REPORTING FROM ST. LOUIS--SEPTEMBER 2013

REPORTING FROM ST. LOUIS 

I’m baaack! I’m here in the Lou till October 15, 2013:
at Teresa Jorgen’s house (731 Simmons Ave.  Kirkwood 63122 (314-966-5782);
my cell: 314-210-5303

No open house scheduled, just open arms!

In “GUILLERMO IS AN ANGEL NOW,” I told the story of Guillermo’s valiant final days. The funeral was just as brave, as celebratory as his son’s wedding, thanks mostly to his wife Erlinda. She kept everyone focused on our faith in the Resurrection. “We’re going to sing the whole way to the cemetery.” There was a huge crowd as we wended our way behind the pickup carrying the casket. When folks started wailing, and even the oldest son fainting dead away, Erlinda stood at the edge of the grave like a Joan of Arc, quietly repeating the meaning of this event: “We all must go the same route, death is part of life, but as Saint Paul teaches us, while we are alive, we live in the Lord, and when we die, we die in the Lord. We are always in God’s hands, and God will not abandon us but raise us up to eternal life.” She just kept talking in a normal tone of voice till all was calm and everyone could hear and understand. I hope you don’t imagine her a woman in denial, clinging to religion only to assuage unbearable pain. Hers is a strength born of a lifetime of fighting for herself, from the first years of their marriage when Guillermo was an abusive drunk and Erlinda finally learned to stand up for herself. You don’t raise 12 kids--6 boys and 6 girls--by faking it. She’s an artist, too, a poet, performing her works at public events like graduations. She instilled in her kids a sense of style and presence that makes them attentive to others‘ needs. She opened the path of grace and conversion for Guillermo, who thanked God and his wife with his years of service as a lay pastor in Paraiso. At the wake, his best friend Godo (Guillermo died in Godo’s arms) told the whole story of Guillermo’s spiritual development into a kind of prophet. Indeed, Erlinda, who commented every day in the novenario on the scripture readings, told how intense and intimate their final days together were. “They killed me, with the chemo, they killed me. I’m so sorry, my dear wife.” “I know, I know, my dear husband, and I’m here, I’m here.”

The next day, a valiant woman, Santos, one of Guillermo’s parishioners, as you might say, died in Paraiso. At 56, she was even younger than Guillermo, 65, but she succumbed to the complications of diabetes, like her sister Petrona, whose death in 2011 united the community as never before. Did she wait for Guillermo, to show her the way? Her funeral drew an even bigger crowd, now that we were all moving in the same direction already.

So two novenarios played out in tandem, 3 p.m. in Paraiso for Santos, 4:30 p.m. in Las Vegas, our “little flock,” as Jesus called his disciples, crossing back and forth across the bridge that connects our villages. Then the bridge collapsed! Partially, that is. Unrelenting rains and huge floating trunks of trees battered at least one concrete strut off its base and put a big wrinkle in the roadway. Folks ventured across anyway, first on foot, then motorcycles, and finally pickups and cars. No one wanted to be the first bus or heavy truck to tempt their fate, but then they brought in an enormous bulldozer with a shovel attached to pull apart the clog of debris, and nothing happened, no more cracking or collapsing, so I think we’ll be using this bridge a long time yet. After all, this bridge was built in 2005 to replace the bridge that Hurricane Mitch had downed back in 1998.

September 15 is Honduras Independence Day, and for the first time Chemo marched in the “peloton,” or formation. A block of 55 students trained and practiced all week under the direction of Profe Fefo, a military veteran himself, who imbues the kids with a sense of discipline and camaraderie. Now, I heard someone complain, “These are children, not soldiers, they shouldn’t be ‘militarized.’” OK, fair enough, but maybe soldiers should do more marching just for the fun of it, instead of a more dreadful purpose. In thanking Fefo, I teared up, reminding him that we first met when he was even younger than Chemo, and I was just so grateful that someone had enough faith in Chemo that he could accomplish the tricky routines. We borrowed the long-sleeved shirt from Dora’s son Tito, the dark glasses from her brother Oscar, the necktie was a relic from Pablito and Chepito’s First Communion; we had to buy the “boina,” or cap, and new shiny black shoes. Another nay-sayer says, “See, it’s just commerce, exploiting the poor.” Yes, of course, the poor we have with us always, but for one day, if your child can shine like a star, maybe the future looks brighter.

Topping off the novenarios, Lucas was born to MariEla, who is the daughter of MariCela, who is the daughter of Guillermo and Erlinda--the first great-grandchild of the family! “Lucas” was a nickname Guillermo was known by. Everybody doing fine. We thought, ah, too bad Guillermo did not live to see his bis-nieto; then we thought, no, he smoothed the way, Lucas to Lucas. We can’t stop smiling. You, too, I bet, for all the good you have done for this family!

Love, Miguel

GUILLERMO IS AN ANGEL NOW

GUILLERMO IS AN ANGEL NOW

Monday, September 9, was Chemo’s 19th birthday, but we spent most of the day watching Guillermo die.

His timing was perfect; he lived to celebrate the wedding on Saturday of his son Isaac, big celebration back at the house, full of guests, Guillermo, though bed-ridden, beaming. Out-of-towners left on Sunday, only to get urgent calls early Monday from Erlinda, Guillermo’s wife, that the end was near. Everybody headed back “home,” some arriving from San Pedro Sula on the late bus about 8:30 p.m., minutes before Guillermo breathed his last, just time for an intense farewell. He died surrounded by most of his 12 children (Dunia lives in Spain), and their children, and in-laws.

Let’s back up a little, because this news must come as a shock after Guillermo’s “miracle” operation for stomach cancer that seemed to set him firmly on the path to full recovery. But follow-up evaluation and treatment were delayed for weeks by his doctor’s “vacation.” No one here noticed! Guillermo was happy as a lark; he even started preaching again on Sundays in Paraiso. When he finally did “check in,” the doctor panicked or something and huge bouts of radiation and then chemo were begun. Were they making up for lost time? No one ever saw a crowded schedule like this, especially for someone supposedly “cancer-free.” Almost 40 days of radiation (and you could see the blackened patch on his back where the radiation burned through), tailing into chemo gone wild.  Erlinda says they overdosed on the chemo; after 4 treatments in a row, with Guillermo weak but still talking, walking, and eating, somebody apparently misunderstood the regimen and ordered another round of 4 chemos right away. But Erlinda is not blaming anybody. “It was meant to be.” That’s just what my former student, now Dr. Justin Diedrich, told me his grandmother used to say in Yiddish: “b’shert.”

