ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2010

Everything That Rises Must Converge

With a triple murder, our feast of the Holy Cross in Las Vegas was more like a stake through the heart. The slayings occurred only hours after Padre Jaime, in the inaugural Mass, had urged us, “Please, don’t go to the fiesta [the dance]; that is not your place.” I heard the shots, about 1:00 in the morning; they were so loud they sounded like they were right outside my window, five or six quick ones and a final coup de grace. I thought (hoped!) they were firecrackers, but when the music stopped playing shortly afterwards, I knew something bad had happened. But I never even thought of venturing out.

In the morning, Cristian came by. “Tres muertos, Miguel.” His mother Berta had been selling enchiladas outside the dance hall and saw the whole thing. Apparently the woman, from Victoria, was shot first, enraged jealousy the motive. She’s got a husband in the States, they say, but was stepping out with some other guy, one of the other victims, also from Victoria. The other man, Ricardo from El Zapote, apparently tried to intervene, and was shot for his trouble. The killer escaped on a motorcycle.

As I got Chemo ready for school, I assumed the police had cleared everything away. But classes were canceled, due to the “tragedia,” and I finally wandered over there about 8:00 a.m. and was aghast at what I saw. The police were there all right, and the three bodies, messed in blood and dirt, lying in the street in the full morning sun, already bloating. What can I say? They looked so...dead. I thought, This is what I see on TV every night, and here it is “Live” right in front of me. I wanted to change the channel. I kept staring, to see if they would move--that’s how disoriented I was. They were as still as stones. It somehow didn’t seem real, or too real. “These are people,” I may have even said aloud. The police had strung a yellow rope to keep the crowd at a decent distance, and white-shirted folks in rubber gloves were taking pages of notes, obviously Forensics. Our little Las Vegas, a crime scene, a massacre scene! I pulled my gaze from the dead to study the crowd. Classes may have been canceled, but school was in session. The classroom, a side street; the teachers, tres muertos; the lesson “objective,” our indifference to the welfare of our children.

I stayed till they finally stuffed the three bodies in huge bright-yellow plastic bags and loaded them in the back of a pickup. I had to hurry, because Natalia’s four-year old grandson Markitos had been kicked in the head by a horse the day before, and he was getting his stitches. it was a very neat wound, shaped exactly like the hoof that made it, a flap of skin opened up but not cracking the skull. We went to Rebeca, who we all call Doctora, though I think she does not have an M.D., because Dr. Meme was not available. Rebeca put in 13 stitches, and I could hardly believe how neatly the wound healed up.

Because of the shootings, all festival events were canceled, except the daily religious celebraciones, which could then assume their rightful place. That is, until three days later, when tame things like a sack race for the kids and a “sweetheart” dance for the senior citizens finished out the week. In the last procession, the kids carried decorated crosses up to the little church--finally renovation after a “hurricane” blew down all but its facade three years ago--and something extraordinary occurred. We stopped at the soccer field and borrowed the microphone from the very same folks hawking beer and bad music. Four of the delegados preached like Ezequiels about the true meaning of this festival of the Cross. It sent chills up my spine, and I dreaded the chance they might ask me to speak, too. I was staring my cowardice right in the face; but fortunately nothing from me was required.

Some of us, to lessen our shame, clung to the fact that no Las Vegans were directly “involved” in the killings, but I was reading Flannery O’Connor, who explodes such distinctions. For her, everyone is “one of my babies,” as the Grandmother calls the Misfit in “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” Of course, the Misfit shoots her three times in the chest as soon as she touches him, so our reluctance to embrace the alien is understandable, I suppose. I had just finished a book called “The Reason for God,” which was as dull as it sounds--as I guess it would be (you know, like you’d read a book called “The Reason for Roses”). But, as if in recognition of his limitations, the author Timothy Heller kept referencing Flannery O’Connor, so I took down my Library of America edition of her Complete Works, and started reading, squirming all the time, even resisting her disturbing images of the divine. But when I saw those three dead human beings, I became one of her characters, howling for Grace. The title of this month’s CASA is from her final collection of stories, inspired by Teilhard de Chardin, a Jesuit priest-cosmologist-mystic (how’s that for a convergence of contradictions!).

I was kinda proud of Chemo, that he was not one of the gawkers; he’s had enough experience of dead bodies, including his own father; but it all must have affected him anyway, because about midnight he crawled into my bed for the first time in a year.

One of my “babies” must be Alba, 35, the wife of Chemo’s older half-brother Santos. I was sort of looking forward--a guilty pleasure, you may say--to a solo trip to Tegucigalpa, unencumbered by Chemo and his whims and demands. But when Alba fell ill and was bedridden for three days, and not for the first time in recent months, I decided, it’s time, we gotta get her to a doctor, specifically a cardiologist, MY cardiologist, Dr. Bayardo Pagoada, a world-class specialist, though I haven’t seen him myself in about three years. So I made her an appointment, and Santos came along, too, it would have been impossible to separate them, and we left their four kids--plus Chemo--in the care of grandmother Natalia, a living saint, AND she’s got a great sense of humor, rare perhaps in saints, indispensable in grandmothers. She’s Markitos’ grandmother, too, so you see....

I assumed it was Alba’s heart, but that was because she was already taking heart medicine! Something some clinic gave her in Quebrada Amarilla, where they were picking coffee last season. But when Dr. Bayardo examined her, he took a look at the pills, and said, “They gave her this because it’s cheap, not because it’s what she needs.” One thing Dr. Bayardo is NOT, is cheap. At one point, after four days of blood tests, X-Rays, the EKG, the sonogram, the poop test, he asked me, “Will you be able to afford these medicines, if I prescribe them? ”I think so,” I said, a little tentatively. But I had already decided that, right? when I brought her to Tegus. When the Mileydi Pharmacy had to call three other branches to get it all, with couriers on motorcycles, I did begin to doubt my resources. So I put it all on VISA!

It’s not her heart. It’s her liver, some strange variation of Hepatitis. “I’m not sure what’s causing it,” Dr. Bayardo said. But it’s serious, complicated by something even more alarming, a pulmonary embolism. “Normally, I’d put such a patient in the hospital--right now,” he said, and he advised us to stay in town till a follow-up appointment in 10 days. The thought of missing her children brought Alba to tears, and when she started to improve almost immediately with all the meds--enough Cipro for an Anthrax attack; Noxipar, a discoagulant (injected “subcutaneously” twice a day); and something called “Potenciator,” 3 vials a day mixed in water, for “insufficient protein intake due to vegetarian diets”; there ya go! Chemically, it’s Arginine-Aspartate. I looked it up on the Internet; sounds like something Mark McGwire was taking--Dr. Bayardo relented, and indeed, which was a bigger risk to her health, a couple 6-hour bus trips or a mother’s yearning for her young?

When we went back a couple weeks later, Dr. Bayardo was impressed, but still concerned, so he ordered a Pap Smear. “Can we get that here?” I asked, but I already had a plan in mind. Elio Flores’ son-in-law Carlos is a gynecologist in the very same clinic. So we marched on downstairs and Carlos took us in as soon as he could, performed the test, gave Alba some vaginal cream for a “slight infection,” and promised to follow up when the results came back--and he didn’t charge us a thing.

Then it was time for Alba’s teeth. She’s been suffering from a couple raging molars for weeks. Now, get this, the dentist wanted three appointments just to clean her teeth! And I lost track of how many cavities she counted up. I must have been crazy to think we could just walk in there and get a molar or two pulled. They showed me a menu mounting up to 9,000 Lempiras, and that’s with a 40% discount. We were looking at days and days of appointments, debt up the wazoo, and our families Lost like the TV show.

Then, suddenly, deus ex machina, a parachute opened and flew us away. As we left the dentist after the first cleaning, Chemo’s sister Rosa called. “We’re coming to Las Vegas! We’re on the bus! We just left Tocoa!” Omigod, omigod, omigod. Oh My God! “But, Rosa, we’re in Tegus.” “Oh, heck.” In Honduras, we literally could not be farther apart.

Santos came to the rescue. He quickly calculated that there was no way Rosa--and baby Tonito--could get all the way to Las Vegas TODAY, His idea, get to Ayapa, the town near Yoro where Rosa and Chemo were born and spend the night with family, Then head for Las Vegas tomorrow, and meanwhile we’ll head on home from the Tegus side and all get there about the same time. I gasped. Like Dorothy in Oz, I could hardly believe it--we were going home. Alba was especially thrilled. No more doctors! At least for a while.

But the parachute may turn out to be a noose. Rosa ditched husband Tonio! She ain’t going back. Can’t really blame her. I have to say, I never much liked them together. He drinks and smokes and cusses--and hits her.

In one stroke, our little family doubled, and so did the expenses. Be careful what you wish for! I kept telling them every time we made the endless trip to Tocoa, “You guys should move closer.” Can’t get any closer than this! But Rosa is cooking, she’s cleaning, she’s washing. Suddenly I’m Henry Higgins, the confirmed old bachelor undone by my own Eliza Doolittle. I’m buy Pampers! Worse, I’m disposing of Pampers, if you know what I mean....

