ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2013

For last month’s events, check in with THE BEACON:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/29185/voices_dulick_tiger_020113

ENDGAME

Before any more time passes, I have to thank you and thank you a million times for your help with Guillermo, whether with prayers, concern, your attention, and cash. No sequester here! Your kindness is unlimited. In case you missed my e-mail, Guillermo, 65, was diagnosed with stomach cancer and the family was simply at a loss when told the operation would cost 40,000 Lempiras ($2000), not to mention all the other expenses, tests, medicine, etc., even the instruments for operation itself, right down to the thread! That’s the way health care in Honduras works, or doesn’t. So I held my breath and sent out the call, and you responded like a choir of angels.

I thought I’d hold off on this CASA till the operation was over. But it’s been re-scheduled several times already. Right now, we’re looking at March 11. The family is looking for blood donors. They have to have a certain number of pints before the surgery. Doesn’t matter what type, the hospital bloodbank just has to balance out. Guillermo’s own children are all diabetics (I guess from his wife Erlinda), so they’re out; but their spouses and friends are stepping forward.

The night before Guillermo and Erlinda headed off to San Pedro Sula, we had a wonderful prayer service at their house. Guillermo cried several times--a hard thing for a Honduran man to do in public--first from grief, even despair, because he felt all day like death, and then, by the end of the evening, from a gratitude and hopefulness beyond words. Next day, he woke up feeling like a new man. “They gotta check me again, I think I’m cured!” Of course, they did check him again, in San Pedro, and the tumor is still there, but it is as nicely placed as possible, in a sac of some kind, at the base of the stomach, its major threat in virtually closing off the path to the colon. So I guess they just pluck out the ball of bad and close him up! Could it really be that simple? Keep your guard up, if you can, and I hope to report a cure.

Now, back to the old news.

My life flashed before my eyes--or maybe it was just the shower of breaking glass. Dodging a speeding cab, I made a great spin move (it was right after the SuperBowl and I actually thought of Ray Lewis), but my right elbow broke the driver's side of the windshield, and I felt the wheel run over the tip of my right foot, as the cab came to a screeching halt, the young driver pointing and gesturing in frustration--like it was MY fault!

It was just a matter of time. Chemo has saved me innumerable times in big cities from getting run over. This time he was waiting across the street in another cab as I delivered 1500 Lempiras (about $75) to a couple sons of Maria Enemecia, who was in the Hospital Escuela, waiting for an operation for cancer of the liver. I got across the first 5 or 6 lanes of traffic when the cab came out of nowhere. I saw the tiny shards of glass glistening on my clothes in the bright sun and a couple dots of blood on my elbow. I sort of wondered about my foot, but it barely hurt at all. All I saw was that a little strip of the shoe cover (apparently it wasn't leather!) had been shaved off. I spontaneously gave the cabbie 500 Lempiras to "settle" the thing and we hurried on our separate ways.

We had already picked up Chemo's brother Marcos at Colonia Suyapa, where he and his boss had been plying the tourist trade with a roulette wheel during the big Feast of Our Lady of Suyapa. With Marcos, food is always a priority, and we ended up at Pizza Hut again for the umpteenth time. (Marcos loves the wings!) When I finally took off my shoe, there was nothing, not even bruises, on my toes, all in working order, just a little...squished.

We had come for Chemo's appointment with the Helping Hands for Honduras heart brigade. Just a check-up, and Dr. Mike Carbonari of New Jersey gave Chemo a big thumbs up, come back in a year. It was over so fast, and Ron Roll, in charge of Helping Hands, was running around, we barely even had time for a quick photo with his wife Alba. Just continue with Chemo's meds, dosages so tiny the pieces of pills I've cut up get lost in Chemo's hand. Then, lots more eating, including a lunch at Mirawa, where we hosted Elio and Mema, their favorite restaurant. They were both much better than we found them in last month's newsletter following the death of their “patron saint,” Padre Nicolas.

And shopping. We had to find a uniform for Chemo. Nothing in Las Vegas was big enough, for his (now) rather wide bottom and short legs. We tried local stores, but, well, only Wal-Mart could fit him. (And even at that, Dora had to shorten the pants.) After a couple days, we were ready to dispatch Marcos back to his dangerous colonia, and head home, when suddenly my MacBook computer screen went dark. So we stayed one more day to take the computer to the Apple specialists at JetStereo. Where of course it worked the instant the technician touched it. Overjoyed, I didn’t even suspect any further trouble, so we celebrated with one last meal. Chemo and I got home Friday.

