Army Years

I guess the best way to get over the Army years is to simply get it done. It is not that I want to gloss over an important period; there were too many who had a much more difficult time than I had, many who gave up their lives. hearts. limbs and psyche. I came close enough to several of these kids (because that is what we were then: kids fresh out of high school or college) to understand the probably permanent damage done to their lives. And I do not mean loss of limbs; these is easily identifiable and corrected. I refer to the damage done to their souls and minds. These areas were not so easily identifiable or dealt with. For many, these msny years later, these are still open wounds.

It is often said that time is the great healer. However, there are some rifts which may take more years than we may have available, before we are able to make some sense from the overall picture. The year of 1967 may be one such time rift. I went from basic training in Ft. Jackson (just went by the old road signs a few days ago when I drove down to Miami) near Columbia, SC, to be sent from there to Ft. Dix in NJ, for the advanced training part of my immersion into army life. I was going to become a heavy equipment operator.

Once in camp, I was assigned to one of the many barracks being occupied by people just like me, in different stages of advanced training. There were also companies of basic training grunts, but they were below our status… so we did not much mingle with them. I do remember there were many miles of sandy trails in this area of NJ, and we double-timed most of them, loaded down with a full pack of some 45 pounds. Lucky me I did not have to haul a ten wheeler on a long rope, since these would become my staple during my time in the army.

I did get to visit my cousin in Secaucus for a week-end and this would be the next to last time I would see him… No he is not dead, we just never communicated again after he agreed to be my youngest daughter’s godfather some years later. That is the last image I have of him: hanging on to her for dear life, so as not to drop her head first into the baptismal fount. Well, I’m digressing again…

During my advanced training time in Ft. Dix I was informed that despite having had the highest overall scores in the entry test taken that month, I would not be accepted into the OCS (Officer Candidate School) because I was a “security risk”. I know that over the years the Divine presence has been with me in many situations when all I could see all around was black. Apparently, also when I could not see beyond my nose to ramifications of decisions I was about to make. I wanted to make a career out of the Army, don’t ask me why now. Maybe it was the uniform. The thing is that when access to this school was denied, my interest was totally deflated and I became a two year man.

Considering that all young officers coming out of that training center in those days went straight to Viet Nam and stayed there until better or worse, I do believe it was that Divine intervention that kept me out. So, with my swimming background, I became a water safety instructor instead. There are hundreds of ABs (army brats) of that time who had my signature on their middle and high school advanced water training programs. Having finished advanced training and being in Special Duty as a WSI while awaiting my marching orders, I had the chance to go to some local motels and hire myself out as a lifeguard on weekend afternoons. It wasn’t the money (not much…) but the chance to get off base for a while with access to the pool and the bikini clad ladies. At one of these pools I met Carol.

Pretty, long blonde hair, blue eyes and the fiancée of one of the base Captains. Yep, you guessed it… she became my first wife. We were married in Chappaqua, NY a couple of weeks before I was to be shipped overseas. When the time came to go, I found out my eventual destination would be Okinawa, not VN. I cannot say I was disappointed; VN was not the destination of choice for most guys, although close to 70% of the personnel being trained in those days did end up there.

This tour of duty brought me very close to the reality of that “undeclared” war. I was charged with going to the retrieval docks and bring back to the base’s junkyard those trucks and vehicles which came back from the jungle, pretty well mangled and destroyed. Often still with dried blood and some left behind personal belongings. Many of those foot soldiers who came back from ‘Nam ended up in our barracks as a sort of mid-way house and their reentry into a battle free environment was at times, extremely difficult. With some I became friends; a number of them came back to the States where I truly hope they were able to establish a normal life; some chose to go back to the front. These guys had become used to having death around and it was better to get back to the environment where this was acceptable, and not to remain in a place where violence was not a desirable option. I do not know how many of these made it back. Someone said once: “war is hell” and indeed, it is.

While in Okinawa, a group of us decided to take the off week ends and travel around the islands. I got to visit several of the atolls where our guys fought and died in WWII. In Iwo-Jima I visited the site which has been immortalized as the hill where the US Flag was raised by a group of grunts, after a very bloody fight. There were still old, rusty shell casings to be found in some of the more far away corners of the area. I can honestly say I am not a violent person; except in the course of self defense or in the defense of someone in my family. Mindless violence only brings humans to the level of a very basic animal. Even this is questionable, since most animals will only become violent in self defense, the defense of their pups (and here, usually the mothers) or when there is need to kill in order to eat. Never for the sake of violence, as humans often act. Anyway, in visiting these sites which are part of the American folklore, it comes to mind just how many young lives have been lost in this past century alone, all over the world, by all sides involved.

These were times in turmoil everywhere and Okinawa was not any different. A then occupied island since the end of WWII, it was an important military spec; it was close to the war and close to the Japanese mainland as in: “don’t do anything dumb, we are watching you…” Within the island, we were often told not to go out alone into the countryside or into the city, that there were too many groups claiming for our being thrown off the island. In all honesty, I never encountered this type of problem; then, whenever I went off into the countryside, I did so as part of a group of at least 3-4 guys. Did not go much into the “watering holes” in the city either, where these “close encounters of the 4^th kind”, were more likely to take place.

While I was there, Carol had placed a request to have me transferred back to the States. She had a daughter from her previous marriage and Carol claimed I was a needed male presence in her house and sole support. Through the efforts of the then congressman from the area (can’t remember his name…) my tour overseas was shortened by some 2 months and I came back to Fort Dix, to wait out my time in the armed forces.

This discharge finally came through in October, 1968 and I went out into the world, a world that was very much upset –whether rightly or wrongly so- with all that was going on overseas. Most guys who came back in those times, especially those who had been on the front lines (a manner of speech, for in this war there were no real fronts, but a theater of war where there were no real “safe” areas) came back to a hostile environment, which almost blamed them for whatever those who created the environment felt was wrong with the world. This added much pain and burden to the already overextended emotional state of many returning soldiers, and too many of these kids literally lost it. Many families were dissolved, many kids were lost to the world immersed in easily available drugs and, at best, most of us simply wanted to throw these years into a sealed bin and forget about them. That is the part which created the rift, even more than the actual fighting. It simply hurt like hell to come back to your country and to your home to find insulting messages, attacks, and a general back turned to us.

And so ended my Army TOD; I was discharged honorably as an SP4, since my SP5 stripe had, at the time of discharge, not been on my sleeves long enough to qualify as a permanent promotion.

Be Well… back soon!

Mafalda and her gang.

Sometimes cartoon characters take on an existence of their own and become bigger than life itself. This was the case with Mafalda, an Argentinean born character which has influenced at least two generations in many countries down south.

The US has “Peanuts” with Chuck, Linus and the gang. In Latin America it has been Mafalda and her group of friends; these include a social butterfly, an avowed capitalist, a dreamer and the main title character, who practices a fairly straightforward life philosophy; sometimes caustic, sometimes very direct, but always on the  money. Born from the pen and drawing board of Quino, an Argentinean writer creator, this small group of indeterminate age children were (and still are in many areas) the stuff which parents used to teach their own children, since it was a world seen from the eyes of the children themselves; a world where adults were present and dealt with, but on the quasi-outside of the children’s own reality.

Why put Mafalda on this blog? You may ask... Well, you have a point. As it happens, we have been watching a lot of her lately. We gave up on regular TV for a while, and have been watching movies every night, something we had not done in a long time. At the end of the "main" show, somewhere around 11:30 or so, we put on the cartoon movie of Mafalda, which has become our sleep inducer. Not because it is boring; it is really not. It is more an issue of having grown accustomed to her comments, as well as the comments of the other members of the group, often funny and stinging at times. When you pay attention to them, you begin to see yourself and many of your adult friends very well represented in this small microcosm. We usually fall asleep with a smile on our faces. Besides, my wife is a life long fan of this little girl and, she, like many other parents has fed them to her own children as they grew up. In fact, this CD was sent to her as a gift by her son. Probably as a funny reminder, not knowing it would become a nightly staple.

