153 Tales of Oak Street

Kathleen with Grandpa Ira
in front of 153 Oak St.

Like me, many members of my extended family consider the old house on the corner of Oak and Ryerson to be one of the most important buildings in our collective history. Of course, it was never really about the house itself but the people inside it: Ira, Kate, Della and, quite often, Myrtle--my grandfather, grandmother and two great aunts.

Say the word "summer" to me, and I will recall warm, dark nights spent on the sweeping wrap-around porch listening to the cicadas singing in the trees and waiting for the stories to begin. While many of these stories are well known, they were told in a manner that made them unique in their own right. I hope my re-tellings do them justice. This particular story is about "The Crooked Mouth Family."

* * * * *

Once upon a time in a little town not very far away there lived a crooked family. That's not to say that they were corrupt or criminals. No, they just happened to be oddly shaped. This one had a crooked back and that one had a crooked arm. They even had a crooked dog whose crooked tail looked like a crooked stick. They were all crooked in many different crooked ways, but they were also all crooked in the same way for they all had crooked mouths. They lived a simple life in a simple house with a wood stove for heat, a hand pump for water and a single white candle for their evening's light.

There was a daughter in the family (we'll call her Persephone, which is not the easiest name to say when you have a crooked mouth) and she was fixing to marry a young man who'd caught her fancy. One winter evening, she invited him to dinner and introduced him to the family. By the end of the meal, the young man had made quite an impression on the girl's family, and they readily gave the couple their blessing to get married.

Just before it came time for the young man to leave, a winter storm swept through the neighborhood and blocked the roads so the family insisted he stay with them until the storm had passed. One by one they each snuggled into their separate beds until the mother realized they hadn't put out the candle.

"Pa," called Ma out of the right corner of her crooked mouth, "can you put out the candle?"

"I can," said Pa out of the left corner of his crooked mouth. But when he got up and went to blow out the candle, he could only make a small puffing sound like this: "Pff. Pff. Pff. Pff."

"No, Ma," said Pa. "I can't put the candle out."

"Per-feff-o-nee," called Ma (for remember, it's not the easiest name to say when you have a crooked mouth), "can you put out the candle?"

"I can," said Persephone out of the top corner of her crooked mouth. But when she went to blow out the candle, she only made a long whispery sound like this: "Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh."

"No, Ma," said Persephone. "I can't put the candle out. Can you?"

"I can," said Ma out of the right corner of her crooked mouth. But when she went to blow out the candle, she only made a shrill hissing sound like this: "Zee! Zee! Zee! Zee!"

"No," she said. "I can't put the candle out."

"Let's try to do it together," suggested Persephone, and the three of them bent to blow out the candle in unison.

"Pff. Pff. Shhh. Shhh. Zee! Zee!" Over and over they tried but still they couldn't blow out the candle. After an hour of trying, they looked up to see the young man standing in the doorway.

He shook his head, licked his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the flame saying, "If I'm going to be a part this family you're going to have to get electricity."

Next time: "Where's My Big Toe?"

The Afterwife

One night, just before the 2012 Republican National Convention, Newt Gingrich and Mitt Romney died suddenly. Being religious men, they both ascended into heaven where they were greeted by a harried Saint who was working hard to earn his wings.

"Welcome to heaven, may I have your names, please?" he said.

"Uh, Newt Gingrich."

"Mitt Romney--hey, is Moronai around?"

"One thing at a time Mr. Romney. You'll have plenty of time for bar hopping later."

"Bar hopping? What the...?"

"Okay, Gingrich--that's with two i's is it not--Gingrich line one and Mr. Romney if you will proceed to line nine."

"Catch ya later Newt," said Mitt. "Let's grab a drink some time."

"Sure," said Newt, crossing his fingers behind his back and lying through his teeth. "I'd love to."

"You know," whispered the Saint to Newt, "That really doesn't work at all. I'm going to have to write you up."

Flustered, Newt hurried over to his assigned line and picked up a brochure that described the process whereby he would be assigned a caseworker, an afterlife partner, eternal home and means of transportation (after all, heaven was a very big place). Newt's caseworker was an up-and-coming seraphim named Cletus.

"Let me get your file here," said Cletus.

"Take your time," said Newt, shielding his eyes against the blinding light surrounding Cletus. "I've got all the time in the world." He chuckled and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially "that's a little afterlife joke."

"Cute," said Cletus, rolling his eyes and preening wings three, four and six. "Like I haven't heard that a few times over the past 6,000 years. You're a regular Methusaleh."

"Methusaleh?" asked Newt.

"Yeah, you know, world's oldest man," explained Cletus, now crawling under the desk and digging through stacks of manila folders. "Also happens to be the world's oldest comic with the world's oldest act. Hasn't written anything new since the flood. You can catch him down at the Improv in the entertainment district every Friday night."

"Oh," said Newt, entirely confused. "Right."

"Holy, holy, holy Toledo here it is!" Cletus shouted, waving a smoking file above his head. "Now we're cooking with gas. OK soooooooo. Oh. Oh my," giggled Cletus. "Haven't you been a naughty boy? Holy, holy, holy crap!"

"What? What did I do?"

"Well, it's not so much what you did do as what you didn't do. You didn't deal fairly with wife number one and you didn't tell wife number two the truth. Plus there's that whole lobbying thing. Very messy."

"Oh. Well. Sorry," he murmured and shrugged his shoulders.

"According to this, you just baaaaarely got in. But, not to worry, not to worry. You're still here, aren't you? I must say though, this will affect the ways things are from here on out."

"Why?" asked Newt. "What do you mean?"

"Well, everyone in heaven gets a partner, home and celestial car. But the quality of those things is determined by your pay grade and your pay grade is determined by how you lived."

"OK. I can appreciate that. So, what do I get?"

"Let's just take it slow, shall we? