ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—JANUARY 2016

CRUCIBLE

The glory of Honduras-Progreso’s national championship, the sacred joy of two weddings, and the thrill of Christmas vacation, all were plunged into darkness on Sunday, December 20, with the fatal crash of a bus loaded to standing-room only just minutes from its destination in Las Vegas. The brakes failed on a steep, twisting descent to Victoria, but passengers didn’t even realize there was a problem till it hit with such blunt force that every seat was ripped from the floor and sent airborne, slicing through the bus like a wood chipper, throwing victims out of broken windows, the front of the bus like some monster vomiting debris and passengers. Three dead at the scene, including one decapitated. Another died in hospital, with two or three more lives hanging in the balance.

Chemo and I might have been on that bus, if we had not decided to stay an extra day in El Progreso to celebrate with Nangui’s family the soccer championship. I had attended the wedding of Manuel Figueroa and Gloria, along with his 11 brothers and sisters and their spouses and kids, and his mother Erlinda, the very same Erlinda I was begging your help for some months ago, Erlinda, the widow of Guillermo, who died so tragically of a chemo overdose a couple years ago. Yes, and the mother of Maricela, the mother of six with her husband Juan Blas, including my little namesake Miguel Angel, and Marite, whose sixth birthday pictures are featured in this CASA.

In the accident, Erlinda got a horrid black eye and other strains and bruises; Maricela broke a rib and got enough cuts on her face and hands for twenty stitches; Juan Blas got a walloping bruise on his right leg, which only FEELS like it’s broken; Miguel Angel somehow escaped without a scratch; Marite broke her collarbone and is hefting a big plaster cast. Michelle, 16, a cousin, who often plays Jesus in our Sunday dramatizations of the gospel, just a lovely girl, had the whole back of her right arm sliced open to the bone. Another little niece, Fernanda, has two lines of stitches like barbed wire across her whole forehead.

One death that affected us all was Leydi, a neighbor of mine, a friend to everyone. The wife of Pastor Mauricio, whose little church serves a variety of good folks, she had a simple, some might say plain, face, but it just glowed. When I was president of the parents club in 2013, during Chemo’s first attempt at seventh grade, she was not an actual member of the Junta Directiva, but she helped us with every project all year. I looked in vain just now for a nice photo of her in my archives—nothing, she’s always in the background! I had to borrow a couple from her cousins posting on Facebook. Her little son Quique and his cousin Jesse often come by my house selling bags of the most delicious cookies you ever had, made by Leydi”s mother Alma, who is fighting for her life, after a literal scourging in the havoc of the accident. You see, this family, like Erlinda’s, was returning from a wedding, too. The bus, chartered to accommodate all the folks heading to Las Vegas, including a couple dozen workers getting their Christmas break from sweatshops in Choloma, a suburb of San Pedro, apparently was not subject to inspections the way the public buses are; and the driver, who by all reports has gone insane, is in jail, plagued with nightmares I guess of a route he had never driven before.

In comparison it’s nothing, but at the moment, I thought my experience at the Big Game was the end of my life. As I said, I went to the wedding of Manuel and Gloria, while Chemo went early to the stadium, along with Nangui’s family. By the time I got there, about 6:30 p.m., the gates were closed, with 400-500 ticket holders still clamoring to get in. This had riot written all over it, so I hung back, especially when I saw the police raising their weapons. I figured they had tear gas, too.

But the crowd started pushing, and battering the biggest gate, solid steel, the size of a barn door—and suddenly it twisted and shook and gave way and fell like a stricken dinosaur. Then they really pushed. I tripped and fell, hard, losing my glasses, but something strange happened. A circle opened around me as they helped me to my feet, and somebody returned my glasses to me. In another moment, I was pressed so hard against the metal frame of the fallen gate that I thought my back would snap in two, and I lost my phone; somebody pulled me through, and somebody else returned my phone. Once inside, I thought I’d be ducking bullets, and I clung to some little trees there; a man with a face so sweet I thought he was an angel came to me and held me and asked me if I was all right, “We’ll get you a seat, Miguel.” I looked and looked and finally recognized Alexander Lopez, the MAYOR of El Progreso, a man I know through our mutual friend Wilfredo Mencia. You know, maybe he said, we’ll get you an ambulance, but anyway I was restored, and now brave enough to do some pushing of my own, gently, gently, excusing myself a thousand times, till I made my way to where Chemo and Nangui’s family could see me from the stands.

I stayed down by the fence, and swore I would not move no matter how hard it rained. Well, I moved at least five times, to shelter under the stairs. Motagua, a 13-time national champion, a legend, a tradition, and a cheater (they had their own version of deflate-gate that got their coach suspended) scored first. But Honduras-Progreso kept its cool and evened the score before the half ended, by which time both teams were so covered with mud, it was a guess who was who.

Controversy in the second half, as the referee waved off a goal by Motagua for being off-sides. Well, you know, every champion needs a little luck! (In the game the week before, at Motagua’s stadium in Tegucigalpa, the “homer” referee red-carded a Honduras-Progreso player on some made-up infraction right after he scored the first goal; but even shorthanded, Honduras-Progreso managed a 3-3 tie against the Big Boys.) And when Nangui came into the game ‘long about minute 65, the whole stadium erupted in wild cheers. I swear, even the Motagua fans were joining in!

Ninety minutes, and thirty more of overtime, till it came down to penalty kicks. At first, Honduras-Progreso looked completely lost; they were just standing around chatting or something, while Motagua was busy as bees running and pointing and pretend kicking. Turns out, our coach had a hunch the title would be decided by “penales,” so they’d been practicing for over a week, winnowing out any weak links, till the crew of five was composed strictly of players who had not missed a shot. Ready when you are, Motagua! Of course, I was nervous as hell, but when the first Motagua player sent the ball totally over the net, I let myself believe—a bit. When the second Motagua kick also sailed over the net, I began to think of what I would say to Nangui. Meanwhile, Honduras-Progeso made every one of their shots. As Homer Simpson would say, No problemo!

So we won! Glory, rapture! And as huge as the crowd was, 7000 fans crammed in a stadium built for no more than 3500, there was no undue celebrating, turning cars over, throwing things, setting fires (another thing Motagua had been suspended for a time or two), much less any fights (Motagua’s biggest suspension came when their fans actually beat a rival fan to death!). So, really, the whole “futbol” world—at least the Honduran portion of it—agreed: Honduras-Progreso was a worthy champion, in only its third season of operation. It was like a sandlot bunch of kids taking down the New York Yankees, David v. Goliath. “Go crazy, folks, go crazy!”

Then the bus accident, so I barely posted on FACEBOOK about the game at all. And I felt so helpless that I was not with the mourners and the injured in Las Vegas. Actually, there was not much I could have done; Dora called me to ask if Leydi’s family could borrow my chairs for the wake; and the injured were not home themselves, with hospital stays and such. A time for weeping.

I really think the best news of this CASA is Chemo’s First Holy Communion. For me, it marked not just the season but the whole year with grace. Leila had prepared him so lovingly all year long, with his little class consisting of nieces Cecilia (“Chila”) and Reina, and a very shy boy named Emerson, who came down from Guachipilin, an hour’s hike, for their weekly lessons. We celebrated with a special “triple” cake from Carlota, since it was also Chila’s birthday. I kept reminding Chemo and the girls, don’t forget about your second First Communion and your third First Communion and so on. Chemo’s already up to his Seventh Holy Communion, including a 6:30 a.m. Mass at the Cathedral in Tegucigalpa. That early rising was a miracle for Chemo right there!

We went to Tegucigalpa for Lily’s graduation. The first in her family ever to attain a university degree, she graduated from La Pedagogica, the largest teacher school in the country, and Magna Cum Laude at that, in a class of over 500 graduates. The whole family went, her parents Elvis and Dora, and the kids Dorita and Doricel; her other siblings Neysey and Elvis Jr. were already there, also “universitarios.” A timely Christmas gift from a dear friend in the States helped with all the travel, and also a big celebration afterward of Chinese food—take-out, of course!                                  

All the best for the New Year! Keep us in mind, as we pick up the pieces, here in Las Vegas and there in the Flood Plain.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—DECEMBER 2015

GOT KIDS?

Do you have any kids? And do you have any money? ‘Cause you can’t have both! Chemo needed new glasses—again! (The cheap pair we got on sale broke already.) He needed a new phone. (The kid who stole it had spent the night; he grabbed the phone before Chemo woke up; we chased him in two moto-taxis all the way to Victoria, where the police had already been alerted, but he got away, so the six of us ate fried chicken at PolloLandia). He needed new shoes. (He’s harder on keds than a labrador puppy.) He needed new pants and a new shirt—for his FIRST COMMUNION! (Coming up this Sunday!) And, as if all that weren’t enough—he still EATS!