Why would I write about this girl? How could I not, when she can bring out, with one comment, all the frustrations that homebound women may have. She “innocently” looks at her mother(quiz... what is the mother’s name?... Only a true Mafalda-ite will know) who is cleaning dinner dishes, and tells her: -“Don’t worry ma...I will go to school and then to University, get a career and have a productive life, not get stuck in a boring treadmill like the one you live in” Then, while her mother goes into a funk, she goes to bed thinking she has done her daughterly duty by reassuring her mom about her study intents.

Then, there is Little Susan (Susanita), whose only goal in life is to marry, produce a “beautiful son who will become a rich doctor or lawyer, or some such...” She is very concerned about status and income, and is the typical social butterfly. When Mafalda asks her about helping the poor with food, shelter, clothing and an education, her response is somewhat “Scroogean” –“Why do all that?” she asks, -“all we have to do is hide them from view”. Do you know someone who might think like this? Yeah, I thought so and I also know one or two.

Manolito’s father owns a grocery store, and this child’s only dream is that when he grows up he will become a very important executive, at the head of a very important chain of supermarkets. While other children draw small trees and little houses at school, he draws a Peso sign. His opposite is little Felipe (Phillip), a dreamer full of fantasies. His hero is the Lone Ranger, and he goes about on his stick horse trying to right perceived wrongs. In one scene, he sees Manolito going to deliver some goods, and creates a fantasy that the grocery box is a stolen gold box. He goes up to Manolito and says –“I am the Lone Ranger and in the name of the law, hand over that box of gold” Manolito looks at him and, shaking the play pistol says, “Mr. Lone Ranger, I am Mr. Rockefeller, nice to meet you” As a defeated Felipe goes away, you hear him mutter: -“Aw man, there is always a capitalistic fool who is ready to destroy the best fantasy”.

There are many entries like these, and each one is more to the point than the one before. It really makes one think, after the smile fades away, that these cartoon children do indeed represent a true section of our adult society. We can be egotistical, greedy and often are willing to step over (and on) others in order to get whatever we may believe is our right; usually without much thought about that someone else. And yes, there are those who, like Mafalda, will try and do their best in order to help others. Unfortunately, much like in this cartoon world, these are the few.

As for Mafalda... her creator, as he was nearing his own end, decided he did not want anyone continuing the life of his make- believe cartoon girl. He did not want to chance her beliefs being changed in order to continue to make money, but wanted her to remain as she was: a symbol. There was only one way to accomplish this so, she died in an accident in her last strip. Believe me when I tell you she was mourned like a real person might have been.

As is often said: "words (and drawings) are mightier than the sword"

Be Well..! Be Back..!!

RJA

Of Grandmothers

When I look back through to the beginning of these posts, it seems to me that what started as some sort of a private, personal rambling, has taken on more of a public persona; it has acquired a life of its own going in several directions, including some which have actually surprised me a little, to say the least. Also, there have been communications from different corners, from people who I never anticipated reading these, much less regularly. Thank you for taking the time and for letting me know that you enjoy these entries.

On to the title topic... many of my family members have come and gone on these notes. Yes, even my grandmother (maternal, since I never met my paternal grandparents other than in pictures and much later in life). She deserves much more than a passing glance; after all, she had the patience of Job with me; I was not an easy child; in this country I probably would have qualified as a problem child in my early years. I could be described as having a short attention span, being an overachiever, and not easy to control. Often, too smart for my own good... No comments please, I am still told this today...

Abuela Carmen was my mother’s mother. Due to circumstances already plastered elsewhere in these notes, she was also acting as my second mother throughout my childhood. In fact, most times, because my own mother was working both at her profession as well as at that complicated work of getting her second husband (not an easy task in an environment which to begin with, shunned divorce) my grandmother was the person with whom we were.