So Guillermo came home too weak to do anything but throw up, as I reported in the last CASA. A brief respite came when I finally found the absurdly expensive “Modifical” that had been prescribed. (I can’t imagine many Hondurans without fantastic friends like you who could even afford such a thing!) After just two of the tiniest pills you ever saw, Guillermo’s stomach calmed, he slept 14 hours straight, and awoke with a smile--and an appetite, ready for the wedding of his son. But I guess it was too little too late. After the glow of the wedding, the darkness. Erlinda was his--and our--light throughout. No hysterics for her, her faith measured in service as she prepared us lunch during the death-watch, and later coffee and rolls. With help, of course. You know how people will say, “If there’s anything I can do....” Well, here, no one asks that question: they just DO.

In his very last moments, such a crowd around Guillermo, all I could see were his toes, twitching little flashes of life, till they finally stilled, like Tom Hanks’ nervous hand in “Saving Private Ryan.” Then the cry went up, a howling and screaming, a couple faintings, desperate hugs, a swirl of bodies. I’m lost in a tumble of thoughts myself, when Erlinda calmly makes her way over to me: “Miguel, we need your chairs.” Duh! I should have thought of that myself! The same chairs I had just loaned for the overflow crowd at the church two days before. (Actually, 11 couples united in that grand Mass.)

As folks settled in the for all-night wake, a celebración was planned, scripture readings, preaching, etc. Again Erlinda: “We’re going to sing, aren’t we? Guillermo had so many songs he loved.” And she started ticking them off by number from the hymnal. Well, Guillermo couldn’t carry a tune, but he did love to sing. Now he’s an angel, in the heavenly choir.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2013

“BENDICION”

THE BEACON spruced up last month’s CASA:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/32153/voices_dulick_manuel_073113

See you soon!
I’ll be in St. Louis Sep 17 - Oct 15, at Teresa Jorgen’s:
731 Simmons Ave. Kirkwood, MO 63122 (314-966-5782);
also available by my cell phone 314-210-5303.

At this point, I hesitate to say anything definitive about Guillermo. Cancer is a monster, no matter how you engage it. But chemo is a WMD, too. Guillermo’s back home, now, in Las Vegas, emaciated, shriveled, and weak as a pillow case after 35 days of radiation and about 6 rounds of chemo. (I just couldn’t take a picture of him like that; the photo included here is BEFORE all the treatments.) For all of you who have carried him with prayer and lifted him up in your kind thoughts, thank you. And for your donations that have made his travel, lodging, meds, and treatments possible, words cannot match your generosity. Every time Guillermo and his wife Erlinda reach the end of their rope, I hammer my way into my balky Yahoo mail and see that someone has thrown us another line.

His next appointment is September 16, with another one scheduled for September 30 and yet another October 15. Erlinda and Guillermo are so discouraged they really don’t want any more. “Miguel, we’re done.” Maybe in the States you have more confidence in  the ultra-modern “health center” for your monthly dose, but it’s a whole other experience to trundle six or seven hours in a bus Indiana Jones wouldn’t ride to a place that could serve as a set for “The Conjuring.” You get discouraged sometimes. I have seen dear friends on Caring Bridge struggle with and master the cancer anaconda and write about it with almost celestial eloquence. But it gives me the chills. Facing death, how do you let a raft of strangers--doctors, nurses, technicians, not to mention machines--get involved with the most pressing intimacies of your life? I guess that’s absurd, huh? My own son is named Chemo! Of course, it’s short for Anselmo, but every time I say it or see it now, I want to scream.

No doubt, Guillermo will resume the fight, and with your help, hope is re-born.

Taking my own medicine, you might say, I swallowed hard and paid my $400 light bill. I was in mourning the rest of the day. It’s a huge mistake; they are charging me for months that I already paid, but I decided I better get it off the books before I go to the States, and I just hope that once they see the error of their ways they will cut me a deal on future bills. I have gone round and round with the electric company, and, like Guillermo’s cancer, there seems to be no end. But I couldn’t have paid a dime without a little help from my friends--you know who you are!--who somehow went above and beyond, even to the point of throwing good money after bad. Thank you!

Manuel keeps improving, after his grievous brush with death following epileptic seizures. He’s actually resumed his visits to my house. I anticipated his return, after I saw how hungrily he ate Chemo’s leftovers when I went up to Terrero Blanco where Manuel lives, and I had the makings for--can I say this without laughing?--spaghetti Bolognese on hand. Oh, it’s just pasta doused with a little tomato paste/sauce and a good handful of “carne molida” (ground beef). And a two-liter soda. I had to take a picture quick before he devoured it. But he did not eat it all, so I packed it up to take home for later. (He ate it as soon as he got home, I learned later.) When he didn’t come back down to Las Vegas for about a week, I went up again to visit, this time with spaghetti and chicken. He looked really good, and he sang and joked more than ever. These hikes just knock me out, so I had to laugh when he showed up at my house only a half hour after I got home! Still hungry. Manuel’s photo graces the cover of my new photobook, “Dios Es Amor” (‘God Is Love’), which I just uploaded to Apple. You’ll see it in St. Louis!

Speaking of Chemo, he’s on life-support, academically speaking. His latest grades seemed hopeless, though I was not going to shame him or humiliate him, until Profe Flor told me he does not even go to class anymore! He sort of hides out in the far corner of the campus, virtually invisible under some shady trees. Nevertheless, Profe Horacio, co-principal with Flor, made Chemo a proposal: “Chemo, if you pass the next two quarters, we’ll pass you for the year.” So he’s actually applying himself a little more! It’s his last chance.

Don Ramiro, who celebrated his 100th birthday a couple months ago (see the June CASA), died peacefully last week. This was one funeral, including another home Mass with Padre Manuel, that satisfied the soul, celebrating such a full life. The novenario was nine days of conversations, everyone eager to participate with stories and memories, rather than a lengthy mourning.