“Maria Bonita”—I thought it was a charming nickname (‘Pretty Mary’) when I first heard it years ago, till Dora sheepishly admitted it was a diss, because Maria was so ugly! At that point, I decided to be her Avedon, and take as Vogue-ish a portrait as possible. She was so poor, but so noble, she never shrank from the public eye, even if folks might have been laughing at her. Then, about a month ago, word spread that she was sick; at 94, she would not get well. But none of us counted on the long road she had to travel. Every day, we were sure it was her last. As she shrank to the size of a raisin, I kept trying to understand why she had to suffer so. But as weak as she was, she reached out to anyone who visited and pulled them close, her dimming eyes brightening. A group would gather every night at the house. I stopped by early on her last day; she was taking short, quick breaths, the sign the end was near. Indeed, she soon just stopped, and her daughter started to weep as she tested her pulse and pressed her ear to her chest. All quiet. I know I sound like someone with a tin-foil hat, but I finally decided that she lingered so long so that WE would get stronger. She was Catholic, but her family had evolved to a pentecostal sect that thinks you do not pray for the dead. So, in effect, she had her Novenario BEFORE her death. Her “real” name: Maria de Jesus. Pretty, after all.

Chemo and I went to Nangui’s final regular game, which the team managed to tie up 1-1 in the last minute with a penalty kick. Back at the house, we celebrated Nangui’s little sister Yulissa’s birthday with the usual menu from Pizza Hut and Nani’s Bakery. Chemo danced and danced. As a few of the family walked us back to the hotel about 1:00 in the morning, we heard others shouting after us, “Look out, there’s a guy on a bike going to rob you!” Wouldn’t that have been perfect! It will probably happen some day, but whoever it was may have been intimidated by the two big house dogs that follow the family wherever they go.

Meanwhile, in his team’s final game, Chemo scored a goal, against his own nephew Joel! Not that I would doubt Chemo’s skill, you know, but I was not totally ready with the camera and I got only a very impressionistic image of the event. Chemo was so excited, he turned an Ozzie Smith type somersault—I didn’t get that either!

Fermin and Maria didn’t seem that excited to see me, when I stopped by Morazan before returning to Las Vegas. Well, they were both exhausted from the end of the school year, final exams, final grades, final farewell parties. So I just lay low, till Fermin perked up after a couple days: “Miguel, when are we going to the Lake again?” By which he meant Lake Yojoa, the largest fresh-water lake in Central America, where a line of a hundred little restaurants all feature fried fish to die for. Maria grasped Fermin’s hand: “Tomorrow?” That was the “sign” I was waiting for! The next day, everybody managed to get out of school a little early; Fermin’s car was in pretty good shape for the hour-and-a-half ride; and by 1:00 p.m. we were all hunched over plates of fried fish at Gabriela’s, not a random choice at all, it turns out. “She never raises her prices,” said Fermin, which I appreciated since I had made it clear this was my treat. And Gabriela herself was there, a bit elderly now but so proud of her establishment.

Juan Carlos had a birthday. I long ago managed to quit him of the nickname “El Mudo” (Deaf-Mute), but some folks were still a little unsure who I was talking about when I invited them to the party, and virtually no one could guess his age—41. They always think of him as a child. And indeed, as one friend said on FACEBOOK, he’s an adult with a child’s heart.

Maricela celebrated the same birthday—41—a few days later. She not only has one child’s heart, she’s got seven! That is, Mariela, Milena, Juan Jose, Helen, Felipe, Miguel Angel, and Mariana Teresa, called Marite. It’s Marite, who just turned 6, who’s keeping Maricela busiest lately; the child has monthly appointments in Tegucigalpa for a kidney problem, and most recently needed plastic surgery, of all things, for some growth on the back of her head!

Chemo’s cousin Keyla turned 5, and we celebrated with toys donated by Wydown Junior High students. Even Grandma Natalia got a coloring book!

Quelin Archaga’s father Justo came to Las Vegas to deliver personally an invitation to her ninth-grade graduation in El Zapote. Back in 2004, when Christy Tharenos was visiting, she befriended Quelin and has kept in touch ever since. So I would be Christy’s representative! Quelin, everyone assumed, was Number One in her little class of 6, but another girl beat her by one-tenth of a point! Now, really, are teachers so sure of themselves that they can measure things that close? I always tried to round UP, on the assumption that my own evaluation was faulty. (Kids did seem to get better grades if the Cardinals were winning when I was reading essays at Busch Stadium!) But it was a sweet ceremony nevertheless, and Quelin wants to be a teacher—a math teacher—if the family can scrape up enough money to finance the next phase of her education.

But I guess my favorite occasion last month was the wedding of Elio and Mema’s niece Cecilia (“Cesi”). She lived with them in Tegucigalpa from high school all the way till her graduation as an architect from the Catholic University, so I had watched her grow up. She made a beautiful, may I say, beatific, bride.

Well, I’ve got to get my Christmas tree up, so let me just wish you all the happiest of holidays, and I’ll see you in 2016!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—NOVEMBER 2015

JUST IN TIME

The never-ending birthday. As soon as I got back to Honduras, Elio and Mema—they picked me up at the airport!—took me out for a birthday lunch at Ni-Fu Ni-Far, a big fat restaurant specializing in beef from Argentina. Believe me, I was grateful, and I would have made a pig of myself under normal conditions, but I was still so stuffed from a month in St. Louis, I did my best just to save face. “I’ve got a spare tire,” I said, bouncing my bulging tummy. “That’s a tractor tire!” exclaimed Mema. Really, there was feast enough just being with them. Mema is due to get the cast off her broken foot sometime soon, though even if the bones are setting, lots of therapy is still due. 

The topic of conversation was Jaime Rosenthal, a perennial try-out for President, never achieving the nomination but forever a mainstay in Liberal politics and Honduran society with the dozens of businesses he owns (including Banco Continental) and the newspaper he ran (El Tiempo, which somehow named him “Man of the Year” almost every year!). Now in his 80s, his life is ending in disgrace, thanks to a son and nephew who have been laundering drug money through his bank for more than a decade. Without Jaime’s knowledge?? The United States is bringing the charges and calling for the extraditions, but the government of Honduras, firmly in the hands of the National (conservative) party, is taking advantage of the situation to foreclose every single Rosenthal asset, including the bank (300,000 customers left holding the bag) and the newspaper, which over the years published columns written and ghost-written by Jesuits with no other opportunity for a national voice. Weirdest of all, the Rosenthal Zoo, with 9000 alligators, languishes untended. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/08/world/americas/us-indicts-members-of-powerful-honduran-family.html?smprod=nytcore-ipad&smid=nytcore-ipad-share

As Elio and Mema declared, isn’t a man innocent till proven guilty? As personal acquaintances, they feel for Jaime’s plight. But this news comes sandwiched between one mayor after another taking perp walks for running drugs and hiring assassins. The mayor of Sulaco, just a few miles from where I live, ran a “banda” that rubbed out rivals, recently found in shallow graves, as many as 60 people, including the son of a teacher that works with Fermin in Morazan. In that case, the young man was not fast enough with the wanted information about some drug peddler he only knew by name. 

Still in Tegus, I took Lily, Neysey, and Tito—Elvis and Dora’s kids all studying at the University, plus another friend Bayron, to lunch at Pizza Hut. This has to rank as one of my greatest “investments,” helping this family to accomplish something unheard of in Las Vegas, 3 kids at once in the University! 

Then I returned to Las Vegas, just in time to celebrate a couple birthdays before I zoomed off to Progreso. First, Chemo’s niece Albita, more formally known as “Suyapa,” turning 4, who I presented with the Dora the Explorer backpack she asked for, courtesy of Jane Lindberg, who plucked it off amazon.com the moment I mentioned it in St. Louis. Then, Chemo’s cousin Lindolfito, turning 7, and to him I gave the toy cars that kids at Wydown Middle School had donated. 

 To Progreso, then, for a game with Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso. They scored a goal early in the contest and held on for a 1-0 victory over Juticalpa. Honduras-Progreso has been in first place since day one, and they should finish there with just two games left in the regular season. 

But guess what? Chemo did NOT go with me! I didn’t know what to think; first, he calls me “papa,” as I reported in the last CASA, and now he says, “I better not go; I’ve got to go to my First Communion classes.” Are you kidding me? He’s finally taking the sacrament seriously. Suddenly, the kid’s a candidate for sainthood! 

I spent a few days then in Morazan, where I delivered the film Fermin had asked for (regular roll film, in those little canisters, still available at Walgreen’s!) and the Sleep-Eze he was eager to replenish. Maria was tending to some tiny kittens whose mother died the same day they were born. I was still sort of just winding down after the wall-to-wall visitations in St. Louis, but they surprised me with yet another birthday party! The whole family pitched in, and I couldn’t have been happier. 

Now that I’m back in Las Vegas, the lines are forming, and the needs are multiplying, starting with Maricela with three appointments in a row, two for little daughter Mariana Teresa in Tegucigalpa and one for herself in Progreso. Dora from Nueva Palmira is still not healed from her hernia operation, and Chemo’s half-brother Santos is passing blood. These and other dire straights gouge out the substance I thought I had built up in my “account.” But in a country whose corruption bleeds over the whole hemisphere, I take heart from a quotation I saw from Pope Francis: “How shall we define who is a ‘human being’? A blessing? Yes, a human being is a blessing; a human being blesses others.”

The living look for some helping hand, and the dead, as the sweet Book of Wisdom says, “are in the hands of God.” So I spent a lot of time in our cemetery on November 2, the Day of the Dead, more piously called the “Poor Souls.”  Folks had been chopping down weeds for a week in anticipation of the observance; then flowers, pine needles, ribbons, and other memorabilia would decorate our loved ones’ resting places. I usually sit by the grave of Miguel, and not only because it’s in the shade or because we share a name. He was a teen who died in 1991, struck by lightning in his corn field. Every year his mother arrives with another “corona” (crown) of flowers. The never-ending story, and each of us has one, blessings all around.

Peace,

Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS EDITION 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—ST. LOUIS EDITION 2015

ANY FAMILY…

On my birthday October 12, Chemo texted me from Honduras:

“muchusimas felicidades mi papa en su dia y gracias por darme su carino tan hermoso y q dios me le regale muchos anos en su vida, lo kiero mucho papa”

[“Congratulations, mi papa, on your day, and thank you for giving me such loving care; may God grant you many more years of life. I love you very much, papa.”]

It bent me to my knees, practically in tears! And this as I was finding my way to a table in Blueberry Hill where I was having lunch with my cousins. You see, it’s the first time Chemo called me “papa”! Twice!

I’ve never insisted or even expected him to call me Dad, since he witnessed the bloody death of his father Juan de la Cruz right in his own house. Chemo was only 5 at the time, years before I adopted him at age 13. So it’s been worth the wait!

On the other hand, a cynic would say it was Chemo’s most effective ploy to get the “tacos,” or soccer shoes, he’d been begging me for. And yes, I went straight from Blueberry Hill to I Dick’s Sporting Goods in West County Mall for the shoes! (Hedging my bets, however, I bought a pair on sale for $25, not exactly the $150 fancies Chemo specified.) But you know what, I don’t care even if I am being played—“Dad” or no “Dad,” it made me realize again how much I love him.

May I say, Pope Francis prepared me for Chemo’s birthday greetings. Teresa’s good friend and former student Kim, who now lives up east, invited us to Philadelphia for the final Mass, providing us with frequent-flyer plane tickets, the hospitality of her marvelous mother Donna, and her own inspired guidance as she led us on a 45-minute hike AGAINST the crowds, way to the other side of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, where we found immediate access to a Security check point and walked right in. We got a spot just at the railing and waited till Pope Francis rode by; he seemed to spot Teresa’s little sign, “GRACIAS FRANCISCO.” Later we learned that thousands of folks on the other side where we started had waited six hours and never got in! If we can ever get a Pope FranCES, Kim has my vote!

The Pope’s theme was the Family, which he defined as a unity of love. So, “ANY family that welcomes children and teaches them little gestures of love and kindness, will be appreciated by us, no matter what their origin, make-up, or style.” I began to cry, to think of how many of my friends and loved ones have longed to hear such welcoming words from an “authority” figure, especially one who seeks to share the love of God. So my heart was already softened when Chemo finally called me “papá.”

“Gestures of love” were in abundance among family and friends during my visit to St. Louis. Teresa went above and beyond as always in hosting me, with our friend “Rams,” now 87, keeping pace. My sister Barb got me to her son Jason’s games at Gateway High School, where he is head football coach and athletic director. My niece Jen and her sweet daughters Jayme and Justyne seemed to get more excited every time I saw them. I went along with another niece Myia and her daughters Katie and Lara to the St. Louis Zoo, to the delight, may I say, of the animals, who seemed to enjoy such endearing children.

My birthday October 12 began at Spencer’s Grill, where George the cook presented me with a birthday pancake! Other breakfasts, lunches, dinners, visits here, there, and anywhere, filled my time to overflowing (and my belly like a spare tire!), still missing too many folks because of the strictures of sheer time. I’m sorry!

I talked in several schools, where I invited students to imagine that they, like thousands of others, had just arrived from Honduras. You’ll notice that in the United States, pets are often “a member of the family,” while Hondurans and other immigrants, who actually are human beings, are “aliens.” In the United States, marijuana is “harmless,” because users are ignorant of what it costs Honduras—“the murder capital of the world”—to keep the supply coming. In the United States, even a high-school football game has an ambulance standing by, while in Honduras “health care” is often a death sentence. In the United States, kids express themselves with colorful and stylish clothes, clothes often “Made in Honduras” in sweatshops that pay a dollar an hour to human robots. But I also try to encourage these citizens of the future to, someday when they can, make a difference: for example, a “favorable wage,” as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights says, “worthy of human dignity”; or sharing their healing mastery as a surgeon or nurse with the poor; treating everyone like family.

That’s the negatives. The positives—the reason for hope!—include Chemo, of course, whose life was saved by “Helping Hands for Honduras”; thanks to his open-heart surgery in 2008, Chemo just reached his 21st birthday, complete with rooftop party at our house. And Nangui, rising from dirt poverty to become a star of the first-place soccer team Honduras-Progreso. At one middle-school, we called Nangui’s grandma Tina (with my cell phone on ‘spkr’) on her birthday to sing “Feliz cumpleanos”! And my neighbors Elvis and Dora, whose sacrifice and dedication have gotten their children Lily, Neysey, and Tito all the way to the National University. And Fermin and Maria’s children the same. And Elio and Mema, the same.

Examples multiply, more than enough to keep me making my life there.

I mean, here. I’m “home” again in Honduras. I already miss you terribly.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—SEPTEMBER 2015

MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS: SEP 17 - OCT 19
Phone: 314-210-5303

If I was embarrassed to ask you for money for Erlinda, I’m even more embarrassed to tell you the follow-up. I told you the situation was urgent, that her operation was due very soon, and folks responded and cash came in. But when Erlinda went to San Pedro Sula to check in before the surgery, they told her, “Ma’am, you’re not even on the list.” They “re-scheduled” her for 2016! I’m afraid this is typical, postponing treatment till the patient finally just gives up—or dies.

I am so grateful to you, and Erlinda even more so of course! We got about $1600 from about 20 donors, which is wonderful, and your prayers mean even more to me because I get so discouraged sometimes, and your Spirit gives me hope. Erlinda put the money in the bank, where at least it can earn a little interest, for the time being. But that was not the original idea, so I feel like I plucked your heart-strings under false pretenses, and I’m sorry. From now on, I’ve gotta work with what I’ve got, no more of these “targeted” appeals!

Daisy finally had her baby! a full month after her husband Jovany was so brutally murdered on the original due date. That terrible day, we were sure the baby would be lost, as distraught and stressed as Daisy was. Remember, it was Erlinda who nursed her through the crisis, calming her and caressing her as no one else could, and I guess the little boy just needed some more time, too! Last-minute complications necessitated a cesarean delivery, but otherwise the delay does not seem to have harmed mother or child. She named him “Dixi” for his dad, Dixi Jovany.

Even a death can be a consolation when there’s time to prepare and say good-bye. My neighbor Mina reached her 90th birthday still greeting every visitor with a hug, and a kiss on the mouth! When she finally began to succumb to her age, she took to bed, so weak she could barely move, but she was still calling for family and friends by name to come get their hug and kiss. The night she died, we took my extra plastic chairs over to the house for the wake. Chemo and I were going to Progreso the next day on the 5:00 a.m. bus, but when Blanca, Nora, and Bebeto arrived to offer music as their prayer, I stayed all night. They went through practically the whole church songbook, songs Mina loved—and I’ve loved!—all these years. Actually, I did doze off and on, and when I was going to request one of my favorites, I thought, What if they’ve already sung it?

We went to Progreso for one of Nangui’s games, and his twins’ first birthday. Now, Nangui could not play in this particular game because of two totally unjustified yellow cards in the previous game, but he did not just sit on the bench. He sold baleadas at his family’s stand inside the stadium. It didn’t take long for reporters to notice, and they started filming. Now that HONDURAS-PROGRESO is winning again, they are the darling of the media, with at least weekly features, usually Nangui right in the middle of it all. And then I open up La Prensa and a two-page ad for Banco del Occidente, one of Honduras-Progreso’s chief sponsors, has Nangui smack in the middle! “We make the best even better!”

Honduras-Progreso was leading the whole game 1-0 till the very last minute—in fact, AFTER the last minute, minute 94 in down time—when a Honduras-Progreso defender deflected the ball into his own goal. Ouch!

But that did not dampen the next day’s festivities, little Ivan and Camila’s First Birthday party. And Nangui and Martha went all out—party favors, goodie bags, Mickey and Minnie caps, stickers, 2 pinatas, 2 big cakes, all kinds of snacks, 3 kinds of food, and special guests, Nangui’s teammates like Angel Tejeda, top goal scorer in the League, with their own kids. And did I mention there was a big, colorful tent, and tables decorated like Disneyland?

Someone might say, and I have to admit the thought crossed my mind, this is a little excessive, especially considering the tiny guests of honor have no idea what it’s all for. But Nangui was himself a year old at one time, in 1986, and he never got a party. His mother Santa was 23 at the time, according to my calculations, and she must have been 14 in 1977 when I first met the family, with her mother Argentina holding the whole family together making about 500 tortillas a day on consignment for restaurants around town, a family so poor they couldn’t even give Julio a proper funeral when he was killed at 18 in 1990, or his younger brother Joel later, jammed into the same grave. They never had a real birthday party in the 38 years I’ve known them, until now. Oh, I’ve been “doing” parties for them with the Pizza Hut or the Chinese and the cake and the soda, sure, but it’s not the same. Now Nangui’s got some money as a professional soccer star, and his bright fame has helped double or triple Martha’s baleada business, so IT’S CELEBRATION TIME, COME ON!

Then we went to Morazan for Fermin’s birthday. His mother Antonia wanted to give him a special party, but it was hard for Fermin to celebrate since his car had just broken down for the umpteenth time, and it looked like it was the end. Years ago, he told me had three dreams: own a house, own a car, and get his wife Maria as much education as he achieved. Well, Fermin and Maria have a house, they both have Master’s, and at least Maria still has a car, which breaks down pretty regularly, too.