Will Tonio come after Rosa, like with a gun or something, and me, too? Probably not. Good Lord, he’s twice her age! He’s got two kids in the States as old as Rosa! So he’s not done yet. Besides, he can’t get here anyway. “Agatha,” the first hurricane of the season, sneaking in from the Pacific, is flooding half the country, and the bridge into town is under water. Oh yeah, it was supposed to be a desert till June, the forecasters said. But the rains started two weeks ago and won’t quit. The kids get their thrills playing mud soccer. But we have especially foul mud, since the whole town is basically a cow pasture. Chemo’s cousin Dionis just pulled a one-inch worm out of a pussy boil on the back of Chemo’s thigh. I was frantically attacking the little bulge with iodine and Neobol from the outside and feeding Chemo antibiotics to kill it from the inside. But Dionis finally coaxed it out, and now we’re back-filling the hole.

I had a moment of convergence I guess you could say, when, at the lowest point--almost without hope, wondering if there was a way out--suddenly a swift flock of little white birds, a type I’ve never seen before, like paper cups with wings, flew silently right past me at eye level, where I was sitting alone at the little church, the highest point in town. Immediately, I said, “That’s my sign. We’re all right.”

The reason for God? More like, the reaching for God, with God doing most of the reaching.

Pierre Teilhard De Chardin, "The Omega Point": "Remain true to yourself, but move ever upward toward greater consciousness and greater love! At the summit you will find yourselves united with all those who, from every direction, have made the same ascent. For everything that rises must converge."

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2010

[Note: If you want to see all the photos from this month's newsletter, write me at michaeldulick@yahoo.com]

Eyjafjallajokull-lite

I wondered what I’d’ve missed in Las Vegas if I’d gone to the States.

First of all, more wounds.

I stopped by the tiny kids Jefferson and Helen’s with their juices and chips, a hot morning. Ines, their grandmother, was a-tither; she’d just heard that old Pedro, her husband, had cut his hand with his machete, way up in the hills getting firewood. I don’t have any idea how she knew, but her son had gone to find him. Just then, here they come, Pedro’s hand--like Dulis’ hand in last month’s CASA--wrapped in some green leaves and a bloody rag. I couldn’t stand to look at Dulis’ wound, but I knew I had to see this; Pedro’s a wraith, but he’s a tough old bird. I knew if I didn’t look at it, he’d just shrug it off--which was exactly his attitude--till, when the last leaf came off and I gasped--it looked like he’d lunched with Hannibal Lector--he agreed he probably should go to the clinic. And this treatment would be “free,” because the doc would be on public time. So go, Pedro! And I sent him off with his teenage granddaughter Yolanda.

Half-hour later, Yolanda’s at my door. “They gave him a prescription.” Well, sure, I expected that, you know, some antibiotic or....what the heck? It was for No. 2 thread! “Are you kidding me?? They don’t have sutures at the clinic?” I repeated this about five times, in English, each time louder. “What kind of a country is this? The Big Creep Mel Zelaya--the ousted president--is suing Honduras for his back pay, and they don’t have sutures in the clinic!” The whole neighborhood heard me, two or three neighborhoods, in fact, as I marched over to Rebeca’s, where she has a small pharmacy, and got the damn thread; 100 Lempiras for a tiny package. “What do POOR people do?” A rhetorical question if there ever was one. EVERYBODY’ s poor. And Pedro? He was back at the house. “Yolanda!” I shout. She jumped three feet. She walked him back to the clinic. I guess he shoulda stuck with the leaves.

So I started another round of changing bandages every day. Pretty soon Pedro’s feeling so good he wants to get back to work, chopping that firewood. I tell him he has to rest, at least till he gets the stitches out! I asked him how old he was. “Ninety-eight.” Ines gently corrected him, “Seventy-eight.” I was going with a hundred and eight. But he’s a sweetie, keeps thanking me.

A couple days later, the next shoe dropped, filled with blood. I hear someone yelling in the street, “The Guato fainted! The Guato fainted!” This could not make any sense. The Guato, 23, the toughest soccer player in Las Vegas, does not faint. Unless he’s whipped his machete into his own foot. He was out in the field, cleaning it up for planting, and the machete slipped out of his hand. He wrapped his ankle himself in leaves and, yes, a bloody rag, and rode his bike back to the house, and fainted as he dismounted. But he’s pure steel. No sooner did we help him inside than he was fully alert while grandma Mina unwrapped the wound, the blood oozing into his sneaker. Here we go again! But, hey, this time I’m ready. While Guato rides himself over to the clinic on his bike, I get the sutures from Rebeca on the way! And I don’t even wonder what kind of a country this is.

“He’s going to need a couple shots,” says Dr. Meme, and looks at me. What? Another thing the clinic doesn’t have is syringes! I resist the temptation to grab him by the throat, and just send a kid off to the nearest store to get the stickers. Meanwhile, I ask him about t the leaves--do they really help? Because he really is a very nice man, and a good doctor; it’s not his fault the health care system in Honduras is one big death panel. “Good Lord, no! They contaminate the wound!” He went on to say some folks stuff a wound with coffee grounds, and even dirt. We got Guato back home, and I told him to rest and keep his leg elevated. A couple hours later he was tooling around town on his bike. I didn’t say a thing. I just got him a supply of gauzes and tape and iodine to change his bandages himself. As he said, “I’ve had worse.”

OK, the next one was a perfect stranger. “Dr. Meme said you’d buy me the sutures.” I didn’t know him, but I believed him. He was limping badly and he went to lift up his pants leg, and I saw the bloody rag--”That’s enough.” I gave him a note for Rebeca.

Next was Adonai from La Laguna. Him I know. But you probably wouldn’t recognize his hand, what he’d done to it with his machete. Off to the clinic, but he just missed the doctor, who told him to come his private office. I guess Meme knew this was no boating accident. “Deep, very deep,” he told me later, when I paid the 700 Lempiras (as opposed to 5 Lempiras at the clinic).

Not all wounds are bloody but still go deep. We were all so happy for Horacio, our school principal, when he got promoted to superintendent of the whole municipality of Victoria, which includes about 100 schools (most of them pretty small, from 50 students). But when he tried to move Wilfredo, everyone’s favorite teacher in Las Vegas, and everyone’s best friend, to Tegucigalpita, we were stunned. The move would have simply disappeared Wilfredo; Tegucigalpita (not to be confused with Tegucigalpa) is so far away in the mountains it’s practically in Morazan. Wil could never “commute”; he would have to spend the whole week there, and then he’s still taking graduate classes himself in Progreso every weekend. His wife Brenda would be a widow, their children orphans. Brenda told me, in tears, “Miguel, we are so hurt, Horacio and Wilfredo have been like brothers their whole life.”

Well, politics makes strange bedfellows, and sometimes unmakes them. Since the Nationals won the elections all over the country, Liberals like Wil are getting pushed out. Legally, you understand. The teacher Horacio wants to put in Wil’s place already has her “titulo” (degree), so has more “right” to the job.

A simple parent-teacher meeting turned into a rally for Wil. The tone was set when Brenda was elected president of the parents club. Flor, the current principal, led the charge herself. She had a letter of protest signed by every teacher in the school. And Wil had composed one too. Kako, the most experienced activist among us, offered to chain himself to the school gate if persuasion did not work. Imagine! The first strike of the year won’t be the teachers, it’ll be the parents!

The next day, two carloads of us (the “cars” were pick-ups, you know) went into Victoria to “dialog” with Horacio. I had no idea what to expect, but it really was dialog, and successful, too. Horacio received us graciously and listened to everyone. Kako himself set the tone this time. “Brother Horacio, you know we were all thrilled with your promotion, it was a promotion for Las Vegas itself, we all respect you and appreciate all you did for our school, you restored discipline and excellence, and that was not easy, we all love you and know you as our neighbor, so we appeal to these relations--and to the law, which requires that Wil’s contract be honored to teach in Las Vegas this year.” And everyone else said variations of the same. Things did get a little tense here and there, especially when Horacio referred to gossip he would hear at the soccer field that demeaned him, and poor Flor broke down in tears at Horacio’s “personal betrayal.” But when Horacio asked three times if any one else had something to say, I realized he wanted me to speak, and he finally said, “Miguel, what do you say?” He probably expected a conciliatory message, and that’s exactly what I offered, despite my initial sense of outrage. “Profe, I’ve known you and Wil since you were children and love you both so it pains me to see any rift between you, and we all depend on your position and your honor for a resolution.” Innocuous enough, but I meant it as a thank-you to all the folks present.

Horacio, despite what we all assumed was a lot of pressure from the new mayor to sweep the Liberals out, compromised. He said the new teacher would stay in Victoria, where she is already working, and Wil will stay in Las Vegas, for two years, by which time he should finish his own “titulo” and thus have full legal right to the job. The “dialog” took an hour, the writing of the “document” took two hours. But when it was done and signed, we all hugged Wil and Horacio, the latter a little gingerly since such PDA’s are “unprofessional.”

So I would have missed my day in the Resistencia if I’d gone to St. Louis.

I did go to Tegucigalpa, but not to get on a plane. We sat still the whole month of March, as Chemo got well settled into school. Once April started, I looked for a good chance to get away, figuring we’d go on a weekend, to minimize missed days at school. So we went Saturday, April 10, taking Chemo’s cousin Dionis along, for some big-city thrills. I asked Chemo’s teacher Regina for “permission” to miss Monday and Tuesday, and she gave him a little homework to tide him over.

We had fun, but when I called Elio and Mema to invite them to lunch, they tell me their daughter Chindy got rammed in a car accident in the morning, and her husband Alejandro got car-jacked in the afternoon. Two guys in masks burst into Alejandro’s car, guns drawn, and made him drive to a remote spot, where they put the guns to his head--and left him without pulling the trigger. What a laugh, huh? The car was found later, stripped of his little sons’ backpacks and toys, and other things. “It’s in the shop,” Elio said. And how soon will Alejandro recover? You know, Honduras is second only to Iraq for violence, per capita, or should I say, de-capita.

And I would have missed Cristian’s baby, if I’d gone to St. Louis! Cristian, you may recall, was shot in the gut back in December, and he’s got a foot-long scar from the “surgery” that saved his life. His girlfriend Maria was already pregnant then, and she delivered a healthy little 8-pound girl, Jenny Catalina, on April 23, not without falling near-victim to the caprices of Honduran health care. When the due date approached, they went to Victoria, and someone told them the “materno” (the free maternity clinic) was closed. “It’s a warehouse now.” So they came home and called Erlinda, the best midwife in Las Vegas. She sort of exploded. “The materno is NOT closed, it’s just moved!” So they went back to Victoria the next day, where they found the materno, but, they were told, “It’s twins, you gotta go to Yoro for this, to the hospital.” No ultrasound, you understand, just guesswork. So the next day they go to Yoro, where ONE baby appeared, and no more. They’re back home, now, and I had to laugh. Cristian has appeared in these reports so often, he’s one of the cantina kids--raised in a tavern, littered with vomiting, cursing drunks--and he says to me something I never imagined I’d hear from him. “Miguel, I spent most of the money you gave me on PAMPERS.” He’s 20 and now he’s a father changing diapers. And something else I’m not used to from him. “I prayed, Miguel, I prayed so hard, that everything would be all right.”

I told Cristian , that’s why your life was spared when you got shot, so your baby would not be born an orphan. God saved you to be a father to your child. God may have saved me for the same reason, because I have been giving him a good amount of money. I couldn’t live with myself if little Jenny Catalina was further endangered just for lack of a few bucks....

I cannot show you a picture, ‘cause my stupid camera won’t work! But I’ve got a gorgeous shot I took before it broke of little Helen, Maricela and Blas’s daughter with MS.

Speaking of Maricela, she named her baby Mariana after my sister Mary Anne, as I reported before. So when the first anniversary of Mary Anne’s death came round April 17, I went over to the house, just to sort of bask in baby Mariana’s glow. And glow she did; it’s as if she knew. I’ve never seen her more alert, just looking intently at me, her eyes wide and bright, her tiny hand raised like a gesture of blessing. It gave me the idea to do our own version of a novenario, 9 days of prayer for a departed loved one, including any anniversary of their passing. But I wasn’t sure how to proceed. “We’ll do it here, Miguel,” said Alba confidently, when Chemo and I went over for supper. Of course, they never knew Mary Anne, but they wanted to do this for her. So for 9 evenings, we said the Rosary before dinner, just so, each night another neighbor or two joining the group.

And when Chemo’s “nephew” Joel, Alba’s boy, had his 15th birthday, I don’t know, it just was the best party. A big cake, snacks, Cokes, the usual, but somehow just nicer. I think it was because the kids didn’t just eat and run. Folks hung around a while, listening to music and just having some fun. It’s the first time I can’t show you one of my famous “cake” photos, though, since my camera is on the fritz again. And I wanted to show you a BEFORE and AFTER of Joel and Chemo, BEFORE Chemo’s operation, when Joel would carry his tiny “uncle” on his back, and AFTER, now that they are the same age, and Chemo is a head taller...

One afternoon, 25 little kids came from Uracal, a mountain village about an hour’s hike away. They needed a photo, their teacher said, to claim some kind of “beca” (scholarship) from government funds. Oh man! “My camera...it doesn’t work.” But I had to try. I got them cool drinks from the fridge while I fidgeted with my camera, turning it off and on, tapping it on the cement sidewalk, thumping it, rubbing it, cursing it, blessing it--finally, just when I think I’ll have to send them away empty-handed, a flicker! “Line up, kids!” I got one shot, as the sun slipped behind the hills. I “view” it, hmm, a couple faces hidden by classmates. “One more!” Nope, that’s all she wrote, as the camera shuts off. So, you’ll never know any more about them than I do, but you gotta see this shot...

When they told us there’d be no classes for a week, Chemo and I went to Progreso. As we come into the city 5 hours later, Porfirio, the bus driver, announces “El Progreso!” and a bunch of folks get off, but I don’t rush, I get my gear together, I want to wait till the boulevard, the last stop. I look around, and no Chemo. Instant panic, like a nightmare closing around me. “He got off at the last stop.” What are you talking about?? Porfirio knows me, he knows Chemo, he knows he’s my son, I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t talk, except, “I’m getting off, I’m getting off!” I bound into the street and immediately start waving my arms like a semaphore, hoping Chemo will see me, wherever he is. I know it’s about 3 long blocks, and, indeed, I see this little form in the distance running, running, running desperately, and I know it’s Chemo. I assume he sees me, but he’s running so hard, so scared, it seems, I’m not sure, then he starts to dart across the street and I know, “My God! His eyes! His poor eyes! He CAN’T see me!” I swear I thought of Edgar in “King Lear,” stricken at the sight of his blinded, “parti-eyed” father Gloucester. I almost died of grief myself, it was all like slow-motion or something, and I finally had to tell myself, “Call him, you idiot!” I finally find my voice. “CHEMO! CHEMO! I’M HERE!” At last he knows. He slows down and I speed up. I grab him and hug him, he says nothing, like it’s all OK, but he’s shaking--or maybe it was me. “Were you scared, Chemo?” Shakes his head. “Are you all right?” Nods yes. “Couldn’t you see me?” A shrug. But I kept reassuring him (myself?) that I would never lose him again, and I told him (begged him?) never get off the bus without me right behind you. And inwardly I kept cursing Porfirio (myself?)--what carelessness, to let Chemo off by himself! And in El Progreso!

Then a visit to Morazan, trying to coincide with Fermincito’s 21st birthday. You may recall I previously reported that he had returned from about 8 months of misery on the U.S./Mexico border, hoping for a break--and all he got was a broken arm when a tractor he was trying to drive rolled over on him. Now he’s got another wound, the same kind that has punctuated this letter. He was helping his dad Fermin with the grates for the windows on their house; he was operating a grinder or a cutter or a polisher--something with a wheel--and it broke apart, the wheel shattering as it ripped off the top of his left hand, filling the wound with tiny shards. I saw the purple scar snaking across his hand like a glove, but I was not spared the sight of the butchery itself--Fermincito himself had videoed it on his cell phone! As the doctor (doctora, actually, as she picked out the pieces with a tweezers) worked for three hours, he just had recorded about 3 minutes, but that was more than enough. It looked more like a hand TRANSPLANT. Fermin, the dad, who saw it all happen, said, “Miguel, I thought he would lose his hand.” I thought I’d lose my lunch.

We get back to Las Vegas to hear the news that Will is back on the rack. Horacio is losing his position as superintendent--seems he wasn’t slurpy enough to suit the mayor, who’s trying to clear the district of liberals--so the deal is off. Wil, always the optimist, just says, If they fire me, I’ll do something else. But he was born to be a .teacher. It’s as if the mayor of Manchester told Gary Mazzola who to hire--and fire--at Parkway South. OK, bad example....

Hey, I just got a camera! In Morazan, Fermin loaned me his camera while he tries to repair mine. So take a look, including Cristian and family, and the BEFORE and AFTER of Chemo and Joel.

What did I miss in St. Louis this month, besides the Cardinals 20-inning game? Well, that you must tell me...and I wish I could be in two places at once. At least hold me in your heart, as I do you.

Meanwhile, the annual festival celebrating our church, named “Holy Cross,” starts today.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2010

See you...in September

If this were any other April, I’d be in St. Louis right about now, accepting your gracious invitations to a chaw and a talk or a hearty meal. But, as I mentioned last month, I’ll wait till September for another visit this year.... In fact, this is the first time since I moved down here that I will spend the whole month of April in Honduras. What’s so significant about that? Well, April is the hottest month, the most globally warm, you might say. And they’re not promising any relief this year till June, when the rainy season should start, a month later than normal. I know I’ll get no sympathy from you, just enjoy your SPRING!