The computer worked twice more, and quit. I KNEW it! But there was no way I could whip around and return to Tegus. School was starting Monday! In fact, the kids had been doing clean-up and such, so Chemo was already behind. And, believe me, it was touch-and-go right up until he walked out the door at 6:30 a.m. whether he would really go or not. I had left all possibilities open, and somehow, miraculously, he finally opted for this one. But, “I’m going alone!” he declared, as I followed him out to the street. “No, no, I’m just going up to the church,” I assured him. But we both knew I couldn’t miss his entry into seventh grade; I was so thrilled, I had to pinch myself. I greeted the Principal Profe Flor, and his four teachers and thanked them all for everything and anything I could think of. And then I did go up to the church, a little devotion I’ve assigned myself for Lent. But I do have much to pray about.

For Chemo, school is still touch-and-go. Some classmates who are, like, 12 years old, make fun of how “big” Chemo is at 18. The middle-school syndrome is universal, I guess. And the homework. “They write too fast, I can’t keep up.” On the whiteboard, he means. With virtually no textbooks, a lot of the “subject matter” comes off the board into your notebooks, and Chemo is very undexterous--handicapped, almost--in his writing. When he was up till 1:00 a.m. recently, copying the notes of a classmate, he announced, “I’m not going to school today, I’m too tired.” But when 6:00 o’clock came around, I started to wake him. “Chemo, it’s Friday, you can sleep all day tomorrow, you’re doing so great,” etc., etc. Then I enlisted the help of Dora, who’s been getting kids up for school for 20 years. She came over and had the magic touch. Soon I heard Chemo in the shower.

As soon as the quizzes and tests begin, however, the writing may be on the wall. Supposedly, the government has tamed the curriculum this year, making it a little more user-friendly. Indeed, there are two sections of seventh grade, 35 students each; there’s just one section of eighth grade, about 32, and about half that again in ninth grade. So you see what happens. What are the chances of Chemo being one of the survivors? I had already decided in my own mind to spend all the time necessary helping him with his homework, but he’s doing so well, he meets with his little group every day to work together. So I have time to write this newsletter!

I did swing back to Tegus the next weekend, and they fixed the problem the same day. Seems a loose wire or two from the base to the screen cut off the lights. That’ll happen; good Lord, the computer’s bouncing around 6 hours or more in my backpack on the bus  on these trips. A lot of things come loose. But Marcos was not loose. The gangs were getting to him. I didn’t even think he was still in Tegus when he called me to say a couple tough guys wanted 500 Lempiras to leave him alone. My trip was so short, I was already on my way back to Las Vegas when he called. So I had to send him the money from a bank in Victoria. For now, that seems to have ended the threats. But I keep telling him, “Tell Peludo [his boss’ nickname] to get you outta there!” They are due to follow the sun, as it were, to the Next Big Thing, wherever another crop of cornpones can be fleeced.

Dulis, just 18, was shot and killed up in the mountains. For some reason, no one’s death has scared me more, and not just because around here folks pronounce my name “Dulis.” Back before I met Chemo, when Pablito and Chepito slept here while their dad Leon was in jail and they were still going to school, Dulis and his big brother Selvin were also in school, and they slept here, too, because their family was in the mountains. Those were some good days. I’d get breakfast, I’d do the wash, we’d do homework, I’d make dinner!, we’d pray every night, I’d have to flash the lights a few times to get them quiet enough to sleep, but I really loved their fun. They’re all clever, quick-witted, but Dulis was the natural comedian. I loved setting him up for punchlines. There are rumors flying as to why he was killed, but I’m ignoring them. His aunt’s house here immediately filled up with mourners when his body was brought down, and I helped a lot of them with busfare back to Tegus or San Pedro or Progreso or the mountains after the funeral. Selvin’s catatonia did not break for three days. Finally, he could talk and even relax a bit. He’s 20, but he started calling me “hermanito” (little brother), a term of affection unimaginable from him before this. Dulis’ girlfriend Flor just came by looking for a photo of him. A slim, sweet young child, she was weeping as she settled on a photo of Dulis’ sister in almost a pietá wiping blood from his chest where the bullets went in.

Vicenta, at 98, was 80 years older than Dulis, but her husband Pedro was as lost as Romeo without his Juliet when she quietly slipped away after a final illness. He’s very deaf, but that only means we HAD to express our sympathy physically with hugs and kisses. We did the novenario, nine days of mourning prayer, and when he saw folks standing up and moving around, he’d say, “Is the prayer over?” He doesn’t stop praying.

And Maria Enemecia’s cancer had spread uncontrollably, so blessedly they brought her back home from the hospital in Tegucigalpa to Terrero Blanco to die in the arms of her children. She was 53. How do you figure this? Her husband is the infamous drunk Renan, husband in name only, since his only loyalty is to the bottle. He’s fine, he’s gonna live forever; his wife dies of liver cancer! We thought he might take a turn to sobriety in the wake of his loss; he only took a U-turn.