We returned the next week for my namesake Miguel’s 13th birthday; it was the surprise of my life when Fermin called me 13 years ago. First of all, the birth was very complicated, touch and go, Maria and the baby were both on the knife-edge of life and death. “He’s Miguel, Miguel.” I was so confused, I thought it was a coincidence! “For you!”

Speaking of confused, I was really nonplussed when three boys came to the door in Morazan with what looked like a passport. “Did you drop this?” Huh? I looked at it as if it were a moon rock or something. Actually, it was Chemo’s Honduran passport that we got for him when it looked as if they might send him to the States for his open-heart surgery. How in the world…? “We just figured it might be yours.” I still have no idea how they made the connection—Luilly, Giulany, and Jose Luis—but the more I thought about it, the more astounded, even scared, I was at our good luck. Seems it slipped out of the folder I keep with Chemo’s “papers,” including his heart diagnosis history in case of an emergency. I think I may have scared them a little as I went on and on with my thanks and praise. I gave each of them 100 Lempiras, which they refused at first till I convinced them to get something for their little brother or sister.

We went to Tegucigalpa for Elio’s birthday, which almost didn’t happen. His wife Mema had just fallen and badly broke her left foot; they operated on her and put two pins in there that in the X-rays looked like rebar! An enormous cast up to her knee, and instructions not to stand on that foot for two months, absolutely! would have been enough to kill any joy, but Mema came up smiling and announced, “The party is ON!” No dancing for Mema, but everyone had a great time. As an aside, I loved the way Chemo helped Mema with every request.

While in Tegus, we stopped by to say hi to the Brigada, also in Tegus at the time. It’s such a beautiful mission, saving at least 2 lives daily for two weeks at a time, 4 times a year, including a blueish little boy that we saw and tried to encourage him and his anxious parents. “Chemo, show them your scar!” Ron and Alba were dead tired, and the brigada has become so well known that Ron said, “There are 800 kids in that room—I’m not kidding.” Kids waiting for evaluations; I hope he was kidding, because how in the world can they attend to so many children??

The big game—a showdown between the top two teams, HONDURAS-PROGRESO (HNP) and frequent national champion MOTAGUA—was over in about 25 minutes, as HNP scored 3 goals one after another right out of the gate. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t “go crazy!” every time. What I most appreciated was the good behavior of the huge crowd, piled in practically on top of one another. I soon had to stand, just to have the arm-room to snap a picture. Only a couple days before, two other teams in San Pedro had so many fights and commotion that the police fired tear gas into the crowd! The paper had a photo of a little boy sitting there in his team shirt, stunned and motionless, a white cloud swirling around him, like, “What is happening?” None of that in Progreso, best fans in baseball, I mean, soccer!

Next stop, ST. LOUIS!!! See you there!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—AUGUST 2015

LAUDATO SI

When I saw Erlinda, the still center in the swirling caos at the overflowing house of Jovany, who had just been murdered the night before at a “fiesta” (that Chemo also attended!), the fatal blow a machete chop to the neck, Erlinda holding Daisy, Jovany’s wife, a full nine-months pregnant due any day, any hour! Erlinda rocking Daisy, fanning her, briskly (she’d already fainted twice), giving her a cup of water, while crowds of mourners, some screaming like banshees, others pushing and shoving to see the patched-up corpse in the rough casket, with busy women already in the tiny kitchen making pans of coffee, and uncomprehending kids still playing in the dusty street of Paraiso, that’s when I decided to swallow my pride and put out the call that I had been delaying for months, and so I posted:

“ERLINDA'S illness is advancing faster than my own resources can keep up with. She is scheduled for an operation that costs 15,000 Lempiras, about $750. The patient also has to pay for all the supplies required. And then there's the follow-up. I told her I'd ask for help, and it's not the first time, as you probably know. She's the life of our community: midwife, teacher, counselor, nurse, poet, performer, baker and cook, the soul of hospitality, quiet preacher with parables drawn mostly from her own life experience, mother above all--and widow. It was her husband Guillermo's crisis, cancer, and death in 2013 that first forced me to your side, yanking at your hem for help. And you were so good to us! Thank you now for any kind thoughts and prayers and donations!”
I had forgotten to mention her crocheting, a constant handiwork, including her hat in the photo!
———————————————————————————————————
Some generous money started coming in, and I know there were prayers and wishes, too, that I could “see” in my mind’s eye. Erlinda, of course, is beside herself, to think she still has such faithful friends in the USA!

Other celebrations include the birthdays of two of Erlinda’s grandchildren, her daughter Maricela’s sons Juan Jose, 18, and Miguel Angel, 11, sharing a gorgeous cake designed by Carlota, both names entwined.

A spontaneous celebration began with a cry—when just about midnight Fermin’s daughter Esly, 19, and I were sitting across the dinner table from each other with our computers fired up. I was on FACEBOOK, and I assumed she was, too, since she posts a lot. Suddenly, she yelped and burst into tears. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Actually scared me! “Mommy! Mommy! Come here! Please, please, please, Mommy!” Maria, her mother, and Fermin had gone to bed two hours before, but she kept calling. I asked what’s going on; she couldn’t even talk! I thought someone died, maybe her new and wonderful boyfriend was hurt—or was telling her to get lost. Finally, she jumped up from the table and rushed to her parents’ bedroom door and started knocking. I had to look; I turned her computer around and…what is this? Ah! It’s the National University website, telling Esly Caballero Marroquin that she had successfully passed the Entrance Exam! Then I had to cry! She had been, as it were, “hacking” into the webpage to get the results the very first moment they were available at midnight. Just think, in all ways a typical teen, but far more polished and self-aware and accomplished than most, her biggest wish was not for a bunch of money or anything material, but simply the opportunity to continue her education, after already having two intermediate degrees since high school. Maria, nor Fermin, ever did get all the way up; they did all their hugging and more crying in private. But I got my own chance to hug her and congratulate her. She closed up the computer: “I gotta go to bed.” I doubted she could sleep, as excited as she was, and I do imagine she was in her room on her cell phone, messaging friends with the good news. The next day, I went looking for a little present. I found a fancy ball-point pen at the “Unicentro” store, got it wrapped, with a card. And asked her to pose for a picture.

Then there was Nangui’s birthday. I wanted to celebrate, but I didn’t want to meddle. He’s probably the most popular person in El Progreso, so we just had a pizza party for lunch at his mom’s house, because he’d be “busy” in the evening! But we combined the event with his little nephew Yimi (“Jimmy”), who was turning 5, and neighbor Adelmo, who was turning 21.

We returned to Progreso just a week later for “Opening Night” of the new soccer season, a much anticipated match-up between Honduras-Progreso (HNP) and Real Espana of San Pedro Sula, nicknamed “La Maquina” (“the machine”). When I saw that 18 of 19 staff writers for the national sports paper “Diez” predicted a victory for Real Espana, I KNEW Honduras-Progreso would win! The game was in San Pedro, at Olympic Stadium, newly painted and refurbished for the national team’s run to the 2016 World Cup in Russia, pretty intimidating, you might say. A more direct harassment was the confiscation at the gate of any HNP fan jerseys, including Chemo’s that we had just bought for 200 Lempiras (10 bucks). Luckily, a few guys with our group had an extra shirt, so Chemo didn’t have to go in naked!

There was a small crowd, but the “Mega-Lokos” cheering section of Real Espana was out in force. They expected a quick and easy victory, but just seven minutes into the game, their star player deflected an HNP kick into his own goal! Took the air out of the stadium. Now, I sensed the deflation, but I didn’t realize till a day later that it was an own-goal. That’s how much attention I was paying! (My excuse to Chemo, who thought I was the dumbest fan on the planet, is, we were sitting about half a kilometer from the field, I couldn’t even see who was who.) As the game was about to end with a 2-1 win for Honduras-Progreso, the Mega-Lokos started a bonfire. “They’re burning our shirts!” Actually, it’s probably better that none of us self-identified as HNP fans as we left the stadium; there could have been real trouble, the Real Espana fans were so mad. The word I kept hearing was “Mierda!” So we got back on the team bus as quietly and quickly as possible and got the heck outta there. Back in Progreso, we celebrated with baleadas at Nangui’s wife street-corner stand.

This CASA is a little late, because I was hoping to report on Daisy’s baby, but she is still un-delivered at this point. Due dates are very approximate in Honduras, but of course we are worried that her husband Jovany’s murder is threatening more damage yet to the family…. So please keep her and her child in your heart. And if anyone can bring this to a healthy birth, it will be Erlinda, so thanks again for loving her, too.

In fact, may I say, “Bless you”? whether from God or your own goodness. I’m taking a cue from Pope Francis’ so-called “green” encyclical “Laudato Si” (“Praise be!”). The long first chapter is all climate-change science, no mention of God at all, but gently focused on irreducible human dignity, especially of the poor. Then, almost apologizing for “the convictions of believers,” he expresses the hope that “science and religion can enter into an intense dialogue fruitful to both,” based on mutual respect. Thus begins the gorgeous second chapter, “The Gospel of Creation.” Not unlike the Alcoholics Anonymous chapters on one’s “Superior Power,” so compelling a testimony, both inspired by what one might call the “science” of experience.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—JULY 2015

“¿ARGENTINO?”

If Barack Obama were President of Honduras, he’d be making Charleston-type “statements” three times a week, to catch the conscience of the populace. Eight teens playing soccer, five friends at a party, a whole family, including babies, on and on. Of course, here it’s drugs not racism, and it’s machetes as likely as it is guns.

We are such a little, lost country; and it’s likely to get worse. There’s the Chikungunya that just won’t quit, for one thing. My friend Fermin put it this way, “The critters like the joints.” I never thought of a virus that way; I never thought of it as individual little tiny creatures colonizing my wrists and ankles and knees, just nibbling away, feels like your hand’s caught in a vise.

But now there is increasing political strife, maybe presaging another coup, as the country’s disgust with its government’s corruption is literally lighting fires, huge marches of folks carrying “antorchas” (torches), demanding that President Juan Orlando Hernandez (JOH) resign in the wake of revelations that he stole 30 million dollars from Social Security to finance his campaign. (His defense? “Oh c’mon, it wasn’t THAT much!”) Meanwhile, JOH partisans are sponsoring equally large marches to renew demands against former President Mel Zelaya and his gang, who stole just as much, highlighted by “wheelbarrow-gate,” when a Mel cabinet member took a literal wheel-barrow full of cash out of the national bank, to finance Mel’s campaign. The military is getting itchy; they do NOT like being caught in the middle. And Obama, who has welcomed JOH into the White House numerous times, is now keeping his distance.

When Chemo and I visited Fermin and Maria and the family in Morazan, we marched right along with their first “antorchas” march: “Fuera, JOH! Fuera, JOH!” (Get out, JOH!) Actually, Chemo didn’t march; after all, he VOTED for JOH! And he’s now admitting they paid him for his vote.

We were in Tegucigalpa shortly afterward, for Chemo’s annual (!) dental appointment; the cab driver saw the huge crowd gathering in front of the presidential palace, and he scrambled to find a back route through alleys and even driveways, to get us back to the hotel. You may remember that Chemo was sick for a week a year ago with dangerously high fever after his teeth cleaning. As most of you agreed, it was due to lack of a “prophylactic” antibiotics treatment, standard for anyone with a heart condition. Well, this year we were ready, and so was Dr. Juan Handal. He called up the national expert, a personal friend, for the very latest protocol. He prescribed I guess you could say the “superglue” of antibiotics, Augmentin, horse pills with a magic ingredient that unblocks any “resistance.” I thought, Great, now Chemo’ll die of an overdose! But it worked like a charm, for the teeth cleaning, and the seven little cavities he had picked up since last year. He felt good enough, and I felt bad enough, watching him squirm for two hours in the dentist’s chair, to get soccer shoes, sneakers, two shirts, and a pair of shorts out of the deal. My pleas that we had just spent $500 on his teeth, fell on deaf ears, both his and mine.

Picking up some meds in Yoro at the Kielsa pharmacy, I was flattered, I guess, when the young clerk heard my Spanish and asked, “¿Argentino?” He thought I was from Argentina! Well, I was torn; I said, “No, I’m a gringo,” but I knew he’d feel bad for such a mistake. I wondered, should I have said, “Yes! Just like the Pope!”? What is an Argentine accent, anyway? I would prefer an Honduran one.

The meds were for Juan Carlos, the young man shot in the shoulder                                                                a year ago by some idiot aiming at his boss; it was finally time to get the bullet out that over time seemed to be inching closer to his spine. Besides the brush with death, the “accident” made me mad, because, here’s a guy, Juan Carlos, now 28, who against all odds has been taking good care of Maria since they met at age 15, along with their two little boys. Living a clean life, no gangs, no drinking, no messing around, and sending money back from the finca where he worked in Comayagua to build a little house in Nueva Palmira about a mile from Las Vegas. Dr. Ruben Garcia, from Cuba, performed the “minor” surgery, just 10 minutes, local anesthetic, cost: $5.00. The expensive part was the bus trip, food, a night in a hotel, the meds, and a fluffy pillow we got to rest his shoulder on the way home over dirt roads. Cuban doctors have been volunteering in rural hospitals of Honduras ever since Hurricane Mitch in 1998. Imagine! The only part of Honduran society NOT corrupt is the Cuban part! Conditions are “M*A*S*H”-level, I guess, with the operating room looking more like a locker room. But there’s a painting over the door that shows Jesus guiding the hand of a surgeon as he operates. Kitsch, I guess, but it caught me up short—I started to pray, because, really, there’s no such thing as “minor” surgery!

Helen had her 16th birthday, Necho his third, his sister Julia her seventh (serenaded by cousins Daguito and Lindolfito), Santa (Nangui’s mother) her [redacted], Santos his 41st and his daughter Mirna her 17th (the same day!)—and Tia Clara her 95th! We celebrated them all!

Chemo is taking First Communion classes, for the umpteenth time! He’d always quit halfway through, when I was in the States. This time it might work, since the wonderful Leila, who has raised 12 kids of her own, is giving him individual attention. She let Chemo pick the day and time for the class—so he has NO EXCUSE for missing any lesson!

I don’t want to miss a moment of your kind thoughts and love and support. Keep in touch!

Love, Miguel







                                         

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—JUNE 2015

MISSION STRONG

Fr. Jeff Harrison, S.J., has been a dear friend ever since we joined the Jesuits in 1975 (I left, he stayed!), so I was thrilled to my soul when he nominated my little efforts here in Honduras for funds from “Mission Week,” an annual event at Regis Jesuit High School in Denver, CO, where Jeff is stationed. You know what, I started praying from that day that hearts would be touched and that our gratitude down here would be felt by all.

The prayers seemed to help. Not only was the very iffy Colorado weather lovely all week—with  a “competition” or event scheduled outside each day—but the kids raised lots to share with us lucky recipients.

When the check arrived, I had some projects already in mind. Some money went to a couple very poor families to get a roof over their head. Cristian had been working from the ground up to make a little house for his wife and three-year-old daughter, digging the adobe bricks himself, asking help from friends to get the walls up, including the same “architect” that helped build my house, Jesus Martinez, and Nelo, who drinks a bit, but Cristian wasn’t paying him, so you can’t find fault with that. Anytime I’d visit, they’d be covered with mud from head to foot, and I’d think, “Hang on, guys, we’re gonna get you some help!”

The other family is Juancito and Minga, who just needed to add a room to their house for a couple grandkids, Esau and Patricia, that they are raising. They just asked for a little help to top the thing off. “Poor” doesn’t mean lazy; Juancito, who’s as frail as a reed, had been night-watchman at the school; and Minga cleaned the rooms after classes. After a month, it became obvious they wouldn’t get paid. It’s a vicious cycle, you might say. Juancito's and Minga’s pay was supposed to be collected from the families of the students. Hello? A lot of families can’t get their kid a pencil! You think the “system” is going to generate some kind of economy?

Also with the prospect of the Mission Week money, I promised Pablo a new bed, two in fact, once we could be sure his father Leon wouldn’t sell them for booze! Years ago, I gave the family a couple simple roll-away beds that are now in pieces. Pablo, then known as Pablito, and his brother Chepito (who goes by Jose now) are my godsons, their mom Irene, and Leon, who was in jail most of the time when I first moved here in 2003. They were my Chemos before Chemo. These beds are solid pine; well, not solid, you strap them up with ‘cabuya,’ a thick twine, and top it off with a sponge mattress—and a nice blanket and a couple foam pillows. Thanks to Regis, no expense was spared! (Actual cost, about $60.) Only two beds? Well, Chepito (Jose) has been working in the mountain town of Lajas for the past two years; we barely have any contact anymore. He is the artist, some of you will remember who proudly display his exquisite drawings.

As I told Regis in my “application,” there are continuing expenses as well that Mission Week would greatly help. Maricela and her mother Erlinda are both diabetics, with appointments every three months in Progreso; Maricela’s little daughter Marite has liver problems and she needs to go to Tegucigalpa every few months. Meanwhile, Erlinda is waiting for an operation for womanly reasons and goes to San Pedro Sula every few months pursuing that “dream.” I give them 2000 Lempiras (= $100) each time for their travel, medicine, etc. Just today, when Erlinda invited me over for some ‘mantuca,’ made from new corn, she said, “Really, Miguel, I think without your help, Maricela and I might not even be alive,” and she ticked off about 8 other friends and neighbors who had met early deaths from their diabetes, basically untreated for lack of resources. I knew them all; I went to their funerals.

Another recurring gift boosted by Mission Week is a little “allowance” for Chemo’s cousins who are going to school. Education is often not a priority when the parents are illiterate; it’s a poverty that, as a former teacher, I find especially sad. I give each one 20 Lempiras a day, which seems “extravagant” in some eyes, but it’s only about 1 dollar, enough for a couple little snacks. There are 6 cousins in 3 households, and I usually include a few random kids nearby. One of the cousins has already quit, Julita. Way too often, a girl drops out: what do you need an education for if you’re gonna make tortillas and babies the rest of your life? Boys drop out for their own reasons: they don’t like school. Chemo, you may remember, never went to school till I took him in at age 13, at which point he started first grade!