How can she best be described? A relatively young woman, probably in her early fifties during the time span I remember. She was a very patient individual, willing to listen and also to be the recipient of many complaints and much abuse… She administered and managed the household, while my grandfather was outside, doing his thing(s). She was quick to forgive and quicker to hug and laugh. In the summertime, she was our nanny whenever we went to the club and this was every day, since we were both (my sister and I) on the swimming team. She would camp on a beach chair, under an umbrella, by the side of the pool. From her command post, she would then watch us as we did our laps and our sprint practices, always paying attention while holding a sideways conversation with her cronies, most doing the same thing. Then, after we all had lunch at the club cafeteria, she would become the dreaded guardian of the clock, holding us back from the water for one hour… exactly. Not one minute more, and never one minute less…    I could not quite understand what that last minute meant regarding our life or death if we entered the water… “Cuidado, que te puede dar un espasmo”… “Careful, you could have a conniption (whatever that is)” was all she would say… To this day, whenever I go into a pool or body of water, I am very careful to eat a light meal beforehand. I don’t want an “espasmo”…

Then there was my grandmother the music lover. She had been, I later learned, an accomplished pianist and piano teacher in her youth. I learned to dance with her. She loved all the salon dances; her favorites were the waltz, and the pasodoble (from Spain, sort of like their foxtrot, very lively and fun) the foxtrot, the danzon (Cuban rhythm, circa 1890’s), the cha cha, and the bolero. She would take me by the hand and show me the steps, dancing around the living room with me (I guess I became a sub for my dear grandfather, who was handed two left feet at birth) and having a grand time. How could I not love her?

Then there was grandmother at Christmas and New Year… her favorite times, since the whole family would be together. She would preside over Christmas Eve dinner, followed by midnight mass; a family (minus my grandfather) tradition. On New Year’s Eve, she would hand out grapes to everyone, and had us ready by midnight. We had to pop a grape in our mouth and eat it, every second for the last 12 seconds of the year. She would mark the time with a ladle hitting the bottom of the pail. Of course, her timing might be a little off, since by then she had downed a couple of manhattans and some cider. For a person who normally did not drink, this was enough to make her a little tipsy.

There were more somber times, after the new regime came in. I am sure she knew this could spell the end of that family she had worked so hard to nurture and maintain; her lifetime accomplishment. There were times I would come to where she was when she was not expecting me; I remember seeing traces of quiet tears and somewhat red eyes. After my aunt left with her whole family, in mid 1961, her easy laugh became harder to come by, but her loving ways were always there and ready for us.

I saw her last on the day we left Cienfuegos, to go to Havana, on our way to the US. We stopped by Cruces, where my mother and stepfather lived, because she was going to stay there to take care of my two baby brothers. We said good bye at the door, her eyes reflecting a deeply seated sadness and anguish which I could only begin to understand after I had my own children. She knew this was not a simple so long, but a goodbye. Most likely, not to cross paths again on this life. The weight of this family break up, coupled with the changes in her society, her friends and her way of life was too much for her. That quick mind which always was ready to laugh and to make you feel good, gave way to a mind lost in its own world, safe from any more losses and any more suffering. I never saw her like this, and I am glad. She was special, and she continues to be so in my own mind and heart, where my memories always give me that young grandmother who was always there for me.

Back soon!!

Until then, Be Well... Be Back!!

Legacies

The word "legacy" can be applied to several areas. One of them is that history which creates us, as who we are. Our culture and traditions passed on to us by those who came before, leaving a definite imprint on our lives. What happens when this continuing line is broken? Those who follow the break point lose much.  

I have often thought about the concept contained in the word “legacy”. Those of you who have read these entries from the beginning know that, outside the occasional meandering, my thoughts tend to focus on events of a lifetime. Many come from those memories which make growing up possible. In the full sense of the phrase. Times which despite all the issues lived or, perhaps because of them, have deeply etched a life story into the psyche; in other words, what makes one whatever one is today.

What makes me think this? It is neither depression nor the beginning of a bout of melancholy. The cultural story-line of a family should not end with any one individual, especially when there are children who follow. No matter what circumstances may be, that line should be continued with each generation being able to add its own chapter and leaving the door open for the following ones. In my case, my belief is that this continuous line will, sadly, end with me. If circumstances had been different and on a more normal plane, this would not be the case. We (family) would most likely be in Cuba, my children having gone to the same schools to which I went, and through the same cultural learning; also enjoying the guidance of grandparents, uncles, aunts and the company of many cousins and friends who would have been, themselves, the sons and daughters of my and their mother's (whomever she may have been) friends, thus continuing the story while having a chance to create their own as part of this ongoing line.

Whenever there is the need, I can think back and am able to surround myself with my family's stories and memories, and these have an anchoring effect on me. They are a reminder that regardless where I may physically or inimically be, or what I may be living through at the time, my mind and a heart can reach back more than 4 generations and benefit from this accumulation and wealth of emotions, thoughts, teachings, and just plain living and survival.

For many of those who come to this country, there is a feeling that many of our customs and cultural basis become eroded within a system and structure which demands that all be set aside in the pursuit of an ever increasing income requirement. Our children become less interested in the family history and in the “old country”; for them, it is more important to pursue their own issues within their own circles and thus, begin a new “story line”. When these differences are greatly enhanced by a divorce or parental separation, then they become more defined and underlined. There is an additional incentive not to become overly concerned with the family history of the parent who became separated from the unit. In my case, this has come to be so. Interestingly, the mother of my three younger children is herself born in Cuba. She was, however, educated within a restrictive and very judgmental system and this gave her the wrong impression that her beginnings had to be denied. So, no help from that quarter. The sad part is that her own family goes back several generations in Cuba, and many rich traditions were lost in this exchange.

My First Born (I don't think she took too kindly to being labeled "Oldest Daughter"...) is, on the other hand, very interested in the family history and whatever bits of information can be passed on to her. She tells me she has read every post and enjoys doing so. Especially when these relate to my earlier life and to any type of stories relating to the family.

In a way I believe that these posts along with a couple of other projects which I am (too) slowly developing, will become a sort of legacy. Perhaps these will allow my own children to get to know more about their roots and yes, about their father as well. Each generation will indeed write their own story line, this is the way it should be; however, it is my belief that when this is done within a continuum, it will make more overall sense.

What do you think?

Be Well... Be Back!!

Detente...

In my childhood, there were defined rules of behavior. Children were children and not "young adults"  Therefore, each person(s) would do whatever it was that those of the same age would do. And, every once in a while, a pesky child would have to be removed and/or kept away for a while. This is where the concept of "detente" would come in. It usually worked...

Back in my early days, in the sunny and beautiful island of Cuba, I was raised with teachings which I have, in latter years, understood to be an eclectic mix of many of the old time customs coupled with a, for the times and place, forward looking philosophy of life.

However, there was “DETENTE...” Literally the word's translation means “STOP”. For me, as a five year old, it meant something entirely different. As a child, my luck was riding high. What to many in our then society would have been a “disgrace”, for us became a blessing. My sister and I lived with our grandparents as a result of the divorce of our parents. Beyond the love and care our grandparents always gave us, we had an extra grace: my great-grandmother (mother's grandma) lived with us as well. Dearest “Abuelita Irene”, Granny Irene. Years later, whenever I saw “Beverly Hillbillies” on TV, I would see “Granny”, and think of my own granny for, at least physically, there was a strong resemblance: small and frail looking (but far from being so), always neatly dressed in a long period skirt and white, starched blouse, her hair in a tightly pulled bun and her intelligent and always smiling blue eyes framed by, what else? Granny glasses.

Since she was always at home, she became my port in any storm, and there were many!! She was always ready with a hug, a smile, a word of encouragement. Such as it could be told to a 5 or 6 year old boy, who was always flirting with trouble. I do not know how old she was then. My own grandmother, her daughter, had been born around the turn of the century. My best back looking guess is that Granny Irene must have been around her mid 70's or so at the time of these happenings.

But... what did she have to do with “detente”? You may ask. Well, we have to understand what this word meant in the context of a 5-6 year old in my family. You see, whenever a child was becoming more obnoxious to his/her currently accompanying adults or whenever those adults in nominal charge wanted to have some time off, or wanted to go out without the joyful company of said child, one of them would turn to his/her charge and with the sweetest smile say: “dile a abuela que te de detente” or, go ask granny to give you detente. At this point, the unsuspecting 5 year old (namely: me) would go to Granny and ask for the aforementioned “detente”. Granny would then proceed to put my head on her lap, cover my eyes and begin to soothingly speak to me.

Of course, while this happened my mother or grandparents would sneak out to wherever they were going. Usually, when I realized what had happened the tears would begin to flow, along with the corresponding tantrum. Granny would take it all in stride and we would usually end up in a parlor game or in some story which I guess was loosely based on her own experiences. A six year old today would fall for this little scheme maybe once. The second time would not work. I was an innocent in an innocent age.

On the other hand, those detente moments have been imprinted in my mind and heart, putting Granny's presence there until the day I die. She was a sweet and loving lady, but with a very well defined backbone. During the few years I had the fortune of having her company, she told me many stories and taught me to begin to understand the concept of patience and the fact that, much to my dismay, I was not the center of the world. Everyone needed a little space and respect. Along the way, she also gave me a lot of love.

Granny, wherever you are, I hope that Our Loving Father is giving you all the "Detente" He can muster.

Back soon!!

Until then, Be Well... Be Back!!

Sex and The Mingle Guy

I am not sure what brought this one on. Being over 60 (although fairly"liberated") has allowed me to live in simpler times, when intimate experiences were just that: intimate. The concept of physical love was to be respected, looked forward to and cherished. I'm not saying "virgin until wedding night" The Good Lord well knows that after three marriages, what is expected of a relationship is the ability to share and to truly enjoy the other person's love, company and offering of her (or his, as the case may be) physical love.

Everywhere one looks there is a veiled and/or very direct reference to sex. As human beings we are fast becoming a pack of wild dogs, being reduced to smelling the other animal's behind, so as to know whether or not an invitation will be accepted. It seems that more and more whenever two people meet, the immediate concern is “will he/she be good in bed?” and “can I get him/her there tonight?”. The idea of spending some time getting to know the other person has been relegated to a lesser priority in the pursuit of instant gratification.

An admission to be made: I belong to the “old” generation. Meet her, by chance or by choice, talk (remember that concept?), get to know one another, establish a base relation and then, take it from there.

As I sit here writing and listening to Simone (actually a stream in the background) sing some of her/his best love songs, of which there are many, I think I may influenced in what I'm writing. But, no matter what the influence may be, the base feelings or beliefs cannot be changed that easily.

The sex act is overrated. This is just a physicality which may last for a while. Pitifully short for some of the more selfish kind. Then, after the required comment of “You are the best, baby” (that's now a two way requirement, you know) each goes his/her way, swearing that next time it will be better.

Sensuality is far more enjoyable than sexuality. Bringing all of our given senses to play brings the opportunity to enjoy a simple look... or a light, brushing touch of that beautiful skin... Sensuality is about the senses which allow us to exist on this plane of ours. They heighten the moment's feeling and slowly bring all into a beautiful crescendo of joy, emotions and pure living.

The senses allow you to not only look, but see the other person as her face and expressions change in her enjoyment; to hear and to intently listen to what is being said and meant in response to your comments... it is the taste of want and fear as your lips brush together for a first time... the smell of not only the perfume which she may have dabbed on, but of the body itself; a special aroma which only belongs to that person and which you could identify anywhere. Last... the touch... first as slight brush of fingertips on her face and her arms...followed by other, more telling and demanding caresses... When the moment of sex is preceded by this, then it becomes an explosion of pleasure and joy to be truly shared by both.