Santos, Alba, and their children, Joel, Chila, Mirna, Reina, Albita, and their dog Peluche, returned to Las Vegas after 2 months of coffee picking in the mountains of Comayagua. The whole migrant enterprise was crippled this year by a raging epidemic of La Roya, a fungus that chokes the coffee tree. A lot of folks spent more time planting new trees than picking the few healthy ones, and the new seedlings won’t yield a crop for at least three years. Reina, 10, immediately started school, advancing to third grade. But she’s the only one “in the mix,” you might say.

While you are getting layer cakes of snow, we are in the throes of summer here, ripe, sun-hot days, unrelieved by any rains. Everything is bone dry. Folks love the cold water I keep on hand.

But nothing is more refreshing than your friendship! You send my roots rain!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2013

For last month’s CASA, look to The Beacon:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/28734/voices_dulick_knifepoint_010413

I LIKE THE VERSION WITH THE TIGER

I did it for Chemo!

Tooth decay is a threat to a person with heart disease. So I had to bite the bullet, as it were, and get my cavities taken care of, lest I have a heart attack and leave Chemo alone in the world!

We went to Tegucigalpa with a menu of four to-do’s:
Renew my residency visa;
Renew my driver’s license;
Chemo’s check-up with the Brigada;
The dentist--if we had time!

At the last minute, the Brigada was postponed till February, so that was off the list. The earliest “appointment” I could get for my driver’s license was January 21st, so that was off the list. It took just an hour to renew my visa. So there was PLENTY of time for the dentist! Chemo had just two tiny “spots” that were quickly tended to, plus a cleaning. And all I wanted another temporary filling where cold drinks were giving me a shock. But when I opened my mouth, the doctor started poking and counting, calling out numbers to the assistant like a Bingo card. Twenty cavities! I didn’t know I still had that many teeth. I hadn’t really had a “diagnostico” in several years, because we had concentrated on a couple of fat molars we finally pulled out last year, after I persuaded Dr. Juan Handal to stop trying to save them.

When they quoted me the prices to clean up this mess, I almost DID have a heart attack. You remember last month I talked about getting robbed; this was a “fiscal cliff” ten times worse. I hemmed and hawed, hoping for some reprieve, and they did give me a discount, but ultimately I surrendered, as I said, for the sake of Chemo, who nevertheless would have much preferred I spend the money on a SmartPhone for him, to follow friends on FACEBOOK. He also reminded me that I have already arranged with my friend Fermin in Morazan to take care of him, should I die before my time. Sentimental, ain’t he?

So four long sessions and a thousand dollars later, I had a new mouth. (I kept hoping the bank would refuse the repeated charges to my credit card.)

As for the touch-up I thought I’d get, Dr. Handal recommended something more secure, a “protesis,” a sort of little plastic boot with a piece of (fake?) tooth tucked inside. It’s guaranteed for a year; I’ll probably chew it to pieces in a month. They gave me a discount on that, too. Oh boy.
Chemo’s big sister Rosa and little brother Marcos both happened to be in Tegucigalpa at the same time. Rosa was there looking for work, and Marcos was there with his itinerant boss, setting up games of chance for the biggest feast of the year, Our Lady of Suyapa, the patroness of Honduras, which draws as many as two million pilgrims to the capital. Rosa and Marcos weren’t staying together, but they were close enough--in the most dangerous neighborhood in the city--to take one cab to meet us at Pizza Hut. Things were very tense, just waiting for them, and it was already dark. They had agreed to meet up at a gas station. “I’m here,” says Rosa, “where’s Marcos?”

It’s a toss-up who’s more vulnerable, Rosa as a “girl,” or Marcos as potential gang bait. Finally, they arrived, and we ate pizza, salads, and 18 wings. I wanted to be sure Rosa got home okay (Marcos would stay with us at the hotel), and that cab ride, through endless little twists and turns of the narrow, muddy paths of La Era, looked like a colonoscopy. The guys hanging out along the streets seemed like imminent death. Were they just looking at us or were they planning something? We dropped Rosa off, and we shot out of there as fast as possible, the cab driver maybe the most relieved of us all.

Our last night in Tegus was Mema’s birthday party. It was the happiest I have seen her and Elio since they had to flee from a gang several years ago that was threatening their store and their very lives. I could not resist Mema’s invitation to dance! Chemo snapped pictures, when he wasn’t laughing himself sick. Mema and Elio thrive on hard work (that’s what made giving up their grocery such a sacrifice), so they prepared all the food themselves, not to mention the decorations. The whole family gathered, including neighbors, and the memory lingers on.

Next stop, after a couple days back home in Las Vegas, was El Progreso. This visit was made more urgent by the sad news we got while still in Tegus, that Catalina, only 26 years old, had had another stroke and died. I thought she was recovering! I had taken a beautiful picture of her in November, a sort of Mona Lisa pose. Her little son Jose, 4, does not understand; he keeps asking for mommy. Her husband Alfredo, his hair trimmed short for the funeral, had a sadness relieved only by hugging his son very tight. Since Cata’s birthday is July 14, I told the family at lunch (prepared by Santa, who always insists she is my fiancee), “Look, it’s January 14; let’s have a birthday party in Cata’s memory tonight.”

Meanwhile, I got an alert from a Jesuit in St. Louis that Fr. Ray Pease was very near death. Padre Ramón, a legend in Progreso, where he served for 50 years, founding the first co-ed Catholic high school in the country (and the first high school where the girls could wear slacks) and pastor of the city’s 300,000 souls, plagued with gang deaths and other violence virtually every day, had been in “maintenance” for several years with a rare incurable liver disease when a fall about a month ago exhausted all his remaining resources. Originally from Colorado, of Cherokee descent, he was a big bear of a man, often a Teddy Bear, tough as nails and gentle as a new mother, a keen story teller, and a wondrous celebrant of the sacraments, the Mass in near ecstasy.

I thought he must still be in a hospital in San Pedro, where I had visited him before, but I learned at the parish office that he was right there in Progreso at the Clinica Cristiana.
Signs were posted all over, NO VISITORS!, but they waved me in, where I found two doctors busy taking notes, and two young men that I guess were seminarians keeping vigil. Ramón was awake and when I took his hand, he started talking, struggling mightily to form his words. You know how you do, when you can’t figure out what some sick person is trying to say, you just nod and say, “Yes” and “Yes.” But Ramón would not accept my condescension. Finally, his face tightened and he spit out, “How’s...the...BOY?” “Boy” was the clearest word, and it could have been Spanish (‘voy’), till it finally dawned on me he was asking about Chemo! Oh, I just melted, and told him all about how Chemo had passed sixth grade and had his diploma and was going on to seventh grade, and all. Here’s a guy who’s DYING and he’s thinking about my son! Then, as distinctly as he could, he said, spelling the word to accommodate my dimness, “I’m going to S-L-E-E-P...now!” I bowed out of the room, hoping the witnesses would not annotate the disturbance I had caused....

That night at Santa’s house we had a party with pizzas and wings from Pizza Hut, and a cake I got with “CATA--TE QUEREMOS MUCHO” (“We love you”). The mood was  rather somber, though Santa lightened the atmosphere by scolding me. “Don’t you EVER bring thin-crust pizza into this house again! I like it thick! I’m going to have to think twice about marrying you, after all!”

Next day, I headed to Morazan, where Chemo had gotten off the bus the day before (so I could not actually show him to Ramón at the hospital), to have extra time with Fermin’s kids, especially Eduard and Jose Miguel. Chemo greeted me with the news that he had seen an owl in the yard. An omen? A blessing? Or...an owl. This was to be our annual “vacation,” though Fermin was still recovering from an especially strong dose of the flu back in December (“Miguel, I thought I was going to die! I was making funeral plans with Maria.”)

I’m sure the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., would not have minded sharing his birthday, January 15, with Fermin’s granddaughter Gladis Elena, who was turning 10. I accompanied Fermin and Maria to the supermarket and paid the bill for the festivities, including a piñata. A couple dozen boys and girls showed up to share the candy and a tub full of chicken-and-rice and lots of soda, and of course, cake. Pretty simple, really, but so much more than most children ever see here.

Two days later, as I was visiting Fermin’s daughter Esly at the radio station, where she does a show from 7 to 10 each night, word comes of Padre Ramón’s death. Suddenly his precious seeking of the “BOY” seemed even more miraculous.

I could not go to the funeral, because I had to get back to Las Vegas and get ready to return to Tegus for my Monday, January 21st, appointment to get my driver’s license (which I only use in the States when Teresa lets me use her car). Because this trip would be very quick, Chemo stayed behind in Morazan, for still more time with the family. Chemo wants to live in Morazan!
By all reports, Ramon’s funeral was huge, a civic event of inaugural proportions.
http://www.laprensa.hn/Secciones-Principales/Honduras/Valle-de-Sula/Feligresia-progresena-llora-la-muerte-de-padre-Ramon-Peace#.UP75gaVtI_s
After all, he knew virtually everyone in Progreso. The church, big as it is, couldn’t hold a tenth of the people attending; then they processed Ramon’s casket around the city eight times, till returning to the church to bury him in the garden. Poor Ramon! a victim of his own popularity, he wanted to be buried with his fellow Jesuits on a lovely hillside in the general cemetery, but “the people” overruled him; they wanted to keep him close. The tribute in the newspaper was nice, but they repeatedly misspelled his name Ramón PEACE (instead of Pease), but what could be more fitting?