Chemo has a new teacher, a lovely young woman named Regina, whose husband Lindolfo, is the first-grade teacher for Chemo’s nieces Mirna and Reina. Chemo’s third-grade class had 42 kids, so they split it in half; I had to smile, I sorta think Profe Vitelio saw his chance, and shipped out Chemo to the new teacher. Well, that’s fine, I feel more confident now about his prospects for passing. The first grading period is upon us, she has to give him a break, right?

Lindolfo--I’m sure he has no idea why I smile so every time I see him. He’s the only Lindolfo I ever heard of outside of an opera aria. But if he teaches Mirna and Reina how to read, hey, I’ll be singing his praises, too!

Just walking to school each day with Mirna and Reina, as well as Chila their sister in second grade, is sort of a miracle, since they’ve never attended before. Their mom and dad, Alba and Santos, finally came home to Las Vegas after 4 months picking coffee in Quebrada Amarilla. In fact, they arrived on Father’s Day, here celebrated on March 19, feast of St. Joseph (ironically, a “father” with no children, except that one rather famous foster-child, Jesus Christ). Santitos, or Joel, their little son who stayed with them picking coffee (and so will miss school--again!) comes sauntering down the street to my house about 6 in the morning, and I jumped for joy. I take him into Chemo’s bedroom. “Chemo! Look who’s here! Who is it? Who is it?” Chemo raises his groggy head from the covers, takes a look, takes another look, “It’s Joel,” and falls back on the pillow. But pretty soon he was bouncing out of bed and getting dressed. We all went over to the house and there they all were, including the girls, who had been staying with their grandmother Natalia while Santos and Alba were away. It was a happy reunion all around, and Alba was right back at it, handing out coffee with cream and tasty rolls to everyone.

I urged Santos to attend the Father’s Day celebration at the school, but he was, of course, bushed--months picking coffee and a red-eye return in the back of a truck from Quebrada Amarilla that traveled all night. Meanwhile, I was inviting any kids who came by my house to make a card for their father, using cards that Mary Morini made from Chepito’s drawings. (She’s still got sets available, if you’re looking for cards YOU can use for Father’s Day...!) Chemo made one, discarded it, and worked on another. It astonished me: “Muchas gracias por atenderme y salvarme la vida.” (Thank you for taking care of me and for saving my life.) It suddenly confirmed the decision to spend April with him.

And Chepito is drawing again! I guess I caught him in a good mood, or maybe it goes in cycles, like sunspots. He wants to draw every day. “Do you still have ideas?” “Uh-huh.” And he does, elaborate crosses (which I keep insisting, “These aren’t gang signs, are they?”), churches, palaces, and structures that look like Alice in Wonderland. Fine, precise details, just lines, you might say, but hours of painstaking art. And the colors! You know, it’s funny that conventional wisdom calls black and white photography, for example, “realistic.” If Chepito were a philosopher, he might say, “No, color is real.” And the statement would be greeted with interest and respect, especially if the interviewer had seen his drawings.

Red blood is certainly real. But when Dulis came to me with his hand bandaged in a rag and some leaves, I did not even want to look at the wound, wounds, actually, a slice to the bone along the thumb and a gash in his wrist, from falling onto his machete somehow. I sent him off with a note to Dr. Meme (that I would pay the expenses). I caught up with him a little later, while Meme was stitching away, I think with no anesthetic, judging by Dulis’ grinding teeth, and Meme’s hands painted red like a MASH surgeon. I just glanced in every now and then, lest I faint dead away. The doctor ended the session with three shots, and told Dulis to come to the clinic for a Tetanus shot the next day. Meme was just saving me a little money. The bill was already a thousand Lempiras since this was “private” time, and the shot at the clinic would be free. I paid, but it opened a wound in my wallet. I had been counting my money every night, trying to calculate if it would last till I got my pension in April. I was expecting an emergency, you know, you have to allow for that any time. Hey, where’s OUR Obamacare?

I still had the gauzes and tape and Neobol cream and iodine out from changing Dulis’ dressings a day later when Joel limps in, with strips of rag around both knees and hands. He’d fallen, “What? Off a mountain?” I asked. He had these big red patches where skin used to be, so I set to work. By the time I had him bandaged up, he had enough white trim and red spots he looked like a cut-rate Santa Claus.

“Use the root! Use the root!” This was the cry as they started vaccinating all the dogs in town against rabies, a public service provided by the mayor. The first one was a tiny thing you could hold in one hand, a puppy. But when the next one whipped around like a kite--they shoot them up in a hind leg, because it’s the farthest away from their teeth, I assume!--a veteran of the operation pointed to a tree root that looped out of the ground about three inches. Now, don’t get upset, you dog-lovers, but they feed the leash through the root (and vaccination day is the only time dogs around here ever see a leash) and pull tight, in effect nailing the dog’s head down to the ground, while someone else wrests the dog’s hind leg free enough to inject it. Some dogs still try to thrash, but they are no match for...the root. Immediately after the shot, they are released and are meek as kittens, a dazed look on their mugs, like, “What the heck was that?” When my neighbor Lalito brought his two huge wolves that bark all night like banshees, I was chanting, “Overdose, overdose!” under my breath. But to no avail.

You can’t overdose on birthdays. Elsa, Chemo’s cousin, had her first birthday party ever, at age 11. It was also partly to thank her mother Natalia for taking such good care of Chemo and me while Santos and Alba were away. I realized this committed me to more parties--for her brother Dionis, as well as Chemo’s nieces and so on. Oh, please! What a “problem”! It’s a kid’s birthday. Childhood is not a “pre-existing condition”! You gotta celebrate. As Joan Sebastian, a Mexican composer, sings of his son, who died young, “Eres el trigo de mi pan,” you are the wheat of my bread.

And all of you are my daily sustenance.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2010

The Obedience of Faith

I landed in Miami on Super Bowl weekend. But I kept going, on to St. Louis. I went in obedience to Pilar Harrison, who long before, in fact, ever since her husband Dean’s funeral in 1999, had called me to attend her passing as well. “You will speak for my funeral, too, Miguel.”

Pilar died January 27, but she had arranged her cremation, so the Mass and memorial service was unhurried, scheduled for February 13. This gave us time to plan a loving tribute to her life; anyone who knew her wanted to participate, from folks who knew her since the late 1960s when she first came to America from Barcelona, Spain, to marry Dean, all the way to little Katie Melching, 9 years old, who wanted to sing with her daddy Brian at the service for the “angel” who often brought supper for her handicapped mommy Angela.

Pilar was always doing for others, but she’d laugh when she’d answer the phone with her Catalan accent and some nosey caller would ask for “the lady of the house.” Pilar did not mind being taken for the maid, but it’s a mistake she never made herself, that is, prejudging others by appearances. She was always on the move, filled with the same Spirit that formed the cloistered Passionist nuns, contemplating Christ night and day. Pilar took their grocery order every week, way out to the convent at the west end of Manchester Road. The big congregation at her funeral was as varied as a random round-up at the U.N., yet we were all linked by our love for one particular person.

I excerpt my “eulogy” below, but I have to add one annotation. After I spoke, I kept hoping for a sign from Pilar that she forgave the embarrassing confession I made in the speech. On Ash Wednesday, Teresa Jorgen and I went looking for a fish fry. According to the newspaper, there was a fish fry at Incarnate Word Church, where we’d just had Pilar’s funeral a few days before. That would be a nice coincidence, we thought. We got there...and nothing. Some kids playing in the gym, another little after-school group in the cafeteria. What the heck? So Teresa said, Let’s go to Gulf Shores, a favorite spot of Pilar’s just up Olive Street Road.

As soon as we walk in, we hear a blues guitar and a big greeting, “Teresa! Miguel!” It was Brian Melching, Katie’s dad, who plays and records under the name Pennsylvania Slim, and he’d just started his set. OK, this was no coincidence! A gal who grew up under Francisco Franco’s dictatorship in Spain, diggin’ the blues--this was the sign I was waiting for. Nothin’ better than the blues to make you feel good about your hard times. As Teresa exclaimed, “Pilar loved Pennsylvania Slim!” While we ate our fish and chips, Brian dedicated every other song either to Pilar or Teresa or me, and none of the other customers seemed to mind. We got his latest CD and played it all the way home.

Pilar, I guess, planned everything but the weather. Frozen! I cleaned snow off the car--Pilar’s car! which I was “borrowing”--at least four times. What is the matter with you people?? How do you live like this?? I took pictures like some tourist from another planet, to show back in Honduras, where my daily phone calls reported hot, sunny days.