As I said before by itself, as a simple physical act... overrated. As part of a loving experience, nothing could top it. I truly hope that it makes a comeback as the joyful, beautiful experience that it can, and should, be.

Back soon!!

Until then, Be Well... Be Back!!

Catholic Schooling and then Some...

My early years were spent at catholic school in my hometown. Those were good, simple years which served as a very strong base for later and latter years. It was not all smooth sailing, there were some bumps on the road. But all was worthwhile; albeit from a much later in life vantage point. Including some very different schooling and some very difficult and rough teachers..

Wherever the Spaniards colonized, it seems that the crown flag was being carried by a priest, followed by a number of acolytes carrying swords. This has resulted in an, until recently, unchallenged tradition of Catholicism in all our Spanish speaking countries. As a child, I dutifully went to Sunday mass. Usually to the 11am mass, since this was the one favored by my friends, including all the girls with whom one would want to speak. Remember: in the 1950's, Cuban society was a very structurally rigid living thing. It watched you, made an opinion about you an freely disseminated the same through its ready made blabber network, with not much thinking about the consequences.

The idea of boys and girls having free time together, was anathema to this established set of rules, closely watched by the catholic hierarchy and its schools. Therefore, we had to constantly figure out ways to be able to be with a girl, even for a very innocent and friendly exchange. And, usually, it was just that. The paranoia was such, that girls were taught not to wear shiny black shoes since these could conceivably reflect an image of their legs and, The Good Lord forbid, even further up the anatomical chain. This would be disastrous and would not speak well of that particular girl. So, the girls would wear almost anything but and, of course, we boys would all wear black and very shiny shoes and do our best to try to get as close to the girl as possible. In the end, unless you wear a very wide and flattop size 16 shoe, nothing really shows. Score one for purity and decorum.

The Cathedral church in my hometown rests on a well raised platform overlooking the main plaza (where does it not?) this plaza being named after the Father of our Independence, Jose Marti. The church occupies one half square block and it is considered to be one of the best examples of asymmetrical bell tower construction. As for myself, I just think the builders ran out of material and made the second belfry smaller than the first. Of course there were other churches in town; no well respected Latin American town of Spanish ancestry could have less than a baker's dozen worth of churches. However, The Cathedral was the place to be and to be seen. Also, this is where attendance tickets were given out after the main masses. Yes, attendance tickets. We, who went to catholic schools,had to turn these into our teacher on Monday morning's catechism class. Those who did not,would receive a demerit in their weekly report. Three of these and your parents would have to come in and convince the director as to why you should be allowed to continue attending classes at this school, since obviously you did not have the honest desire to comply with their teachings. I know, I went through this little scenario. Mind you, in every other category at school my grades were always within the top 3 of a class of about 30 students. But that Sunday mass was all important and had more weight than the rest of the study subjects put together. Interesting, huh?

In my case, matters were more interesting because my grandfather who was my actual guardian and father figure, was a 33^rd degree Mason. This was anathema to my teachers, most of whom were ordained brothers just one step removed from being full priests. I had a lot of what was considered a “rebellious attitude” by my teachers and was treated as such although this would only refer to the religious teachings, and nothing else. I do not hold any long standing grudges against them; on the contrary, those years were good, simple and relatively happy years. The general teachings at that and another catholic school where I briefly attended, did form a solid base which allowed me to grow as time went on and I was exposed to many other life teachings which were never part of that original curriculum.

It has been many years since those days were lived. Much has happened during this time and yet, my basic religious beliefs are still there, although somewhat changed from those days. One thing that can be said is that the overall curriculum taught to me during those years prepared me to tackle school in the US, and do so from -actually- a vantage point. I was well prepared and even with or ahead of most of my classmates at the high school I attended. And this was a very good public school, with excellent teachers. So, score one point for the catholic schools and for their very demanding schedules. As long as you brought them that bloody attendance slip.

Back soon!!

Until then, Be Well... Be Back!!