I went to Tegucigalpa on Sunday, January 20, on a bus so crowded I felt as I’d been packed in someone’s suitcase. I called Marcos on the way, for another meal at Pizza Hut, but this time for lunch, before the dangers of the dark. I called Rosa, too, but she was back at her mother’s, near the Guatemala border, hoping for work there. As he wolfed down his food, Marcos begged me to take him back to the hotel for the night. “I’ll sleep on the floor!” Poor kid, I had to say no, because my day would start early and stay busy. So I had to send him back into the belly of the beast.

I got my new driver’s license with no problem. Small world, turns out the doctor who gave me the eye test had been a student of Padre Ramon in Progreso. I did my other little chores and found myself downtown just as noon Mass was starting at the cathedral. My cell phone buzzed and I saw it was Elio calling. Actually, I was in line for confession at that point; another buzz indicated a voice message.

As soon as I left the church, I listened to the message. A heart-broken, barely audible voice: “Miguel, this is Elio. Padre Nicolas has gone to Heaven.” Fr. Nick Schiel, S.J., 88, had been in Elio’s life since his baptism. He performed Elio and Mema’s wedding, and baptized their four children. He always told Elio, “I’m going to bury you, too, my friend, if you don’t take care of yourself!” A Nebraska native, he was salt of the earth. He had a Ph.D. in languages, a professor at Creighton University, but he got the bug for the missions, and they sent him to the most remote area of Honduras, La Patuca, a desert bigger than the whole country of El Salvador. He was there forever. He’d go from village to village, three days minimum each visit, “Encuentros con Cristo” he called them, a sort of retreat he had developed. He’d be “out there” for weeks at a time, till he’d finally take a little break to visit Elio and Mema, who had moved to Tegucigalpa. That’s where I met him. He’d say Mass in the living room, just as intimate as if Jesus walked in. And every time he’d see me, he’d say, “Miguel, you know what your name means in Hebrew?” And every time I’d say, No, please tell me. “Mig-El: He who is like God.” I took it as a warning.

He seemed old-fashioned to some, as he got older and older, but he really just got simpler, a Francis of Assisi, utterly heedless of material comforts, preaching the love of God, in word and deed. He could live on beans, or just a salted tortilla, sleep on a bench in the little chapels, read his prayers by candlelight. Elio treated him like a king, but even there he’d just ask for soup. “They say I got a little stomach problem.”

And to think that he, too, was in Progreso; I could have visited him when I visited Ramon, but I didn’t know. So when Elio invited me to come with them to the funeral, I leapt at the opportunity. I had missed Ramon’s funeral; I wouldn’t miss Nick’s, too. And the irony was, I had to go to Progreso anyway, to swing through on the way to Morazan to pick up Chemo! When I called this “pure chance,” Elio’s daughter Felixa, a nun studying in Spain, calling on Skype, said, “No, Miguel, not chance at all; God’s planning this.”

And maybe God planned Elio’s collapse. He is diabetic and six other things that can knock him out at any moment, but you’d have to say the death of his “father” Nicolas was the blow that felled him. He was just too sick to go to Progreso, puffed up like a pillow, red as a beet, hot as blazes, weak as a kitten. His sister stayed behind to care for him; he wouldn’t allow any of us to miss this moment for Padre Nicolas.

We left in two cars from Tegus, about 6:30 p.m., arriving in Progreso about 10:30. Padre Nicolas was laid out in the tiny chapel of the San Jose high school. We sat and prayed for at least two hours, and then the Jesuits sorted us into rooms for the night.

If Ramon’s funeral was tectonic, Nicolas’ service was a cup of coffee. Except for his fellow Jesuits, no one in Progreso ever heard of him! We were just family, you might say, including others who somehow had come the great distance from La Patuca overnight. Padre Valentin Menendez gave a very appreciative sermon, but it was at the end of the Mass that the real significance of this man’s life appeared. “Excuse me, I just have to say something,” Mema began, and spoke in testimony of Padre Nicolas’ life and work that had us in tears. Aware that she was speaking for Elio, too, Mema held on and did not break down (later, she said, “I was praying like crazy that Padre Nicolas would give me strength!”), and that sparked other tributes, including a young priest and two nuns and another man, another woman, all from La Patuca who had worked with Nick. As they spoke, I thought, “You know what, I think I really knew a Saint.” I was going to say something myself (the “Mig-El” deal), but I knew I could never get through it; I was actually trembling.

A little caravan headed up to the cemetery, and there Nick was buried, exactly where Ramon longed to be, up a little slope, overlooking the city, with his band of brothers. We lingered and lingered, singing Nick’s favorite songs, led by Elio and Mema’s daughters Estela and Regina (pregnant with her third child, who will be “Nicolas” if it’s a boy), with lots of pictures by Elio, Jr., a professional photographer.

Afterwards, they dropped me off at the bus station and I hopped on a bus just about to pull out, heading up to Morazan. I got there for lunch. While I was away Eduard had helped Chemo open an account on FACEBOOK (Search “Chemo Hernandez.”) Oh man! Now I know I’m a mere appendix in his life.

But Chemo was also now helping Eduard mix cement and carry concrete blocks for a little house being built in the backyard, financed by Fermin and Maria’s first-born, Merlin,  30, who lives in Charlotte, North Carolina. “She’s not sending enough!” says Fermin,
who is picking up the extra tab for Carlos the builder’s wages as well as materials. The house is for Merlin’s two daughters Gladis, 10, and Michelle, 6, who barely know her. Fermin is always planning for the future.

He’s trying to get me to plan for Chemo’s future, too. And Chemo himself said to me, “You never think about my future, Miguel.” Excuse me? That’s ALL I think about, and it scares me to death! You know, if I just knew exactly how long I was going to live, and if Chemo was going to succeed in school, or get a job, start a family, live a long time--if I could just be sure I could manage the tiger on board, as in “The Life of Pi”--it would be so much easier!

When I visited Esly during her afternoon shift at the radio station, the owner Gumercindo (“Chindo’), who I’ve known almost as long as I’ve known Fermin, invited me to participate in the next day’s “religion hour.” “We’re going through the Creed; tomorrow it’s the Holy Spirit.” Theologically, that’s like Quantum Theory. I looked at Esly, for help; but her eyes were so bright and her smile so wide, even through the tinted glass, that I said yes on the spot. Here was another tiger I would have to have by the tail. I went back to the house and borrowed a Bible from Fermin to look up and check out and scratch down whatever I could remember about the Holy Spirit. The Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit (which are actually in Isaiah 11:2-3) .... even the “unforgivable sin” against the Holy Spirit (but I put that way down the list, because I was going to be “positive”!). Most of all, when St. Paul says the Holy Spirit inspires us to call God “Abba,” that is, “Father.”

Next day, I pretty quickly picked up on the format. Esly was cueing the music (I kept glancing at her, pleading with my eyes, more cow bell! to fill up the time), Gumercindo introduced the show and a series of short Biblical readings, which a very shy woman to my left would read, and then Chindo: “Miguel, your comments, please.” Unbeknownst to me, every passage included the Virgin Mary, which is sort of the way it goes down here among us Catholics. But I had my talking points, so I made sure I emphasized how much we are all loved by God, who is Creator but humbly asks Mary’s consent to “conceive [Jesus] by the Holy Spirit” to live among us in the dust and dirt of a broken world and later when Jesus himself turns aside a disciple’s tribute to his mother: “Any one who does my God’s will is sister, brother, and mother to me!” And the “Abba,” not gonna leave that out.

Maria had a “bread class” one morning. She had never made bread before and she wanted to learn. I thought that was so fantastic, still eager for new things even after raising a family practically her whole life, including her daughter’s kids, not to mention getting an education and teaching grade-schoolers. When she asked me what was my favorite kind of bread and I said “batidas,” which is a sort of cornbread, little did I realize that would be what she would ask her friend Marta to teach her to bake! So we had mounds of cornbread for the next three days, with milk, with coffee, early morning, mid-afternoon, you name it. And she gave a lot away too, of course. But it was good, even better after the first day. Those of you who “know” bread can explain that, I guess.

Our last night in Morazan, we celebrated Eduard’s 19th birthday, with a barbecue and some friends of his. Fermin and Maria worked all afternoon to prepare the feast, marinate the meat, dice tomatoes, peppers, onions for “chimol,” a relish that I used to hate (being raised on ketchup) but which now I crave, especially because it means there’ll be a great meal! It takes me a while to register that Chemo is the same age, even older in some cases, as Eduard’s friends. And they’re all good kids. That’s why Chemo loves it in Morazan. “There’s no druggies here!” He walks such a gauntlet in Las Vegas, you see. But there are drugs and gangs and violence in Morazan, maybe not on Fermin’s street, but it’s a big town, and perfectly located away from the bigger cities for certain drug runners to settle in and run the place to their specifications.

Anyway, we reluctantly returned to Las Vegas, and Chemo says he wants to start seventh grade, he doesn’t want to, he does want to.... He feels “old.” Good Lord, he sees twelve-year-olds coming to my house for seventh-grade I.D. photos, kids literally half his size. He thinks I’ll “regañar” (‘scold’) him if he fails. Poor kid! If anything, I’m the one who failed.

Next stop, Chemo’s check-up with the Brigada February 6. Back to Tegucigalpa!

In “The Life of Pi,” the story is told to “make you believe in God.” Oh, I long to tell that story! This CASA is my latest attempt. I know it’s ridiculously long, or just ridiculous, but I don’t want to leave anything out. Maybe something somewhere somehow will open your heart--my heart, too--and we’ll choose the risks of riding with the Tiger, rather than the “rational” version of predictable results. As the reporter says at the end of the movie, “I prefer the version with the tiger.”  And Pi affirms his choice, “And so it goes with God.” Mr. Parker, this one’s for you!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2013

If you missed it, see last month’s CASA in THE BEACON: https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/

GHOSTS

On December 21, the day the world was supposed to end, I got robbed at knifepoint in my own house. About 8:00 o’clock at night, right after the Posadas, Kevin, 19, comes by
to watch a little TV. “Where’s your friend?” I ask, meaning Marvin, 17; they’re usually
together. Kevin actually lives with relatives in Tegucigalpa and is just visiting for the holidays. Chemo was still out, but his cousin Dionis was here. After about a half hour, Kevin says he’s leaving. When I open the gate to let him out, there suddenly appears a guy brandishing a knife, his face banded in a tee-shirt. “Back up! Back up!” Of course, at first you think it’s a joke, but I stifled my laughter and went on defense. “OK, OK, we’re moving, it’s fine, don’t hurt anybody.” He directed Kevin and Dionis into the kids’ room and took me into my room. “Gimme your wallet! Now!” “No problem, here you go, here you go.” What I didn’t realize was that Dionis had already identified the thief as Marvin--by his voice, by his clothes, by the little tuft of hair not covered by the mask--and was telling Kevin, “Let’s jump him!” But Kevin was saying no, no, we better not.

He grabbed the money, looked at it curiously, and shut me in the room, and ran out. When I heard the gate clang, I burst out, checked with Dionis and Kevin, and, my heart racing, I had to thank God he hadn’t grabbed my laptop sitting on the card table, or the iPod Nano that was already stolen once about a month ago, nor my cell phone. When Dionis says, “Miguel, it was Marvin,” I turn on Kevin, “You guys planned this together!” Kevin denied all complicity, but I told him, “Go find Marvin and tell him to bring back the money.”

As I told the story to other kids stopping by, or my neighbors Dora and Elvis, the sympathy and the advice poured in--put a security camera here, don’t let ANYONE in, call the police, tell their parents, let me go get ‘em (that last was Chemo’s solution!); but the most practical advice was what I had to formulate myself. Forgiveness. I’m no saint, nor even near it, but I’m sorta used to the idea. I see it every day in the Psalms I read, every day in the Gospel for Mass, every night in my own prayer, a slip of paper I found somewhere years ago that I keep by my bed:

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
I am worn out, I cannot pray really;
accept, O Lord, this monotonous voice and the words of prayer, and help me.
Help me, O God, to put off all pretences and to find my true self.
Help me, O God, to discard all false pictures of thee, whatever the cost to my comfort.
Help me, O God, to let go all my problems, and fix my mind on thee.
Help me, O God, to see my own sins, never to judge my neighbor, and may all the glory be thine!”

So I had had presence of mind enough that night--somehow--to tell Kevin, tell Marvin to return the money AND “tell him I forgive him.” It is the Christmas season, after all.

But wait, I was not totally Scrooged! In fact, when the thief asked for my “wallet,” I tried a trick I had used the last time I was robbed at knifepoint in my house a couple years ago. I grabbed all the cash out of the wallet and handed it to him, tossing the wallet itself behind the door of the darkened bedroom. Because the cash I gave him was sort of a thick wad, he didn’t take time to notice they were mostly small bills. Hidden in other pockets of the wallet was another trove of big bills worth about $500! I was acting all scared and stuff, but secretly I was thinking, “I can’t believe I’m getting away with this again!”

Perhaps more in keeping with the spirit of the season, I got a big Christmas present when Chemo passed his last math test on December 18 and was awarded his sixth-grade diploma. Turns out there is a Santa Claus and his name is David Suarez, Chemo’s teacher, who went out of his way, and two weeks deep into his vacation, to help carry Chemo across the finish line. Ironically, this puts Chemo a full year ahead of Elvis and Dora’s brilliant youngest child, Doricell, half Chemo’s age, who finished first in her fifth-grade class, the class the school wouldn’t let Chemo register for last year, because, at 18, he was “too old.” His Maestro en Casa course was a combo of fifth and sixth grades, you see. But Doricell is a lot more ready right now for seventh grade than Chemo, let me tell you. You know, the math he was doing was so weird and complicated that the year was over before I realized, gratefully, that it had not included the area of a circle or the volume of a sphere. But that means it’s lurking in the “high-school” curriculum, along with a lot of other exotica. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t think there’s any way Chemo can do more advanced academic work. In fact, I was planning my own little course of study for him that would include lots of reading (“high-interest,” of course), including a little Bible or religion study. Some tests, quizzes, what have you, but no math!