On the other hand, I was warmed up by good times with good friends, even when we were cleaning out Pilar’s condo, the stories we told, the memories we shared. But the friends I was most eager to see were the ones I hadn’t met yet--the babies! Little Jaslyn, born last October, the daughter of my nephew Jason and wife Sonja. Of course, if you wanna ooh and ahh this charmer, you gotta get a line ticket, there’s such a crowd! (Actually, speaking of tickets, Jason’s receiver coach at Illinois, Greg McMahon, is the special teams coach for the New Orleans Saints and invited Jason down to Miami for the Super Bowl. He couldn’t quite get Jason into the game, but he got him into THE PARTY!!)

Then I got to meet Ellie Florence, born in December, the daughter of Parkway North grad and St. Louis Symphony graphic designer Carol Stanton and her five-star chef husband Kirk Warner. (As Carol said, “I had NO trouble with my food cravings” during her pregnancy.) Ellie’s a cutie, already tempting a nickname like “Stringbean.” She cries a little, but maybe because she’s already a diva!

Way too early for a Cardinals game (though spring training is starting), I yielded to the meatloaf grandmaster Rams’ wisdom, who frowned at the prospect of my doing such a quick turn-around to come right back in April, and then disappear again till God knows when. “Why don’t you spread it around?” So she suggested I return later in September, in time for my October birthday--and maybe a World Series game.

And, indeed, I really must attend to business in Honduras. I spent 200 dollars on phone calls back “home” keeping track of Chemo. School finally started, a week late, and Chemo is cottoning up to his new teacher, Profe Vitelio. And he’s shepherding his 3 little nieces to class every day, for the first time really in their lives. So that’s working.

But the extracurricular activities were more disturbing. Every phone call, Chemo had another request, new shoes, new toys, new clothes, but the most persistent wish was for a new portable DVD player. “But you already have one,” I would say. (That was the big present I got him after his open-heart operation.) “No, it’s...scratched.” Pretty soon, I hear he’s sold it! For 300 Lempiras (about 15 bucks, when it cost ten times that). “No, I didn’t! Who told you?” That’s a story in itself. I called Cristian, the teen who got shot , pretty often, and most often Pablito and Chepito would be over at his house, so one day they’re hemming and hawing and beating around the bush till Cristian finally puts his sweet as pie little sister Mariela on the line, who tells me, with obvious prompts from the boys, “Chemo sold his--what’s it called?--‘portatil.’ Oh, and it’ my birthday.” Their deniability thus preserved, I could honestly tell Chemo, “they” (Chepito, Pablito, or Cristian) did not tell me.

But that’s not the point, Chemo! I talked to Dora, I talked to Natalia, Chemo’s grandma, who never leaves the house, but she was was so upset she crossed town to confront Chemo along with Dora. And Dora got it back, from Walter, a nice kid (I thought!), though the money question remained to be clarified. Chemo finally admitted his enterprising--though his monosyllables were a lot harder to decipher than Tiger Woods’ apology.

Other, even more bizarre stories kept circulating, but I had to dismiss these as fantasies. I couldn’t have Dora running down every rumor.

But even before I got back to Las Vegas, I had to bail out three Las Vegan teens in Tegucigalpa--Gerardo, Marvin, Olancho. Well, not really bail them out with cash; I sweet-talked them out of custody. The day I got back from the States, I invited them to Pizza Hut in the mall to celebrate Gerado’s 19th birthday. Gerardo is the brother of Cristian, the kid who got shot; also invited was Marvin, whose life Cristian saved by taking the bullet; and their mutual cousin Olancho. You know how malls are with teenagers now. Talk about profiling! I was already in the restaurant waiting for them with an order of Hut Wings when the manager, Roger, who’s been a pal for years since he was an eager-beaver waiter, comes running up to me. “They’ve been arrested!” (Even he knows these kids, from previous invites.) In a panic, we packed up the Hut Wings and I hurried off, with a floor-walker, to the security office on the roof. “They took them to the police station already,” I was informed. What, not Guantanamo?

I grabbed a cab to the station, which is right next to the hospital where Chemo got his heart operation, so I knew the area well. I expressed equal parts of dismay, shock, subservience, solicitude, understanding, and sternness, whatever worked. Eventually, I was ushered into the sergeant’s office. I explained that I come to the capital city once a month and invite friends from Las Vegas now living and working--I emphasized WORKING, that is, that they were responsible, not slackers--in Tegus. Then he called the boys in and sat them down and told me, eyeing them all the time, “Sir, you know, as a former teacher [we’d already discussed that] that you can recognize a bad student the first time you see them; I’ve got twenty years of experience as a police officer and I can tell you right now, these guys are not as pure as you think they are.” Nerves, I guess, but I came very close to what would have been a very inappropriate laugh when he said “pure” since “puro” is also the Spanish word for cigar. “They’re not the cigars you think they are.” In fact, they did look pretty scuzzy--well, they’d come straight from work! But I agreed with the voice of authority, meanwhile shushing Marvin, who was muttering under his breath about how unfair this all was. What I did not say was that, as a teacher, I had in fact dedicated my whole life to fighting prejudice, precisely, NOT to judge anyone by their appearance. But let him have his way--we got out of there and crossed the street to another, smaller mall, with its own Pizza Hut, and we opened up our Hut Wings (the waiter kindly provided a plate), ordered up a pizza and finished our evening in peace.

Back in Las Vegas now, I’m in my shirt sleeves, where the weather is alternating between baking heat (love it!) and breezy cool (you would call it summer). Chemo and his nieces have yet to all have class the same day, with this teacher out, then that teacher out, but I love our little ritual: Chemo gets up early and gets ready and we go over to his grandma Natalia’s, where the girls are staying till their mom and day, Alba and Santos, come back, probably not till April, from picking coffee, and we go off to school together, also his cousin Dionis, Natalia’s youngest, in fifth grade. The girls are Chila, 13, in second grade, Mirna, 11, and Reina, 9, both in second grade with Profe Flor. A hopeful start, though I saw “Why did you not do your HOMEWORK??” scrawled on Mirna’s notebook already. You gotta understand, Madam Teacher, these girls have practically no experience being in school. Give ‘em a break, OK? Of course, personal attention is at a premium, when you’ve got 40 kids in a classroom....

The transitions are so abrupt. At 6:00 in the morning, I’m handing off my big warm Cardinals jacket to Teresa Jorgen at Lambert Airport in St. Louis, and by noon I’m landing in Honduras, hot and dry and sunny. I tell you, going either way is not easy. It’s harder every time I leave Chemo behind, and it’s sheer torture to leave such dear friends and family in St. Louis.

One transition was even more final. The whole time I was in St. Louis, I wanted to visit Tom Thompson--”Don Tomas” to his thousands of students at Parkway East Junior High (as it was called) and Parkway North High. But it was very hard to catch him on a “good” day, because he was so sick. Still at home, in the loving hospice care of Patricia, easing Tom’s transition to his last despedida, or farewell, I finally got the chance the Thursday before I left town. He was alert, and profoundly thoughtful; all he wanted to talk about was Pilar, how good and wise and loving she was; indeed, how good she had made all the rest of us. I didn’t stay long. “I won’t see you again, Miguel,” he said, as we kissed good-bye. “I love you.” We both said that. Don Tomas died three days later, Sunday morning, February 21, just a week before his birthday.

So strange, isn’t it? Pilar had sent for me, after her death, but, in some mystery, she knew it was an invitation to see Don Tomas, too, before his passing. What St. Paul calls “the obedience of faith” is simply love. When we respond, even God falls into our lap.

Love, Miguel

EULOGY for PILAR VILARÓ HARRISON

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Incarnate Word Catholic Church

As much as Pilar loved Dean, she did not keep him to herself. I counted myself among their friends, but I did not realize how good was their love, how rich, how full, how all-embracing, until after Dean died. Some time later, Pilar gave me...Dean’s wedding ring.

But I lost it! You see, for several years, I wore the ring for any special occasion--Pilar’s birthday, Dean’s birthday, the anniversary of Dean’s death, their wedding anniversary, Easter, Christmas, New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving--anytime I knew that I would see Pilar. Suddenly, after a certain flurry of celebrations--putting the ring on, taking it off, putting it on--somehow, I misplaced it. Lost it!

I was miserable! I searched everywhere. I’m still convinced it’s somewhere in my old apartment on Delmar. I tore up at least a couple floor boards looking for it.

I bought a ring to replace Dean’s ring--and I never really had to tell Pilar, because shortly afterwards, I moved to Honduras. Yes! I ran away! But now, Pilar knows what a numbskull I am! I’m so sorry, Pilar! But maybe she forgives me.

This ring, even it it’s not “really” Dean’s ring, does I hope do Pilar and Dean some honor. This ring is my tribute to their love, a love that included all of us. Because love is never lost. So let us love one another, as Pilar loved Dean, that nearly, that dearly, that really.

Amen.

