I was on the bus, coming home from Morazan. I read the email on my little cell phone. Then another, and another. Once back in Las Vegas, I could watch developments on TV, which, unlike U.S. telecasting, does not hide a thing. Everybody (every BODY!) gets their close-up.

But I had been a lot farther away than Morazan. When Christy Tharenos asked me to marry her, in Mexico, I hesitated only a moment or two. OK, I wasn’t the groom! “Marry” meant officiate at her wedding to Ben Gerber! They had already had a “civil ceremony” in about the least romantic setting you can imagine; a magistrate’s office that shared space with a “Breathalyzer Test Center.” So the Mexico wedding, scheduled for February 12, would be the “real” version, the “sacrament,” as Christy herself called it, in one of the loveliest spots on the planet, in fact, a “pueblo magico” called Tepoztlan.

Christy, who had been my student at Parkway North, and dear friend ever since, discovered “Tepoz” during medical brigades that she had joined. She became friends with Helena and David Luhnow, who offered their home for the wedding. The guest list would not be extensive, about 20 family and friends, an intimate affair. Christy would pay for my ticket. The trick, it turned out, was trying to order it! It took me about five tries over three days, an hour each time with my lame dial-up Internet, on the AeroMexico website. By the time I’d finally click “Purchase Ticket,” the message appears, “Your bank has not approved this transaction.” And this after calling the bank repeatedly and being assured, “Yes, sir, I’m putting a note in your file...” Finally, a wonderful man named Giddish (maybe in India, maybe in Indiana) said, “Stay on the line, and I’ll call AeroMexico myself.” Of course, none of the numbers worked, till I got a brilliant flash and gave him a number for the New York City office that I had seen on the website. Immediately, a wonderful woman named Laura, herself from Mexico, answered. “Yes, Mr. Dulick, I see your reservation right here.” Giddish told her to run the charge, which he then approved on the spot; she launched me the e-ticket, and I wished everyone a Good Day! Just like that. So, as I told Christy and Ben, it was meant to be.

But I did have my doubts when I saw the plane.... I watched it land at the San Pedro Sula airport, and from a distance it seemed normal, but as it made its way up to the terminal, it seemed to shrink to the size of a Cracker Jack toy. Not a lot of traffic, I guess, between Honduras and Mexico. From the air, Mexico City, home to 22 million souls, looked like an infinite jigsaw puzzle, every square foot occupied with hardly an open space. It was almost claustrophobic. Christy had told me to text her when I landed, and I had brought my GoPhone that I use in St. Louis because it’s ATT, which supposedly has an arrangement with a carrier in Mexico. Nothing. Dead air. But I left the phone “on,” in case, maybe, possibly, Christy could text me. Suddenly, after about two hours on the bus I had boarded heading south to Tepoztlan, I felt a buzz in my pocket. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open: “TELCEL” glowed on the screen. A connection had been made! I texted Christy, I texted St. Louis, I texted Honduras, I texted everybody!

At the hotel La Buena Vibra, set against a picturesque wall of mountains that jump straight out of the ground, mythically “carved” by native spirits, I met the other wedding guests. The next day was for exploring the town, so I joined Kristy Engle, a nurse missionary working in the Dominican Republic, and Corrine Shannon, a physical therapist from Chicago, for what was billed as a “quick” hike up to a mountain-top pyramid built at least a thousand years ago. Over two hours later, we straggled into the open air at the top.

I had been preparing my “remarks” for the wedding ever since Christy invited me, but I did not fully appreciate what she and Ben were asking of me till the rehearsal Saturday afternoon. Christy and I had been exchanging e-mails for a couple months, refining and designing the service. Each time, she would say how much she valued my input. Turns out she meant it! “And what do you think you will say here?” she gently asked at the run-through, about the exchange of rings, for example. Oh, I get it now, this really is a wedding! She and Ben needed me for the whole ceremony, not just a walk-on. So I searched my heart for the loveliest, most gracious, most prayerful words I could express.

Our host, David Luhnow, is chief Latin America correspondent for the The Wall Street Journal; flying below the radar, as it were, of the Journal’s crazy owner Rupert Murdoch, he reports on the reality of our life “down here.” And if the name Luhnow sounds familiar, David’s brother Jeff Luhnow was Vice President of the St. Louis Cardinals, 2003 through 2011, helping to stock the Redbirds with the winning combination of players for your World Series champions. The photographer that David and wife Helena invited for the wedding is a major artist whose stunning work has been published in National Geographic, Sebastian Belaustegui (www.photosuki.com). His next project just happens to be the Dominican Republic, where he has arranged to consult with Kristy for some prime sites of indigenous culture.