To celebrate Chemo’s “graduation”--and Dionis’ Confirmation--we made a quick trip to El Progreso to see Teatro La Fragua’s signature production, “Navidad Nuestra,” ‘Our (Honduran) Christmas.’ Manuel Figueroa from Las Vegas (now teaching in El Progreso) was featured in multiple roles in this adaptation of the Christmas story. I asked Manuel what he would most like me to catch in a photo. “When Herod chokes me!” for telling him a new King has been born. Got it! By the way, Herod’s raging at the “subversive” new-born Jesus is taken almost verbatim from President Roberto Suazo Cordova’s 1983 denunciation of Padre James (‘Guadalupe’) Carney, the “subversive” Jesuit missionary who cast his lot with the poor and was assassinated by Cordova’s henchmen.

Another production, very Honduran as well, was a wedding of four couples in La Cuatro, just about the poorest little community around here. The ceremony was so simple and unadorned that it put these imitation “royal” weddings you hear about to shame. Padre Jaime and Padre Manuel have been doing a wonderful job of encouraging folks even with three or four kids already to enjoy the sacramental version of marriage “in the Church,” without all the expense of a big wedding, especially of a reception. Poor as the folks are, they manage a little coffee and rolls for the newlyweds.

Someone in Las Vegas came up with a novel idea: a dance, a party, a banquet to celebrate the end of the year WITHOUT ALCOHOL! A committee was formed, the salón, site of all the debaucheries, was reserved, a fancy menu was prepared, music was provided (by my neighbor Elvis, including vocals by his exceptionally talented daughter Lily), and I loaned them my chairs. A big crowd attended, despite the steep entrance fee of about $10; the committee members had gone door to door showing the hand-made invitation, a gentle arm twisting, ensuring a success. It was a fundraiser, actually, for repairs on the church. Everyone agreed, we have to do this again!

Alba, Santos, and their five kids headed off Dec. 17 to El Transito for their own annual fundraiser, that is, picking coffee for the next two or three months. They pile all their belongings into the boss’s pickup and climb on top. They even stuffed their dog Peluche in a sack with just his anxious little head peeking out for the three-hour trip up into the mountains. Given the condition of the roads around here, I was scared that at least a couple of them would get bounced right out of the heap. When we finally heard from them, it was already dark. “We’re too tired even to eat,” Santos said. “We’re going to unload and go to bed.” The idea of this annual migration is to make enough money to last all year, or make some big purchases like a horse or get started on a little house, but it’s a rigged game. Oh, the boss is nice enough and treats the folks well, and keeps good order so drunks don’t cause trouble, but “the company store” absorbs a large portion of the workers’ earnings. A family might actually have to leave someone behind when they head home, to work off the debt they still owe.

Olvin, 20, came to Las Vegas the other day, to visit his best friend Selvin’s grave on the second anniversary of the shooting that left Selvin, 17 at the time, dead and Olvin badly injured. Some trigger-happy truck driver took them for bandits in the dark, on the road, before their little community (La Cuatro, again) got lights. Olvin has come a long way, now with a girlfriend and baby son, a life we wish Selvin could have enjoyed, too.

Often, kids need extra help, even if they have a mommy and daddy. Ana Cristina’s Antony, 2, one of my many little godchildren, was just wasting away because of malnutrition. So he finally ended up at San Ivis, a sort of foster home in the city of Yoro, run by Maria Puerto. When I went with Ana Cristina to visit him, I realized that this is the Center built and maintained by the generous support of St. Louis University High School volunteers under the leadership of veteran teacher Charley Merriott, who brings a group of seniors down every year between semesters. Each group leaves a souvenir of their visit, a sort of shield painted on the walls. So I decided I’d delay this CASA till I could get back there and get a picture. Of course, I invited them to visit us in Las Vegas, and maybe some day....

Las Vegas hosted the regional soccer championship game on New Year’s Eve. Our team won, finally breaking a 0-0 tie in a rough-and-tumble game that looked more like rugby than ‘futbol,’ when a penalty kick was called in the very last minute of the contest. Chele, who actually played a season or two on a professional team, scored and the celebration erupted.

When I wished Happy Birthday to Brendita before Mass on Sunday, Dec. 30, she gave me this mortified look and slipped her hand away from mine. She’s 14, when any adult attention is an invasion, I guess. But when Padre Jaime called her and Ery, turning 25 the same day, up in front to pray for them, the wall was down and she could not resist. If it had been anyone than Ery, with Down Syndrome and our community’s role-model, she might have ducked under the pew!

My favorite birthday right now was December 23, when my grand-nephew Justin Robert Dale Dulick was born, to join his big sister Jaslyn, 3, and mommy and daddy Sonja and Jason Dulick. Arriving a month early, he was officially designated a “preemie,” but he hit the ground running, you might say, just right for the son of a former University of Illinois wide receiver.

All best wishes for the New Year!

Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2012

FINISH LINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

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

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

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

WONDROUS LOVE

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

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

Nick wrote, in part:

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

And a couple of Jenny’s verses:

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2012

NOW YOU ARE A MAN, MY (FORMER) SON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--2012


“YOU GOT THE JUICE, NOW”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel