ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2011

Another couple of appearances in THE BEACON. If you want to see what this newsletter SHOULD look like--fitted and formatted and finely tuned, thanks to editor Donna Korando--check it out.

1) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/108582-installment-3-from-miguel-dulick (= FEBRUARY CASA)

2) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/109084-dulick-writes-about-petronas-death (= MARCH CASA)


"Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without" (Amish saying)

When the rotted frames came apart in my hand, I knew I had a new pair of glasses back home. When Natalia came running after me and handed me two pieces of something I did not even recognize--”You dropped your cell phone!”--I knew I had anticipated its demise when I bought a spare some months ago. When I returned from a visit to Nueva Palmira with the Legion of Mary and peeled off my cardboard boots, and the socks, and found my tender feet covered with dirt like snickerdoodles cookies dusted with cinnamon, I finally added “boots!” to my shopping list for Tegucigalpa, where I bought these Frankenstein shoes; they weigh a ton, but they are you-name-it proof, and now I could walk on the Moon, even a Super-Moon.

But that’s about as much of my life that resembles any order. When I accompanied Olvin and his father Teto to Yoro Hospital for his first checkup since being shot last December, the bus had to dodge an airplane in the middle of the road! There’s so much money in drugs (thank you, U.S.A.!), that even airplanes are disposable. Apparently, the night before, they had blocked traffic with rocks for a “landing strip,” set up flaming tin cans along the shoulders of the road, waved the plane down, disgorged the ton or so of cocaine into waiting pickups, doused the plane with gas from big plastic tanks, set it ablaze, and took off. By the time we were going through the next morning, the military and the media were in place, doing their thing. Imagine telling the doctor you missed your appointment because a plane crashed.

But we didn’t miss the appointment. In fact, as soon as we arrived, Olvin’s dad spotted the male nurse from Emergency who first tended to Olvin’s shattered left elbow in December. He led us directly to the doctor’s door and put us next in line. He looks at me, and says, “Don’t you remember me? We met at the AA anniversary in Las Vegas.” That’s a small world. It became even smaller when a poor woman with a badly disfigured jaw, whether from cancer or injury, whispers to Olvin to ask if I’m a “pastor.” Olvin, bless him, says yes, and she asks me to say a prayer for her. She could hardly talk, but I was really tongue-tied. I held her hands and said what I could, but I’m sure all the grace was going from her to me.

The doctor sent us over to X-Rays, right next to the single operating room in this tiny hospital. Olvin said, “That’s where they took me. I was crying, I was so scared I would die or lose my arm.” Then he glanced up, over my shoulder. “That’s the only thing that saved me.” He was looking at the big crucifix on the wall. I dared ask, “Was your father crying, too?” “Oh, yes.” I can only imagine. Teto was around the corner, but I asked them for a picture together.

In the X-Ray, you can see the big screw they put in there, and the Erector-Set hinge they fashioned for Olvin’s new elbow. The next step is physical therapy, available at the Hospital in El Progreso, because the arm is really pretty useless right now as is. “It’s gonna hurt,” I told him, “but you have to do it.”

We stopped at a little cafe for lunch, and when they piled Olvin’s plate of fried chicken with side orders of beans and rice, he frowned. “I’m not supposed to eat beans or rice till my arm heals.” I looked at Teto, Teto looked at Olvin, Olvin looked at his arm. “It’s healed!” we all said together. He dove in like an oasis in a desert. Imagine, two months without the campesino cuisine par excellence. That’s a “therapy” worse than stretching an atrophied muscle. I’m no doctor, so maybe there’s some sound reason for such a diet when a wound is fresh, but when Chemo got his chest cut open to fix his heart, I specifically asked the doctor, “What can he eat?” “Anything he wants!” (Of course, he didn’t want much, those first few days, when he felt like he’d been dropped from an airplane.)

I went to Yoro with Olvin and Teto, you understand, to be their expense account. But, believe me, it wasn’t a huge sacrifice. The X-Ray only cost 15 Lempiras, that’s about 85 cents! The biggest payout, as is often the case here, was the bus fare. And I gave them more to pay their way to El Progreso.

Olvin was very grateful. “I’ll come for a visit!” He showed up two days after the trip to Yoro. When he asked, “Where can I put my things?” this little cloth shoulder bag he had, I knew he’d be spending more than the afternoon. So I alerted Dora, who fixes our lunch, and she prepared a special meal that was super delicious. And the next day, and the next day. I kept trying to think of things to entertain Olvin, but basically he was happy to just sleep and watch TV. Visiting was just his way of thanking me. Chemo did sort of attach himself to Olvin like a new-found big brother. For supper, we all ate at Alba’s. And she of course treated him like family, too.

For the first time in months, I went to Tegucigalpa alone, without Chemo, so he wouldn’t miss any school. Of course, the day I left, the teachers went on strike. I love Chemo more than anything, but I do have to say, I get a lot more accomplished a lot more quickly when I don’t have to “waste” time on the Dodge ‘Em cars or extra visits to the mall. But his absence was fortuitous at least for one thing. No sooner did I arrive at Tegus than word came that Marvin’s girlfriend Lizeth had had their baby, a little girl. Without Chemo, I had lots of free time to help out. Lizeth, who’s only 16 (Marvin is 18), needed a Caesarian, so they had taken her to the special maternity ward at San Felipe Hospital, one of the nicer public facilities in Honduras.

Bottom line, Marvin was not allowed to see his baby till we went three days later for Lizeth’s release. The expression on his face after he saw her for the first time was priceless. Marvin’s a soccer player, and this child was his biggest goal yet. He comes out beaming, “I can’t believe it!” and then he says, “Now you go in!” That was the last thing I expected, but he handed me his pass, and I went in, gave Lizeth a gentle hug, and then I snapped one of the cutest pictures I’ve ever taken. Little Diani Estefani blinked open her eyes just in time for her close-up. Meanwhile, Marvin’s mom Karla came from work, and a cousin as well, who had come from Las Vegas to help out. While the nurses filled out the paperwork for dismissal, I walked Marvin to the cashier, where I paid the bill (1000 Lempiras, about $50, reduced by Marvin’s petition in the Social Security office from 1300 Lempiras). With all the help, there was no more need for me to stick around, so I packed them all in a cab and cautioned the driver, “Drive nice and slow, please” and went about my business, which included getting a short lunch at the El Patio restaurant, a tasty item called “la gringa,” a fat flour tortilla folded and filled with a creamy chicken and vegetable concoction.

I had taken “the boys” out the night before to Pizza Hut, to celebrate Marvin’s new paternity. Besides Marvin, his cousins Gerardo, Gabriel, Olancho, some new guy I hadn’t met before, Adriany, and Alec. Alec had sort of a permanent grin on his face, too, because, after 12 years of life, he’s finally met his father. I asked him once in Las Vegas if he knew his father, and he had to say he did not even know his name. That cut me to the quick, and I guess it finally pierced that man’s heart as well. Somehow Alec’s father got in touch a few months ago and invited him to live with him in Tegucigalpa, where Alec is now in sixth grade. That’s another miracle, because he was in class with Pablito and Chepito. Alec dropped at least one year, and Pablo and Chepito both dropped out completely after third grade. For the last couple years Alec was living with his mom in San Pedro Sula, making, we now see, real progress. And what is his father’s name? René Alexander. OMG! I suddenly remembered seeing Alec’s full name on report cards he would show me: René Alexander. All those years when he did not know his father’s name--it was his own name! I said, let’s pretend it’s your birthday so the servers will all sing to you. But of course I was kidding; they’d just sung at the table next to us, and that was embarrassment enough!

I got back from Tegucigalpa just in time. The teachers started crowding into the capital for massive protest marches, and all hell broke loose. A lot of teachers were wounded in clashes with police, and one veteran teacher, a 54-year-old woman, was killed when a local TV vehicle, blinded by all the tear gas, knocked her down, though some witnesses said she was actually hit in the face first by a tear-gas canister. When they showed the scene on TV, that’s what it looked like. Pepe Lobo, the president, who usually just smiles and waves at every crisis, has put his game face on: “They don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m strong as an oak.” Well, you know, I haven’t seen a lot of oak trees in Honduras. He’s probably thinking of Wisconsin.

These annual wars between the teachers and the government are a plague. A conspiracy theorist might say they script it like the WWE. Corrupt union leaders whip up the teachers, the corrupt government unleashes the police, the corrupt media spike their ratings, and the status quo stays firmly in place till the next round. Japan has a nuclear meltdown. Honduras has a justice meltdown, filling the social landscape with toxins. There is a core of committed peace activists like a vein of gold in a dark mine, but they are swamped by self-interest. I look at Chemo, inching his way through school. If we lived in the city, would I pay for private school?

Natalia, Chemo’s grandmother, a woman immune to self-interest, would not tell me how sick she felt till one of her daughters-in-law, Dania, Marcos’ wife, parents of the new little Daguito, clued me in. I told her she must go to the clinic. “But they don’t have any medicine.” True enough. What good is a diagnosis if they have nothing to give you for it? She knew I would say, Let’s go to Doctora Rebeca, where we would pay retail. Natalia did not want to “bother” me. But I told her, you must go first thing tomorrow. “Caramba,” her favorite “bad” word. I looked around, “Who will go with her?” Dania, of course, volunteered.

The next morning, I caught up with them at Rebeca’s. Now, Rebeca is really wonderful; I love hooking up a woman with a woman doctor; they just click right from the start. Rebeca was alarmed by Natalia’s perilously high blood pressure (200 over something), and huge cholesterol count, not to mention the sugar in her blood. “This is diabetes.” We have no way of knowing how long it’s been Natalia’s problem, but Rebeca speculated that the recent “golpe” of her son Dago’s tragic death could have stressed Natalia into this illness.

Rebeca gave Natalia a bag full of pills and such, and a load of advice about...diet! And this won’t just be for a month or two, like Olvin’s strictures. This is for good. No bread or wheat, for example. That right there would kill me. I love toast!

It’s bad enough that these newsletters are often filled with deaths. So it’s really wicked when I have to “kill” someone twice. But I should set the record straight, because every life is worthy of its truth. Back in June of 2009 I reported the gruesome death of a young man I called Roger Cruz, nicknamed Pato (“Duck”), and I identified him with his obsession with his “milpa,” or cornfield. Well, I had the wrong guy. The other day the kids tell me that Julio just died. “Who’s that?” “You know, Milpa!” “Pato” was run over by a train at the Mexican border in 2009; Julio, the real “Milpa,” was run over by a truck in Tegucigalpa last week, and the two of them weren’t even related to each other. “But they looked alike!” I offered lamely. Yes, the kids agreed, they looked alike. Hence my confusion....

Because of the accident, Julio’s body was in the morgue for almost a week, while the family tried to arrange to bring him back to Las Vegas for burial. Folks here took up a collection to help, and I gave all I could. Finally, when Julio’s brother Javier in Tegucigalpa managed to borrow a car and fill it with gas, they purchased a simple casket for Julio’s quickly decomposing remains still in the police-issue body bag. There was no possibility of any wake or vigil. They would have to go straight to the cemetery as soon as they got here. Julio’s mother Bertilia, who had moved to Tegucigalpa with her son, and another sister or two, were coming too. They did not get away till nightfall, and it would be a long trip. I went over to the house of some cousins here about 10:30 p.m., to wait. I just sat there, the lumpy leftover of the Super Moon hanging in the sky, just overwhelmed at my stupidity that had lost this poor soul three years ago, only to find him again, too late. When they saw me dozing off from grief, a sweet lady said, “Can I fix you some coffee?” I didn’t want to trouble anyone, but I knew the rest of the little group gathered there would want some, so I said yes. We were just finishing the coffee, and rolls, when word came that the car had reached Victoria. So we headed up to the road by the cemetery, shovels and rope in hand. It was 1:00 a.m.

The car arrived, one headlight, dents in the side, coughing smoke, and when I bent in to thank Javier, I could smell liquor on his breath. But here they were. I hugged Bertilia, who had this stunned look, as if she never would absorb this blow. And she kept telling me, “Miguel, pray for my boy, with candles. Please, a rosary and candIes.” It felt weird that we were conducting this burial under cover of darkness, like grave robbers in reverse. But when they lowered the plain wooden coffin into the immaculately etched grave and asked me to say a prayer, I said there is no shame in what we do. There was no other way, this midnight run. Julio is precious to us and to God, and nothing changes that.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, they were gone. I promised Bertilia we would pray, and I finally realized why she was so anxious. The kids told me the next day that none of Julio’s family here in Las Vegas goes to church, so they wouldn’t be having any Novenario, much less with rosary and candles. But that didn’t stop me. I gathered whatever kids I could a couple days later, and we went up to the cemetery, rosary and candles in hand. An unlikely choir, to be sure, but we prayed for about an hour, and then shared the Cokes and snacks we brought along. Ah, Julio, rest in peace.

As practical as the Amish may be, the saying above does not apply to people. Their claim on us does not “wear out.” Nor is there anyone we can do without.

We are just finishing our annual retreat with Father Jack Barron, who comes every year and travels from village to village for a couple months. It’s a little thing, just two days basically, but when you see the folks scattered in knots of shade on the hillside in silent prayer listening for whispers from God, it reminded me of the “Didache,” the oldest Christian liturgy.
“Even as this bread was broken and scattered over the hills, and then was gathered and made one; so let thy church be gathered from the ends of the earth, into thy Kingdom.”

I’m picking up some pieces myself. I’m so stretched out, I’m borrowing money from the Legion of Mary, for heaven’s sake! That’s when you know you’re poor. But it’s actually more cash-poor, till I can get to the bank and get my pension. Hey, I DO still have a pension, don’t I? Hello?

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2011

INCEPTION

Petrona’s end was mercifully quick. Last month, I told how she had had a leg amputated a couple years ago, due to diabetes, and had recently taken a turn for the worse when her other leg deteriorated beyond repair. I showed you her beautiful face, her eyes already blind. That was the last “flattering” picture I could take. When they said she could no longer swallow, I didn’t want to think about it. It would be a horrible end: she would starve to death. It would take at least a couple weeks, probably. So I went every day, the twenty-minute or so walk, across the bridge, over to Paraíso. Lots of folks did, including family from La Catorce, where Beto the blind boy lives. Petrona was his aunt. Then they said Paulino her father had already bought her casket in Victoria. That seemed so final, I didn’t want to think about that, either.

But there still was beauty. Petrona was so uncomfortable--her back was killing her--that the only help was to physically hold her. “Sit me up, please,” was her code for this intimacy. Her daughter Telma was primary, but a sister, a neighbor, even men, cuddled her like a child. I wondered if even I might get a chance, it was so sweet a duty. But I just took the pictures, knowing how much they would mean.

Her final days coincided exactly with Paraiso’s annual fiesta, celebrating the Patron of their little church, Our Lady of Suyapa, Suyapa being a poor village on the northern coast of Honduras where long ago fishermen found a seemingly miraculous image of the Virgin Mary carved in a piece of driftwood. Now, usually a town’s fiesta includes lots of games, like an eating contest, competitions like climbing the greased pole, and soccer matches--and drunks. It’s a big money-maker. But this time, the word went out: with Petrona’s illness, the only celebration would be prayer. A Mass with a visiting priest from Panama, Padre Luis Carlos (Padre “Lucho”) was dynamic and enthusiastic. That was in the church; everything else would be at Petrona’s house. The celebracion for the feast day itself, February 3, went long into the night, and we all watched Petrona carefully, lest we overdo it. But she would weakly raise one arm with every song, in time with the music, as if directing a choir. And when it was over about 11:00 p.m., she insisted, with the little strength still available to her, “Otro canto, otro canto.” (Sing another song.) So we just kept going. You know what, every time you went over there, morning, noon, or night, to sit with Petrona, five minutes after you got there, someone was offering you coffee and rolls. And for the big celebracion, when Petrona kept us singing late into the night, the women had prepared delicious and plentiful nacatamales.

That was Thursday night. When I went on Friday, she looked bad, gaunt and frowning. But on Saturday she was sleeping like a baby, curled up with her pillow, silent and serene. On Sunday, it was my turn to preach at the morning service in Las Vegas, and since in the gospel reading Jesus called his disciples “the light of the world” and “the salt of the earth,” I mostly spoke about Petrona. It happened to be Super Bowl Sunday, though that was not much of a distraction around here. In the afternoon, when Beto came from La Catorce, we went over there. And now, for the first time, I saw the signs of imminent death, Petrona’s featureless face, unblinking eyes, and short, gasping breaths. About 6:00 p.m., I invited Beto to supper over at Natalia’s. While we were eating, word comes that Petrona has, in fact, died. Simple as that. Her timing was perfect, because I realize I can go home and get my chairs ready to haul over there. Indeed, as soon as Beto and I got back to Paraiso, they were revving up a truck, worst driver I ever saw, but we got here and back with my 33 chairs, while others were carrying benches from the church. Twitter could not have spread the word faster, as the house and yard filled with mourners. Actually, we used her grandparents’ place just next door, an ancient barn of a house, where Petrona, now in her casket, lay in state. Somehow it fell to me to give the eulogy. I just said that Petrona had become the true Patron (‘patrona’) of the feast this year, and we would never be the same. We stayed all night.

Her burial Monday afternoon was simple, but the strain of final separation brought howls and wails from daughter Telma and son Jacob, whose young wife is expecting their first child very soon. Then the novenario began, nine days of prayer. Paraiso proved its salt and light once again; there was more active participation from folks than you ever see in Las Vegas, telling stories, comments on the scripture readings, dialogs, and of course, songs. But with the month or so of constant care, the exhaustion did not disappear till about halfway through, when folks had finally caught up on their sleep. The nine days ended and we took all the flowers and wreaths and the cross to Petrona’s grave, where I offered a group picture.

My oddest memory of Petrona’s final days was something just so dumb I’m embarrassed by it. I got blisters on my feet! The road right now is so hard and dry, studded with stones and sprinkled with little rocks like broken teeth, and the cheap hiking boots I got at Target in St. Louis seem to be soled with tissue paper, and I’m going over there, often twice a day, so I practically cripple myself with these blisters. Here I am almost eight years in Honduras and I’m still a tenderfoot! But I guess I had it pretty good, compared to Hector Manuel from Terrero Blanco. I had no feet, but he had no ass--donkey, that is. He and his brothers bring firewood to sell, usually loaded on their animals. Hector showed up the other day with the whole load on his own back, a 90-minute trip down the mountain. His donkey had suddenly up and died. I don’t even use firewood, but I buy it for the folks cooking our supper. When I saw Hector, bowed and trembling under the weight, and sweating like a...donkey, I wanted to relieve him immediately, but I had to send him off down to Natalia’s by the river. Once the delivery was made, he drank at least half a gallon of the cool water I provided from my fridge. I’d really love to buy him a new donkey for a thousand Lempiras (about 50 dollars); not only does he have epilepsy that we treat with a steady diet of Phenobarbital, but his father is Renan, the stinkingest drunk around. The trick will be to keep Renan from selling the donkey for more drink....

Chemo and I went to Tegucigalpa for one last fling before the start of school, if you can call three days in the dentist’s chair a “fling.” Dr. Juan Handal was the soul of kindness, as always, but once he checked us both out, we needed three other dentists, all women, to get all the required work done. Besides needing a good cleaning, Chemo had a several cavities, including one right between his two front teeth, an especially sensitive area for drilling; but he did not resist or complain or squirm. Believe me, he was braver than I, who needed a root canal. My last root canal began a five-year odyssey that was only finally relieved when we yanked the tooth a year ago. So I was not encouraged, professional as the dentists were. And they were drilling through a 30-year old gold crown in what ultimately was a futile attempt to get to the “root” of the problem. They plugged the hole, and Dr. Handal said to come back in two weeks if the pain returned. So I thought about it. I’ll be a fossil before I go back! Cured or not, I can’t afford a repeat; even with Dr. Juan’s generous discount, the bill ate up over half my budget for the whole month.

Nevertheless, we rewarded ourselves with a nice supper and a trip to Nova Centro, the vertical mall I mentioned last month, the one topped by the Bumper Cars, which shook the rest of my teeth loose. And Angelica gave me a Valentine’s present, a new shirt. She says, “After all that pain, I got the brightest color I could find, to cheer you up,” a flashy Jell-o orange. It worked!

And then, school started. Chemo is in fourth grade, outstanding in his class, literally. He’s 16 surrounded by 8-year-olds. But his teacher Juana Maria makes no mention of the anomaly, unlike some other teachers I’ve heard about that actually make fun of their bigger students. The schoolwork has ratcheted up some, with lots more reading and writing, as you would expect, but Chemo is holding his own. Helping him stay focused are his nieces, nephew, and cousins who just returned from 3 months of coffee picking. And they all started school the next day, some for the first time. If I had anything to do with it, I am very proud that I’ve kept up the drumbeat to get the kids into school.

I’ve had so many dreams lately, and I’m not sure I can blame them all on “Inception,” though that’s one disturbing movie. The dreams--nightmares, really--are about Chemo, chasing him and losing him. One dream was on a train. I saw Chemo get on board, and I got on and then suddenly through the window I saw him outside on the platform, as the train started to move. I run through the cars to get out and suddenly there’s a big, padded bench across the aisle; the train is only 2 cars long! No way out, and I wake up. Another was on a Boston bus that kept taking wrong turns, when I was sure I would meet Chemo at such-and-such a stop, and the bus just kept going farther and farther in the wrong direction. Another episode had me in St. Louis, rushing through the buildings along Market Street starting with Kiel Auditorium and the Post Office and Union Station--somehow these were all connected with hallways and corridors, with Chemo just out of view as doors folded closed. It did not seem that Chemo was trying to get away, he seemed as lost as I was, but I could not catch up to him.

Now that the coffee picking season is over, we got our first look at little Dago, Daguito, born in El Transito last December to Dania and Marcos, big Dago’s brother. And now that everyone is home, Natalia is asking me to plan the six-month anniversary celebracion of Dago’s tragic death, actually six-and-a-half months by now. She wants it very simple, a rosary and a Scripture reading. Some relatives will be coming in from the hills above Sulaco, where Chemo still remembers some of his childhood. Daguito, of course, is named for his uncle, and we cling to that, we plant that faith deep in our mind, how life goes on, even if we must repeat it to keep our hope alive. Dream on.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

I’ve Seen the “Light”!

The Beacon, to be precise. “Letters from Honduras” is now a monthly feature in The Beacon (stlbeacon.org), a fresh and friendly alternative to the Post-Dispatch, staffed by some of the Post’s best writers, including Dale Singer, whose wife Merle has long encouraged me to get “published,” ever since we were colleagues at Parkway North High
School.

Two articles have already appeared:

1) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/106723-miguel-dulick-talks-about-how-he- came-to-live-in-hondurs

2) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/107674-honduras-at-christmas-2010

The first is a sort of introduction to my life in Honduras; the second is excerpted from the January ESTA ES SU CASA. And now I know why writers thank their editors. Donna Korando has a real heart for Honduras, and I have to say I had tears in my eyes when I saw the latest “Letter,” even though I wrote it, so lovely was the presentation. And there’s another Parkway connection. Brian Marston (class of ‘91) recently joined The Beacon as “Web Developer,” so you know any technical issues are in good hands. And of course Brian came with me to Honduras the summer of ‘94.

If you do click on, go ahead and subscribe to The Beacon. It’s fast, and it’s free!

The Christmas holidays over, Chemo, his brother Marcos, and I headed for Tegucigalpa to renew my Honduran residency visa and to send Marcos back home to Tocoa. We knew the bus out of Victoria would be super crowded, so we got up real early and managed to catch a ride from Las Vegas on a pickup loaded with big coolers of fish caught in the lake up in the mountains of El Zapote. Judging by the smell, I’m not sure how fresh the fish actually were, but we loved the ride because we got to Victoria just as Reyes was pulling his big bus out of the yard. A group had already gathered. “Go ahead and get on, folks, no problem.” So we all got seats, but by the time the bus left 45 minutes later, there were people standing in the aisle. And we stuffed more riders in all along the route.

As crowded as the bus was, nevertheless I kept testing my little Internet modem on my MacBook squeezed on my lap, and it never worked. It had stopped working in Las Vegas, and I assumed the signal had weakened or something. But now I had to conclude, the signal can’t be bad over half the country, it’s gotta be the modem after all. But I had just bought this modem last May--and they’re not cheap!

In Tegucigalpa we had to make three trips to Migración to get my visa, and the office is a long, expensive cab ride away on the outskirts of town. First, it was still closed for the holidays, and then they sent me back twice to the bank to get just the right wording on the “Constancia” that declares I have faithfully “converted” (not “changed,” not “exchanged”) at least one thousand dollars every month into the “moneda nacional,” that is, Lempiras. Of course, I had it easy compared to the long lines of folks trying to get (Honduran) passports. The government had just announced that they were rationing appointments all the way till March or April because they’d run out of the little booklets. Except for “emergencies”--so EVERYBODY has an emergency.

Next was my driver’s license. Now, this is something I get only for use in St. Louis, when Teresa Jorgen lets me borrow her car. It says “International” right on it, but fortunately I’ve never had to actually show it to a cop, who would probably handcuff me on the spot. I mean, to the untrained eye, it doesn’t look “real,” you might say. It’s no fun taking Chemo and Marcos to the big city, only to stand in lines. But for the license, the best advice was, get there early (by 6:00 a.m.), because their materials are rationed, too. They only issue about 200 licenses a day. So I crept out of the hotel before dawn, leaving the boys fast asleep, and I asked Angelica, who was already setting up her candy and snack cart out front, to keep an eye out for them when they came down for breakfast.

First, you get an eye test. “Read the smallest line you can on the chart.” Without my glasses, “What chart?” Things moved pretty quickly after that, especially since I was the first in line! and so I was out of there and back to the hotel before Chemo and Marcos had even waked up.

We had a few other items on the agenda: the new modem, of course, but also to celebrate Mema’s birthday. So we invited her and Elio to lunch at their favorite restaurant, Mirawa. We even got her a little cake at the mall. Nobody said anything, but it was exactly two years ago that Mema celebrated her last really “happy” birthday, just before she and Elio had to abandon their house and livelihood (a little supermarket) to escape death threats from a mafia gang demanding extortion. This little party at Mirawa was one of the happiest times I have seen Mema since then. Most people like to relax after a life of hard work, but Elio and Mema loved keeping busy and have had nothing but health problems since their enforced “retirement.” And I appreciate their counseling Chemo and Marcos on the virtues of school, hard work, and sociability.

Speaking of social, I thought a look-see at a new mall would be just a courtesy call. “NovaCentro” is a weird thing, a mostly vertical mall hidden behind an office building; we didn’t even notice it till a cab took us down an alley for a shortcut back to our hotel. So we checked it out, riding the escalators up one level at a time. Just a thicket of boutiques, you know, those gaudy eyesores that cater to the hip and rich who, in a country as poor as Honduras, seem an absurdity, if not an outrage. Up and up we went, just marking time, I thought, till we could get out of there and go to Pizza Hut for supper with some kids from Las Vegas who work in Tegus. Suddenly, at the top, something was different. The escalator drew us into a cave-like darkness broken up by flashing lights, loud noises, carnival music. Oh no! We had reached The Game Level. I would have grabbed the boys and run, but the escalator would not stop; it delivered us right into the middle of it. And there, right there, a spacious rink of Dodge-‘em cars. Chemo and Marcos lit up like Roman candles. Nirvana! They could barely believe their eyes. They even got me in on one round, something I hadn’t done in 50 years. Oh, sure, it was fun and I didn’t begrudge them that, but how long would the money hold out? “Again!” “Another!” “One more time!”

If I spoil Chemo, it’s only because he’s alive! Chemo got his life-saving heart operation in September 2008. And now look at him--ramming dodge-’em cars without a care in the world! So, another “appointment” we had was to check in with Ron Roll and the latest “brigada” of doctors and nurses from the U.S. who had come to perform open-heart surgeries on about 22 little boys and girls. Sponsored by Helping Hands for Honduras (http://handsforhonduras.org/), they come four times a year. Ron moved the brigada this time to San Felipe Hospital, a quiet, park-like facility specializing in recuperation therapies, more serene than the busy, stressful hospital where Chemo was operated on. We wanted to see Dr. Christian Gilbert, too, who helped Chemo’s big sister Rosa last year (fortunately, she could be treated with medication rather than surgery), but he was just starting his fourth operation of the day. Incredible! Just waiting four hours when Chemo was in surgery drained me of every physical, psychological, and spiritual resource I had, unknowing whether he would emerge alive or dead, and here was this wonderful doctor, this Christian, four little lives passing through his skilled and caring hands, in one day! When we spotted a couple pacing and looking anxious in the waiting room, we asked if it was their little girl in there. “Oh, yes.” Chemo immediately whipped up his shirt to show them his scar. “Don’t you worry--she’s gonna be just fine!”

We kept returning to the Dodge-’em cars, and it didn’t help that Wednesday was “double day,” when you get two rides for the price of one. Believe me, I didn’t spend any less, they just “dodged-’em” more. But, you know, it’s probably the last time Chemo and Marcos will be together till next Christmas, so what the heck? Although, they did start complaining about headaches....

Nevertheless, early Thursday morning we dispatched Marcos to Tocoa on the Mirna Bus, a “direct” route, if you can call it that, winding its way through the middle of the country, up to San Pedro, then along the coast to the far north-east, a nine- or ten-hour trip, but all on pavement in a grand, Mercedes Benz-manufactured coach. Meanwhile, Chemo and I climbed aboard our rattletrap old yellow school bus for the trip back to Victoria/Las Vegas, sort of a moto-cross route through the backwoods and mountains, scenic enough but a real shake-down. We kept in constant contact with Marcos via cellphone, in case there would be any problems. Half the time he’d answer the phone with, “I was asleep.” Oops, just being cautious... We got home hours before he did, but Rosa greeted him with a hot meal, so we were all relieved.

It wasn’t till we got back that I finally realized what had really happened a few days before Christmas over in La Catorce, about a mile from Las Vegas. This is one of those rare times, I suppose, when my little horror story pales in comparison to your tragedy, the massacre in Tucson. That violence seemed to come from another world, as the news filtered down here, second-hand, unseen, untorniqueted, as it were, by a brush-fire of commentary fanned by un-facts. But our violence was confusing, too, as snippets about a shooting got pieced together. Two shot. Men? teens? boys?--attempting to rob a soda-delivery truck about 10:30 at night, December 20. Attempting to rob a truck...with machetes? is that possible? when the drivers have guns...? One dead, one badly injured, probably going to lose his arm. For some reason, I couldn’t get the names straight, till I finally heard “Olvin.” It was Beto, the blind boy from La Catorce, who was telling me some of this, and when I anxiously wondered if it was an Olvin I knew, Beto said there were two Olvins in La Catorce. And, being BLIND, he could not identify him from a picture I had in one of my photobooks. Finally, someone came by who could say, yes, that’s Olvin, in the photo, that’s him, the one who was wounded. And a “Marvin” Zelaya was the dead one--at least that’s what I thought I heard. Never heard of him.

Olvin and his best friend Selvin used to come to visit me on Sundays, along with Beto. But I hadn’t seen them recently; in fact, the last photo I had of Olvin was from 2005. But I printed it out, and went to La Catorce the next day. Despite the years, I recognized Olvin right away, but he did look somehow harder now than the little boy I first knew. His arm was bandaged like a mattress. He had almost lost it, his left; the bullet had shattered the bones, but they pieced things back together with a couple nails, or pins, at the Yoro Hospital and dozens of inner and outer stitches. The Hospital is expecting payment of 25,000 Lempiras, which is crazy, isn’t it? It’s a public hospital, half the stuff they see is gun shots. They charge for that?. Nothing was said about the robbery, or whether it was some kind of tragic mistake, wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. Making conversation, I ask, “How’s your pal Selvin?” Olvin looked at me as if I was holding the gun now. “He’s dead, he’s who was killed.” Shot three times in the back, while Olvin played dead. Oh, my God, no! How stupid, stupid am I? SELVIN Zelaya! Not “Marvin.” I instantly saw his broad, earthy face in my mind, because I had a picture of him, too. I turned to Beto, who was accompanying me, “We have to see his mother.”

But first I read Psalm 20, a prayer full of wishes, for Olvin from a prayerbook I had with me. I asked him what he did all day. Nothing. But you can read, right? So I promised I’d bring him a Bible, to pass the time.

I was surely nervous about visiting Selvin’s mom, Domatila, or Tila for short. What could I possibly say? Psalm 20 wasn’t gonna cut it. I sort of wondered if she blamed Olvin for her son’s death, or was maybe resentful that Olvin escaped and Selvin did not. But she was very gracious and fixed us coffee, though the loss is etched in her face. Hoping in the darkness, I feebly promised her a Bible, too.

Right now, no face is dearer than Petrona’s. Having already lost one leg to diabetes, she is waiting for what she calls her “journey.” It may not be long; she is in constant pain. Folks visit her a lot, first of all, because she has so much family, but even more because she is such a saintly presence. Her daughter Telma takes good care of her, but it’s hard. So we go and give what comfort we can to them both, and in turn draw deep from their wellspring of faith. She is Beto’s aunt, so we go each Sunday, just across the river in Paraíso. Last time, I had my camera. Stung by the “lost years” of any pictures of Selvin and Olvin, I thought, when the time comes, the family will want a remembrance. I aimed the camera right at her face, her eyes now blind. “Petrona, I’m taking your picture.” “Yes, I know.”

My best friend Fermin, who lives in Morazán, had told us, I hope we see you again before school starts. Chemo was all in favor of it, too. So we left one Monday morning, and Chemo was already telling everyone, “We’re not coming back till Saturday.” I was thinking maybe Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. But once we got to Morazán, we were on vacation. We had pizza, we had Chinese, we had loads of Maria’s fabulous foods, and every night Fermin would say, “Miguel, one more day, stay one more day, it’s vacation! Tomorrow we’ll....” ... go to visit his 22-year-old daughter Arlin and husband Freddy in nearby La Cruz, for a sweet evening that included the full moon. Or, we’ll go swimming at the hot springs park near Morazán. So we stayed, and stayed, and didn’t come back till Saturday, just like Chemo said.

Back from vacation, I did take the bibles to Olvin and Tila. Tila was nothing but thanks; she held it like a treasure. “This is good, this is so good.” And she made us sit and stay, she sent off her little girl to fetch some sweet rolls at the store while she made a fresh pot of coffee. Olvin read Psalm 20 for himself, rather haltingly; he quit school after sixth grade--I guess he’ll improve with practice.

Psalm 20

May the Lord answer you in time of trial;
may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.

May the Lord send you help from the holy shrine
and give you support from Zion.
May the Lord remember all your offerings
and receive your sacrifice with favor.

May the Lord grant you your heart’s desire
and fulfill every one of your plans.
May we ring out our joy at your victory
and rejoice in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your prayers.

I am sure now, O Lord,
that you will give victory to your anointed one,
and will answer from your holy heaven
with a mighty victory of your arm.

Some trust in chariots or horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord.
Others will collapse and fall,
but we will hold and stand firm.

Give the victory to your servant, O Lord.
Answer us on the day we call!

A contemporary version of the same message can be found in a “speech” by Mark Tychonievich, longtime Latin teacher and coach at St. Louis U. High School. He recently died of the cancer he had been battling for years, but not before he recorded a thank-you to his students. My cousin Tim McKernan hosts a pretty crazy sports talk show on AM 590 in St. Louis, but he got serious one morning in tribute to “Coach T”:

http://www.insidestl.com/insideSTLcom/McKernan/tabid/61/articleType/ArticleView/articleId/5897/Remembering-Mark-Tychonievich.aspx

You know, when I saw that gorgeous full moon in January, I realized what short shrift I had given the last one, in December, the one with the eclipse. I seemed to scorn it in my last CASA, forgetting, I guess, that the moon, since my very first night in Honduras in 1977, has always been the link between me and you, the celestial Internet, as it were. We see it rise and wax and wane and shine together, the same familiar face that beams our affection from here to there and back again. So pardon my ingratitude, and keep us in view. It was particularly appropriate to enjoy the full moon at Arlin’s house. Years ago, when she was about 5 or something, the moon rose high behind Fermin’s house one night while I was sitting out front on the curb. Fermin tells Arlin, “Go tell Miguel the moon is out.” She runs through the house and out the front door. “Miguel! Daddy says look at the--oh! but there’s one on this side, too!”

May the moon’s light be always at your back--and your front.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2011

THERE AND BACK

Neysi graduated Saturday, December 4, and Chemo and I took off the next morning for the town at the end of the universe, never to return...? Well, maybe I’m exaggerating.

Neysi, just 16 (Chemo’s age), completed a two-year “Bachillerato,” the next step after high school, and I was the only non-family member invited to the ceremony and dinner , as her official “witness.” It was a rich and elaborate display, and I have to say Neysi’s unbeatable smile lit up the evening. There was a bottle of champagne on every table; at our table, most of us toasted with Pepsi, but Elvis, Neysi’s dad, carefully re-corked the bottle to take home, flat, I’m sure. Some of us packed up our dinner, too, since we were the very last table served, while the rest of the graduates were already taking down decorations and stripping table cloths and folding up chairs.

Bottom line, it was an early evening, so when I got home I alerted Chemo, “Get packed, we leave tomorrow!” Off to see his mom Rufina for the first time since last January. The trip took all day, six hours to San Pedro, where we changed buses, another five hours to Tocoa, where Chemo’s sister Rosa, her husband Tonio, and their terrible-two-year-old Tonito, and Marcos, Chemo’s “little” brother, all live in a little village outside of town. We actually arrived just after dark, and I must salute Miguel the cab driver, who took us from the bus station to the creek we would have to cross to get to the house. Marcos, Tonio, and Rosa were there waiting for us, but Miguel, without even being asked, swung his cab around to shine the headlights right at the river and the carefully positioned stepping stones. So, despite my certainty that I would fall in and ruin my laptop, digital camera, iPod, and cell phone, I hopped right across.

Rosa, by the way, is better than I’ve ever seen her. She does not tire from a short walk any more, or from a long walk, either! The heart medicine is finally taking hold, I guess. Of course, she told us about a collapse about a month ago that landed her in the hospital overnight, apparently from super-low blood pressure. But it’s the TREND we’re looking at, you know, like Global Warming amidst the coldest winters in a 1000 years....

My idea of a big treat was to take everyone to lunch at Pizza Hut at the mall downtown. Only problem was, the Pizza Hut I was sure I remembered seeing there was really in La Ceiba, two hours away. So we had to settle for Wendy’s. Everybody but me got chicken. I had the burger, or whatever it was. At least there was lots of free ketchup.

Fortunately, there was no sign of the growing conflict between fatcat landowners and land-squatting campesinos in the area, both groups armed to the teeth. That was farther up the road, as it turned out. We wouldn’t be going that far, but we did need to complete the next leg of our expedition, to Bonito Oriental, where Chemo’s (and Marcos’ and Rosa’s) mom Rufina lives, along with Fidel (Chemo’s real dad having been violently killed years ago, an event that traumatized and broke up the family, eventually dropping Chemo into my lap) and Don Cruz, their “patron,” now 91 years old and still reading his Bible every day without glasses. They don’t have electricity, so they turn in with the chickens. As the day dimmed, Fidel calls to me, still fiddling with my computer with a close eye on the battery power, “We’re going in.” He meant, to bed. So we get all ready, Rosa with Tonito, Chemo with Marcos, me solo. I look at my watch. “O my God, Chemo--it’s 5:30 p.m.!” trying to whisper so I don’t offend our hosts.... I listened to my iPod till the battery died, and I still wasn’t sleepy. But, as the saying goes (?), down with the chickens, up with the chickens. I jumped out of bed at the first sign of light. Rufina was already up, stoking the fire for coffee and “fritas,” sweet corn fritters.

I took our annual photo of Chemo and Marcos side by side, hoping always that Chemo will catch up to his little brother’s height (Marcos is two years younger than Chemo); but no such luck. Chemo has grown a foot since his operation, but, darn it! Marcos just keeps on growing, too.

Rufina, who turned 50 in July, surprised us with the news that she had just been confirmed, with a group of teens a fraction of her age. I was thrilled, especially since, in Las Vegas, our new pastor told our very disappointed Confirmation candidates they did not seem really prepared for the sacrament, so they’d have to wait. Rufina now reads her Bible too, but with a little cheap pair of reading glasses.

Rufina’s accomplishment only made me even more eager to meet (or re-meet) her pastor Fr. Jack Donald, a Jesuit I knew years ago when I first came to Honduras. The Casa Cural was just up the road from the house. When Don Cruz cried, “There he goes!” on his motorcycle, I jumped up and walked over to say hello. Jack invited me to stay for lunch, and the wonderful cook Maria Julia, was as gracious as she could be, and so was Father Gus Fernandez, who, like Jack, is originally from California. Gus did not remember meeting me all those years ago, but he treated me just like his best friend. Father Jack had written a little memoir that Rufina had (he gave a copy to each of the confirmands) and so I said please sell me a copy. “O Lord, sell? These are gifts!” And that’s exactly the way he describes his experiences as a missionary in Honduras for 40 years, as a gift. I told him, You’re my hero, because, of course, I heard about him many times over the years.

The next day, Rufina invited me to come along with her to the priest’s house to re-charge my cell phone and laptop. Father Jack wasn’t there, but it seems it’s a long-standing arrangement, because Maria Julia was expecting us and pointed me right to a strip of outlets. Gus peeked in, “Stay for lunch, there’s always plenty,” but we didn’t this time.

Jack, with lots of help from generous folks back in California, just finished a beautiful new church in Bonito Oriental. And reports are, it’s filled to overflowing at Sunday Mass, which is at 7:00 p.m. Rufina does not go, because, I mean, that’s way past their bedtime....

Then began the return trip, another excursion in itself. First, to El Progreso, where we threw an all-purpose birthday party--this time “catered” by Pizza Hut--for all the big days we had missed at Santa’s family since our last pass back in August. That included Santa’s mom Argentina (“Tina”), Santa’s daughter Yuly, and little Joel, Santa’s youngest, whose actual birthday it was, and we threw in cousin Catalina’s little Jorge, who had recently passed the one-year mark. Santa, you may remember, is my foul-mouthed “fiancee” who plans another feature of our wedding every time I see her, and swears like a sailor if I hesitate to agree. It’s become more of a joke than ever now, and the whole family roots us on like a RAW match.

I took advantage of the high-powered Wi-Fi at the Hotel Victoria in Progreso to download a free movie rental iTunes was offering; I chose “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” Have you seen it? Knocked me out! I didn’t know they could still make movies like that. Don’t even tell me there’s any other competition for the Oscars. Of course, it’s the only new movie I’ve seen this year. Meanwhile, Chemo and Marcos enjoyed a late-might dip in the hotel pool.

Then, to Morazan, for a couple days with Fermin, Maria, and the family. They are always so happy to see us, and the feeling is mutual, making the long gaps between visits that much harder. The big national championship soccer game was up for Friday night TV, so I said, Let’s get pizza! The pizza at Mario’s in Morazan is even better than Pizza Hut. So Maria and I take her car downtown and--Mario’s is closed! I thought, this is crazy, it’s the biggest pizza night of the year! But, I’m afraid, it’s closed closed, as in, out of business. I guess my infrequent visits couldn’t keep them afloat. But, undaunted, we darted off to the Chinese place, another favorite treat, considering they give you portions the size of a Gulf oil spill for such a cheap price. Back home, the kids had to readjust their taste buds, but a lot harder to swallow was Olimpia’s defeat in the final minute of extra-time. I really didn’t care, but Olimpia is Chemo’s favorite team, and he lives and dies with their fortunes. I tried to console him by pointing out that the owner of the team was doing something even better than a measly soccer championship; he was running the annual “Teleton” that raises funds for the free rehabilitation centers around the country that he founded. He has to thank a lot of phonies for their publicity-enhancing contributions, but the hospitals do great work for thousands of kids.

I always stop in and visit with Fermin’s mother Dona Antonia, who lives just a couple houses down from Fermin. We’re chatting about all and sundry, including recipes for pig’s feet and chicken feet, and she says, “I’m going to make you a snack.” Usually I make a point of not reacting when something strange is put on my plate, but this time I almost jumped out of my chair, screaming, “O my God!” It looked like a plate of tarantulas--on “a bed of rice,” as the Chez Puque might say. I immediately apologized for my outburst, though it clearly delighted Antonia. I finally regained my composure. “Chicken feet, right?” She saw me looking around the yard for any feetless chickens. “Don’t worry--these are store bought.” Well, good for that, because I can’t imagine anything filthier than a “free-range” chicken’s feet, considering they spend most of their time strafing cow poop, horse poop, any poop poop. OK, the moment of truth--I had to imagine something else--I picked one up and so gingerly pecked at it I could have reversed course at any moment. But it was actually pretty good. Tastes like chicken, as they say. Chicken feet are mostly knuckles, of course, in a glove of skin and muscle that cooking renders quite...edible.

We got back home to Las Vegas on Sunday, December 12, the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The image of the Virgin Mary with native Mexican-Indian features that appeared by some miracle on the rough cloak of the peasant Juan Diego four centuries ago still guards the poor and alerts the rich that God is near. It’s the perfect pre-Christmas celebration, because, after all, the “lady” in the portrait is pregnant.

If I said someone stole Chemo’s “haypon,” what might you think was missing?
A) his MP3 player
B) his soccer ball
C) his winter coat
D) his harpoon

The correct answer is A). “Haypon” was Chepito’s spelling of “iPod” when he texted me that they had snuck up on Laito, always a prime suspect, and got the player back. He was listening to music in his house, with the earphones, so he didn’t hear them coming, the front door wide open. There may have been a little struggle--they’re not WikiLeaking every detail--but suffice it to say Laito got mad; he was going to sell it in Victoria. It’s not really an iPod; it’s a “Creative” Zen X-Fi 2 player, with a touch screen, no less, a gift from John Newsham, and I would have hated to lose it. Chemo had stashed it under his mattress, but Laito has a sixth sense for portable objects.

Speaking of WikiLeaks, a long report from 2008 about President Mel Zelaya by the outgoing ambassador Charles Ford to his successor Hugo Llorens showed up online. Charles Ford was the least diplomatic diplomat I’ve ever seen, and he was always getting under Mel’s skin. In this he calls Mel a spoiled brat who never grew up because he never had to, he was always successful just with a wink and a ten-gallon hat; a corrupt money hog dedicated to enriching his family, a drug trafficker, a drug USER, playing the poor like a guitar, Hugo Chavez’ ventriloquist dummy. Keep him on a very short leash, he warned Llorens. Mel, unfazed as always, said, from his luxury-in-exile in the Dominican Republic, “Well, if I was so bad, why didn’t the new guy say something? why was he such a suck-up?” He’s got a point. Llorens was shocked, shocked, when Mel was ousted in a coup in June 2009, a coup Mel has always blamed on the U.S. “imperio.” And Pepe Lobo, elected 6 months later in a process the U.S. endorsed, is calling Mel’s bluff about returning to Honduras by opening every avenue for his re-entry. Of the controversy, he just says, “I guess they do those things.”

I got everyone all excited about the lunar eclipse, coinciding with the winter solstice for the first time since Shakespeare or something. The newspaper said it would start about 11:30. “Should we just stay up?” the kids asked. No, I said, go to bed and I’ll wake you--like Peter Pan at Wendy’s window. I was dead tired myself, but I dare not go to bed or I’d never wake, even with an alarm, so I just kept busy, reading, watching TV, fooling around on my computer, writing as much of this newsletter as I could up to that point (Dec. 21, you recall)--which is why it’s so damn long! I had already scared Chemo and Marcos’ grandmother Natalia half to death talking about the eclipse when she gave us supper earlier that evening. A lunar eclipse--go ahead, try to explain it to someone--is perfectly harmless and, like the joke about the Honduran astronauts who were going to land on the Sun, it happens AT NIGHT. But Natalia thought maybe it was the end of the world. “Caramba!” she kept saying. She assured us she’d be in bed, with the covers pulled up over her head. (I didn’t tell her the end of the world is NEXT December, 2012.) Eleven-thirty came and went, and nothing. Midnight, nothing. The night was crystal clear, though, and the full moon was directly overhead. Beautiful, but blank as a stone. Finally, about 12:30, I could see a little dent. I can’t get the kids up for this, it’s so SLOW! I waited till almost 1:30 when the strange red shadow had eclipsed a little more than half. OK, kids, showtime! Besides Chemo and Marcos, two of Chemo’s little third-graders friends were sleeping over. I threw open the bedroom door, switched on the light, and immediately had second thoughts; the kids were piled like cordwood in the two beds they had pulled together, twisted into their blankets like pizza rolls. But this was historical! What the heck? Three of the four actually got up (little Joel was dead, man), and we rushed up to the roof. There it is, kids! Look at it! They were probably sleep-walking more than anything, shivering in the cold. A half-moon, big deal, who hasn’t seen that? Yeah, but, you know, a full moon and a half-moon the same night, you never see that, do you? That’s the Earth’s shadow doing that--think of it! In thirty seconds they were back in bed, cocooned in their covers, fast asleep. Well, I tried. Myself, I stuck it out till the whole moon was a reddish bruise, like a swollen eye, and I don’t regret it, but next time, I hope it’s cloudy. Just out of curiosity, I asked the kids the next day if they remembered seeing the “event.” They said yes.... But I don’t think any of them will be mentioning it on their Facebook page.

Good thing “The Silence of the Lambs” wasn’t a Christmas story, because here it’s pigs, and they are anything but silent when they are slaughtered. Our neighbor Juana killed her pig first, the pig that’s been serenading me all night for a year. I was not sorry to see it go, but it’s hellish screams as the hired butcher repeatedly plunged a rough knife into its neck would alarm anybody. Juana’s two dogs, Pinky and Rambo, were lovin’ it, blood spurting everywhere. Its windpipe severed, no more screaming, but it’s still alive. The rest of the process is pretty much like a TSA “patdown.” You pour pots of boiling water on its twitching legs and shave all the coarse hair with a machete. After some of this, it really is dead. So then you cut off the head, string the carcass from the notch of a tree, and start dividing the bacon from the ham. The most popular portion is the leg. And believe me, you smell that roasting, you forget all about how it got there. The next day, December 23, was our pig, and Elvis started at 5:30 in the morning. I had just gotten up and was in the shower when I heard this Armageddon right outside my bathroom window. I knew immediately what it was, or I probably would have had a heart attack. I got dried and dressed as quick as I could and went out to watch. It wasn’t even dawn yet! I didn’t stay for the whole thing, just till Dora had stoked a big fire to be ready to render some of the meat she would stuff the tamales with on Christmas Eve. Later, lunch was, as you might guess, the blue-plate (or should I say, blue-glove) special, pulled pork.

“Midnight mass” was at 6:00 p.m. Christmas Eve. We had spent 9 evenings previous in the sweetest novena of the year, the Posadas, singing Christmas carols through the streets, visiting shut-ins, asking, as Mary and Joseph did 2000 years ago in Bethlehem, for a lodging (“posada”) for baby Jesus. Padre Sebas said the Mass. Poor old guy, he’s a wonderful priest and all, but he shuffles like the odd little angel Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” bad feet, you know. His sermons are a monotone and almost inaudible. I wanted to shout, Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan! to get him going. He just invited me to join a group he’s getting together for the Long Retreat, done according to the 19th Annotation in St. Ignatius’ “Spiritual Exercises,” where, instead of 30 days straight, you meet once a week, for 6 months. Now, that’s a long retreat! But I’m really looking forward to it. It starts in February. Clarence or not, maybe I’ll get my wings!

We have a new Dago! Dago died 6 months ago, electrocuted installing electricity in his mom Natalia’s house. Just devastated the family. But his brother Marcos’ wife Dania was pregnant, and when everybody went off to pick coffee a month or so ago, we knew the baby would be born “in exile,” as it were. We were actually at Natalia’s house eating supper December 22 when the call came: baby born, healthy and happy, IT’S A BOY! “Then it’s Dago!” cried Natalia. Everybody had already agreed on the name months before. December 22 is also Alba’s birthday, sister of Dago and Marcos. So we called her right away. “Alba! Happy double birthday!” “What do you mean?” “Dania’s baby!” “Oh, yeah, it’s coming soon--” Little Dago was so new, even Alba hadn’t heard the news, and they’re all staying in the same house in El Transito! But the explanation was simple; Dania had given birth at a clinic in town and had not called yet. I was especially gratified, since I had been the one to break the news of Dago’s death to Alba, and now I could sing her this song of hope.

Dago would have been 20 on December 27, so Natalia asked if we could just say a rosary together on that day. A tiny group of us gathered before supper and prayed together, very simple, but I added one element. December 27 is the feast of St. John the Evangelist, whose letters are also in the New Testament. I read a little from the first one: “That which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have touched with our hands, that is, the Word of Life, we proclaim to you, so that you may share this Life with us, that our joy may be complete.” It’s about Jesus, of course, but you gotta think of Dago, too.

Mariana Teresa’s first birthday was another step toward completing our joy. A celebration of Life, she renews the memory of my sister Mary Anne, who died while Maricela was pregnant, and makes a nice little substitute for Teresa Jorgen (till she can return in person). They call her Mari-Te for short, and that’s all Carolina could fit on the cake, but she’s taking her first steps and speaking her first words, so pretty soon she can decide for herself what she likes for her name.

Presents can make any day a Christmas. In St. Louis last September, little Sarah Baker gave me a doll she made herself. I knew it had to go to someone special. When little Sarai came by with her mother Maritza for the first time in months, I knew she was the one. She loved the doll, of course, but without a couple operations that she got from Operation Smile (and she probably needs one more), to correct her severely cleft palate, she couldn’t have even smiled to show her delight. Thank you, Sarah Claus!

Christmas--or any holy time for anyone who loves life--is not limited to Christians or even “believers.” Sometimes Life reaches out to us even from a transient town like El Transito, or Las Vegas, not any bigger than the little town of Bethlehem.

Besides the “haypon,” John Newsham gave me the most amazing book, “He Became Poor” by Christopher A. Franks, a study of Thomas Aquinas’ economic teachings, if you can even imagine the relevance of such a thing from a 13th-century monk. But imagine my surprise when I discovered how St. Thomas’ version of poverty, as explained by the author, mirrored what I had found in my own experience in Honduras. For example: “Poverty is an uncomfortable subject for us. It denotes lack and insufficiency, and it seems to us a kind of violence. Poverty does indeed involve lack and insufficiency, but one embraces it, not in order to go hungry, etc., but in order to receive what one needs from others.” Indeed, “Poverty is a sign of our neediness--that we are created for communion.” And, by embracing poverty, we renounce the security and self-sufficiency that seem the “natural order” to us, when in fact the natural order is really the “divine charity,” God’s self-emptying, specified in Christian faith by Jesus (the “He” of the title “He Became Poor”), but a reality that blesses us all.

May 2011 fill you with that giving and receiving.

Bonus: Chepito’s 2010 “Christmas card.”

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2010

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Victor, in his 50s, dropped dead of a heart attack. I was not sure who he was, but folks assured me that I had seen him often enough, an uncle of Dulis, 16, who keeps showing up from time to time after stints in the mountains. So I must have seen Victor when I’d say hi to Dulis, some time or other. Most of Victor’s family are evangelical, but his sister Teodora wanted to observe the Catholic custom of the novena of prayer. It’s a question I should be better informed on, no doubt, but I really don’t want to know if some Christians here discount the resurrection and hence scoff at prayers for the dead. We just did it, and somehow it all meant more than ever to me.

Against all odds, you might say, including Leon’s drunken intervention on Day Four. He’s the father of Pablo and Chepito, who were getting ready for their annual visit to Tegucigalpa with me. Chepito has been drawing more than ever, and such gorgeous tiles of color, like some magical palace over the rainbow. Here we are, at Victor’s novenario, myself preaching on Jesus’ words to love our enemies, and Leon wanders in, drunk as a skunk, and I just want to cry. But that’s my pain, my “sin,” if you will. More violent is the pain Pablo and Chepito suffer, to have not just some drunk for a father, but the TOWN drunk, always a display. Chepito’s answer to the ugliness of his family life is his art, transcendent in its detail and undiluted in its beauty.

Leon’s rant included the offense, “Hermano Miguel is taking my boys to Tegucigalpa and he didn’t even ask my permission.” True enough. But I did clear it with Irene, their mother, when she came to spend the night at my house, along with Pablo, afraid to go home to her drunken spouse. Chepito always goes home, and then works all night on one of his drawings. He is our John Lennon.

We had some fun in Tegucigalpa, though the boys did not seem real excited about anything. Mostly, we just ate. We arrived on Sunday, and ate at Chili’s before an evening Mass. We were all so tired, I thought, we’re not gonna make it to church. But I was Chepito himself who said, “Let’s go to Mass”--and he never goes in Las Vegas. So we went, and got back to the hotel, and without even taking a vote, we all just sat down and ate again, another whole supper, without missing a beat. The malls are all decorated for Christmas, but the enormous trees they put up are decorated with advertising! Somewhere, Santa is crying.

On November 2, I spent the whole day with the dead. It’s the Day of the Dead, or, more hopefully, the Feast of All Souls, and I just sat in the cemetery, listening to wonderful sermons I had downloaded from The Crossing Church in Columbia, MO, and halfway playing the role of a Wal-Mart greeter as folks came to trim their loved ones’ graves, place fresh flowers and “coronas” of artificial design, and maybe spread a little carpet of pine needles. Some of the graves are brand-new, like Nandito’s, the young man I mentioned last month who was murdered in Tegucigalpa when he would not be a gang-banger. Something extraordinary happened in the last days of his novenario; his grandmother Santos, where the prayers were being celebrated, listened to us delegados droning on and on about everything and everyone EXCEPT Nandito, and finally she just said, “I loved Nandito, and I forgive the boys who killed him.” She said more in 10 seconds than the rest of us had managed to “preach” in all week. She spoke so quietly I was not sure I heard right, but she said it again. “I hope they will be touched by God and their hearts changed.” There you have it; if you will pray for the dead, you will pray for the killers.



Suddenly my Internet went down, and it was a mystery. My plug-in modem worked in a couple neighbors’ machines, and conversely, their modem would not work in mine, suggesting the problem was precisely with my MacBook. I tried to intuit a solution, but soon decided I had to go back to Tegucigalpa to get the fix. I took Chemo, but I warned him we could not spend ANYTHING this time. In fact, I was down to my last twenty bucks, leaving very little wiggle room. I simply have to live within my budget, or all is lost. It has made me a monster, you could say, at least that’s how I feel as I turn my back on the poor. My “budget,” such as it is, is mainly committed to helping pay the grocery bills of Elvis and Dora, of Maricela’s family, of Chemo’s families (his brother Santos and Alba, his grandma Natalia), as well as frequent pick-me-ups for Pablo and Chepito, and Cristian and his wife and tiny baby girl. That absorbs all of my cash, and for all the poor who come down the mountains, I had been dipping into my “endowment,” that is, my savings. Well, that’s mostly gone now, and I had been burning the candle at both ends by credit-card charging whatever I could, supplies and such, in stores in Yoro or Tegucigalpa. So I’m Scrooge now.

The computer problem was quickly resolved, once the Tigo technician Carolina took a look. Chemo and I celebrated by going to the new “Harry Potter” movie. I don’t know how much you paid to see it, but it was “discount day” so we got in for about $2 apiece. I was enthralled--and scared; Chemo’s only comment was, “It was loud.” If it wasn’t Harry Potter, I could hardly justify spending a dime on myself; but, especially this part of the story, the end, really opens a chasm you either fall into or love your way out of. That final image of “Part 1”--Voldemort‘s seeming triumph as he casts his evil lightning into the sky--will haunt me till next July, when redemption gets a chance in “Part Two.”

Another expense I guess I should justify is the Beatles--“Now on iTunes!” I immediately downloaded “Sgt. Pepper.” A recent special issue of Rolling Stone magazine ranked the Beatles songs and judged “A Day in the Life” their “masterwork.” I think with all the stresses and strains right now, my emotions are closer to the surface, because I just burst into tears when I heard it again, as if for the first time. “I read the news today oh boy....”

Headlines in Honduras, all within 24 hours: a distinguished couple, an Italian expatriate and his Cuban wife who owned a motorcycle franchise, are shot to death, a dozen bullets apiece, in their Toyota HiLux on the streets of La Ceiba, apparently a case of mistaken identity by the hired killers, who were looking for a drug kingpin. We’ll go through La Ceiba next week to visit Chemo’s sister Rosa and his mother Rufina in Tocoa. Just outside Tocoa, landowners and “squatters” are at war over the African palms that abound there; at least 4 dead already, with reports of a “thousand” guns, including AK-47s, on hand. A dead teen is found tied into the fetal position and thrown in the river in Tegucigalpa in a cardboard box; shortly afterwards, two of his buddies are found dead in the riverbank weeds. Actual fetuses, 13 of them found around the city in trash cans and such in recent months, along with 36 other “cadaveres”--victims of violence or neglect never claimed by any family--will be buried in a big common grave, courtesy of the state, in a special section of the Divine Paradise Cemetery. That’s “how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall,” as John Lennon sang. For families that do mourn their dead, the city has begun a new program--Help to Go Home--to respond to the needs of the poor who cannot afford to transport their loved ones home for burial. If families can even be informed! Thieves tore down a mile of telephone wire--for the copper inside--in San Pedro Sula, where the dismayed police could only ask, “Didn’t anybody see this happening?” Some things you don’t want to see, even in your imagination, like the young worker who fell into the cement mixer at a concrete block company. At least we think he was young; the company is refusing all inquiries, no doubt because they have been cited repeatedly for safety violations. Back to La Ceiba, two brothers, murdered and stuffed in the trunk of their car. Now, this I did not have to imagine, I saw the TV report, as the family, summoned by the police, opened the trunk and leaped and spun in fear and dread as if stung by Voldemort’s lightning. “But I just had to look, having read the book.”

So Chemo and I spent Thanksgiving Day on the bus back to Las Vegas. Not a bad trip, until you realize it was a waste of time. As soon as we got back, I tried the Internet on my computer. Nothing. I wonder if “string theory” can explain this. It works in Tegus, it fires blanks in Las Vegas. The signal or the computer is just kooky enough that they are incompatible. But I had an out. Jeanette Sipp-White at Parkway South had given me a used MacBook in St. Louis to give away down here. I still had it, and, by golly, my modem worked just fine in it! (The computer seems to be a newer model.) So it is now my “home” computer. I mean, I know this is absurd, two laptops on my desk, one with everything (like my photos) and the other that works, with me bridging the gaps with a USB memory stick. I’m in the middle of nowhere and I’m hoarding computers! CRAAA-ZY! But thank you, Jeanette, and as soon as the signal straightens out, I’ll complete your donation....

Wouldn’t Thanksgiving be a lovely day for a graduation? Basically, that’s what happened here, on Friday, Nov. 26. Twenty-one ninth graders got their diplomas in a warm and happy gathering. I was invited as the “sponsor” of Milena, Maricela and Juan Blas’ second daughter--and second in her class, by the way. I had a heck of a time getting any good pictures, but she is a classic Audrey Hepburn beauty. As the kids came forward, accompanied by parents and then escorted back by their sponsors, their age, interests, and future plans were told. I loved Ronny’s “ambition”: he wants to be a “comediante.” And he’s not kidding! He’s our version of Gino (last name?) in my last years at Parkway North, an abundance of talent and showmanship and the perfect personality for entertaining. Gino’s specialty was these marathon performances of “Love Shack.” Here, Ronny was in every “show” the kids put on at school; in fact, he wrote most of them! Now, Milena has abundant talent, too, don’t get me wrong. But she is very serious; she’d love to be a doctor. Coming out of Las Vegas, who knows? She might as well try for astronaut. The expense would be, for her poor family, astronomical.

Speaking of infinity, did you see the WikiLeaks tsunami? Here, folks highlighted the “revelation” of exactly what I told you a year and a half ago: that the U.S. Ambassador Hugo Llorens turned a blind eye to Mel Zelaya’s president-for-life ambitions, indeed, encouraged him! Thus, the coup, the nuclear option, as it were, of desperate men came to pass. It contradicts Mel’s own wishful thinking, that the U.S. ordered the coup, always a popular victimology. Pepe Lobo, the current president, named by the ambassador as one of “conspirators” molesting Mel, just grinned: “No hard feelings. Heck, that’s just the way diplomats like to talk.” To his credit, he never takes the bait.

The coffee-picking season has begun, and trucks and pickups are daily loading with Las Vegans for Quebrada Amarilla. They’re paying 120 Lempiras a sack this year--that’s 100 pounds of coffee beans for about $6. Chemo’s brother Santos tells me he and the kids can fill about 7 a day, sometimes as many as 12 or even thirteen. Good money, I guess, and a Woodstock atmosphere to boot. They’ll be gone till classes start again in February.

And today they gave out final grades. I am so proud of Chemo, passing third grade, with an 84%, especially when I see some of his little companions falling behind and required to repeat, or drop out altogether. Chemo's "girls," his nieces Chila, Mirna, and Reina, in their first full year of school, passed, too, second and first grades. Oh boy!

The happiest of holidays to you all!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2010

THE POOR ARE ALWAYS WITH YOU

Every time I gave a talk in St. Louis, I’d show pictures of Chemo and his heart surgeon and I’d say something like, “Imagine these doctors leaving their own children behind to come to Honduras and help my son--that is real love, don’t you think?” Then suddenly, at Wydown Junior High, I caught myself mid-sentence--I don’t know if the kids noticed my pause--and I thought, “O my God, that’s what I'M doing...!” That sounds pretty self-congratulatory, I know, but it cleared my mind. I was missing Chemo so much that I didn’t see the open hearts right in front of me, full of love.

Of course, it would be Wydown that tipped the balance--thanks to Debra Baker and other awesome teachers, the kids had had not one but two “Hat Days” (when students “pay” to wear a hat or cap); they collected a valise full of toys; and they just wouldn’t let me go. But it was the same everywhere. Tom Wehling’s eighth graders at MICDS had adopted Chemo almost as much as I did. Lisa Portell and Jeanette Sipp at Parkway South High had prepared my visit with World Cup precision, and eager, attentive students filled the theater during their “free time,” Academic Lab, and they are following up with special tee-shirts. And at Selvidge Middle School, Julia Buehler showed exactly why she was voted Teacher of the Year when she whipped up the troops in less than 24 hours for my “surprise” visit. Kim Hanan-West at Parkway North was in a class by herself. Her father had just died suddenly but she greeted me with a huge hug, “Oh, Miguel, how are your children?” She gave me money she had collected from hot chocolate sales in her classroom. “There’ll be more, when it gets colder,” she winked.

Maybe it helped this time that I began each presentation with a phone call, to Chemo or Pablo and Chepito, and had the audience shout “Hola!” all the way to Honduras. That brought things into perspective, how close we are, though far away.

Indeed, my biggest expense in St. Louis was calling Honduras at least twice a day. Well, first of all, I did miss Chemo, but I wanted Dora, who was taking care of Chemo, to know I was not taking her kindness for granted. So I’d call before and after school, along with frequent calls to Pablo and Chepito, Cristian, Santos and Alba, and Dionis, and others. At about a dollar a minute, the cost was high, but it did keep me focused.

Focused on friends and family. It was not just the “stadium” venues like schools that bespoke the power of love, but even more the intimate and individual relationships that make my visits so memorable. The gracious hospitality just overwhelms me. Teresa Jorgen was the constant companion, and more generous with her car than ever, if that’s even possible! If it was a “sacrifice” to leave Chemo behind, friends and family up in the States consoled me endlessly. You know, I probably ate more in a day than I’d eat in a week in Honduras, including a late-night run to “Five Guys Burgers and Fries.”

The whole world celebrated on my birthday October 12. Of course, most of the cheering was for the 33 miners getting rescued one by one in Chile. Like you, I bet, I watched it all night, till everybody was out. As someone said, it was a mirror-image of 9/11, the world’s attention riveted by a disaster in a tower BELOW the earth, where everyone got out alive this time.

But I have to say, it seemed as if a lot of folks were in even deeper holes. Every time you turned around, another gay teen, most notably Tyler Clementi at Rutgers University, had thrown himself to death like the jumpers in the Twin Towers. And the same question, how bad is it in schools where kids are killing themselves to stop the pain? Amidst the helpless feeling, a website emerged that promised some hope: It Gets Better, filled with video testimonies of survival (itgetsbetterproject.com). And maybe you saw the extraordinary video of Fort Worth councilman Joel Burns pleading for the rescue of our bullied children (joelburns.com). What if all politicians spoke this honestly, this compassionately, this briefly? For one thing, they’d stop torturing us with all their skunk ads.

I caught some things--besides my birthday--that I miss when I come in April. It’s usually just about impossible to get my family together, but we had built-in parties to bookend my visit, my niece Justyne’s 8th birthday just after I arrived and my niece Jaslyn’s first birthday just before I left. And Parkway North Homecoming. North beat Kirkwood, thanks to a gutsy 4th-and-goal play with about 5 minutes left in the game. (“We voted on it!” the coach said proudly.) I turned to principal Jenny Marquart and shouted, “I’m just as excited as the last time!” Speaking of Homecomings, Teresa’s challenged nephew Bryan, a junior at Lindbergh High School, dressed up and went to his Homecoming Dance in his wheelchair, and “danced” with the sweetest girl in the world, Lizzie, a friend since kindergarten. And Barb Kelley came in for a visit from France, just before the lock-down there with all the strikes protesting the End of the World, a little uptick in the retirement age from 60 to 62. Mark Williams snuck in, too, after two months abroad with his extended “family” in France.

Hoping for playoffs, I did manage to catch a Cardinals game, one day before they were mathematically eliminated. Father Carl Dehne took me to the early-morning Mass he says for the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa’s nuns) in North St. Louis, where I could thank them for praying so faithfully and so fruitfully for Chemo. They loved seeing the photos of Chemo Before and After his operation. And since it had come time for Teresa’s little white dog Jo-Jo to go to Dog Heaven, we went very early one morning to Kirkwood Animal Hospital, where we shared a little prayer with the gentlest doctor you could wish for, Kathleen Hemler, and the staff, who had been caring for Jo-Jo for years.

Parkway North grads Randy and Jeff Vines, St. Louis fanatics, showed us their St. Louis Style shop on Cherokee St. (stl-style.com), where they were taking a logo tee-shirt order from Cam Mizell (North 1999) for his band in New York City. And another St. Louis booster, Tim McKernan, who heads “The Morning After” chat fest on AM 590 “The Fan,” invited me to call into the show; Tim is my second-cousin, but I like to say I’m his “uncle,” you know, ‘cause I’m so OLD, and he’s so young! It gave me a chance to boost my own love, Honduras, and compliment Tim for his admirable fairness with sensitive issues.

For my last supper, Rams treated me and Teresa and my sister Barb to Citizen Kane’s steakhouse in Kirkwood. But upstaging the fine cuts of meat was our server, Matt Krenz, who Teresa recognized from “American Streetballers,” the only film cast, shot, and scored wholly in St. Louis. Matt not only starred in the movie; he wrote, produced, and directed it! Maybe you saw it at the Tivoli last year. (Go to americanstreetballers.com to order the DVD.) It’s pretty ironic that my adios to St. Louis should so smoothly transition me back to Honduras. The theme of both the movie and our daily reality is the same: our common humanity despite the differences between us. Or, to put it another way, as Jesus said, “The poor are always with you.”

Coincidence welcomed me again in Tegucigalpa when I took my old Go-Phone to get re-tooled for use in Honduras. The technician and I started to chat, and I mentioned Chemo and his surgery, and he says, “That’s really something, my two-year-old niece just had open-heart surgery.” From the same doctors, it turns out, in town again for another brigada.

Big day for my return to Las Vegas. Dora had a delicious lunch, chop suey! Then we immediately went off to the Rosario Misionero, a daily visit during October to folks who cannot frequent church, but it includes prayers for every continent on the planet. I told them, this is what sustained me while I was in St. Louis. Then a final celebración of the novena for an 80-year-old woman who had died, which went on and on, but after a month away, I was OK, even though I had never known the woman. Then on to a wake for 26-year-old Nandito, shot by gang members in Tegucigalpa when he refused to join. Shot in the face; I took one very brief look. I did not recognize him (no one would!), though they assure me he was here last year during Holy Week, and I vaguely remember him at his grandparents' house in those days with all the other siblings from Tegus and San Pedro Sula. Then on to Maricela's, where I gave her baby clothes from Carol Stanton for little Mariana Teresa. And they looked at the photobook, they pored over it, which is appropriate, since they are featured in it so much! Then on to Natalia's house (Chemo's grandma), just to touch base, before eating supper at Alba's, picking up the routine as if we'd never left. Then back to the house (my house!) with Chemo and cousins Joel and Dionis, who I left to pick through boys clothes from Melissa Pomeranz and Laura Stanton, while I returned to Nandito’s wake, waiting for the prayer service led by the delegados. Funny thing: no delegados showed up. Finally, about 11:00 p.m., the crowd was getting restless, and the grandparents said, "Shouldn't we start?" It was so weird, I was the only one there, so I did the whole thing myself. And I didn't even know him! But I guess, fresh from a month in St. Louis, I knew what family is and what friends are, and what the love of God is. I just tried to think, what would Teresa say? What would Rams say? What would Barb say? What would any of you say?

So I guess you sent me back just in time.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2010

I’M JUST SAYING...

I am in St. Louis (till October 20), and I will file a report on those adventures, but I thought I better keep my hand in, and remind us all of why I’m here.

Chemo finally got a report card! It took a month of teacher strikes to produce it (I guess SOMEBODY was feeling a little guilty...!). It was funny; at the parents meeting called by the principal Profe Flor when the unions signed a new agreement with the government, she explained that the kids would have classes on Saturdays to make up for the lost days, but, the good news was, their grade cards were ready. At that point, a few teachers raised their hands to say they didn’t have the grades ready quite yet. Like the joke about the Berlin Wall, guy takes his car to the shop and the wall goes up overnight and 30 years later wall comes down, goes to claim his car, mechanic says, “Right. Be ready Thursday.”

I’m smiling because Chemo’s teacher Juana Maria had his grades fresh and ready, and they were great! I was so proud of him. And he said, “Miguel, I’m going to fourth grade, and fifth grade, and sixth, and high school, and the university, too.” But it did make it easier to come up to St. Louis.

Chemo did not want to celebrate his birthday September 9, anticipating a big surprise when I return from St. Louis (which he refers to simply as “that”: Did you buy that yet?? he keeps asking when I call). But the sweeter side was his thought to share his day with Denis, an autistic boy in Paraiso turning 15 the same day; so we got a cake after all and traipsed across the river. Actually, I had told Nanda, Denis’ mother, that we would keep things very low-key, so as not to stress Denis, but when we got there she had all the little neighbors in the yard, ready for a party. Denis did stay inside and panicked some at the prospect of going public, so I tried to assure him he could be safe by himself.

Denis’ fear speaks for us all. You may have heard of the massacre in Tamaulipas, Mexico, of 72 would-be immigrants, gunned down in a barn by the “coyotes” who promised them safe passage into the USA. Thirty of them were Hondurans, and the news and returning dead (their coffins draped in flags, received by the president himself) threw the whole country into panic and despair. But it’s like what the firefighter said on 9/11 about the “jumpers”: “How bad are things inside the Towers that people are jumping out to certain death?” Because Hondurans don’t have to go to Mexico to die in droves. Just a few days after the massacre in Mexico, a gang beset a shoemaker business in Tegucigalpa and shot to death 18 out of 20 employees, marking their territory. The two who escaped helped police identify at least one of the killers who said it was “funny” how the victims just fell all over the place. Totally unrepentant--well, I guess you’d have to be! So, I’m sorry, America, but nothing will stop them, because they have nothing to lose.

But even in the whirlwind, there are carefree times. The Day of the Student was a lot of fun. Chemo at first did not want to go to the celebration (“I’m too big.”), but he had a good time anyway, especially when his little cousin Reina competed in the “modeling” show.

Then came Independence Day, September 15, with the raising of the flag at dawn. I could hardly believe it when Chemo jumped out of bed. But 20 or 30 points were at stake for attendance. The celebration was even more elaborate that the Day of the Student, including even a skit based on the Tamaulipas massacre. I hardly knew how to react.

The weight of such contradictions has dragged Maricela into depression, and we are all concerned. I suppose a full diagnosis would name her bi-polar, but we are hoping her appointment in El Progreso at the hospital clinic will yield some helpful treatment. Maricela is so dear to us all because she named her baby Mariana Teresa, for my sister Mary Anne and for Teresa Jorgen. When Teresa called recently and asked what she needed, Maricela said she would love a crib for the baby. We found Marcio and Chepe working on a gorgeous piece at their workshop. “It’s for a woman in Tegucigalpa, but we’ll sell it to you and make another one for her--she’ll never know the difference!”

Meanwhile, Chepito has been cranking out his own gorgeous art one drawing after another. The most beautiful is a cross of such delicacy that I call it Chepito’s Rose Window. The photograph does not do it justice.

I call Chemo twice a day, before and after school. He is thriving in Dora and Elvis’ care. I think I’m a little jealous!

Love, Miguel