Right on cue, as it were, arrived Ramiro’s neighbor Paola’s 100th birthday. She is weak but still attentive and alert. And another Mass with Padre Manuel! He said the other day that nowadays people only believe what they see, so, “We try to be everywhere.” And he and Padre Jaime are doing a great job of it! But Manuel will be stretched a little thin the next six months while Jaime is in Cuba for final formation as a Jesuit. Paola’s family is a church in itself; her children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren are everywhere, too, as teachers, delegados, catechists, Youth Group, you name it, preaching the faith “in season and out of season,” as St. Paul prescribed.

Padre Jaime’s send-off was August 24 at the annual all-parish gathering that concludes the “Month of the Family.” Las Vegas’ population tripled, at least for a few hours, as we celebrated with a Mass, various performances, and of course lots of tasty food. Mindful of his departure, no doubt, Jaime preached from the heart and performed a couple songs himself. “IMPACTO,” the theater wing of the Youth Group, did a mime piece they had tracked down on YouTube, and Doricell led an all-girl band in a catchy song her father Elvis composed for the occasion.

A much smaller group but just as enthusiastic gathered for Elio’s 63rd birthday August 28. I made a special trip to Tegucigalpa to attend. I wanted to take Chemo, but I thought I better not ask for another three-day “permiso” just after they promised him success at the school. I compensated by bringing him back one of these cheap iPod Nano knock-offs they sell on the streets for about 5 bucks. Years ago, before Elio had so many grandchildren, these parties were a little more formal. Now they are free-for-alls, and the kids take the lead. Of course, the festivities end a little earlier now too, bedtime on a school night, you know!

As I have noted before, one of my proudest accomplishments here was to break the habit folks had of derogatory nicknames, such as “Mudo” for Juan Carlos or “Mongolito” for Ery. Now I’m starting a new trend, let’s see how it goes. Children customarily ask a “Bendicion” (‘blessing’) from their godparents, uncles and aunts, and parents, any adult relative, really. The response is “Bendiga” (short for ‘God bless you’). Well, my variation is to ask the KIDS for a blessing. I got the idea from Pope Francis, who surprised the adoring crowds in Vatican Square, eager for the blessing of the new pope, by asking first for THEIR blessing, and you may remember how deeply he bowed his head to receive it. In its full form, the blessing includes placing your hand (preferably both hands) on the child’s head. It’s catching on a little, at least among Chemo’s family, and Maricela’s, too. Don’t be surprised if I spring it on YOU, too!

But you have already so richly blessed me and all of us here that my head is always bowed.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2013

RENEWAL

THE BEACON “crowned” my last newsletter in memorable fashion.

https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/31748/voices_dulick_death_070713

I’ll be in St. Louis September 17 to October 15. I would love invitations to speak at your school!

Well, now, don't make the same mistake Julio Burgos did when he heard that Guillermo was getting "chemicals." He thought Guillermo had died and was getting embalmed! "Gotta bring him back for the funeral." In fact, Guillermo is not getting "quimio" (chemotherapy) at all, but the gentler version of radiation. He's just finished the first week of 35 daily treatments. I  saw him and Erlinda this morning at the out-patient clinic at San Felipe Hospital in Tegucigalpa. He's in good spirits, in fact they both are, and that has a lot to do with YOU. They thank you all over again for your renewed commitment to their health. And I include both, because Erlinda will miss her own appointment in Progreso next week, so I gave her some money for her diabetes medicine Metformina. They are staying with family in barrio Santa Fe here in the capital. Guillermo will be re-evaluated midway through this cycle of treatment, so keep up the good work! I am piecing together your donations as soon as they come in, and meanwhile the lovely quilt of your prayers and kind thoughts is one size fits ALL.

I'm grateful for your help, too, with my $400 light bill. The latest bill was normal (about $50), so maybe the Electric Company will come to their senses and admit their mistake. If not, it's lights out for me. I'll have to get a job at Walmart. Just kidding...I hope.

I came to Tegucigalpa to get my computer repaired. The "Superdrive" keeps spitting out any disc I put in. Apparently hauling a laptop for hours on end on a bouncing bus over dusty roads takes its toll. Fortunately, it's covered by AppleCare, but while they get the new part from Miami, I'll be limping along, computer-wise for at least two weeks. God only knows what this CASA looks like on your screen. I'm patching it together at a cybercafe on a computer with a broken space bar. 

But this letter is about hope!

When Pope Francis spent last week in Brazil at the World Youth Day, I think a lot of us got inspired all over again about taking our faith "outside," where the poor are. To serve the poor, to live with the poor, to share our life together, a mutual exchange that transcends any "religious" differences or distinctions. The other day, rumors were flying that Manuel, the young man I mentioned before as our 'poster child' for poverty in Las Vegas, had died suddenly. Epileptic and mentally retarded, not to mention the victim-son of  Renan, an unregenerate drunk, he could go at any time, you'd say. Folks were gathering for an evening Mass, and everyone was asking me about him. I guess I was very happy to know how many people were concerned, and that they felt I had some special relationship with Manuel. I called the only two phone numbers I had for Terrero Blanco, where Manuel lives, and got no answer. The weird thing is, a group of us had just spent all morning in Terrero Blanco at a church meeting, and no one said a word about Manuel. And I, old and decrepit, was too worn out from the hike even to stop by his house. But now I burst into action. I spotted a couple kids from Terrero Blanco and asked what they knew. Nothing. But did they have a cell phone they could call someone? Word came back that Manuel was in "agonia." When no one came during Mass or afterwards to ring the funeral bell, I thought at least he's still alive, and I would go up to Terrero Blanco in the morning, since by now it was dark--and dangerous. 

Next morning, I was getting ready to go when Manuel's grandfather Pilo comes down my street. It seems that last night, Oracio, a teacher at the school who has a nice truck, went up to Terrero Blanco to get Manuel and bring him to Pilo's house in Las Vegas. I was not sure what I would see, but when I got there, Manuel was moving, awake, even taking a little soup. Maybe he had a little stroke or something. He could not stand or walk without a lot of help. He could only respond about once every five minutes to questions. I gave the family some money, but not even Oracio was convinced that they would take proper care of Manuel.

A few days later Manuel was back in Terrero Blanco, and when I saw Chemo's supper in the fridge untouched from the previous night, and a cool, overcast day, I had my "sign," and I set off. A dear friend of mine served as a chaplain at an old folks home, and taught me that even persons who seem totally out of it can still sing, and when one old lady pulled him near to whisper in his ear, she was reciting the "Our Father." Manuel was sort of nested in a filthy bed, but he managed to sit up and enjoy the food I had brought, along with a cold soda. His sister and sister-in-law are helping take care of him, and a younger brother Dennis. And some neighbors check in as well. And then he sang. "God is here and He loves me. He sees me in the streets and comes to visit me." I actually think he might have been inventing that one! Four songs, actually, each one at least twice. And when I tried the "Our Father" deal, he picked it right up. Otherwise, he barely said anything, just gazed with wide eyes. His father Renan was "fishing," they said. Good thing I didn't see him.I woulda made HIM sing, ya know what I mean....

Three big events related to school kept everybody busy. Another round of 600 nacatamales for a fundraiser. I hated to see the women work so hard at it, but they voted for it, so I did my best to get supplies and then visit each of the three groups about four times apiece as they labored all day and into the night to fill their quota. Another big success.

The Day of Lempira, the heroic native who resisted the Spanish invasion over 500 years ago, was celebrated July 20 in Nueva Palmira. Because of the many schools participating, only the top two students from each grade were invited. Well, that left Chemo out! The boys dress up like warriors, the girls like princesses. But for me anyway, the highlight was Hermana Pilar, a nun from Spain who has visited us ever since Hurricane Mitch in 1998. She has not been here for several years, so I was eager to get a photo of her with Eli, the little boy whose life she saved when he was almost dead from malnutrition, a two-year-old at the time that practically fit in your two cupped hands. This day, he was Lempira!

Then Earth Day the next weekend in Carrizal. This time, everybody was invited, if you could afford the bus fare! Chemo definitely wanted to go to this, especially when I agreed to pay for, as he put it, "two girls I'm friends with." This celebration of how we're all so worried about the Earth, 'cause you know it's in "agonia," and we're all going to work together to save it, involves competitions, in costumes, paintings, "maquetas" (models), and above all in song. Only problem is, the losers throw fits, as one school did when their performance got Second Place. They wouldn't even accept their prizes. Sorry, Earth, looks like you're on your own! But, really, they should have rejoiced for the winner, a terrific sixth-grader from Guachipilin who wrote his own song and American-Idol'ed the heck out of it. 

I have to include here (partly because I don't know how to remove it on this borrowed computer!) a beautiful picture of Virginia Ramos, on her birthday, from when Chemo and I visited Morazan the beginning of July. I've known her and her family since my very first visit to Honduras in 1977, and I swear she never seems to age!

Little Fernanda is having birthdays, too, and her daddy Jalmar and mommy Delia invited me to the party for her third one to take pictures. You will have to photoshop a smile on her face, because she's still not so sure about the protocol.

Last year at this time, we were planning my brother John's funeral, a perfect day in Forest Park at a picnic ground near his beloved Muny. Apparently, John is still leaving "signs" of his presence there. If you go as the season of shows comes to an end, you might buy a box of popcorn--and share it. That was John's first job in high school, and he may still be "hawking" his wares.

Thank you for your presence, wherever you are, wherever I am.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2013

ONE FROM THE HEART

The Beacon polished up last month’s report:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/31229/voices_dulick_poor_060313

Sunday, June 16, was a day full of promise. In the morning, a special Mass with 15 boys and girls making their First Communion. In the afternoon, a new session of about 20 couples already in committed relationships for years, now preparing for the “sacrament” of matrimony.

Little did I realize the chasm that would open at our feet, leaving the whole town staring into the abyss. As the couples group was breaking up, and I love to just sort of sit in, the smiles and relaxed touches suddenly met confusion outside. But I blithely walked along till Tala’s stricken face stopped me. She answered the question I did not even have to ask.  “Tres muertos.” Three dead, Chimon, his wife Santos, and their grandson David, 17, murdered, shot up in an ambush near San Antonio, about an hour from Las Vegas. Chimon is always on the move with his big truck, packed with building supplies or enormous bags of grain and coffee, trips to San Pedro every week, usually 3 or 4 extra “hands” riding in the bed to help with the loading and unloading. This time, only one, Ery, my neighbor with Down Syndrome. That’s what Tala was trying to tell me! “No one knows where Ery is!” Did he get away? Did they go after him? Is he dead, too? If Ery is gone, too, cry havoc....

For one very long hour, we held our breath, till word came that Ery had been picked up by the late bus, due in Las Vegas about 6:30 p.m. Min’s bus, first one out at 5:00 in the morning, to San Pedro and back the same, long day. Every time there is a death, I discover more connections. When the very first person who clasped and held Ery off the bus was Maria Juana Vianney, one of the leaders of our parents association, I learned Ery is her godson.

They brought the bodies back the next day; they arrived in three stately caskets, their heads heavily capped. The truck was recovered, too, but I was relieved to find its cab covered with an ample tarp, to conceal, as I had heard, the splashes of blood and brain and scalp. That tragic line-up of three caskets seemed almost absurd, a wicked joke. How much can you take? You just felt helpless, moving from one to another and back again, each an incomprehensible sight. Did this really happen? That was the theme on FACEBOOK, too, as word got around to Las Vegans around the country and in the States.

I had just seen Chimon a couple days ago, still limping heavily from a broken leg when he fell asleep at the wheel last year and crashed; he just wasn’t patient enough to let it heal right, and ever in good spirits, his lame walk from a distance looked more like a dance. Santos I barely knew, but her hospitality was legendary. David was a big kid, and he looked huge in his casket, so cramped in there I was sure he would get up and stretch.

David was a prominent member of the Youth Group, so it was no surprise that Padre Manuel arrived at the house in an early-morning rain. He held an impromptu prayer service. The gospel reading of the day just happened to be from the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus says, “You have heard it said, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ but I say offer no resistance to evildoers.” Padre Manuel, who as a priest in El Salvador, must have given this sermon a hundred times before, reminded us that violence, revenge, hatred, is not the way of resolving conflicts. It was fitting and passionate, but afterward it occurred to me he had not mentioned “resurrection.” Hope, yes, but unspecified. Later that day, Manuel offered Mass in the front yard of the house for a large crowd, including Ery moving along the edges, where I sought him out to hold his hand during the “Our Father.” Again, Manuel gave a powerful defense of love and forgiveness to break the cycle of violence, but still no “resurrection.” I thought, am I the odd one? It’s such a natural theme at times like this that I wondered if Manuel was just determined not to spout cliches. Indeed, I questioned myself, do I take this article of faith for granted, so automatic a comfort? Do I actually believe it, after all?