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010

Shaken Haiti Syndrome

Our “dear Pilar.” Everybody says it. You can’t help it. Pilar Harrison, this little lady with the heart of a saint, left us on January 27, at age 81. But I dare anyone to call her “old.” She was always the youngest person in the room. If you were anywhere near Parkway Schools in the last decades, you remember her. I attended her last “lesson” last spring in St. Louis, when she came out of retirement, you might say, to teach her former colleagues how to make a “tortilla espanola.” Let’s face it, it was just an excuse to be with Pilar! Her death leaves me shaken, but her goodness restores me to believe in wholeness. And nothing was fuller than the love between Pilar and Dean, her husband who passed away on Thanksgiving Day,1999. God bless their re-union....

Sensible people scoff at the idea of a limited or “targeted” nuclear bomb, a weapon indiscriminate by nature. But who would ever have thought of a targeted earthquake that would devastate Haiti while leaving the Dominican Republic, which shares the same island, virtually untouched? As incomprehensible as the suffering and loss are, the prospect of a planned attack leaves one’s faith in ruins, too. Quoting Robert Frost, “What but Design of darkness to appall--if Design govern in a thing so small.” But they were singing!

Is Death’s dark aim targeting Elvis’ family? Don Vidal, Elvis’ father, 71, is the latest casualty. He died a couple weeks after a drunken binge on Christmas Eve. He’d come close before, but this time he not only poisoned himself with booze but fell and hit his head, never to recover, despite being rushed to the hospital in San Pedro Sula. He was improving a tiny bit, and they were bringing him home, dazed and confused, barely conscious, not recognizing his own children. He died in the car just as they passed through Victoria, almost home to Las Vegas. The last time I mentioned Don Vidal in these reports, we were rejoicing; he had joined AA as a faithful member, the most eloquent and seemingly self-aware of any of the little group. A teacher and a natural orator, his own reflections on his alcoholism could fill another Blue Book (the AA “Bible”). But he fell off the wagon many times since, and I was just too embarrassed or something to tell you. His wife Yuya, so happy for a while--AA even met in their house sometimes!--is back to square one, I guess, and may move in with family in San Pedro Sula..

Actually, I was not there for the end of Don Vidal, since Chemo and I were in Tegucigalpa with Chemo’s sister Rosa and her husband Tonio, for the heart brigada, which declared Rosa improving enough with medicines that she did not need an operation. Chemo and I got back to Las Vegas just in time for the last 4 days of Don Vidal’s novenario, the nine days of prayer for the dead. The family has its own litany, Don Faustino, the patriarch, the only “natural” death, you could say, at 96, a couple years ago, then, in quick succession, Marvin, Elvis’ brother, run over by a taxi in New York City, Don Tomas, Elvis uncle, run down by a motorcycle in San Pedro Sula, Wil, Elvis’s nephew, shot by a gang that took offense at the Mother’s Day gift he was carrying, and now Don Vidal, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.... Alcoholics Anonymous is so blessed a gift, like a child hidden in the hand of God, but even miracles don’t always “work.”

It only took five minutes for the doctors of the brigada doing Rosa’s echocardiogram to decide that Rosa did NOT need surgery, but those few minutes were embedded in a 12-day marathon with an “Avatar” budget. I had to smile, because in the States you’d get in your car, drive to the doctor, get your echo and the good news and head home, in time for lunch. Such is not Honduras. But I really had to smile, to think, our prayers had been answered, so the whole trip was well worth it. I had been tied in knots ever since the August brigada when Dr. Christian Gilbert first told us that he would be happy to see Rosa, 22, even though the brigada is for children. So we brought her in November, when we got to the very brink of surgery (Rosa was already in the hospital), and Dr. Gilbert reconsidered: “Let’s try some meds first.” Then January and another brigada: Rosa is improving, no surgery required! As Dr. Gilbert himself said, “Hallelujah!” Ron Roll and Alba, sponsors of Helping Hands for Honduras, had invited us, along with other families, to welcome the brigada at the airport. They were coming on American, Continental, and Delta flights, all arriving about the same time. Alba had lots of heart-shaped balloons and you should have seen Dr. Gilbert’s face light up when he saw Rosa.

I was not alone in my anxiety regarding Rosa, for which I must thank you for sharing the burden of prayer and lifting Rosa up. But the good news did not release us immediately--we had to do her teeth. Eleven cavities. She needed five appointments to get them all, and even with a 40% discount from the wonderful Dr. Juan Handal, I thought, Does anybody do teeth transplants? Rosa was very brave--I’m afraid I sat this one out. I stayed in the hall, while Tonio her husband and Chemo went into the chamber with her. Of course, even in the hall I could hear the buzz of the drill, but I didn’t have to worry about any blood spurting on me.

That is, till I got in the chair myself, to extract the tooth--finally!--that’s been bothering me since before I moved down here. It’s been capped and recapped and honed and cemented and “saved” till I finally cracked the root in half just before Christmas and it swung like a trap door. The dentist pulled it out in pieces. I’ve got a hole in my head now that makes me look even more like a Honduran, most of whom can’t afford “dental work,” so they just get them yanked--sometimes 2 or 3 at a time--at the local clinic for about a dollar apiece. I have not decided if I’ll get a replacement--depends on how bad I want to eat popcorn, I guess.

Birthday cake, of course, is no problem. So we celebrated little Jefferson’s 5th birthday, along with his little sister Helen, in the care of great-grandma Agnes. These kids are special for me since I pass their house daily on my way to Jacinto’s store. Dirt poor. I started the habit of getting them a little juice and snack at Jacinto’s and I thought, let’s do a birthday. In Tegucigalpa, I had picked up a couple “Avatar” toys at the airport McDonald’s--they’re blue and they light up, what more could you want? Just look at Jefferson’s smile--little does he realize he’s part of a billion-dollar promotion.

Speaking of visitors from beyond, Fermincito came home! He left to seek his fortune in the States just before the golpe de estado, and he returned just as Mel Zelaya rode off into the sunset. Coincidence? You be the judge! Ironically, Chemo and I were visiting Fermin and Maria and the family just when “Fer,” as he’s known, showed up. I was checking emails on my laptop, and Maria comes in. Making conversation, you know, I say, What do you hear from Fermincito? “He’s in the living room right now.” I think, I thought I knew Spanish, but that makes no sense at all! But there he was, now 20, a little worse for wear--he broke his left arm badly when a tractor turned over on him and he never really made it much past the Mexican border. When I asked him why he came back--besides the obvious hopelessness of the situation--he said to see his little daughter. But his father Fermin confided in me that Petronilla, Fer’s girlfriend, came to the house privately when there were rumors of Fer’s return, to say she would not see him and she would keep their little daughter away from him, too. So she’s in hiding. You see, Fer got in over his head with some gangs in Morazan, which is probably why he left town. Even Fermin wonders if he and Maria and the family are in danger, with Fer’s return. I mean, here gangs kill you if you’re in a gang, if you’re not in a gang, if you were in a gang, if want to get out of a gang--but this protocol is universal, yes?

Watching Chemo playing with Fermin and Maria’s youngest, Jose Miguel, I couldn’t believe it. Before his surgery, Chemo, now 15, was the same size as Jose Miguel, now 8. Chemo has sprung up like Alice in Wonderland (“Drink Me”) and good Lord! he’s a giant next to the kid.

Meanwhile, the new President of Honduras, Pepe Lobo, is also trying to measure up. His very first decision was the most controversial, but thank God! He actually interrupted his inaugural address to sign a pardon for ousted President Mel Zelaya. It was like Gerald Ford pardoning Nixon, an outrage to some, but we have to get the mess behind us. Then he personally escorted Mel from the Brazilian embassy, where he’s been since he sneaked back into Honduras in September, to the airport, where a plane arranged by the President of the Dominican Republic flew Mel off to that island paradise (?). Mel is living in a huge mansion for now, but I hope he knows he’s got a shovel-ready job at the other end of the island in Haiti. Hey, Mel! man of the people, right? Get busy! And the “interim” president, Roberto Micheletti, who was also covered by the amnesty, made no appearance at the inauguration, lest he be a “distraction.” He just quietly slipped away to his own hacienda outside El Progreso. So I’m done picking on them, I’m just so grateful there was no violence, no assassination attempts and so on.

We might get back on our feet--just in time for own earthquake....

Love, Miguel

REMEMBERING PILAR...in St. Louis

REMEMBERING PILAR...in St. Louis

A memorial Mass is scheduled for Pilar Harrison at Incarnate Word Catholic Church, Saturday, February 13, 2010, at 10:00 a.m., reception following.

Incarnate Word Church is located at 13416 Olive Blvd. (by Woods Mill Rd. AKA 141), Chesterfield, MO 63017. (314-576-5366)

This is the same church where the memorial Mass for Pilar’s husband Dean was held some 10 years ago.

Pilar, 81, died January 27 at St. Luke's Hospital after a final illness. Little as she was, her Spirit is ever strong! She lived a charmed life, surviving Franco's Spain, till she found her Prince Charming in penpal Dean, who brought her as his wife to St. Louis, where she studied at St. Louis U. and began a long teaching career in the Parkway School District. She charmed so many of us, that I thought I would send everyone this e-mail.

Pilar was so good she found something charming in everyone, even in me! She left money to pay my airfare to St. Louis for her memorial. Hope to see at least some of you there!

While in St. Louis, February 4th through the 22nd, I am available on my GoPhone (314-605-3267) or at Teresa Jorgen’s house (314-966-5782).

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

A thrill of hope

On December 2, following a day-long solemn and sober debate, televised on every channel, the National Congress voted 111 to 14 not to restore Mel Zelaya to the presidency. Thus was fulfilled the major element of the accord signed in November by Mel and “interim president” Roberto Micheletti, that Mel’s fate would rest in the hands of the diputados. Still lacking is a “government of reconciliation” and a Truth Commission.

Some people say Mel Zelaya was “the best president Honduras ever had.” That would make him the world’s tallest midget. In fact, poverty went up under Mel, with over 5 million (of a population of 7.5 million) in poverty, 3.5 million of those in “extreme” poverty, and at the bottom 1.5 million living on a dollar a day or less. Mel’s horse was living on a thousand dollars a day! With the wealthy world euthanizing the poor with ethanol--filling SUV gas tanks with food--it’s bound to get worse.

Now all eyes turn to Pepe Lobo, who had won the November 29 election by a landslide to become the next president, with inauguration scheduled for January 27. Hope and change? More likely another round of corruption, but it will be “our” corruption, you know, just the way we like it. Humorist Dave Barry’s “Year in Review” is probably more accurate than he knows: “In a setback for U.S. interests in Central America, voters in Honduras elect, as their new president, Rod Blagojevich.” Meanwhile, Mel Zelaya is still a thorn in the side. He says he’s leaving the country, he says he’s staying, he says he’s going--who cares? Follow him on Twitter.

So things have sort of settled down, and when I step back a little, I notice with some chagrin that I have enjoyed playing the role of political pundit these past few months way too much. Like I was auditioning for a spot on Fox News or something. These reports are supposed to be inspired a little more by the Sermon on the Mount than by talk radio!

So let’s get back to basics.

Cristian, 19, was shot in the stomach by his own drunken father at the cantina. He’s recovering, very unsurely and painfully. To be precise, he was hit in one of the few spots where death was not certain, it seems--about four inches to the left of his belly-button. Cristian, one of the “cantina boys,” as I call them, has appeared in these reports numerous times. You may remember his dear affection for his little nephew Eduar, who died a year ago at the age of 2. (We just visited his baby grave for the anniversary, Cristian was too weal to attend.) Berta and Chimino are Cristian’s parents, but when I say his own father shot him, I mean Carlos Montoya, his biological father, a little fling Berta had, I guess. A couple months ago, Cristian confided in me that Chimino wasn’t his real father. Actually, it’s more or less common knowledge, I find out. But it was Chimino who accompanied Cristian first to Victoria and then to the Yoro hospital and stayed at his bedside till he was out of danger, while Carlos was carted off to jail by the police. So who is Cristian’s real father, the drunk who shot him or the man who sat by his bed two days and nights without eating or drinking? (On the other hand, Chimino and Berta raised Cristian in a cantina! I mean, if my son were shot by a guy drunk on liquor I sold him, I’d think twice about selling any more booze--to anybody.)

Cristian is such a troubled youth. Ever since he turned 18 a year ago, I’ve been begging him to get out of Las Vegas and make a life for himself, a life without drunks cursing and vomiting and fighting in your living room. Now this. Supposedly an accident--Carlos was showing off his gun--but drunks don’t have “accidents.” The only good thing to come out of it was Berta closing the cantina for a couple days while Cristian’s life hung in the balance. When Cristian called me from the hospital after the shooting and, in a voice as thin as tissue paper, asked me, “Are you coming?” I immediately melted and said yes. I knew it was also a matter of money. Chimino had taken nothing with him, Berta had said she wanted to go but had no busfare, and Marvin, Cristian’s cousin who saw the whole thing, said he wanted to go. In fact, according to Marvin, Cristian probably saved his life. You see, Carlos fired his gun five times in the air, but then started pointing it at Marvin, just playing. Cristian screamed, “You still got a bullet in there!” and he jumped in front of Marvin just in time, as Carlos drooled, “Naw, it’s empty--see?” And bang!

When we got to the hospital, Cristian was already cleared to leave. But he barely seemed capable of movement. Berta and Marvin helped dress him with clothes Berta had brought from home (Cristian’s clothes, including his shoes and a favorite cap, had disappeared in the confusion) while Chimino and I got his prescriptions filled at the hospital pharmacy. I talked with the kindly nurses, who advised a nutritious diet and daily exercise. “Don’t just leave him in bed!”

“We need a wheel chair,” said Marvin. I thought, Oh boy, how long is that gonna take? But as I stepped into the hall, a wheel chair was sitting right there. “This is a sign,” I said to myself. “He’s going to be all right.” But his wound! The bullet wound itself is nothing, a pinprick, but the scar from the operation looks like they went in there with a backhoe. It’s as long as Chemo’s but much uglier. It looks more like soldering than surgery. I just hope it’s as secure as it looks. I really thought Cristian was going to faint just getting from the bed into the wheel chair. But we got him outside and found a cab, another torture, to squeeze his legs in. I told the taxi driver we had to stop for shoes--and a pillow! The cabbie took us into town and we got our goods right off the street. Then to the bus station, where the bus was just about to leave. The steps up looked like Everest! But we hoisted Cristian up and we were off--we thought. Turned out this bus was just a shuttle to the gas station where the regularly scheduled bus was being gassed up and maintenanced. So we had to get Cristian down and off and up and on, every inch a miserable mile. I thought, I’m gonna need another sign!

It’s at least a two-hour trip back to Victoria and we hadn’t even gone a third of the way when Cristian was saying, “I can’t make it, I can’t make it.” But he did make it, held and hugged tightly by Marvin all the way, and in Victoria we got him down and off that bus and up and on the bus to Las Vegas. Which just sat there, for an hour, waiting for another bus from San Pedro Sula. Holiday traffic, you see! Once in Las Vegas, okay, how to get him home, way to the other side of town?

Then came the other sign. Javier, a young man with a big car, spotted us hobbling and offered a ride. Cristian by this time had mastered the routine and practically jumped into the large plush back seat. Now Cristian is getting around with his brother Juny’s crutch. Juny, whose story graced these pages, died so painfully a couple years ago, nursed by--you guessed it--Cristian, who wore Juny’s clothes then for a while afterwards, to smooth the loss.

Cristian and I have had our go-arounds. One day he’d bring me a couple fish he caught, the next day he’d be a stone wall for some real or imagined offense. And sometimes he’d show up at my house half-drunk himself. Then I’d usher him into the spare room. “I’m not staying.” “That’s all right, Cristian, just a nap.” And he’d be there till morning. Anything’s better than the cantina.

Our last row was a week or so before he got shot. It was the night Chepito got drunk. It was the same night Dona Argentina died. In fact, about half the town it seemed used her wake as an excuse to get plastered. I headed over to her house about 9 p.m., along with Chemo and his brother Marcos, visiting for the holidays. Elvis had already warned me that he’d seen Chepito under the influence, but I didn’t expect to find him right out in the street spinning like a dreidel, accompanied by Nahum and Cristian, both tipsy too. The only “job” I’ve given Nahum, who sleeps at the Bandidos’ house, and Cristian, is to keep tabs on Pablito and Chepito. He gave Chepito the guaro!

So I blew a gasket. I smacked Nahum with a classic “Life of Christ” I’m reading. I swear, I could hardly have found a better use for the heavy volume! Nahum responded by whipping me with his belt buckle. I’ve still got the welt, but I didn’t feel a thing. I fronted him like Joan of Arc, and he backed off. I didn’t care if he killed me! I make no apology for defending Chepito’s right to a sober life. Then I turned on Cristian, who cussed me out very colorfully and gestured pretty violently, though without actually landing any blows. I “complimented” him on his vocabulary and then I yelled at the bystanders, a gallery of what Mark Twain called half-men, including Chepito’s teacher, who made no move to help him or me. I pulled Chepito home, where his mother Irene, all too late, “disciplined” her son with his own belt.

Needless to say, I never made it to Argentina’s. I rushed Chemo and Marcos back to our house and shut up the doors.

The next day, Leon came home, Chepito and Pablito’s father, after a year and a half in jail for drunkenly attacking Nazario with a machete. I didn’t actually see him myself till I headed back to Argentina’s again and saw him drunk face-down in the street like a heap of dirty laundry. So he picked up just where he left off. You know, a guy’s in jail all that time, gets out, you can hardly begrudge him a little lifting of a cup or two, but alcoholism is a death sentence and Leon’s disease is pulling his sons down to his hell, too. The saddest thing was Pablito’s seeming indifference, his only defense against the killing shame he must feel. “Pablito, are you going take your daddy home?” “No, that’s okay.”

So Leon just lay there for all the world to see. He sobered up some the next day, got drunk again, got a few odd jobs, got paid, got drunk--you’ve probably observed this pattern yourself somewhere. Finally, I saw him, all smiles and handshakes. Not a word about the new house we built, not a word about how he’d take care of Pablito and Chepito now, see them through school, raise them to honorable manhood, nothing about how he’d rejoin AA and be as faithful to the group as the chastened Scrooge to Tiny Tim, nothing. I have mostly steered clear, just opening my house to Pablito’s daily visits for a little breakfast, a little lunch if there are leftovers, a chore or two for a few bucks. Chepito, Leon’s image and likeness, sports a big ring on his finger and a huge belt buckle, both set with skulls. I’m trying to help him get him his national ID card, now that he’s 17. But it seems he’s already chosen his identity.

With Argentina’s burial began the nine days of mourning and prayer at her house. I think I finally loved her--she was not a pleasant person a lot of the time--when her fragile stick of a husband Domitilo collapsed in tears in my arms every single day. She’s got 13 children, all grown, the most infamous of which is Renan, a drunk’s drunk. He’s got some competition from 3 or four of his brothers, but Renan parades it! Disheveled and slobbering, he dances! barges into any event, a wedding, a party, a funeral, in this case, his own mother’s, who’d always shut her door whenever he came near, crying, “You’re a disgrace!”

When it came my turn to preach, I remembered we’d just had the elections, when there was a two-day ‘ley seca,’ or dry law, banning liquor sales nationwide. “Today we start a ‘ley seca’ in this house in honor of Argentina! No more booze! Never again! She gave her life for you all! [Indeed, she was only 58 and she looked like a 158 from the toll her graceless family had taken on her]. We’re going to swear off alcohol, but let’s all swear off selfishness too, and laziness, and irresponsibility.” Of the 13 kids, Lupe, the shining exception to the rule, the only one with a recognizably filial devotion, and who has a lovely family of her own with her husband Lenchito in El Zapote, attended the novena every day. On the eighth day, Renan, almost unrecognizable with his hair cut, a new shirt and slacks, and a benign demeanor, offered prayer right along with the rest of us. I hugged him like the Prodigal Son. But it was a one-day wonder. He’s back in the dirt long since.

Marta, the youngest daughter, and one of the most slovenly, redeemed herself and maybe all of us with her narration of Argentina’s final minutes. They had gotten her to the very door of the San Pedro Sula hospital when she collapsed, and in one grand gesture of self-donation, she spread her arms wide and up and lifted her head toward heaven, mouthing without speaking some prayer, then sank dead into Marta’s lap, a blessed smile on her face. It sounded for all the world like Jesus’ departure on the cross: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Before Cristian was shot, I had already been going to the cantina every day to change the bandage on his little nephew Joelito. He climbed a tree to pick (steal!) lemons and fell onto a broken branch that pierced his calf at its fleshiest spot, opening a wound deep and jagged enough to expose the fat and muscle. Long tutored to remain calm in emergencies from my days working at a swimming pool, I thought, when I saw the wound, OK, first I’m going to faint, and THEN I’ll remain calm. But I held it together and we--me and Cristian, who had brought him to me--hurried him over to Dr. Meme, who is sometimes hard to find, after hours. But Meme was in and stitched Joel up, inside and outside the wound. A week later, when Meme took the stitches out, the wound re-opened, so he said, “Just keep changing the bandage till it heals.” Bottom line, that day when Cristian was shot, I could have easily been at the cantina myself, changing Joelito’s bandage. And something tells me I wouldn’t have been any Joan of Arc facing a gun instead of a belt! But I was hiking to La Catorce for a Mass at the time. Oqueli’s blue pickup whizzed by me in a cloud of dust with Cristian and Marvin and Chimino in the back and I didn’t even know what had happened till Marvin called me on his cell phone.

What about Christmas? Well, any light in the darkness qualifies, which these stories show, I believe, but OK, how about an actual nativity? On December 2, Maricela gave birth to Mariana Teresa, named for my sister Mary Anne, who died last April, and for Teresa Jorgen. Weighing in at 10 pounds, she is worthy of two such grand names. In fact, the doctor induced Maricela a couple weeks early, at the Hospital Escuela in Tegucigalpa, because the baby just wouldn’t stop growing! This is an honor all around, and my sisters Barb and Nancy, who accompanied Mary Anne in her last days, were scrambling for Christmas presents for the newest member, as it were, of the Dulick family. And Teresa made sure her appreciation was felt, too. And this kid sure lucked out, with such a loving family of her own. Juan Blas and Maricela and their 6, now 7, kids are poor as church mice, and I do my best to keep them afloat, but some things money cannot buy. I keep trying to figure out how they could adopt Pablito and Chepito...or me, for that matter.

Actually, Chemo and Marcos’ grandmother Natalia has adopted me. Just after the elections, Chemo’s brother Santos and his wife Alba, daughter of Natalia, and their four kids went off to the mountains of Quebrada Amarilla to pick coffee. There went our gravy train! We’d been going over to their house down by the river every night for supper, once I had stopped my own spaghetti suppers for all comers after Chemo got away and got drunk one night and I resolved to be a better dad, and spend more time with him.

Those were such pleasant evenings, Alba’s suppers; and the walk home under the street lamps and the stars seemed like a dream. So, after some hesitation, when Chemo and Marcos were already over at ‘mamita’s’ all the time, I sort of insinuated myself with Natalia and Elio her husband and their three grown sons. As with Alba, I finance the fixings, and Natalia whips up the simple and delicious meals; so our sweet evenings have resumed, including the quiet walk home. That’s a Christmas story, too, on a nightly basis--always room at the inn.

As for Christmas itself, our “Midnight Mass” started at 6:00 p.m., with guest priest Fr. Tony Pedraz from El Progreso. He looks like Santa Claus, red face, tussled white hair, roly-poly, so when he tells the Christmas story, you believe him! But his message, his gospel, if you will, glowed a lot brighter than Rudoph: it was a fire! He was (is!) a full-fledged member of the ‘resistencia’ (the Resistance), denouncing from the beginning the coup that ousted Mel Zelaya, and in the streets at every opportunity, a chaplain to the marchers, you might say. His sermon lasted an hour, but the congregation was enthralled; time passed like a blink. He barely talked about Mel or Micheletti by name--he talked about Jesus! which made the same point. The repulsive thing that both Mel and Micheletti--and Pepe, too--are guilty of is, it’s all about them. Ever since Jesus’ birth first scared the pants off Herod the King, in his raging, the die was cast: make Jesus a target, make Jesus a joke, make him a cover-boy, make him your pal, make him your pet, make him your Che, make him your jewelry, make him your “Lord,” but watch your back! He’s a thief in the night.

Cristian, who never goes to church, preached the same sermon in his own way: he “pardoned” Carlos Montoya! He told the police to let him out of jail. Carlos was grateful enough to bring some provisions for the family over to the cantina--for a few days. “And now he’s forgotten you?” I asked Cristian. “Pretty much.” But Cristian’s charity should not be forgotten. I wish I could live it so well.

We ended the year with Ery’s birthday party. Carolina made the cake, this one for her own brother, and Angelita is here, too, with her baby. She loves to dance with her brother. Ery turned 22, and he had a good time. He even danced with me! It was a sign, I hope, of blessings to come in 2010.

In January we begin another odyssey in search of Rosa’s heart operation. A doctor in Tocoa told her, “You are a candidate for a heart transplant.” That’s how sick she is! A transplant here, of course, is unheard of. The first kidney transplants are just about to be attempted. It’s not for lack of fresh kills. Healthy teens are sacrificed every day in gang activity; live hearts abound. But the nearest Barnes Hospital is...Barnes Hospital. On the other hand, I just talked to Ron Roll, whose Helping Hands sponsors the brigadas, and he enthused, “We’re already talking about Rosa! We are putting her first on the list!” And Dr. Christian Gilbert just emailed me to say, after I told him Rosa is feeling better and stronger with the medicine he prescribed, “This is awesome news! She may not even need the surgery!” Now that’s the kind of “second opinion” I like to hear! But when I called Rosa with the good news, she goes, “Oh, crap, today my knees are killing me, my chest hurts like hell, my stomach’s in knots, and I got a horrible headache.” “Rosa,” I said, “whatever you do, don’t tell the doctor!” Anyway, please include Rosa in your New Year’s resolutions, to transplant a bit of your own heart in her hopes.

Love, Miguel

From Giuseppe Ricciotti, The Life of Christ (1941):

“The Sermon on the Mount is the most complete and radical paradox ever asserted. No discourse on earth was ever more subversive, or better, reversive than this. Until the Sermon on the Mount, the world was united in proclaiming that blessedness was good fortune, that satisfaction came with satiety, that pleasure was the satisfaction of desire, and honor the product of esteem. On the other hand, Jesus announces that blessedness resides in misfortune, satiety in famished hunger, pleasure in unfulfillment, and honor in disesteem. “