Many of the children at the Home are ill with runny noses, coughing, fever, etc. Two dozen persons living in close proximity tend to perpetuate the Upper Respiratory Inflammation symptoms. One, our daughter with the fractured mandible in the January auto accident, Celia, will be spending the week with her new adoptive parents in Tegucigalpa. The Texas family, finally, after six years of bureaucratic buffoonery will be finalizing the documents and returning for her in a couple of months. Yesterday, after church, Celia was telling me of her cough symptoms accompanied by the new resident, they’re the same age and have become fast friends. The new girl piped up and said when she was sick with a cough, her mother would give her raton. Raton, I said. A mouse? Yes, she said. You mean you would eat a mouse? Yes. Cooked? Yes. Your mother would skin it? Yes, and cook it and I would eat it. Would it make your cough go away? Yes. There you go, Celia. You have to go catch a mouse.
In my book, I relate the case of a woman who had her first child at the age of 13. I can’t remember if the reference appears in one of the three posted chapters on this web page, or in chapters 4, 5, or 6 that are not posted. In any case, the two male children were 3 and 1 year old. She abandoned the two boys before her husband was released from prison. The Court had awarded custody of the youngsters to Sister Edith. The husband, a drug addict, was eventually killed but not before the woman bore him two daughters. As fate would have it, the woman returned to the Children’s Home with the two little girls. Last week she abandoned them also, ages 3 and 1. Their brothers are now 11 and 9. Last week the Home also accepted a 13-year-old girl, also abandoned, when the grandmother who raised her died. The girl’s biological mother threatened to kill her daughter if the State tried to place the young lady in her custody. On occasion, I have thought of leaving Honduras, but I can’t. Sister Edith once told me: God has sent you to us, to the children. Every day I pray for guidance.
The majority of vehicles in Honduras are Japanese. On the roadways are seen occasional cars from Germany, Korea, and trucks from India. The US of Norteamerica is usually represented by a few Ford and Chevrolet cars and pickups. Honduran citizens must attend formal driving classes to qualify for a drivers license. They must pass a written test and drive a vehicle accompanied by an instructor. There are separate classes and licenses for those driving commercial vehicles and automobiles and motorcycles. When driving the country’s highways one must understand that there are no traffic police or patrolmen. It is strictly driving on the honor system. There are, consequently, many idiots who speed, drive recklessly, tailgate, cut in front of other vehicles and basically ignore the rules and reglations they were taught in driving class. In addition wandering cows and horses can be a danger to vehicular raffic, especially at night. Driving on Honduras’ highways is somewhat like the wild west. Always assume the other drivers on the road are stupid with a machismo attitude that makes them a threat and a danger to life. And I have not even mentioned the bastids who are armed.
I hear the haunting coo of the mourning doves in the trees this early misty morning and remember six years ago. May 23rd, the day my grandson, Army Ranger 2Lt Travis Alan Morgado was killed in Afghanistan as he led his platoon on a mountain patrol. Our foreign military is now there. Where Alexander the Great and his army were vanquished by Afghan patriots defending their homeland more than 2,000 years ago. As was the British army a couple of centuries ago. And the Russian army in the last century. Those who ignore the lessons of history are certain to repeat them. The army of the US of Norte America is still there after a couple of decades. People continue to be killed in the name of misguided patriotism. My grandson was a gifted civil engineer. What a terrible loss. I miss him greatly.
The view of my backyard and of the park across the street from my new home. A very nice place to live. Photos of the interior after I complete some remodeling.
There is so much happening in my life that the days whiz by. I try to enter a post every 2 or 3 weeks, but in April I failed. I’m not burned out or inundated. Every day of my life is an enjoyable learning adventure. I have learned to enjoy the moment. A week in Tegus with friends for a dental implant appt became a trip to a 16th-century silver mining town. English classes for the children at the Home are a never-ending delight. My old Chevy step-sider is running on bald tires. The interior of my new home I am redoing with the help of my lady friend. I have integrated weekly chess games with another lady friend after Sunday mass. At the Home, I have organized a choir class to sing the Julie Andrews refrain: “Doe, a deer, a female deer…” This month a gentleman from the States visited with advice about publishing my biographical memoir. And there is so much more. I have taken photos of the exterior of my new home. Pictures will be soon posted. Love life!
When Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered 50 years ago today by a racist pink prick, I sat in an Anatomy and Physiology class at San José City College in San José, California waiting for class to begin. The professor entered and strode to the podium, tears in his eyes, voice breaking, and softly said that Dr. King had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennesee. Robert F. Kennedy was also murdered that year, months apart. Class dismissed, the professor said and left. As I drove home, I listened to Janis Joplin singing on the car radio: Take a little piece of my heart now, baaby. I learned today that the racists of that day celebrated the murder perpetrated by a cowardly shithead. Things in this country haven’t changed much. The average citizen of the US of Norte America is an ignorant, knuckle-dragging racist. Consider the monster they elevated to the presidency of the republic who reigns today.
Wow, my ninth anniversary living in Honduras slipped right by me like a shadow in the night on February 24th. Life is but a dream. And in Honduras, it is a lovely dream. I am slowly accommodating to my new home, at the same time making room in my crowded schedule for English classes at the Home and resuming my interrupted writing schedule. I recently submitted the synopsis and the first three chapters of my biographical memoir to a publisher in the States. Sister Edith’s father died last Monday and that slowed everyone’s schedule to a crawl. He lingered in the hospital for two weeks. He is now free from pain. May he rest in peace in heaven. Life is but a dream.
A full moon is rising this gloaming over the park across the street from my new digs. There are always kids playing and having fun. Tomorrow I complete my move from my previous home, soon to be sold to the highest bidder. This new home of mine is actually the nicest place I have ever lived in Honduras. Kismet. God bless.
The residents at the St. Joseph Home for at-risk children have physically healed from their accident injuries. The psychological trauma however remains. We have on staff an excellent child psychologist who does quite well with the kids and they all like her; an important milestone. My bout with the flu is almost over, after 4 weeks. The virus picked an inopportune time to attack me, my having to move my belongings to a new home. I made one trip a day across town in my Honda hybrid moving slowly to conserve energy. On Sundays, after church, the oldest children helped move the big stuff in my old Chevy pickup. Next Sunday we’ll finish moving an armoire and a large filing cabinet and then we’re headed for the nearby Rio Humuya to relax in the water. I will be in my new home by March 1st. Yahoo!