There are any number of other “spots” where Mission Week can fill in the gaps. Such as the triple birthday we just celebrated: Marcos, 31; his son (with wife Dania) Elio, 1; and Miriam, 11. These are Chemo-cousins, too. I kept joking that a one-year-old has no idea what a birthday is, but when Elio grabbed a handful of icing off the cake as soon as he saw it, it was like Helen Keller discovering “Water.” HE KNOWS! We added a little neighbor, Marvin, to the mix, since he does not know how old he is or when his birthday is: “Marvin, this is your day, too!” The party featured one of Carlota’s grand cakes. She is the premier baker in the area, but it’s a little tricky to arrive with the cake intact after a wild ride from Jacagua back to Las Vegas in a moto-taxi!

On the way back to my house after the party, another “Mission,” some cash for Paolo, suffering from heart problems and a “hernia” in his backbone. He already missed one appointment at the Yoro Hospital because he had no money for the bus or the X-rays and tests the doctor needs. Paolo and I go way back; he was just reminiscing about my early days here with Padre Patricio when  Paolo was a kid himself.

Then there’s Juan Carlos, shot in the shoulder a year ago by a robber aiming at his boss. The bullet is still in there and has moved around enough that it’s exerting pressure right on his spine, causing agonizing pain. I’m going to see about helping him get some X-rays at Yoro Hospital, and maybe an operation, which could relieve the problem, finally extracting the bullet, or…God knows!

And a hundred other needs and good works, all urgent. Suffice it to say, “Mission Week” made a huge difference here. If you can get up some cash by, say, shaving your beard, let ‘er rip!

The Legion of Mary celebrates the month of May with the custom of “las flores,” when kids bring flowers each day to the Virgin Mary. This year, we added the little ceremony to the end Sunday Mass as well, so the whole congregation could participate. A couple women would bring big baskets of flowers, so there’d be plenty for everyone. For a moment, we were all children!

Chemo and I, with his cousin Dionis tagging along, went to Tegucigalpa for the latest Brigada. Like last time, we saw a young woman crying and sobbing when we arrived, but this time it was with uncontained joy, as they accepted her tiny baby for emergency open-heart surgery (“I came from so far!”) on the very last day of operations. Ron Roll and Alba, the ones in charge, are so good; and of course they were happy to see Chemo. When preparations began for a farewell lunch for the staff, a couple nurses were struggling to carry some kind of serving table up two flights of stairs. I quickly volunteered Chemo and Dionis for the task! We ducked out before the awkward question of whether they’d invite us or not could come up.

Chikungunya—a malaria on steroids—continues to ravage the population. And its effects are lasting. It attacks the joints; my wrists, my ankles, my knees, are as weak as paper. The pain! you’d swear the bones were broken. I can barely wring out the wash; and climbing up to the roof to hang the clothes on line (or climbing down!) is torture; you can imagine going up to the church (or down!). Just pulling on my sneakers in the morning is a major operation, as is the simple act of sitting down in a chair: every “muscle” is on fire. Standing up again—forget about it. I try to plan my day avoiding any “articulation”! I don’t know if the feebleness is permanent, or just for the rest of my life, but we’re all waiting for a “cure”!

But you know, with your love and care, I could climb to the Moon!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—MAY 2015

FULL

The month of April began in Holy Week, and thanks to Padre Francisco, a big jolly priest from El Salvador, it was the fullest experience we’ve ever had. I am sure that this was the first time in history that Las Vegas had its own “resident” priest for the whole week. He and a young seminarian named Israel, from Morazan, had both been invited by our pastor Padre Chepito, and they stayed in my house! Thank God the water and electricity was working all week.

Services were wall to wall. After a couple days, it struck me who Padre Francisco reminded me of: Captain Kangaroo! Oh, back in the day, we grew up with this lovely creation of actor Bob Keeshan. Sometimes, if I felt a little “sick,” you know, I’d plop myself on the couch and start watching the show before my mother could change her mind about keeping me home for the day.

And like the Captain, Padre Francisco had his bag of tricks. He did several things we’d never seen before. For example, in the Washing of the Feet on Holy Thursday, he washed one person’s feet, who washed the next person’s feet, etc., etc. That we had seen, but then he invited couples, or brothers and sisters, or parents and children to come up and wash each other’s feet. I could see what was coming; he looked over at me, “Michael! [he didn’t like “Miguel”] Whose feet will you wash?” I had already noticed Guillermina, the sweetest, humblest person in town, sitting at the end of nearby pew, so I approached her, invited her, took her by the hand up to the altar, and washed her feet. A few tears were shed.

Another innovation after the Mass, the “Procession of the 4 Tribunales,” the four “trials” of Jesus before Annas, Caiphas, Herod, and Pilate. Little “stations” had been set up throughout the town; we sang our way from one to the other with Chauco as the bound and blindfolded Jesus, and then a Gospel reading and a commentary and prayer. Believe me, no one in Las Vegas could doubt that this was Holy Week, not just Spring Break! When we finally returned to the church after an hour or more, Chauco said, “I was amazed! When I took the blindfold off, the church was full! I couldn’t believe everybody made the whole circuit!”

Good Friday—besides a three-hour Stations of the Cross, with Cristian as Jesus in the sweltering heat, and the liturgy in the morning—Francisco planned another ceremony that I for one was sure would not work, the “Procession of Silence,” at nightfall, where we would carry “Jesus,” a crucifix, that is, to the cemetery. I thought folks would be scared of “ghosts”! But no, once we arrived—a big crowd, yes—Padre Francisco offered just a brief prayer, then invited everyone to visit the graves of their loved ones. With the full Passover Moon shining, it was nearly as bright as day; folks loved it!

Holy Saturday / The Easter Vigil is the biggest liturgy of the year, and Padre Francisco had a plan that really should be standard practice throughout the world! First, he moved the altar out into the aisle and arranged the pews around it, leaving a big open space behind. That’s where he had all the kids gather. After 11 long Biblical readings, including responses and songs, covering the whole history from Genesis to Jesus, he said, “OK, now we take a break!” We had been told to bring sodas, juices, rolls, snacks, whatever, and a table laden with all these goodies was ready. “Kids first!” They lined up so politely, and everyone was served. Afterwards, most of the kids went home, you see, bedtime! And the rest of us were fortified for the other “half” of the Mass.

Several people literally interrupted Francisco’s sermons to praise him: “You speak truth, Padre! You don’t mince words, we’ve never heard anyone like this before!” I don’t know that he was breaking any ground theologically, but his enthusiasm, his clarity, his unflagging sense of humor, above all, his applications to daily life, indeed set him apart. Maybe he had received some of Archbishop Oscar Romero’s spirit when the future saint confirmed him as a youngster. In every Mass, he’d invite someone to give their own “testimony” to the love of God, starting with Anibal, a prime spokesman for Alcoholics Anonymous. (In our little town, no one is “anonymous”; in fact, most members like to show themselves as an example of what A.A. can do for you.) I guess, ultimately, he reminded us of POPE Francisco!

We spent the rest of the month traveling, two full cycles of Morazan, Progreso, Tegucigalpa. April is the hottest, deadest time of year, but it seemed to make sense at the time: Morazan, where both Fermin and Maria were recovering from chikungunya; Progreso for Nangui’s knee operation and his team’s last home game (which they won! with an earnest mix of scrubs, their first victory in a month); and Tegus for the birthday of Chemo’s brother Markitos.

When Chemo saw that his very most favorite singer, Romeo Santos, was giving a concert in Tegucigalpa, well, we had to go. Romeo is “The King of Bachata,” a more romantic and appealing rhythm than reggaeton, or rap. It became a family affair, since Markitos, his mother-in-law Dora, and his wife Yessica would be selling a popular snack, French Fries topped with a special sauce and a sausage, at a stand just outside the stadium. So we all gathered there, to chat and visit, and round up customers, till it was time to go in, 6:30 p.m.

A “crush” at the entrance turned out to be a trap; I was pickpocketed of about 1000 Lempiras, which I had been saving for a birthday present for Markitos. (I don’t why I didn’t give it to him right away!) Fortunately, I had told Chemo we’re not taking any cell phones, any wallets, any credit cards, any cameras. Fortunately, too, they didn’t get the tickets, which were in the OTHER pocket. Fortunately, I had hidden some money in my socks—I should have hidden ALL of it! OK, so I’m shaken and angered and discombobulated by the theft, and I top it off by tripping over my own feet and falling headlong on the pavement. Chemo helped me up, he was probably more alarmed than I was. I noticed immediately that my knee hurt, almost doubling under my own weight. “Oh, great, now I’m gonna need the same operation Nangui got!”

Romeo did not appear till 10:00 p.m., and by 11:00 even Chemo said, “Let’s go—it’s dangerous here.” Bless you, Chemo! We went outside and sat again for a while with Dora and Yessica and Markitos. When we told them about the robbery and that all we had left was cabfare, Dora sprang into action, going from cab to cab to find us the cheapest fare.

But I was sick! It had all the marks of chikungunya, fever, aches all over, no appetite, just dead in the water. Now, can you get chikungunya from a pickpocket? or from falling on your face? I may be making medical history here! At early Mass the next morning in the Cathedral, I just sat like a lump, trying to pray, till I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Miguel, how are you?” Is this an angel? Well, it was Regina, Elio and Mema’s daughter, undoing the meanness of the pickpocket’s grabs. She invited me to a little breakfast with her daughter. (Chemo was still fast asleep back in the hotel.) Gracias!

