Goodbye, Brother

I first met him in 1986. Without even being introduced, he caught me by surprise by sneaking up on me from behind and wrapping his arms around my chest. He greeted me in his signature baritone voice. He was drunk, and I soon learned that this was not an uncommon state for him. The next day, Felipe sobered up and we met again. He was a completely different person--a gentleman. This visit was my first to Guatemala, and Felipe became an excellent tour guide for me as we wandered through his home town of Antigua. He knew a lot about the city, even the little-known facts.


His story is a sad one, though. He began drinking as a young boy. As an alcohol-addicted adult, there were no career highlights for Felipe; it was hard for him to hold a job. He had a family, but had no family life. And it's a miracle that he lived as long as he did. He would at times return home from a night of hard drinking, battered, broken and bruised.


Eventually, Felipe needed extra care as his lifestyle became too much for his aging parents to handle. As a consequence, much of Felipe's life as an adult was spent in and out of group homes. It was locked up in these homes that ironically, Felipe was free, at least free from the alcohol that consumed him. But this was an uneasy freedom. He wasn't happy. Family members paid regular visits to him, but it was no life.


I'm not writing this to document the disease that consumed my brother-in-law, or to portray him as a drunk. I'm writing to honor the man who he was. He was a good man--"un caballero." He was a brother to nine siblings; he was an uncle and a cousin. He was related to a whole bunch of us in-laws who loved him, too. He was a son. And and he was a father.


Just a month ago, Felipe visited with his daughter. From the photos I saw, that visit made him happy. He deserved it. At the time, he was in extreme pain. The cancers that invaded his vulnerable body were making their final advances. In my last phone call to him, he sounded upbeat, saying how he'd been feeling much better. In reality he was failing fast.

On Tuesday, June 22, Felipe Leonel Piñon Bonilla went to heaven. We know he did; he was a believer. He's free now, and we'll remember him for the man he was: a true "caballero."


Adiós, Hermano. Que descanses en paz.

Creativity

Even Grandpas can make mistakes. I would like to think that grand-kids consider grandparents amazing creatures that can do no wrong. And although I try not to disappoint, I admit that from time to time, I am not perfect.

Last weekend, our twin granddaughters were at the house. To keep them occupied, I suggested they write and illustrate a story. They took to the idea right away. Caiti immediately began to lay out the story of a deer that got caught in the rain, or something like that. She dictated to me and I wrote a sentence on each page, then printed the story out on several pages, ready for drawings.

I was pleased about how I stimulated some creativity in them. Perhaps a young writer would grow out of this exercise. Caiti finished with the first page, and with some pride in her voice, showed it to me. It was a picture of a deer, with a big number "one" crowding his face.

"Oh," I said. "Usually you put the page number at the bottom of the page."

Her voice changed to a sadder tone. "I messed up," she said.

I tried to convince her that it really was OK, but the damage was done. She knew that this was a "do-over." The problem is that she never did it over. I broke the creative momentum with my editorial comment. The project now lies dormant.

That's right--me, Bubba--trying to be an editor, even with the kids. Oh, well. Live and learn.

The next day, I finished a photo project I was working on. It was an idea I had to layer photos between glass sheets. The effect is a multi-dimensional view. In this one, I took shots of the girls making funny poses one day. I then printed the photos and layered them.

This particular picture has one girl behind the other. Cori's picture turned out smaller, so I put her behind Caiti. Something in the back of my mind told me that this might be trouble; I always try to treat each of them equally.

When I showed the end results to them, Cori immediately picked up on the inequality of the project.

"Why am I behind Caiti?" she asked.

Quickly, I responded: "Uh, it's because you're special." There--Bubba fixed it.

"Does that mean Caiti is not special?" she asked.

OK, Bubba, now what?

Unique and Charming

I love to learn about the differences between countries and cultures around the world. I've bemoaned (belabored?) the fact that Costa Rica has become in some ways more American. I love my own country, but when I travel, I prefer to leave our commercialization behind as I observe and enjoy the unique and charming culture of a foreign destination.

As the world becomes smaller and more connected with satellites, cell phones, and Internet communication, some of that which makes a country unique and charming can get lost in the rush to the future. But in our recent visit to Costa Rica, I was pleased to note that one interesting feature of this country has remained. It's something that I noted as a traveling youth there almost four decades ago--postal addresses.

Most places around the world have pretty standard street addresses: a house number with a street and maybe a neighborhood designation. House numbers may be used in Costa Rica, and some people even use a post office box. But if a letter is addressed to a physical address there, it might resemble how a stranger gets directions. Here's an example, translated (note that a "vara" is roughly one yard): From the Golden Pig, go 50 varas north and 100 west. Papaya-colored house. Unique. An address familiar to me years ago translated to: Llobet Lots, 25 varas to the west of Daniel Vargas' workshop. Charming.

Over the years, the Llobet development expanded, and I learned that sadly, Daniel Vargas is gone from this earthly realm. But that address still has kept some of its charm. It is now just Llobet lots, the fifth street. This simple address (that hints at a simpler life), along with the addressee's name is enough for a letter carrier to complete the task.

The other day, I ran across a Costa Rican document for a prestigious organization. It had a professional letterhead across the top. At the bottom of the document, there was a hint of Americanization, but it also showed a resistance to change. The address of this organization was something like this: From the Pizza Hut, go south 200 varas, then west 150 varas. And if the Pizza Hut gets bought out by Starbucks, or if they ever build a Wal Mart there, I hope that at least the address will remain unique and charming.

Another Observation

My beautiful Costa Rica--how it has changed. I've commented previously on the inevitable and sometimes lamentable changes (lamentable at least to me) that have occurred in "mi segunda patria," Costa Rica. The traffic (lamentable) was one of my observations, and this is a little paradoxical to me. The bus system appears to be alive and well, even as automobile traffic has increased. My unscientific observation would be that the population has increased (duh), and maybe the person-to-car ratio is close to one-to-one, as in the states. Who knows.

The buses used to be called "cazadoras," or "hunters," and still were called that when I first stepped foot in that remarkable country in 1970. I'm not sure, but I don't recall hearing them called anything other than "bus" while I was there this year, so that distinctive name may be a thing of the past, too. "Hunters" was perhaps a slightly outdated name even in 1970, as the moniker referred to the routeless system of days gone by that had buses driving around "hunting" for passengers until full. I imagine that even in the wild days of Costa Rican buses, there had to be a general direction for each bus; I can't imagine a people so carefree as to get on a bus and pay for a who-knows-where destination.

Along with their colorful name, the Costa Rican buses during my first visit still had the vestiges of that earlier era--each bus was a former American school bus uniquely painted and decorated on the outside, and personalized by the owner/driver on the inside. Surrounding the driver might be an homage to the Virgin Mary or Jesus, lights, colorful fringes across the windshield, ribbon-wrapped steering wheel and gearshift knob, risqué cartoons and decals...you name it.

Not anymore. The Costa Rican buses today are modern homogeneous monsters that are luxurious compared to the small, hard-seated, grade school accommodations of the older models. No personalization in the cockpit, either. About the only remnant of the old days that I saw was some graffiti scrawled on the backs of some of the seats.

Money is now collected at the door. In my day, a "cobrador" would come by sometime during the trip and collect. This collector would have Colon notes folded between his fingers and coins in his palm. He would jingle the coins, alerting passengers to pay up. On my second visit in 1972, one friendly driver allowed me to be an honorary cobrador. There was a lot of wide-eyed wonder from passengers as this tall, blue-eyed, fair-skinned American kid walked and jingled coins from the front of the bus to the back, collecting and awkwardly making change.

Life goes on. My memories live inside me and I cherish them. I know that I sound older and older as I make these casual observations about the past and the present. On our last visit to Costa Rica, I mentioned to a young lady the train trips to the coast that I took in 1970 and 1972. This 22-year-old smiled at me and informed me that the trains haven't been running for a long time.

[Sigh]

Fear Itself

What's happening, friends? Why is there a split down the middle of this great nation? Why is it "us" versus "them," red state/blue state, liberal/conservative...? What's causing the division? What is it when it's all boiled down?

A friend and I came to a conclusion recently regarding that question: Fear.

Fear that "it's all going to be taken away from us." Fear that "they want us all to speak a foreign language to accommodate them." Fear that some will have to make a huge sacrifice in order to help others. And fear that "they" are going to kill us and take over the nation.