I was nervous about the wedding, but that’s nothing compared to my next assignment, home-schooling Chemo. You see, when I took Chemo to the school in early February to register him for 5th grade, they told me, no, he’s “too big.” Profe Flor, the principal, cited the “new law,” which excludes anyone 18 or over from grade school. Chemo will turn 18 in September. I had been joking that he’d be the only fifth-grader voting for president; now the joke was on me. His fourth-grade teacher Profe Juana Maria was there, too, all sweet and nice, you know, citing the “difficulty” when there’s a student who’s twice as old as everyone else. I felt like crying, so I was not going to cave without some defense: “You know, it’s not Chemo’s fault he didn’t start school till he was 13, and he’s passed every grade; doesn’t he have the right to finish up to sixth grade?” Well, no, blah, blah, blah, like the teacher in the “Peanuts” cartoons. If they don’t want him, how will they treat him if I “force” them to accept him? They’ll make sure he flunks! You know what, Chemo’s not “too big”; you are too small!

So I thanked them politely, grabbed Chemo, and flagged down the moto-taxi, now manned by Walter, who is all of 14. “Take us to Victoria!” We would register Chemo for Maestro en Casa, a sort of home-schooling program sponsored by the Catholic Church, specifically for poor teens and adults who still want a high-school education (7th, 8th, 9th grades), a GED, you might say. I’ve always been fascinated by this program, which has done so much good; I always wanted a closer look, and now I’ll get it! And I had just met David Suarez, the young man currently in charge in these parts, when he was in Las Vegas, registering applicants. Even then, I had a sort of intimation I might need him. They offer a pre-high-school course that combines fifth and sixth grades in one year; so if all goes well and Chemo passes, he’ll actually jump ahead of his former classmates. But it’s going to be a lot of work, for Chemo and for me!

That’s why I had stopped in Morazan on the way back from Mexico; I wanted to consult with Fermin and his brother-in-law Javier, who run the best Maestro en Casa program anywhere. Kids even come from Progreso two hours away every Saturday for classes. Chemo lit up--”I’ll just stay in Morazan!” Actually, I’d love that, too, but I did at least assure Fermin and Javier we’d be making frequent visits, especially when a big test is coming up. Everybody, even David Suarez, says the course is really “easy.” I hushed them, “Don’t say that! Don’t tell Chemo that! Tell him he’s really got to concentrate and apply himself!” And for Chemo it will be a challenge, despite the fact that the answers are in the back of the book...except math. (OMG!)

Maricela’s little Mariana Teresa (“Mari-Te”), 2, just got baptized February 3, along with about 10 other children, at an open-air celebration at the soccer field in Paraiso, where they were celebrating their annual feast in honor of the Virgin Mary in her Honduran patronage as Our Lady of Suyapa. Lovely day, which some potential rain clouds did not dare to spoil. But, not long afterwards, Mari-Te was all puffed up like a Cabbage Patch doll, and we feared the worst, since a little girl in Paraiso has been in treatment already for a couple years for the “same thing.” After repeated trips to doctors here in Las Vegas, Victoria, and Yoro, it just became inevitable that Maricela and Mari-Te would have to go to Tegucigalpa for some serious help. So off they went, with as much cash as I could muster. Things were going well, test after test narrowing down the diagnosis. But Maricela always seems to find herself in Tegus at the “wrong” time. This time she was minding the baby daily in the hospital just as the charred, disfigured, putrefying bodies from the Comayagua jail fire began arriving for autopsies, hundreds of them, overwhelming the totally inadequate morgue. They had to pile them up in their body bags outside in the heat, where family members started opening the sacks looking for their loved ones. The penetrating stench was overwhelming. Maricela was alarmed for Mari-Te, who hardly needed any more setbacks. Finally, a kidney problem was diagnosed and they got out of there as fast as they could. Back home now in Las Vegas, Mari-Te is guzzling Prednisone and calcium tablets the size of her thumb three times a day. We just hope medication will stabilize her condition and nothing more drastic will be required. If she ends up needing dialysis...!

It was close, but I made it back from Mexico and Morazan and all my travels in time for Beto’s birthday! Turning 29. Try to describe a birthday cake for a blind person...fortunately, Beto is getting used to our efforts since we started making a big deal of his big day a few years ago. I called in advance to his neighbor Carlota, who makes cakes every bit as good as Lake Forest used to in St. Louis, and we loaded up Walter’s moto-taxi like a clown car and headed to La Catorce. We surprised Beto, because I had warned him I might not be back from my travels. So we waited while he “washed up,” and rounded up kids all around to celebrate. Beto may be blind, but his taste is no doubt enhanced. He ate three big slices of Carlota’s masterpiece.

Celebrate life! In all its wonder! I don’t care if it’s Lent--every day is someone’s birthday!

Love, Miguel