By the time we limped home to Las Vegas, we had already heard of the murder of the Chief of Police in Victoria, apparently because he was investigating some cattle rustlers. They caught three “suspects,” and Chemo and I felt a chill when we recognized one of them as someone who had brought a boombox to Elvis for repair. So now who wants the job?

All I wanted was my bed and a fan. But the electricity was off—someone knocked down a pole in Yorito or somewhere. I was so far gone, I didn’t even care. I slept in my street clothes about 15 hours, and finally took the advice I’d been giving everyone else: Gatorade! At “room temperature,” it was hardly refreshing, but it got me back on my feet.

Thank YOU for your ever gentle hand!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—APRIL 2015

CHIKUNGUNYA

The entire league could not bring down Nangui, star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, but a tiny bug—a mosquito!—knocked him for a loop! It’s called Chikungunya, “Chiko” for short, and it’s already killed not a few Hondurans. An especially virulent form of malaria, it has afflicted at least 18,000 here. There is, of course, no cure. Nangui fell sick on the team bus to a game in La Ceiba, 4 hours from Progreso, a surge of fever, aches all over, every joint clenched, practically hallucinating, scared everyone, especially his mom Santa and family in the bus behind. When Santa called me, it sounded as if Nangui would be hospitalized, but by the end of the game, after some Tylenol and Gatorade at a clinic, he insisted on getting back on the bus. His sister Karla tweeted a photo: looked like a death mask!

They lost the game, of course, but the coach was more concerned about Nangui. “You know, we  missed our ‘jugador emblematico’ tonight due to sickness.” Our emblematic player! I haven’t heard such evocative language since Northrop Frye wrote about “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”!

Even in Progreso, Nangui just went home. It took a call from his coach, and a personal escort of a couple teammates to finally get him to a clinic, where he stayed only long enough for blood tests and about a gallon of ‘suero’ (intravenous drip).

I really thought, if not his life, certainly his career was threatened. I snapped one of the sweetest pix I’ve ever taken, Nangui’s tiny son Ivan, in his mother Martha’s arms, soothing his daddy’s distempered brow. But his natural resilience kicked in; eventually, he was back, “ready” to play.

Meanwhile, the team was in a tailspin, falling into the basement of the standings, including their first home loss in 49 games. But the fans didn’t give up. We went to a game in San Pedro, hottest day of the year (a weekly occurrence in Honduras!), but we loved it! a 3-0 trouncing of Marathon on their home field, and with their own player! Rene Moncada, recently acquired by Honduras-Progreso in Nangui’s absence, responsible for all three goals. A survey in the sports paper El Diez before the game had only 1 of 17 staff writers predicting a Honduras-Progreso win. But apparently the real highlight was a FACEBOOK photo of me in my loose red dewcap; it got more “Likes” than anything I’ve ever posted. I guess they were Likes…

We went to Tegucigalpa to visit the Brigada for Chemo’s annual check-up, but as soon as we arrived, making our way into the back corridors of the hospital, something was wrong. A woman huddled over a little girl lying on a gurney. I thought (I hoped!) a mother was comforting her daughter before—or after—surgery. But the child was not moving, at all. I drew Chemo away. The child was really the same size as Chemo when he got his open-heart surgery. That close! When they brought in a little coffin, that was that. Ron Roll, organizer of the Brigadas, just looked at us. “This is a bad time.” Everyone was in tears, Ron, his wife Alba, the surgeon, nurses, and other volunteers from the States who had come to save these children, but some kids are just too sick; they can’t make it, with or without surgery.

Chemo only said, “Let’s go.” I tried to say something, through my own streaming tears. “Chemo, God is love, we know that, we know that even when such terrible things happen, we know God is good, if your life is saved by the doctors or if you go first to eternal life, well, we can still pray, for her parents, for her family, for the doctors and nurses, for Ron and Alba, never to give up, never to stop caring for the children!”

In a variation on “If you build it, they will come,” we got, in the case of Chemo’s brother Markitos, who had mixed cement for eight months for an enormous store about 3 football fields long, the Larach Brothers Hardware Store in Tegucigalpa, on the day of the Grand Opening, “If you build it, you cannot come.” Every dignitary from the President on down was invited to the gala event, but the actual workers got no invitations. If they had not done their job well, there’d be no store to open! (I remember an anniversary of the Gateway Arch, with the construction workers in the front row.)

Father’s Day in Honduras is celebrated on March 19, the Feast of St. Joseph. The school in Las Vegas did a poignant and even brave celebration, featuring at least 5 skits or songs pleading with fathers to be responsible, especially not to destroy their families with alcohol. Somehow, even second graders had us in tears.

On our visit to Progreso to see Nangui, we invited some of the family to Teatro la Fragua to see “El Asesinato de Jesus,” their signature work—emblematic, you might say—the most performed over their 35 years of existence. It places the death of Jesus in the context of the torturous politics of Honduras, the poor who suffer by the privileged.

Flush with Wi-Fi at our hotel in Progreso, I crossed my fingers and downloaded Apple’s latest Operating System “Yosemite.” Comments I had seen made it sound more like “Armageddon,” but it came through fine, except for one thing. My computer was now too advanced for my little Tigo modem that I used for Internet in Las Vegas. Alternating between despair, and excitement at the prospect of huge swaths of free time, I glanced at Chemo absorbed in his Samsung Galaxy, and I realized, “I need a smartphone!” I got the cheapest one I could find, about $50, and it works fine, though of course it’s way “smarter” than I am!

Loading Yosemite, I was especially anxious about iPhoto, since that’s what I needed most, but it also had the most complaints among the Apple comments. It seemed fine, but as an experiment, I quickly assembled a little photo book of kids’ pictures; after a couple false starts, Apple processed the order and the book is at Teresa’s house right now, if you happen to stop by.  I think I’ll do a couple more like this, before I come up in September instead of one big book as I usually do.

Actually, I might like to come a little sooner. The Honduran national team just qualified for the Gold Cup tourney, so they’ll be playing in such cities as Dallas, Boston, and on July 13 Kansas City! If Nangui makes it back on to the team, you could have a real treat to see him in action!

Thanks for letting me play on YOUR team!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2015

BACK TO SCHOOLED!

While you are counting snow days up there, we are just getting started! The school year officially began February 1. Fascinating to see hundreds of kids in their uniforms lining up outside the gate, boys to the right, girls to the left, as Profe Oracio, who I’ve known since he was in kindergarten himself, checks everyone in, suggesting a haircut here, a shoeshine there, and calling the stragglers to hurry up! 

While we don’t have snow days, we do have big gaps as the year begins before everyone’s back from picking coffee in the mountains. Till at least March, things move about half-speed. But what can you do? 

Chemo’s cousins were some of the late arrivals, but I was so thrilled to see them finally dressed and ready with their little backpacks and notebooks that I dared not criticize or cast blame. Probably only about half of them will actually stick to it for the year; there’s no “Special Education” here for kids who are really handicapped in focusing on study, and it doesn’t help when the adults in your house are illiterate themselves. But for now, I’m giving each one 20 Lempiras, as my encouragement to keep a-goin’! And I try to help with homework, which is sometimes such busywork I have to hold my tongue. (“Write 10 sentences with verbs in the past, present, and future,” for little Marcos, who still can’t tell one letter from another!)

Don’t even ask about Chemo! The chance I dreamed of enrolling him in computer classes vanished when Wilfredo invited me to join a meeting of Caritas in his “office,” and it turned out to be the little building that WAS the computer school, now an open space with about 4 busted machines just sitting there along the wall. Caritas funds projects for the poor, but apparently computer classes ain’t one of them! 

On the other hand, we have every level of education except university: kindergarten, “escuela” (primary school, grades 1-6), “colegio” (our version of high school, grades 7-9), then a 3-year “bachillerato” or “carrera”, when you specialize in some study, like Arts and Letters, Business, etc.; in Las Vegas the only “carrera” available is “Agriculture,” but that’s still a pretty good lineup for a “village”!

Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso is learning some hard lessons of its own. They haven’t won a game in a month; maybe they’re stretched a little thin, since several teammates are playing in three “tournaments” at once. There’s the national team, hoping for a World Cup berth; but that team has already lost twice to Venezuela, in “friendlies,” to be sure, but still Coach Jorge Pinto is not pleased. We all went to the “home” game in San Pedro Sula, but Nangui did not even get in the game, although the crowd, impatient and frustrated, was calling for him. The next game was IN Venezuela, and I just couldn’t get my head around it. Nangui, never farther away from home than Tegucigalpa, suddenly is on a plane to Venezuela. I showed everyone who would listen where Venezuela is, on a map on my wall, but I was probably the most amazed of anyone. And he did get in that game—for the last ten minutes, what’s up with THAT? I decided the coach knows his value and is saving Nangui for a “real” game, like a secret weapon. But even ten minutes was enough to earn Nangui a head-shave, as a kind of initiation by his teammates. 

The third cycle of games is something called the “Copa Presidente.” I never heard of it, and Fermin explained why. “It’s never been done before; it’s a toy for the idiot President we’ve got,” Juan Orlando Hernandez. Basically, it’s contests between the League teams and more local, rag-tag teams, with predictable results when the little teams embarrass  the big teams. Nangui’s team is actually leading the standings with a couple victories, I don’t even know over who--or whom. 

Winning or not, Nangui is a star. The daily sports paper El Diez did a two-page spread on his “private life,” featuring the “baleada” connection along with his wife Martha, and of course the two little twins. His dream, he says, is to buy his mother a new house. 

But it may be a falling star. After the most recent loss, Coach Wilmer resigned. Actually, it was a noble move, to draw the criticism to himself rather than the players. “Three losses in a row, something has to change; instead of cutting 28 [players], just cut one—and that’s me.” 

Chemo became a star himself, when Luis Emildo invited him to join his local cable show in Las Vegas, “Pura Vida.” Chemo’s a natural!

At least as famous as Nangui--among my readers anyway--is Beto, the blind young man in La Catorce. Two weeks beforehand, he had quietly asked me if he should invite folks to his...birthday party! “Absolutely!” I said, and I ordered one of Carlota’s enormous cakes for Sunday, September 15. After Mass, we crowded some kids in Las Vegas into a moto-taxi and headed for La Catorce, stopping at Jacagua to get the cake. Beto is 32, but still a child in his delight of his special day. 

The next week, Chemo and I went to Morazan for the birthday of Fermin’s wife Maria, who turned 47, another idea I can barely get my head around. I’ve known her--and Fermin--since they were teenagers, most of their life and over half of mine. Of course, I was so dense, I didn’t realize the party was to be a surprise. Her birthday was Thursday, and everyone was telling her they’d wait till the weekend to celebrate. We arrived Wednesday, and when her daughter Arlin said to me, “I’m going to the store,” I just looked at her. “Miguel, let’s go to the store--TOGETHER!” Then I got it. And Arlin prepared a feast! Three big pans of lasagna, fat roasted chickens, broccoli with a cheese sauce, for starters. She and her husband Freddy showed up in their pickup loaded with food and drink just when Maria was thinking, “What’s going on?” 

When Nangui’s family invited us to join them on an “excursion” to Tela, the beach that was the only mainland in America that Columbus actually touched (1502, his fourth voyage), I had to say yes, because Chemo had never seen the ocean. He wasn’t sure what to think at first, but each time he took another dip, he went a little farther into the waves. Soon he was begging to take a motorboat ride with his friends; some big guys were taking folks out for about a ten-minute run, surging over the waves and nearly turning the craft over! When they stopped dead at their farthest point away, I thought they were stranded. “We were looking at the sharks,” Chemo explained. Oh, yeah, the sharks! I should have thought of that! 

Stay warm and stay dry!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015

JE SUIS NANGUI

I felt a twinge of deja vu as we walked past Ramon Rosa park in El Progreso after Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso beat Marathon 3-1. “That’s where it all began, all those years ago.” And then it hit me, I’m with the same family that began it! Wow! Thirty-seven years collapsed into a single moment. 

You see, my first time in Honduras, in 1977, I was getting my shoes shined twice a day by the ‘lustrabotas’ in the park, just to practice my Spanish. Julio, about 10 years old, seemed to be the leader of the little squad. Through him, I met his family, including his sister Santa, who eventually grew up to become the mother of Jorge, nicknamed Nangui, now at 28 years old the star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, taking the league by storm in their first year of professional play. 

I guess sort of the way J.K. Rowling says all 7 installments of “Harry Potter” hit her all at once, the whole history flashed before my eyes in an instant, including Julio’s violent death in the streets of El Progreso in 1989, just when his future looked brightest. Overcome, I grasped Santa’s hand. She looked at me, like, What the heck is the matter with you! “I was just thinking.” Then we proceeded to the corner where Nangui’s wife Marta has a stand, about 15 of us family and friends, for baleadas, to celebrate the victory that solidified Honduras-Progreso’s first-place status. 

This was our second game in a week. We went to San Pedro Sula the previous Saturday for the first game of the new season, facing a strong team named “Vida.” 

The evening in San Pedro was not promising. The old stadium looked more like a latrine than a sports facility. A rainy day had left the unkempt field so muddy that after a while you could barely tell which team was which. Huddled in the mist and cold, we were a mere handful of fans, basically just the 40 or so that could fit on a bus from Progreso provided by the team. 

But the team came from behind for a thrilling 3-2 victory. Calling a play, even our head coach Wilmer Cruz slipped in the mud, and was helped up by a Vida player, a nice gesture. And among the small crowd was the most important observer of all, Jorge Pinto, the new head coach of the ‘seleccion,’ the Honduras national team that hopes to compete in the next World Cup, Russia 2018. Sort of like Whitey Herzog, from what I can tell, he likes players that really hustle! So naturally his attention was drawn to Nangui, who, according to La Prensa, is “un escurridizo para los defensores,” because he speeds through defenders like a buzz saw! Pinto came to their next game, too, the one we attended in El Progreso, where the overflow crowd of almost 2000 had to impress him too. The next day, Nangui was on Pinto’s list of about 30 players to try out for the ‘seleccion.’ And after three days of drills, Nangui made the team!

I can’t assume you are a big fan of international soccer, but you might get a chance to see Nangui in action when the ‘seleccion’ plays in the United States in the coming months. I’ll let you know the details as soon as I hear. 

What more can I say? Sorry for gushing like this, but it’s just so phenomenal. From dirt poor to world class. Nangui grew up in a house the very definition of a SHACK. His mom Santa and dad Jorge both swear like sailors, but somehow Nangui remains soft-spoken and a gentleman, engaging the media like a pro. After a game, when he’s gone full-tilt and thrown himself around like rag doll, he cleans up and joins us at his wife Marta’s stand for baleadas. I was about to say, “win or lose,” but Honduras-Progreso has never lost at home! Then he might come back to the house for awhile, while I snap a few pictures. My favorite image of him is, later, just walking down the street into the dark, alone, to re-join Marta to help pack up her stand for the night. 

In a special moment, Honduras-Progreso visited Hogar Suyapa, a beautiful children’s home/orphanage that directed me back in 2007 to a very special person, Judge Wendy Padilla, to arrange my adoption of Chemo. You know what, why don’t you just go ahead and “Like” the team!

https://www.facebook.com/Club.Deportivo.Honduras.De.El.Progreso

In between Nangui’s games, Chemo and I “vacationed” in Morazan for a week with Fermin and Maria and the kids. We try to do this every January, before school starts again in February. Fermin showed me the new light he had just installed in the front room, a fat fluorescent globe replacing a tiny neon tube that had lasted since they moved into the house 20 years ago! It looked somehow...strange. Indeed, the next morning, when we flipped it on, it short-circuited! Fermin spent the whole  day in the crawlspace between the ceiling and the roof sorting things out. I was scared to death he’d electrocute himself, so I started praying a very quiet rosary. Maria, more practical, went to get some help from the local utility, ENEE. Two guys showed up--with tools!--and climbed the nearest pole and cut and twisted and connected wires till power was restored. Fermin emerged covered with 20 years of dirt, dust, and grime from head to foot, smeared with sweat. When I lifted my camera, he said, “No, Miguel! No pictures! We don’t want to remember this!” 

But we did have some experiences worth remembering, including Eduard’s 21st birthday. We splurged at the Supermercado Marquez to get all the fixin’s for a big barbecue, including three kinds of meat: chorizo, chicken, and strips of beef. Maria, with help from her sister Arlin and sister-in-law Concha, made a big batch of chimol (a delicious relish) and other side dishes; and we got everyone’s favorite party cake, “tres leches.” I asked Eduard if he was inviting any friends. “Just one,” he smiled. His girlfriend, Evelin! I had to pay for everything, not because I HAD to, but because I wanted to, for all their goodness to me and Chemo. 

And Chemo and I “had” to go to Tegucigalpa for Mema’s birthday! We took her and Elio to Mirawa for lunch, the best Chinese in the city, along with their son Elio, Jr., and two grandsons. I love seeing Mema’s smile! No one is more grateful for even the smallest gift. The “official” birthday party in the evening started with Mass at the little church by their house, where Padre Ovidio, a lifelong friend, was also overcome with gratitude for Mema’s wonderful life. Then the feast, and the dancing, and the singing. 

Birthdays are so precious, not least because not everybody gets one. Yessica, the girlfriend of Chemo’s younger brother Markitos, lost their baby in a miscarriage, about 3 months gestation. Markitos was not home with her when it happened; he was visiting his and Chemo’s mother Rufina, at the other end of the country in Santa Barbara. But Yessica’s mother was there to help her through the experience. Markitos arrived the next day, and Chemo and I the day after that. Cautiously, I invited them to Pizza Hut, as usual; and it seemed to help restore some hope and some smiles. And with a million and a half “pilgrims” expected to visit the Basilica very close to Yessica and Markitos’ barrio in Tegucigalpa for the biggest feast of the year, Our Lady of Suyapa, they should be able to get some needed income when Yessica’s mother sets up a food booth and Markitos runs odd jobs. 

We almost thought maybe Beto of La Catorce, the blind young man we love and enjoy, would not make it to his next birthday when we heard he was hit by a motorcycle. It was dark (not a good time to be on the road, but Beto explains he was doing a favor for a friend); the motorcycle was “off,” so Beto couldn’t hear it (this I don’t get); and the “driver” was a TEACHER in the La Catorce school and he was DRUNK! (OK, THAT explains it). Fortunately, Beto got only a cut on his forehead (4 stitches) and other scrapes and bruises but nothing too serious. Can you imagine! 

Well, I can imagine YOU have things to do, so let me sign off right now!

But not without thanking you again for your lovingkindness,

Miguel