By the time it was my turn to preach at the novenario a couple days later, I had searched my soul and searched the scriptures and re-found my faith, starting from scratch, you might say. So I leapt into the resurrection like a cliff-diver. I hoped I was not just indulging “my thing,” but this family and our whole community was down for the count. As Martin Luther King said when he nearly despaired after so many death threats, bending over a cup of coffee at midnight, “I discovered then that religion had to become real to me, and I had to know God for myself.” This was real! And a couple days later, when I got another chance, I realized no one had mentioned Ery yet. So I leapt on that, too. As best as we can figure, the killers let Ery go because he cannot talk. His “handicap” saved his life! And really ours, too. So there’s the caution for the “quality-of-life” philosophers who deny the dignity of human diminishment. But Ery is far from safe himself. Maria Juana especially is keeping close watch on him, from medical attention (“injections” of B Vitamins, a sort of cure-all around here) to sitting and “talking” and loving touches, and comfort food, too. I guess we are pretty primitive, compared to professional help in the States. (Is there even such a specialty as “Down Syndrome psychologist”?)

At the regular Sunday Mass a week later, Padre Jaime also did not mention resurrection. He was certainly passionate enough. “If you hate, you do not believe in Christ! If you kill, you do not believe in Christ! If you lie or gossip, you do not believe in Christ!” But he seemed to blame us for the violence, with the whole family sitting right in front of him. “You let me know if you’re going to keep this up, because if you are, I won’t be your pastor any more!” I don’t know. In such emptiness, I suppose I would opt for the “Comfort ye my people” approach, the way Handel’s “Messiah” starts. I felt like saying, and I did say later at the novenario, if Padre Jaime doubts our faith, let him come to the novenario!

It really was something, the novena of mourning. Usually, after the initial wake, I get most of my chairs back. This was the first novenario I’ve seen where they kept adding chairs and benches and church pews every day. The whole nine days were a witness to our faith, Catholics and evangelicals alike. The thought occurred to me, there are three dead, there should be three novenarios, one after the other. But there are limits! The family, though much consoled, were completely exhausted. Every day they prepared refreshments for us, and on the last day, platefuls of tasty food. Padre Manuel offered a final Mass at the house for the occasion. Still no resurrection; in fact, you could tell that the depth of the tragedy was getting to him, too. “With this Mass, we finish the mourning, and tomorrow we pick up our lives again and move forward,” but neither his voice nor his demeanor was convincing. I wanted to tell him about the resurrection! But I felt more like crying than ever. As a gentle rain fell and we huddled for shelter, Manuel said, “These are God’s tears,” a metaphor he denied when it rained at the first Mass (“This rain means life!”). The beautiful thing was that the rain kept us all together even after the Mass ended, just talking and thinking and finishing up the leftovers, as if no one ever wanted to leave, till even the family stopped “waiting” on us and just sat down, really for the first time in nine days. It was a liturgy all its own, till at last the weather cleared and stars came out and folks headed for home.

The next morning, another lovely custom: coronation, that is, decorating or “crowning” the grave with all the flowers, remembrances, and settings that have accumulated during the novenario. The tomb was stunning; perhaps befitting a man in the construction business, it is a work of art, a spacious bed of concrete overlaid with emerald-green ceramic tiles, and three metal plaques, each etched with photo, dates, and biblical citation. Ana, Chimon and Santos’s very capable daughter, had asked me, “You know, we’re pretty ignorant about the Bible, could you suggest some quotations?” Well, I had to answer that! “Any family that has as much love as this one does, and shares it so freely, is NOT ignorant about the Bible! I can suggest some words, but YOU are living the message!”

You almost hope that, if you really dwell on this death, these deaths, somehow it will stem the tide and hold off another onslaught. But even our catastrophe was just a drop in the bucket of a country swimming in massacres. A few days before, a young policeman, his wife, and baby were killed in a town some miles away. A few days after, in another town, four killed and ten wounded at a church service! Escaping the violence has become the number one reason--not economics--Hondurans give for braving the gangs and deserts along the border to get into the United States, 100,000 a year.

So that’s why I cringed at the thought of Chemo joining the soccer players for a game in San Pedro Sula between Las Vegans from here and Las Vegans working or studying in San Pedro. “If you go, Chemo, I’m going with you.” It was the start of a mid-semester break at school, and Chemo hadn’t had much “fun” this year, so we went, my finger on the trigger, as it were.

Actually, the expense was the really scary thing about the trip. Can I just interrupt myself to put my cards on the table? I just got socked with a $400 light bill (it’s usually no more than $50) and I can’t pay it. It’s cut the legs out from under me, as far as helping anyone, which means I’ve lost my reason for being here. Everyone--except the Electric Company--says it’s a huge mistake, and I’m trying desperately to rectify the situation, but you know nobody robs you more efficiently than the government, so I’m scared to death. And that’s just the tip of iceberg. Whenever possible, I use a credit card, so I’ll “never” have to pay. So I’ve done a pretty good job of robbing myself! It’s a problem of my own making, obviously, since I give everything away, a habit I learned from some very excellent people, including my sister Nancy and the new Pope, following Francis of Assisi’s example, which is not helping my situation! I thought I could wait till I got to the States to beg, but I better get going, as unseemly as I may appear. Can you help? Just know your prayers and lovingkindness are as tangible as any donation, since my spirits are as low as my funds.

Anyway, victim of a misguided austerity, I refused to buy Chemo some soccer shoes, called “tacos.” So righteous I am. But once the game started, and I saw him on the sidelines, I said, “Let’s get you some shoes!” I knew on a busy Saturday afternoon in Choloma (a suburb of San Pedro), we’d find tacos pretty quickly, even though the first person we asked pointed unhelpfully to a stand across the street offering “Tacos, Enchiladas, Burritos.” No! We need SHOES! A few short blocks in and out put us in front of Oliver’s Shoe Store, and twenty minutes later we were back at the stadium.

Chemo played the whole second half, and he was so thrilled just to get into the game, but of course he had to keep his game face on, you know, lest someone think this was just child’s play. Meanwhile, I snapped enough pictures to fill a book.

When our bus spent the whole next day in the shop getting its brakes fixed (details, details!), Chemo and I finally opted for a bus to Morazan, to visit Fermin and Maria and family, which was our vacation plan anyway; we just showed up a day early. There we spent the rest of the week, and we loved it! But I did not have my computer, so that’s why this CASA is delayed till now. It’s OK, because, except for the last couple paragraphs, I didn’t want to write it anyway. You may feel the same way about reading it.....

But you are my life!

Miguel

SAVE THE DATES! (SEP 17-OCT 15). ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2013

SAVE THE DATES! I’ll be in St. Louis September 17 to October 15, 2013.

It took 10 years I guess, but I finally had enough “frequent-flyer” miles (35,000) to get a free trip! I was pretty nervous as I picked my way through the United (nee Continental) website, and when I hit a snag (“You need 14,000 more miles”), I was ready to call. I had already stocked my cell phone with extra minutes. A wonderful agent named Patricia quickly assessed the situation and said I if came one day earlier my free seat would be available. So I’ll come to St. Louis without an $800 deficit (the price of a ticket) before I even arrive.
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ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2013

CHILI TODAY, HOT TAMALE

THE BEACON made a nice thing of my last report; take a look:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/30770/voices_dulick_fiesta_050713

Actually, I’m not sure I’ll get a big welcome in St. Louis if I come with my hand out again. Because I have a lot of deficits! All three of my credit cards are gasping for breath, and my bank account is running on fumes. I had to crawl to my bank in Yoro three times this month, just to eke out a little more credit. I get my monthly pension from Parkway, of course, but I’m like Oliver Twist. “Please, sir, I want some more.”

What happened? Just look at Chemo’s family. So often I see on FACEBOOK parents flummoxed and floundering with a sick child. Soon they are swathed in Like’s and  Comment’s, followed by updates from a miraculous health-care system. Albita, Chemo’s 2-year-old niece, and Keila, his 2-year-old cousin, were recently like a tagteam, each getting sicker than the other. An adult might weather the storm, but when it’s a baby, you panic. So off we go to the best doctor in the area, Dr. Wilmer Landa in Victoria. What am I supposed to say? “I can’t afford it”? Then Dania, Keila’s aunt, kept getting sicker, scaring me pretty good when she could barely move, her legs as heavy as lead. An alarmist I guess, I thought she might be experiencing the onset of MS. Turns out it was a heavy dose of tonsillitis, and again Dr. Wilmer saved the day, and emptied my wallet.

But the poster child for the Las Vegas run of “Les Miserables” has to be Manuel from Terrero Blanco. Son of the inveterate drunk Renan, this poor child of God lost his mother Maria Enemecia to cancer in February (see the March CASA). He comes down the mountain every day now, to my house, mourning his mother; mentally retarded and epileptic, he can barely express, or contain, himself. “Miguel, look at me. My mother died. I miss her.” Even the Phenobarbital I keep him supplied with can’t stop the seizures anymore. I’m pretty much at a loss myself. Every day he needs something, a flashlight, new boots, a machete, always money for food. Dorothy Day, who loved the poor to the point of sainthood, warned us do-gooders that the poor can wear you out. One day, I got so annoyed with Manuel that I pushed him out the door. Like Lennie in “Of Mice and Men,” he instinctively raised the broken blade of his machete, and he might have killed me, but I grabbed him and hugged him, till we both calmed down. I wept like Simon Peter when he denied Jesus, and swore to myself I’d never “deny” Manuel again.

Let’s just say, if I sold my house, I’d break even. That’s what I tell kids who pester me every day for “provision” and every night for a soda. “I need my money for emergencies!” But when poverty itself is an emergency, it’s hard to graph the triage. I guess I’m like James Tyrone in “Long Day’s Journey into Night” crying “poor house” all the time till he poisons every relationship in his whole family. After all, I asked for this, and after the way help poured in for Guillermo--who you are STILL helping as he gets ready for another post-op check-up--I just sound ungrateful.

But I have been thinking about a fund raiser. The artist-formerly-known-as-Chepito, who now goes by “Jose,” is still churning out the drawings. What are they worth? I might follow the example of Maude Frickert, a character created by the late, great Jonathan Winters, selling greeting cards. “They cost $10,000; that way I only have to sell ONE.” Just kidding!

I’ve been getting lessons in fund raising in my role as president of the Junta Directiva, the officers of the parents association at the school. In fact, raising money is our only job description, I’d say. I had thought some ideas might be discussed or issues, but the problems are much more concrete, in fact, the problems ARE concrete, and canaletas, and zinc, etc., for the two new classrooms under construction. So we meet to promote “activities,” to raise money. I call the meetings, but I’m really more like a silent partner than a president, since I’m clueless. And they understand that; when I wanted a picture of the Junta, no one even suggested, Hey, Miguel, YOU should be in the picture, too! I think I was “chosen” because folks thought I had a pipeline from the U.S. flowing with cash. But I cede the direction to Profe Flor, who is not shy at all about taking the initiative.

Our first fundraiser was rather modest. During the recent annual fair that I talked about last month, we sold “orchata,” a popular flavored drink, in little plastic bags. It was slow going, three long days as we sat at the edge of the soccer field with music blasting out of huge speakers and another nearby tent hawking “COLD BEER.” (Guess who had more customers!) I wouldn’t have had to spend so much time, since Minga, Maria, and Doris, and Juana and Gloria were all taking turns, and no one even expects a man to “do” food, but I was there as support. Our biggest sale was the 30 bags that I bought myself and gave out at a dawn service up at the church.

Flor immediately “suggested” we invest the proceeds in another, bigger project, nacatamales. This would really rake in the cash, because every kid in school would have to buy one, or two if they were in high school. I couldn’t even imagine how this would work, though of course everyone was telling me at the meetings. I finally got it. Flor, in the name of the Junta, obliged the teachers to oblige their students to oblige their parents to cough up 8 Lempiras per tamale. It works, don’t you know, because each teacher is responsible for their class; if the kids don’t pay, the teacher has to make up the deficit. So let me tell you, no coin was left behind! And if I, as the “face” of this Ponzi scheme, weren’t such a nice guy, the parents would have probably lynched me!

This was a big deal, 600 tamales. But, again, no one even suggested I attempt any cooking, so I did all I could to fill in the gaps, shuttling between three different “equipos,” or teams, a go-fer for firewood, palm leaves, corn grinding, vegetables, and chicken and whatever else. In fact, I “cheated” and got extra chicken so the tamales, usually a Christmas treat, would be even richer. I spent my own money on the supplies, you know, to increase the profit margin. I also played parent to quite a few of the poorer kids whose mommy or daddy could not afford the 8 Lempiras for their tamale. It was the least I could do, since the women did all the hard work. But Minga, bless her heart, led the chorus of thanks at the end of day. “Miguel, you were the only one [meaning the only man] who helped us. You were always right there.” Flor, more hard nosed, wasn’t thanking anybody till the money was counted. “The ‘billetes’ [bills, as in dollar bills] will tell the story.” So she made Maria, the treasurer, sit right down and total up. Pretty soon everyone was counting and re-counting, till Flor was satisfied that our goal of 4000 Lempiras ($200) had been met. Then she sprung for a couple big sodas to share with the crew. And chips. I have to hand it to her, she keeps us focused. Next up, baleadas!

The rewards of the “poor house” are so abundant that I cannot even think about leaving. For example, the birthdays, when we get a chance to celebrate them, including don Ramiro, turning 100 and still with it, his devoted gaze at his sister Olimpia worth the price of admission. Little Beatriz with her first birthday cake ever, a “loaner,” as it were, since it was an unsold Mother’s Day cake the local store had in reserve. A few days later, her daddy Marcos‘ birthday, 29, Chemo’s cousin. That same day, Yoemi (pronounced “Jamie”) had her first birthday and Cristian and Aurora, against all odds, managed to persuade Profe Flor to give them a little discount on the cake she’s famous for. A long hike (they told me it was “across the river”) up, way up, to Quebrada de Agua to see one of the most active communities around, led by Ines and his wife Ana, even though it’s a challenge to  look a man in the face and call him “Agnes.” There’s a lot of other blessings--Chemo ALMOST passing a test--but I hope you can see even in the things that break your heart, a Spirit is at work, promising our common humanity.

After a few false starts, “invierno” (“winter”) finally burst from the heavens at 3:00 in the afternoon with a wild storm of deluging rain and whipping winds on May 31st, the same day, I believe, that folks in St. Louis were diving for cover from tornadoes. While you were heading for the basement; we found ourselves stranded at the highest point in town, huddled in the little church, where we were closing out the month of “las flores,” the daily devotion of children bringing flowers to Mary’s shrine. Almost tore the roof off the place! But after forty minutes or so, the calm returned and we finished up with coffee and rolls.

Now the plowing, planting, and scare-crowing will begin in earnest, as the seed corn falls into the ground and and dies and soon puts up a sheen of green shoots on the black earth. Mud everywhere for the next five months, buses slipping up and down unpaved roads, clothes never quite drying on the line, I’ve already lost one umbrella. But plenty of water at last in the pipes and faucets. I don’t have to bathe out of bucket anymore. And La Pena, the mountain that defines our landscape, no longer shrouded in a haze of heat, wears a shawl of fluffy fog in the morning. I suggested to Chepito--I mean, Jose--that he try to draw the full moon that shone like a spotlight in the clear night. “Nature” is not his forte, so when he came a couple nights later with the drawing, I offered some constructive criticism. “The moon should be more white; this is so yellow, how can you tell it’s the Moon?” He put me in my place. “It’s full of stars.” Blue stars. The kid’s a genius!

But Chemo is my hero. When first-quarter grades came out and Chemo was at the bottom, I wasn’t even going to show them to him. Till he insisted. And he immediately started talking about “next year,” when he’d do better. He gets up and goes to school every day, it has to be a literal drag, but his teachers love him like their own child, he causes no problems, plays with everybody, no one has more friends.

What with the electricity going off half the time, and the Internet spoiling for a fight, I wrote this CASA out in longhand first. Now I have a better appreciation for what I put you through! If you’re still reading, thank you!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2013

MERCY, MERCY

The Beacon illuminates my last report:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/30177/voices_dulick_holy_040213

Let’s start again with more good news about Guillermo! He’s back home in Las Vegas, enjoying a relaxed recovery, still weak--no reason to rush this--but buoyed by Erlinda’s attentive care and tasty menus. I can attest to both, especially the latter. You’re in the house any longer than 10 or 15 minutes and she’s got a plate of food in your hand, or, most recently, a big cup of mango juice.

I thought the surgeons would just extract the cancerous pocket from Guillermo’s stomach, but when Erlinda showed me the papers, photos, and drawings, it appears they actually cut Guillermo’s stomach in two, above and below the cancer, and sutured the remainder to the colon. Wow! That seems pretty radical, and I would have been even more doubtful of Guillermo’s survival if I’d had any idea they would do that! My faith in Honduran medicine is renewed. But the real miracle, that baffled even the doctors, is that subsequent tests show no metastasis at all. Erlinda showed me that page three times, and Guillermo was practically speechless, just smiling ear to ear. And again and again, they thanked me for your help. “We just could not have done this without that help,” basically because everything had to be paid in advance. So count yourselves “first responders,” as fast on the scene as the spirited folks of Boston.

Chemo could use some kind of metastasis. His math teacher told him he does not have a single point, he’s flunked every quiz. “I can do the homework, I can’t do the tests.” But I keep encouraging him. Hey, even zero is a number, so that’s SOMETHING, right?

But I knew I could not take him to Tegucigalpa, and miss school, as I kept postponing a trip because I didn’t want to leave him behind. But he actually told me to go, when it seemed I’d get him a new phone for the one that seems to have been stolen. So I finally went, knowing that Chemo’s brother Marcos was still there.

In Tegus, Roberto, world’s best cab driver, was waiting for me. We swept by Barrio Suyapa to pick up Marcos, but the minute we got to the hotel, even while we were still hugging Angelica, Marcos’ bright yellow tee-shirt was covered with “chilios”--tiny insects no bigger than an eyelash--leaping out of the low, leafy trees; as fast as we’d brush them off, they regrouped. They even slipped into his eyes, virtually blinding him. “Change his shirt! Change his shirt!” Angelica cried. While Marcos ran into the hotel to rinse his eyes, I ran across the street to a dollar store and got him a dark blue tee. Problem solved. Weird, huh? But that’s why we’re waiting for the rains--to wash the trees clean!

Marcos’ birthday was approaching (April 25, feast of St. Mark), and his phone had been stolen by some delinquent in his dangerous neighborhood. So I would buy two phones, one for Chemo and another for Marcos. The best price was CLARO at the Cascadas Mall (about $15 apiece), and some serendipity must have been guiding us, because as soon as we arrived Marcos lit up like a firecracker. “The Circus is here!” There it was, a bigger-than-life bigtop, a great, glowing tent, running lights on every surface, and a huge banner, “Tonight only--2 for 1.” We couldn’t miss this, though we both agreed we wouldn’t mention it to Chemo.

Circuses have become controversial in recent years, and I admit I have been cowed as well, though my whole childhood can be measured in the ecstasies of entertainment that only the circus can provide. Reading recently “The Circus that Ran Away with a Jesuit Priest” had whet my appetite again; it’s a beautiful memoir by Nick Weber, whose “Royal Lichtenstein Giant 1/4 Ring Circus,” as poetic as it was magical, entranced mostly college audiences for 20 years. I saw every performance I could ever get near. So this Suarez Brothers Circus from Mexico sitting in the Cascadas Mall parking lot was the Promised Land.

Marcos and I scurried to complete our errands, the two phones, Pizza Hut (the wings!), and other items on my list, and soon we found ourselves in the cheap seats (the best view) at the circus. It was a wonder! Maybe small in scale compared to those three-ring extravaganzas, but a series of delights and thrills, from the happiest juggler in the world, throwing balls all over the tent and catching them in his pocket, to that huge spinning wheel where the acrobat climbs out on top and keeps losing his balance--almost! Scares me to death. Only two animal acts, but they were big, literally. Sixteen horses, Clydesdales, no less, with a toy pony running in and out of their marching, dancing legs.  And just as many enormous Bengal tigers; here was “Life of Pi” without the CGI, jumping all over the cage, including through hoops of fire, and practically swallowing their tamer. I forgot my camera, so the only photo I got is the one we had to buy. But I was glad it would live in my memory.

We invited Elio and Mema to lunch at the Mirawa Restaurant the next day, and as we sat there all full, looking at platters that were still heaping, suddenly in comes Elio and Mema’s very pregnant daughter Regina and two nuns she had invited to lunch to celebrate a school they had just opened in a poor little town near Tegucigalpa. We invited them to dive in, and soon we had a party going on. Since the nuns live in the same dangerous neighborhood as Marcos, I encouraged Marcos to join their Youth Group. Lovely and lively and non-judging, Sister Teresa and Sister Suyapa reminded me of the two nuns Holden Caulfield runs into in “The Catcher in the Rye”; he keeps looking for them again, since they’re virtually the only people who don’t abuse him. But Marcos, of course, was mortified. And Teresa understood. “Don’t worry, Marcos! We won’t bite. Poor kid, he comes to lunch and gets a couple nuns sicced on him!”

Back in Las Vegas, preparations were underway for the annual Feast of the Holy Cross, May 3. Like Christmas and Holy Week, the secular and the sacred compete for attention. Nominally religious feasts, they are also vacations. When the Festival Committee showed us their plans in a tri-fold brochure for the week’s activities May 1-5, they’d left us only one night and one morning for, shall we say, Jesus.
But Padre Jaime was determined to make the most of it. First of all, he wanted the Cross to lead the parade on May 1, to set the proper tone; May 2, an evening procession through town, armed with candles and bullhorn, with six stops along the way, mostly near liquor sellers, to preach our “mission,” followed by Mass and vigil till midnight; May 3, a morning Mass for the feast itself. Attendance was huge; we’d invited every other town around us, and Padre Jaime brought his “big band” choir from Victoria to really jazz things up. And then we snuck in another morning of activities, Saturday, May 4, with games and foods and music, up at the church grounds where the Committee wouldn’t see us, for a “Family Day.”

Tipping the balance in favor of faith was a knot of novenas that were being observed the same week. The regular novena in the little church anticipating the feast, as well as the one-year anniversary of the death of Doña Sofia, the ancient lady whose family wanted to honor with a full-blown novenario, and then, unexpectedly, the death of another dear soul, Doña Mercedes, 85, prompting yet another nine-day round of prayer. My chairs were all over the place, and the Legion of Mary, in charge of all three novenas, went non-stop, 2:00 p.m., 3:30, 5:00, every day. The core of each celebration was the Rosary, customized with songs here, a meditation there, Bible readings over there. Pardon me, but I loved it! It seemed so ironic that, while there were soccer games, horse games, even pig games, not to mention drinking games every day, beauty pageants, “mojigangas” (clowns in scary masks), and beer-soaked dances at night, a steady Catholic cadenza was anchoring the week dedicated to God’s mercy. Indeed, “mercedes” means “mercy.” And Padre Manuel even offered Mass right in Mercedes’ house.

The last night of Mercedes’ novenario coincided with the finale of the Feast, Saturday, May 4. I already called her “the sweetest lady I ever met” on FACEBOOK (where a friend gently reminded me about my own mother, so I need to say, “ONE of the sweetest ladies”!), but I appreciated her even more during the novenario when her family came from far and wide to do everything first-class. Her husband Vicente, I have to admit, had been a curiosity to me. Vicente was trampled by his own horse that threw him off many years ago, leaving him misshapen but still with a quick wit unimpeded by the cracks across his skull. With his wife’s death and his family’s support, he warmed up to his Christian faith again, something he had left up to Mercedes to handle all these years. In fact, the morning Mass for the Feast doubled as a memorial Mass for Mercedes. Vicente, accompanied by children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, was in quiet tears most of the time, his crippled hands folded in prayer.

Turns out it was Vicente who, before his accident, had taught carpentry to Elvis my neighbor all those years ago. So that last night of her novenario featured a concert organized by Elvis for his “second father,” a sing-along of all our favorite church songs, while the Rey Feo (“ugly king”) contest was running in the dance hall a couple blocks away, where guys dress (or cross-dress!) as ridiculously as possible and prance and perform. You know, most of the stuff during the feast really is just a bunch of fun, things you’d never blame anyone for--especially the marimba music, good anytime--if it weren’t competing with the Cross of Christ! So live and let live, I guess. That’s a motto of A.A., always a wise touchstone. God does not hide.

I’m sorry this CASA is “late.” I decided to wait for the fiesta, partly because so much was going on I could not get it finished sooner, and partly because I was scared to death that Chemo would get drunk and lost with the abundance of temptations. He came home late most nights, but somehow kept his cool. Of course, I did find a condom in his jeans when I washed them last, but he assures me some buddy “hid” it there. If you hear any different, let me know!

Love, Miguel