Why have some leaders expressed a desire to see our president fail? How could anyone in a legislative role sacrifice something--anything that is good for the nation so they can sabotage the plans of a leader who's not a member of their own party? And how, when a hint of success comes shining through for that leader, can anyone pledge to not cooperate with him on future legislation that could benefit our nation and even the world? What drives that kind of childishness? Fear.

When Glenn Beck cried on television, what was he fearing? The loss of an America that once was? Was it a racist, priveliged, bullying America that he was mourning? (By the way, check out this video to see how sincere he really was: http://tinyurl.com/yktaoos )

Fake journalists with fabricated opinions spew hateful garbage about groups of people they deem threatening. Or, they'll take an idea and twist it into a grotesque concept (think "death panels"). This stinking garbage gets passed around in e-mails so often that it becomes a rallying cry for those who fear. The fearful receivers of the messages close their eyes and hit "send" to everyone on their list, and the garbage becomes more strongly woven into the fabric of fear.

But fake journalists are motivated by something other than fear: Ratings and advertising dollars. So they play on the fears of a believing public to acheive their goals. They whip the people into a frenzy and encourage them to shout down leaders in public forums. They cause them to blurt out hateful things in the halls of congress. Or to spit on those that they oppose.

I fear, too. I fear that if we don't work together, if we continue to fight each other, we'll tear apart a nation that has the potential to be great.

Thirty-seven years ago I was an eighteen-year-old exchange student to Costa Rica. I said goodbye to my Costa Rican “family” and promised them I'd bring my husband with me upon my return. (I meant to say “my wife,” but my fluency in Spanish at that time was still being developed.) I returned last month with a spouse (female), and we immersed ourselves in a week with family and friends. We threw away itineraries—each day was already planned for us. We enjoyed a volcano hike, a beach trip, a wedding, an island adventure, and an excursion to Sarchí, where traditional oxcarts are still made for tourists.

After thirty-seven years, there would be changes in the country; it was a logical, practical fact. Still, I was culture-shocked on our first night there, when my Costa Rican brother took us to an American-style supermarket. The central market in Alajuela with its fruit and vegetable stalls was all I knew from my previous visit. But in this brightly-lit store, those familiar foods were also available, only in shrink-wrapped frozen packages.

The traffic everywhere was an all day, bumper-to-bumper affair. Outside of Alajuela, cars jammed the freeway to San Jose and beyond, transporting their horn-honking annoyance to the little towns of the central valley.

Crime came along with Costa Rica’s lurch into the twenty-first century. The house where I stayed is still home to my octogenarian Costa Rican mother, but now it’s locked up tight with the unfriendliness of burglar bars. When my “mom” was grabbed from behind and robbed of her jewelry at ten-thirty one morning a couple of years ago, I’m sure that she, too was saddened by this transformation of her beautiful country.

My future/culture shock was softened by the still-beautiful countryside and its incredible flora and fauna. The commercialization of some places—like the beaches—are balanced by the forward-thinking government preservation of jungles and other natural treasures. Poás volcano, for example, is a well-organized, educational event. One memorable experience was our walk in an incredible national park with an old friend. A much longer walk in that same park with that same old friend is planned for our next trip to Costa Rica—a walk that won’t take another thirty-seven years to make.

A Good Christmas

This Christmas was a good one for me. We we spent time with the family--two days of playing with grand-kids. And there was dominoes at night. I came in third place out of four. We ate well, too, and tried two new beers from the brewery.

It snowed and there was ice, but we got home safely. We rested. It was good.

The best part of Christmas was a phone call I made to my brother. I hadn't heard from him in close to three years. I was resentful about that, and that was wrong. The resentment goes against my Christian beliefs. (I constantly have to remind myself of those beliefs.)

Over those three years, my brother hadn't returned a couple of phone calls, even after I left messages. He never responded to any email messages, and he never sends any kind of yearly Christmas wishes. I was hardened against him, and that was wrong. I missed talking to him, because our conversations were always very interesting to me (those times long ago when we did converse). My brother's interests in movies, his eclectic tastes in music, and his outlook on life all make for stimulating conversation. I missed that.

This Christmas, I felt the need to try again, so I did. I called. The phone rang several times, making me think this would be another failed attempt. But he picked up. And the first thing he mentioned was his regrettable lack of communication. I understood that it wasn't against me. That's the way he is. And he apologized. We conversed, and we enjoyed the conversation. It was like there was no three-year gap. We talked for quite a while. It was good.

Merry Christmas.