A Day to Remember…

Every day is an important day to remember, but there are some which become special moments on the road of life… even if, at the time, this is not so apparent.

As a recently fractured life began to retake some sort of shape back in the mid 60’s, my wondering (and wandering) persona found itself looking over the beauty of the Caribbean once again, when I went to Puerto Rico from Richland. This had been the longest flight sequence yet for me (Hmmm… little did I know what was to come…) and it was tiring. The plane landed in San Juan sometime after noon, and the moment my feet took that one first step unto that beautiful island, my body felt as if it had stepped into a full blown Turkish bath, with wet steaming air blowing my way.

What had brought me all the way, literally, across the then known world to me? A series of letters exchanged with my father, a man I was yet to meet. Sometime back, while in Richland, a first and somewhat hesitant letter had come from him; in this, a long missive (he did like to write….) he told me about himself, his life in Puerto Rico with his second wife Laura and about their son –my little brother- Fernando. In that first letter he opened a potential door for me to cross and come to the island, without actually saying so. I think he knew it was too soon to put this request in writing.

That letter was answered… eventually. This answer began a correspondence which, in a small way, allowed me to begin to know this man about whom all I knew were the comments from his childhood friends, at least those I had known in Cuba. I have to say that my mother never made any comments; she and my grandparents never said anything bad about him… mind you, nothing good either but, at least my mind was open on the subject and, I think, this permitted me to start this communication process. For that opportunity I will always be grateful to my mother and grandparents. Their behavior also taught me to have enough respect not to make hasty judgments, even when coming across situations which might invite this.

Years before, while a growing child in Cuba, I had seen the looks and had felt the odd behavior (not understanding it) of some folk who would look at my sister and I as some sort of “ill begot” children. Of course, they were utter fools but their behavior did reflect the reality of a society which did not approve of anything out of the established patterns and divorce was, most definitely, a deviation from this societal pattern then. Especially when there were children involved.

This was a society structured under draconian “churchian” rules and these were not very tolerant. My salvation was, once again, the presence of my grandfather who, in being a 33^rd degree Mason, had little love for the institutional church. He taught me to think and to question (even though he did not like much to be questioned… but accepted this as a sidebar to my education) and to understand that there is always another side to every issue. I do believe this early subliminal training opened the possibility of my coming to know my father.

At one point, nearing the end of my high school term in Richland and coming on to graduation, the reality of what had to be done came to roost on my lap… my then foster parents (blessed be their souls!!!) had done some work on my behalf and were able to get a work scholarship to the U of Portland, a Jesuit school in Oregon. In the meantime, my father had been communicating with my sister as well, who was herself in the midst of a dilemma. Our uncle and aunt, with whom she had gone to live, were being (he was, the rest went along for the ride) transferred to South America by the company where he was a comptroller. She could go but, in doing so, would lose her right to come back to the States. And the question was posed by my little sister… “Are you going to PR?”… then she added… “If you are not, I am not either”.

That led to a series of decisions on all our parts; I would go but not until mid August. I would follow her, who was going earlier in the summer, because our uncle, aunt and family had to be in Peru by the first week in August. Assurances were made that I would indeed go, and the long goodbyes process began for me, as soon as the school year was over. As it is wont to happen more often than not, my departure was delayed due to administrative snafus, right and left, and it was not until mid September that I was able to actually travel. I think, by then, that my sister was beginning to think I was not coming.

So, here at last, I was getting off the plane and walking to meet this man who was waiting for me with a smile on his face and his arms wide open. A man I came to know and love. This was an important day; the day I finally got to meet my father…

But the most important day of all in this sequence?  A day way back, about a year before, when I decided I was going to give that man an opportunity and actually answered the letter he had sent. A decision forged in childhood, by an open minded grandfather, a rarity in those days and in the culture in which I grew up and by which I was formed. 

Every day is an important one; every decision made will have an impact in life, some more than others but we will never know which may be a life changing decision. Sometimes the least one is the one which will affect us and our families, or future families, the most. Take care when a decision is to be made and do not treat it as a trivial issue… it may turn out not to be.

Be Well … Be Back!!!

Final Notes:

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