ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2011

UNDER THE SPELL

Always follow The Beacon: http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/inthenews/111722-letter-from-honduras-trees-and-danger

Sometimes you can also catch two birds with one stone, especially when it's the Philosopher's Stone. Yes, I HAD to see the latest (and last) Harry Potter movie, but a special trip to El Progreso, five hours away, seemed mere self-indulgence, till Teresa Jorgen reminded me to visit Fr. Ray Pease, who I had neglected for at least a year. Known these past 50 years here as Padre Ramon, he had just returned from another treatment in St. Louis for a mortal liver/blood disease, his version of Harry's battle with the evil wizard Voldemort. He confronted death also in the passing of his brother George in Denver, where Ramon led the family's mourning and believing.

So, with my priorities in order, I took off, a quick one-day trip. I arranged with Ramon to take him to lunch, but first he wanted to show me pictures of his brother and the funeral on his computer in the parish office. Ramon´s style in inimitable--funny and frank, ironic, holy, blunt, above all, intimate, his heart on his sleeve. He´d go on a while, then say, "But you're hungry, right?" But I would just ask another question or something, to keep him talking. Hungry, yes, for more conversation. I knew this was better than any movie. When we did go to eat, he wanted something "quick," so we ended up at Burger King. There we saw some girls from the high school Ramon started when he first arrived in Honduras. "You know, I was the first principal in the whole country to let the girls wear pants." He chatted with them, though, you know how teens are, they could not really appreciate who this "old man" was. Ramon knows practically everyone in El Progreso. He taught half the population over the years, and their kids, and their grandkids. And he's buried hundreds of them, too, victims of the unrelenting violence that plagues us like a Curse.

He felt tired, then, and wanted to rest some before evening Mass, which I promised to return for. Meanwhile, I headed for the fancy, nearly empty mall at the edge of town to catch the movie. The first showing had started an hour ago, so I asked the ticket seller for two tickets, for the end of this showing and the start of the next. "Don't worry about it; just buy one, and stay." And, indeed, no one did bother me, least of all the audience, which was about 4 people in the whole theater. I saw the last hour first, up to the death (SPOILER ALERT!) of Snape, and the first hour last. No problem, really. When Voldemort orders Narcissa to be sure Harry is dead, she gently bends over him in a sort of Pieta, feels his heart beating, and whispers, "Is my son alive?" At great risk to his own life, Harry had just saved her son Draco from a fiery death, despite their enmity all their years at Hogwarts. So grateful for Harry's unselfish love, Narcissa lies to Voldemort, "He's dead," and Voldemort, who cannot even imagine such bonds, starts his party, only to meet his end shortly afterwards when his wand backfires against Harry's invincible capacity of love. Sorry to go on like this, but there's the gospel of J. K. Rowling, not so different from the one Ramon would preach at Mass.

Now, if you think Ramon's illness has slowed him down, you can't tell it from the way he says Mass. His masses have always been "slow," such reverence, such care, such prayerfulness, as though the words he has read a thousand times were fresh as flowers, and all his own, and a sermon spoken from the depth of his heart. "God fills us with love, just fills and fills us. Death cannot stop it." It's almost a mystical experience, or, as I told him afterward, "Your Mass is like a mini-retreat." I was like Harry thanking Dumbledore for all the life-lessons.

But Harry Potter's adventures are nothing compared to my trip with Chemo to Trascerros, the town at the end of the universe where Chemo's mother Rufina now lives. Actually, it's at the western end of Honduras, at the Guatemalan border, but, still, it did seem impossible, despite the assurances of Fidel, Rufina's companion, that it was "easy." We would go for her 51st birthday, July 30. Chemo at one point confided that he was afraid to go, but those were no doubt vibes that he was picking up from me. His latest report card wasn't helping, either. His math grade has dropped to 43%, with drops of 10 or more points in several other subjects. I told him, if this keeps up (I mean, down!), they'll make him repeat third AND fourth grade! But his teacher Juana Maria gave us permission to miss one day.

When Rufina and Fidel were beaten and robbed in their little house in Bonito Oriental some months ago, at the eastern edge of the country, they fled to Fidel's hometown of Trascerros. When they first called from there, I understood "Trasera," which means 'butt,' and I thought, that's a hell of a name for a town. When I finally located it on a map, I realized my mistake. "Tras-cerros," meaning, 'across the hills,' and, indeed, if it weren't for the mountains, you could see Guatemala from their house.

The final kicker to motivate us to get out of Las Vegas and hit the road was when the electricity went off for days, and no end in sight. "Chemo, we can do this anywhere." Seems the Chuncaya Pass, the twistiest, turningest, steepest--and loosest--part of the road near Morazan had had another collapse, the umpteenth, after the latest heavy rain; an avalanche of rock and mud pulled down a high-tension tower and at least 7 posts attached to it. Half the state of Yoro was without power.

In fact, the trip was pretty easy, if easy means only having to take two buses, one direct from Las Vegas to San Pedro Sula (5 hours) and another to Trascerros (3 hours), where Fidel met us at the bus for the walk to the house. First thing I did was ask about a birthday cake, and Fidel said there's a wonderful woman who bakes cakes on call. Then Chemo wanted a soda, so Fidel points us to a "Cantina"--I thought, now wait a minute, I'm not so sure I want to give my business to a bar. But as soon as we stepped inside, the proprietor introduces herself as Fidel's first wife! In fact, the whole weekend, family kept coming out of the woodwork, at least three daughters, all with their own children, two sons, including a Fidel, Jr., Chemo's age. We invited all of them to Rufina's birthday party. One big happy family--no rivalries or resentments anywhere. Well, Fidel is such a gentle soul, the very opposite of "macho," there's no offense given or taken. I did have a lot of questions, but, heck, it's none of my business. Meanwhile, we're organizing a soccer tournament when we come back in December with Chemo's brother Marcos. Fidel's boys vs. Rufina's boys.

One other thing. When we got to Fidel and Rufina's house, there was old Don Cruz! He's 92, and he's got all the family anyone could want back in Bonito Oriental, but they're just too "fancy" for him. So his "family" is Fidel and Rufina, and he did not want to get left behind. So, you see, they're doing something right.

I was so excited to see they had electricity in the house (they never did in Bonito), but it may have been my undoing. Maybe spikes and drops in the current affected my computer, because it's on the fritz. I am typing this at a cyber-cafe in Tegucigalpa, having just dropped off my laptop at Jet Stereo, where they have authorized Apple repair. Wish me luck. But that's why there are no pictures this time. And I apologize for any odd configuration this CASA takes when it appears on your screen.

When Harry Potter has his last conversation with Dumbledore, in some kind of Limbo, where he must decide whether to rest from his labors or return for the final confrontation with Voldemort, he asks, "Is this real or is it all in my head?" To which Dumbledore replies, "Of course it's all in your head, Harry, but why would you think that means it isn't real?"

You are all in my head, and you are very real. May we all be brave.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2011

IF A BOUGH BREAKS...

Always check out The BEACON, please:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/110693-letter-from-honduras-fear (= June 2011 CASA)

Little Belkis is OK, let’s make sure we start with that, because you are not going to want to even imagine what happened to her. And I don’t, either, and I didn’t see it, thank God, so I’ll just say it. She fell out of a tree in Nueva Palmira and on impact the top bone in her left arm shot right through her elbow and out the skin. Now, you might ask, what’s a child that age doing up in a tree? But let’s deal with this question, what was she doing on the ground, and that was dying of a compound fracture, and loss of blood.

When Teresa Cruz came to my house with Belkis’ mother Paulina, who was in such shock she could not speak, they asked for help to get the child to Tegucigalpa. They had already been to Doctor Meme here in Las Vegas, and he had done what he could, but this was way beyond any resources around here. They thought they would have to wait till the next morning for the bus, but besides me, they pooled some resources (well, they got a “loan”) and managed to get a car to take them. It’s a seven-hour trip by bus, and maybe half that in a car, so thank God, because Belkis was still oozing blood, they said. And how scared was she?

At the Hospital Escuela, they put two pins in the arm, and, a couple of “clean-ups” later, they put on a cast. Panchito, her daddy, called on a borrowed cell phone that they were charging for the pins! I suggested he talk to the Social Security department for a reduced rate; he’d already done that, and was denied. So, he’s not poor enough? Good Lord, everybody in Honduras is poor enough! That, plus the extra days’ stay, meant they would need more money. Well, I couldn’t be chintzy, could I? But how to get it there? They’d already figured that out; Teresa’s daughter Miriam would take it. So I gave Miriam extra for her bus fare. Panchito, not to mention Paulina, was very grateful. But even I could come nowhere near the huge bill they were slapping them with, twenty thousand Lempiras! That’s over a thousand dollars. These folks don’t see that much money in five years! If they don’t pay, what? they take the pins out? In any case, Belkis is back home, a wonder of survival in a world full of menacing trees.

Nicho, 65, did not survive his tree-fall. In a freaky little storm that whipped up tornado-like winds in just minutes, one tree out of all the trees at the edge of the river where he was fishing, twirled out of its roots and fell right on him, killing him instantly. At least, one hopes it was quick. There was only one witness (and this, too, I beg you to forgive me for the picture it paints), Nicho’s grandson, little--tiny!--Oscar, just a year-and-a-half old. The storm came about 3:00 in the afternoon, and of course, it took a while before anyone missed them. And then the search, deep into the dark, lit only by the full moon, finally coming upon them way down the bank, the old man with his head smashed, Oscar just sitting in silent, paralyzed vigil. Oscar will never be able to tell us, I’m sure, but as I thought about it, I wondered if a scenario were possible where, as the storm broke, Nicho swept Oscar up in his arms, and then, just when the tree snapped, he threw Oscar to safety, lest they both be crushed....

If someone saved Oscar’s life, maybe it was his grandma Petrona, who “went to heaven” last February. Remember her, from the March CASA? She died in all splendor of family and friends and neighbors over the course of a month or two, the equivalent of Hospice care. Nicho was Petrona’s husband. My only photo of him is at her funeral, with a raft of red flowers in his hand. And Telma, their daughter, who managed Petrona’s care more than anyone, is Oscar’s mom. The suddenness of Nicho’s death broke everyone’s heart all over again, but we knew the routine. Another nine days of prayer and mourning, and with my new super-boots I fairly flew over the rocks and ruts back and forth every day to Paraíso, as opposed to the blisters I got during Petrona’s novenario.

You know, at first, I did not know who Oscar was. When they told me that Nicho’s “grandson” was with him, I naturally pictured a kid about ten years old. At the wake, I was looking around for a likely candidate, ignoring the baby that was crawling all over Telma. When I finally asked, she says, “This is Oscar.” I hope she did not see the look of horror--pity and horror--locked on my face. At one of the later sessions, I ventured my theory of Nicho saving Oscar’s life at the expense of his own, for whatever comfort it might bring.

Perhaps hardest hit by Nicho’s death was his youngest son Jacobo, 20, whose little--very little--wife was still in Yoro, recovering from a near-fatal Caesarian operation (where the hospital charged dearly for two pints of blood) that delivered their first child, a boy. Jacobo was sort of just wandering around dazed, torn by conflicting emotions, anxious for his wife, excited for his son, throwing himself on his father’s casket in sobs and tears. The baby grows up without grandparents. In fact, I rather hesitantly referred to Jacobo and his siblings as “orphans” now, maybe a little too literal a term, but I just wanted to touch the depth of their loss, our loss.

But there’s good news, too. Helen is 12! Handicapped daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, and big sister to the bubbly Mariana Teresa, she does love cake. I have been so strapped lately that birthday celebrations have been put on hold, but I always promised Helen we would do it up right for her. We got the biggest cake you’ve ever seen, this time from Profe Flor, the principal at the school, who’s got this cake-baking gig on the side. Now, different from Carolina, whose cakes are dense and deep, Flor’s are fluffy and light--real dirigibles! Helen ate enough to get sick on--good for her! Being wheelchair-bound does little to inhibit her enjoyment at a party.

Speaking of party girls, do you like to be proved wrong? I actually think a lot of us do, you know, when we’ve misjudged someone, dismissing them, discounting them, even mocking them, only to find they are golden. I have come to expect and even enjoy the experience, as a chance to laugh at my own small-mindedness, and I get a lot of opportunities here in Honduras. Gladys, built like a jukebox but with the attitude of a supermodel (including plucking her eyebrows), makes an odd partner for the dirtiest man in town, literally, Marvin, the local mechanic. He’s usually sweating under a car or truck or even bus, black with grease and grime from head to foot, and she’s on the porch with a mint julep or something, in tight jeans and a bosomy top, entertaining bystanders with a voice like a brass band and a routine rippling with swear words and raunchy one-liners. Maybe she’s our version of Snookie, though I’ve never seen “Jersey Shore.”

So when the “authorities” threatened to send Wilfredo, the most popular teacher in the high school, off to some remote village in the hill country to make room for somebody’s cousin, Profe Flor asked for volunteers to make a protest visit to the superintendent’s office in Yoro. Marcelo offered his “busito” for transportation. When I saw Gladys squeeze her bulk into the van, I thought, Oh, Jesus, Wil’s case is lost.

But wait a minute! She was the key to the whole thing. They kept us waiting three hours, and when we finally got in, Señor Antonio Gundemero Hernandez was very properly reserved and formal. Then Gladys starts, and the place just lights up and lightens up. You see, Señor Hernandez is her uncle! He never loosened his tie, but pretty soon he was eating out of her hand. The rest of us were superfluous. Bottom line, Wilfredo’s staying.

We all had lunch at a crowded restaurant afterwards to celebrate, and Gladys sat at the head of the table and just played herself, dropping the Spanish equivalent of F-bombs all over the place, and she didn’t give a damn who heard her. I just wanted to hug her! She hadn’t changed, at all; it was me who changed, and I can never look at her the same way again. From floozy to phenomenon, that story. And it’s a story I’m telling everyone I talk to.

Some folks you always knew were gold, but you’re still stunned at how you had underestimated their shine, maybe took them for granted. Marisol was as big as Gladys and, yes, as loud, but she was a religious Sister, a missionary from Spain for 20 years in Honduras, till illness forced her departure, and then recently claimed her life. I knew her through Elio and Mema, whose daughter Felixa is a member of the same Order. I have a great picture of Marisol at Mema’s birthday party a few years ago. Chemo and I went to Tegucigalpa for his “annual” checkup (we missed last year, because of all the violence and turmoil in the capital), and Elio and Mema invited us to the final day of Marisol’s novenario, which would be in the same church where the poet Roberto Sosa’s funeral had been a month ago. At Sosa’s mass, there was a sort of indifferent feeling since no one seemed too comfortable in a church, but for Marisol, it was a real feast of faith and affection--and fun, including a slide show with music. Everybody had a funny story, which of course they cried all the way through. When I asked Mema why she didn’t speak, that’s what she said, her eyes glistening, “I couldn’t, too many tears.” Now, this service, you understand, was a parallel of sympathy to the “real” novenario over in Spain, but we sure did feel connected.

By the way, Chemo’s checkup was perfect. I knew it would be, but I did want his original doctor, Karla Andino, to see how he’s grown. And she’s crazy about him anyway. While we waited for the echo-cardiagram machine, we saw this tiny baby about the size of a Twinkie, getting his ultrasound. He already had wires and tubes all over him. The poor thing didn’t look like he could survive the exam, much less an operation.

Chemo’s heart is strong, but his math grades are on life support. He flunked the same quiz three times, 0 out of 20, and for the same reason. It was multiplication, three-digit numbers by three-digit numbers. Is that even fair? I get all itchy when I have to help him with his homework. Math was never my friend, and after high school, I never took another course. Chemo knows his times tables, but he was lining up all those subtotals crooked, and if the answer was something like 8326, he’d get 20,748. I finally got him a notebook “cuadriculo” (grid), to put a single numeral in each box. When I ask his classmate Dorisell, Elvis and Dora’s brilliant 8-year-old, if there’s going to be another quiz, she says, “Just for the ones who flunked.” The teacher Juana María is really doing her best to get Chemo through fourth grade. She tells me, “You know, practice with him a little more.” But she probably senses that I have no more aptitude for math than Chemo does.

As June 23 approached, Chemo’s grandma Natalia was nervous. It would be the first anniversary of her 19-year-old son Dago’s fatal accident when he grabbed a high-tension wire installing electricity in their house. “What will we do? There’s no money for coffee and rolls.” She wasn’t being coy, but I immediately assured her I’d take care of the expenses. In fact, I just shouted next door to Jacobina, the best baker in town, “Natalia will be in touch, OK?” And Jacobina, God bless her, did it all for “cost,” I just paid for the ingredients, which included 10 pounds of flour. When I suggested corn bread, too, Natalia just wanted to keep it simple, but then on the day she presented me with a pan of cornbread that she had Jacobina make just for me. (I took it home and ate half of it before I even told Chemo it existed!) That’s Natalia, staying gold.

The memorial itself was fine, including a cleansing, cooling rain right in the middle of the service. “That’s Dago blessing us,” I said. But you could sense there was a reticence in the little gathering. As gently as I could, I tried to suggest it was still OK to cry, and finally, at the end, the family clutched each other in a release of an ever-fresh grief.

For the first time ever, the Las Vegas celebrated “Youth Day,” with a gathering of at least 600 teens from 10 other towns. For the occasion, I put on a tee-shirt I had saved, a homage to Archbishop Romero, murdered by a Salvadoran death squad in 1980 for his outspoken advocacy of justice for the poor. On the back of the shirt is a quotation I had not even noticed before: “It is a caricature of love to think donations to the poor are a substitute for what you owe them in justice.” I looked at that and thought, Back to the drawing board! That’s all I do, is donate.

Dennis, the fragile, autistic boy in Paraiso, really has the same message as Romero, and he does not say a word. I would greet him every day on the way to Nicho’s novenario (and Petrona’s before that). At first, he would just come to the window. Then he came to the door, eventually outside, to touch my outstretched hand. And I would say, “Dennis, you come visit me,” but I never imagined him leaving the safety of his yard. Well, he just showed up! Again, not a word, he just drank a big bottle of Tang I offered him, and posed for pictures with his little brother Danny and sister Heydi, who had accompanied him. He even smiled. But, really, I was the one who was thrilled. As they left, Danny said, “He’ll want to come again, I know.” How about that? I wish I could be that brave.

I guess I should be on the barricades, but meanwhile just please let’s cradle each other in our arms, lest another one fall.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2011

WHO’S YOUR BABY?

For my “voice” in The Beacon, see: http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/110256-dulick-april-2011 = APRIL CASA

Doenis, a 20-something on a drunk, snuck into the house and threatened Chemo with a hammer (MY hammer!) to steal the VCR/DVD player, but ran out when Chemo screamed. Eating supper over at Alba’s, I was blithely ignorant of the episode, wondering at Chemo’s lateness, till he called from Dora and Elvis’ phone, his voice trembling. “I’m scared!” I rushed home at once, berating myself for losing at the most basic duty of a parent, to keep your child safe. Chemo’s had enough scares in his life without another one.

Sure enough, the VCR was gone, the naked wire ripped out. “Big deal,” I thought. But then Dora, who had come over with Elvis, says, “Miguel, look, here it is, in the kitchen.” I guess Doenis got a little scared himself. Elvis rewired it that same night. But who could re-connect me with my son? He slept in my room for the first time in a long time, as we promised to take better care of each other. Santos, Alba’s husband, tracked Doenis down and told him, “You mess with Chemo, you mess with me. Got it?” No one’s seen Doenis since.

Nevertheless, Chemo got another blow when his sister Rosa called from Tocoa to say that their mother Rufina and her companion Fidel had been beaten up in a robbery at their house. Robbery? They don’t have ANYTHING, much less a VCR. The beating was probably frustration, and apparently another drunk or druggie. Rufina moved in with Rosa, and Fidel, at the urging of family in Santa Barbara, also went “home,” to recover. I thought I’d take Chemo right up there, to his mommy, but even that seemed scary to him, so I dropped the suggestion. I did wire some cash, to replace a cell phone and pay for medicines. Fidel wants Rufina to join him in Santa Barbara, which is way at the the west end of Honduras, while Tocoa is way to the east, and Las Vegas is in the middle. These would be endless loops if we were going to visit all of Chemo’s family. Of course, you might think I’m already in Santa Barbara, since the “Las Vegas” that shows up on Google Maps is a city by that name out there.

Meanwhile, May started with the annual patronal feast of the Holy Cross, a week-long religious observance, tinged with unsavory elements like the four all-night “dances” that attract folks like Doenis. But this year was a garden compared to last year, when there were three murders. The highlight of the week is the procession through town, with children carrying crosses decorated with flowers. In fact, the whole month of May features “Las Flores” (the flowers), a toy-like liturgy when children bring fresh flowers to the Virgin Mary. The kids walk on their knees across the chapel floor to the little statue. I know that sounds medieval, but the kids love it; it’s our version of Six Flags! We say the rosary, too, and some of the little ones are still learning the words; one tiny boy said, instead of “Hail, Mary, el Señor es contigo” (the Lord is with you), “el Señor es abrigo” (the Lord is an overcoat!). Now, really, is that so wrong?

Speaking of miraculous births, Manuel and Marta had their baby. Last month, I told how I had stumbled upon Manuel who I knew years ago as a child (“Lito”), now back in Honduras after years in the U.S. Marta was soooo pregnant, I couldn’t imagine a normal birth, and, indeed, when they went to the hospital in Yoro for the delivery, they ended up spending a whole week there, as the doctors debated Caesarian or not. I wasn’t even having the baby and I was scared to death; a Caesarian in that little, ill-equipped hospital could be a death sentence. And in our phone calls, you could tell Lito was beside himself with worry too, helpless as he watched his wife’s agony.

When Lito finally called at 1:00 a.m. with the good news, he knew I would still be up because I was actually at a wake. You see, folks were waiting at Purito’s house for his sister Rosa, who had died that afternoon very painfully of stomach cancer in San Pedro Sula; her sons were returning with her body. They didn’t arrive till almost midnight, so I was hoping to match this mourning with a new, little life. “It’s a boy!” Lito cried. “We’re naming him Manuel.” Another Lito. Normal birth? “Yes! We’re coming home tomorrow!” Normal! That enormous belly, that little woman, that big baby--THAT is “normal”! Women are incredible. No wonder even God wanted a mother.

I’m not a woman, but I am a big baby. I proved that with my latest tooth-hurtee. The biggest molar in my mouth, back and to the (lower) left, had been giving me fits for months, sometimes literally doubling me over in pain from my jaw to my feet. But then the pain would dull and disappear, and I thought I was in the clear.
Chocolate and other sweets seemed to set it off again, certainly a divine judgment, don’t you think? I guess this deterioration was inevitable, ever since the thing got a gold crown back in the early 80s. After one particularly screaming night, I begged Doctora Gabriela, the local dentist, to yank it out. Sensibly, she cautioned prudence, based on my history of heart disease. “Miguel, if an emergency develops, we’ve got nothing here for you.” So, after another cowardly delay of a couple weeks, I finally slipped off to Tegucigalpa. I kissed Chemo good-bye, certain I would never see his face again.

At Dr. Juan Handal’s clinic, he put me in the capable hands of Doctora Yvonne. I told her I’ve got a godchild Yvonne back in Las Vegas, “So I know this is gonna be OK.” But I did make a Perfect Act of Contrition. Dr. Handal kept popping in. “We can save that tooth, don’t extract it!” But, in the most confessional tones, I reminded him how we’d worked for four years to save one of my upper molars, only to end up pulling it, so.... “I see your point. All right, pull it!” With a heart patient, you have to be especially careful with the anesthesia, but when I kept yelping with every tug that felt like she was pulling my jaw off, Dr. Yvonne just kept needling more Novocain till my face was as solid as a radial tire.

Then she finally made a move I never even saw, and says, “That’s it.” That’s what? She held the pliers in front of my eyes with a tooth the size of a Volkswagen, the gold cap still glistening. I thanked her like I’d been Raptured. I could scarcely believe I was still alive, I wasn’t gushing blood, I wasn’t having a heart attack. I’m sure Yvonne thought, what a baby!

And Dr. Handal did not even charge me! I thanked him till I thoroughly embarrassed him, no doubt. I was out of there by 9:00 a.m., which meant I could attend the 10:00 a.m. funeral Mass of Honduras’ preeminent poet Roberto Sosa, who had died the day before at age 81. It was a coincidence that seemed a recompense for my erstwhile “courage.” The very first book I read in Honduras when I came here back in 1977 was Roberto Sosa’s “Los Pobres.” More recently, he took my young poet friend Carlos Ordóñez under his wing as his most promising heir. Carlos, in Brazil right now, obviously could not come back, so I wanted to “represent” him.

The funeral was rather lightly attended, so I sat right up front by the family. Let’s face it, Roberto Sosa was as suspicious of the Church as he was of any other “self-serving institution,” so the Mass was pretty much a formality. And, as if to prove its irrelevance, the priest did not even quote a single line from any poem. But I loved sharing that time in the presence of someone--and his family--that had formed my life here. There were more folks at the cemetery nearby, with tributes from colleagues, friends, and family. As the crowd thinned, I made bold enough to take his gracious widow’s hand and say, “Your husband inspired me to work with the poor.” At least, I hope that’s what I said. My lips were still numb.

Roberto Sosa’s best known line is so simple you barely notice its genius:
“Los pobres son muchos y por eso es imposible olvidarlos.”
(You can’t forget the poor, because there are so many.)

The poor are indeed many, yet always a surprise. Little Anjely’s parents from Guachipilin up in the mountains brought her to me, for help getting to Tegucigalpa, where she already had an appointment for open-heart surgery at the public hospital in Tegucigalpa. “How old is she?” Seven months, the size of a newborn, her lips already blue. I was afraid to look any closer, lest it break my heart right there and then, because I knew she would not survive, not a Honduran heart operation, and, with an empty hope, I knew she could not wait for the next Brigada from the States, due later in June. So I gave them what I could, just to ease the transition. About a week later, the mother called. “We just brought her back.” I did not even have to ask. To bury her.

I see the burials have begun for the victims of the Joplin tornado. This is another thing I had to force myself to look at, so miserable are the views of the devastation of what amounted to a flying tsunami. Pardon me if I link to my favorite story:

http://www.thepostgame.com/features/201105/after-tornado-lone-competitor-left-joplin-high

New statistics show that Honduras would be better off with tornadoes than the man-made mortality we suffer. There’s a murder every 43 minutes, or about a thousand a month, mostly young persons, teens and twenty-somethings. We are doing our part around here to keep the average up. Up in a mountain village some guy killed a family of four, the parents and two babies, one a two-year old, the other seven months, to avenge his own brother’s death. No one’s saying a word. Well, why would you report what you know to “law enforcement”?

When Chemo finally got his grades, he was passing everything, with grades in the 70s and 80s, except math, with a 60, passing but just barely and probably a little gift from his nice teacher. But good enough! We leapt on the opportunity to make a quick weekend trip to El Progreso and Morazán.

As my “girlfriend” Santa kept reminding me, we had not visited them in Progreso since “last year” (December), so I got the biggest cake in the store, to cover all the birthdays we’d missed, plus Mother’s Day.

The next day, Sunday morning, we boarded the bus for Morazán. Chemo pitched his little backpack in the overhead and headed for the back seat to catch a snooze before the bus pulled out. I bent into my prayer book and lost track of the time. After about 40 minutes the bus was still parked in the station, gradually filling up. Chemo comes up. “Where’s my backpack?” Nowhere to be found. I sort of panicked, since inside, besides some negligible spare clothes, was the portable DVD player I got for Chemo at Target last time I was in St. Louis. I had just restored it to him on Friday for his good grades (having confiscated it a couple months before for some misbehavior). We had the whole bus looking for it, and of course, as far as I was concerned, everyone was a suspect, till someone finally explained that it’s become a pretty common scam in Progreso. Someone waits inside the bus, spots an inattentive target, nabs their stuff, and walks off. You know, I had wondered at the woman in front of me, who had packed herself into her seat with seemingly every worldly possession in three huge bags. That’s what we should have done. But I did sort of feel like Jane Fonda when she rips her last stocking in “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” We’re living so close to the edge, every “expense” is magnified out of all proportion.

On the other hand, I had sense enough to assure Chemo it was not his fault; I was not blaming him. It’s what I get for praying! But thank God it wasn’t my backpack, with my laptop inside. And in fact, what if I had seen the thief grab and go with the backpack, and I tried to stop him...? Let’s just say, my 43 minutes would have been up.

In Morazán, Fermin, Maria, and the kids quickly made our troubles disappear. Maria and daughter Esly were working on a big Sunday lunch spread; my contribution was to load ‘em up with a “six-pack” of 3-liter Pepsi’s from the supermarket. Then rumors start we’re going to the “beach,” the river outside of town where there are nice swimming “pools” that folks have made by stacking rocks around. It was wonderful. Of course, I, the wet blanket even when I’m dry, very prudently limited myself to just a 30-minute “dip” before I went to the shade on the shore and read my book, a commentary on the prophet Isaiah (“Comfort ye my people”).

Then, the TV broadcast of the grand finale of the national soccer championship, pitting arch-rivals Olimpia and Motagua, both of Tegucigalpa. Like Fermin and the family, Chemo’s all about Olimpia, while I back Motagua. We settle in for the game, with Maria again making wonders in the kitchen, just simple snacks with refried beans and fried tortillas and so on, and more cold Pepsi, of course. Well, Motagua won, 3-1, helped by an own-goal from an Olimpia player. But Chemo took it well. Unlike any sport in the U.S., these “finals” come every six months. So, “Wait’ll next...semester!”

Mel Zelaya made a triumphal return Saturday, May 28, greeted at the Toncontin airport in Tegucigalpa by his faithful “Resistencia” (resistance). Mel was ousted in a coup, you may recall, in June of 2009, with Roberto Micheletti holding place till elections later that year put in office Pepe Lobo, whose major concern ever since has been to reestablish Honduras’ credentials in the world community, in particular the Organization of American States. Pepe is of the conservative Nationalist Party, but he enthusiastically pursued amnesty for Mel’s record-breaking corruption and lawlessness, even running roughshod over court proceedings along the way. But he reasoned, we gotta do this, to get this all behind us. He never tired of promising Mel, “Don’t you worry, you’re coming back, I guarantee it.” It was politically astute, because it left Mel without a target. Mel, of course, was a Liberal, but with his ouster, the new, radical “Resistencia” was born, and Mel played them just like he plays his guitar, thus dividing the Liberal Party, whose mainline members recognized Mel’s toxic brew. And Pepe is jumping on the opportunity to extend his own party’s power. The latest is a bill he’s pushing through the Nationalist-controlled legislature to grant the Resistencia status as an official political party, which would divide the liberal vote and guarantee Nationalist domination in perpetuity. Just like Democrats in the U.S. salivating at the prospect of the Tea Party going third party.

And Mel isn’t helping. He’s lovin’ that Resistencia! A old Liberal Party hack was asked, “Will you be meeting with Mel when he comes back?” “Oh, he knows where our office is; if he calls for an appointment, we’ll be happy to talk with him.” What Mel really wants is another coup! Indeed, when some speaker at the airport rally on Saturday referred to Mel as “former president Mel Zelaya,” the crowd erupted, “President! President! President Mel!”

The vote to reincorporate Honduras in the OAS comes this week at a special meeting. Hillary Clinton, who would love to get this monkey off her back, is lavishing praise on Honduras’ for our “maturity” and “return to democratic forms,”
ignoring the fact that, besides Pepe’s toothy smile and buttery diplomacy, he’s been beating the hell out of the Resistencia, literally, with police, military, goon squads, you name it, for two years, every time they gather for a protest.

So a more significant return was Chemo’s brother Santos’ horse, lost for almost three weeks when Santos was up at his cornfield preparing for planting. Santos looked everywhere, getting himself sick in the process, following every lead, just hoping that it hadn’t been stolen. He didn’t know where Pavo was, but he knew why he ran off. “He’s looking for a filly.” Finally, word comes from a cousin he’s never even met, a middle-aged woman also, ironically enough, named Santos, that his horse is at her place way up in the mountains of La Peña, where she does in fact have a filly in residence. Santos and son Santitos rushed up there in record time, then rode Pavo back down. So we celebrated some special at supper that night. Cold Pepsi.

The rains are here. Folks are planting. That’s the hopeful part. Meanwhile, we still need each other. The tornado “season” is ending, the hurricane season is beginning. Hang on. If we are blessed, we can be poor.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2011

Find me in The Beacon:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/109470-miguel-dulick-on-teacher-strike-in-honduras = APRIL CASA

And while you’re there, check out their excellent coverage of the Good Friday tornado:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/region/109853-path-of-destruction


ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2011

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

April was the cruelest month--certainly as far as weather is concerned. You had hundreds of tornadoes, while here our “summer” was perfectly still, hot as Hades, dry as a bone, dust inches thick, the air as heavy as an overcoat, the smoky mountains just a blur, a blood-red moon. You could hardly call it “Lent,” which really means spring.

Doña Julia, my 92-year-old neighbor, had the longest Lent. In fact, she began her dying even before Ash Wednesday, when I grabbed my camera to snap her last “glamour” shot as she enjoyed a fresh mango. She had risen briefly from her sickbed, but after this, she never got well. This is not to say that she was not still beautiful, even when she was just a shell of wrinkles, because she kept smiling, she kept talking, even joking, her mind sharp, her attitude patient and uncomplaining.

Every night you’d swear was going to be her last. Indeed, a variable group of anywhere from 10 to 20 folks would gather at the house, inside at her bedside or out in the corridor or street, in quiet vigil. Eventually, a kind of community formed, a society of Friends, a monastery at ease. Coffee and conversation, but mostly, as the Psalmist says, like watchmen waiting for the dawn.

You may remember I had said Padre Sebastian invited me to a group retreat that would meet weekly for several months. Well, his poor feet needed special attention, so he returned to Spain for treatment and returned to Honduras to another, shall we say, flatter, parish. So I thought I’d give the retreat a try by myself. I used a “contemporary reading” of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius by Father Dave Fleming, who just recently died after a long illness. He had been my Superior during my years with the Jesuits, so I could hear his wise and guiding voice on every page. The nightly sessions with Doña Julia seemed the perfect time for prayer. I’d go over to the house about 9:00 p.m. First, I would kneel at her little bed, grasp her hand, kiss her forehead, brush her hair, and chat a bit. Then I’d settle in a chair to “meditate,” if I didn’t just fall asleep! One night I got there pretty late, and Juana, Doña Julia’s daughter-in-law (actually, granddaughter-in-law, I guess) looked in my direction and said, “She’s been asking for you.” She said it a couple times before I really believed it. I was blown away. After that, Julia became an inevitable presence in every meditation. She was there as God looked at the world with the desire to save us. She was there at Jesus’ birth, his life in Nazareth, his rounds of preaching, his agony and suffering, everything. I had to believe Dave Fleming would have said, “I wish I’d thought of that!” Doña Julia had become my retreat director.

So a death watch became everyone’s Long Retreat. She actually passed away Wednesday afternoon of Holy Week (April 20), as if to help focus our attention on the Paschal Mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection. Indeed, with her daily risings from seemingly impossible depths, she had given us a month of Easter Sundays.

That evening, in the middle of the church service, we heard something we had not heard in five months--thunder. A pale flash or two of lightning, and soon a welcome rain blew in. The temperature dropped, the air freshened, and you could breathe again. Still later, at the wake, when it came my turn to speak, I said the rain was Julia’s sign of her salvation. These are not tears, but kisses. The weather stayed cool the rest of the weekend, through Easter.

The hour of Julia’s burial on Holy Thursday afternoon found our loyalties divided. Or maybe divided is not the right word. Shared, is better. Because another family was burying a tiny preemie who had lived just 8 days, one of a set of twins. HIs brother was hanging on with their very young mom at a hospital in San Pedro Sula. So two cars, one crowd, headed to the cemetery in procession. Once there, little Angel Gabriel was buried with the other babies in a special section, a knoll, right at the cemetery entrance, and Julia was taken to her spot farther in. And then began the novenario, nine days of prayer.

Not all delays are so fruitful. The teacher strike finally ended after three long weeks, and the kids got back to class, but just for a week, before the Holy Week “vacation.” The teachers piled on the work, to make up for the lost time, and every day came another quiz or test. When the government announced not only deductions for any teacher who missed work during the strike, but two-year suspensions for teachers who had actively protested in the chaotic marches in Tegucigalpa, I called my best friend Fermin. “Fermin! Are you on the list?” “Miguel, I’m on every list.” I’ve never heard him so sad. “This is the end.” A lot of people just follow like lemmings, but for Fermin it’s a matter of justice. He did say that his supervisor in Yoro had told him they would protect him, because of his, really, lifelong, commitment to the cause. And subsequent “talks” between the unions and the government are “negotiating” the sanctions.

Another voice for justice, though half Fermin’s age, is the poet Carlos Ordóñez. Just before the strike ended, when the violence had subsided, Chemo and I made a quick trip to Tegus to see Carlos, who is working on an advanced degree in literature in Spain, with side trips to Brazil, where he works on documentary films with his fiancee Ursula. He was in Honduras just for 10 days, so we had to act fast, since we had not seen him in over two years. He’s been a published poet since the age of 16, and Chemo, amazingly enough, just loves the movie Carlos and Ursula made about a legendary Brazilian poet (who died just after the filming), so I very much wanted to encourage Chemo’s cultural enrichment, you know. We used the excuse of Carlos’ recent birthday to invite him to lunch. He was so gracious, and he obviously read my mind (I’m his biggest fan!) when I kept asking him about his latest book that supposedly was scheduled for publication a year ago. “I brought you a copy.” Still unpublished, it was a bound Kinko’s copy, but very elegant. Consisting of 30 prose-poems, it seems a masterpiece. Any attempt of mine to translate anything for you is whimsical, at best, Carlos invents a lot of his vocabulary (you can see little roots of familiar words peeking out), and even ordinary words lose their moorings in so dreamlike a vision. Yet the themes, as I say, are justice, truth, and peace. When I asked him how he followed the news of Honduras abroad, he said, “I just read the newspapers online--and believe the opposite!”

After lunch, Chemo wanted to show Carlos the dodg’em cars. But we discovered, in another corner of the arcade, another fascinating “game,” the self-service Guitar Hero gig. Chemo was a rock god, for fifty cents a tune.

During Holy Week, when there are so many homecomings, I sought out the mother of Manuelito (“Lito” to his friends) to ask for any news. Last I knew, he was still in the U.S., having successfully made it across the border some years ago after eight tries. “He’s back!”
she told me, deported actually, living with his wife and two girls in nearby Sabana del Blanco. So I went to find him.

This re-connect was inspired by my friend Seth Felman, who emailed me out of the blue a couple months ago after we had been out of touch basically since he graduated from high school 30 years ago. We became buddies--along with his family--when I was substituting at Wydown Junior High in Clayton. Then I joined the Jesuits, and we lost touch. But I was so thrilled to find Seth again that when I heard that Lito was back “in town,” I was not about to let the opportunity pass. Turns out Lito spent part of his time in St. Louis, where he admired, among other things, the Gateway Arch--which he called "the rainbow”--without realizing you could go inside it up to the top. In fact, he loved everything about America, and I told him, I’m sorry we kicked you out; you’re exactly the kind of person who belongs in our country. He had even begun the paperwork to attain citizenship, but, no good, good-bye, get out. As much as he longs for “the good life.” and had had his lovely house built with the money he sent down here, we all agreed that he should stay now, since every day brings more news of migrants slaughtered like pigs at the Mexican border by gangs, and his pretty wife is very pregnant with their third child. I asked, “When’s it due?” She says, “Well, today, actually.” But, as of this writing, the little bugger is staying put.

Another reconnection is proceeding apace. Olvin, who got shot in the left elbow last December, has winced and yelped his way through physical therapy and can flex his arm again. His goal is to get strong enough to get a job, he hopes, at one of the big sweatshops in San Pedro Sula. My advice was, “Just don’t tell them.”

They say it’s an ill wind that blows no one any good, and so it seems your tsunami of killer tornadoes stirred up just enough breeze here to send more rain and some nice, cool weather. But I’m sure our own disasters are right around the corner.

Speaking of disasters, I thought I had a sense of humor until I saw the hats at the Royal Wedding. Who was the mad hatter, Tina Fey? Looked like insects caught in their hair. But I have to say all the little tributes to Princess Diana kept things in perspective.

I mean Diana’s heart for the poor.

Eric Greitens, a Parkway North grad, has been steadily building a reputation for a very big heart for the poor. You have to check out the link below to his book “The Heart and the Fist,” and even then you can hardly believe all that he has done, and all he hopes to do. He has even offered to send a member of his associates down here to help Las Vegas. He graciously asked me to help spread the word about the book, but his own accomplishments speak for themselves.

http://www.theheartandthefist.com/

Here’s a brief excerpt from Carlos Ordóñez’ poem “La Fiebre,” The Fever, straight from the heart (with the best I can do, translating it):

Hace frío en el pañuelo de sal
que una madre empapa en el cálix de la esperanza.

Hace frío en la orfandad
de una mano carcomida por el fuego de la penuria.

Hace frío en ese sueño
de profundo carnesí del que ningún inmortal volvió.

(It gets cold where a mother dips a rag of salt in a chalice of hope.

It’s cold when an orphaned hand is shredded by the fires of misery.

It’s cold in that blood-red dream where no spirit has found its way back.)

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2011

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2011

INCEPTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

I’ve Seen the “Light”!

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

Two articles have already appeared:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Psalm 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel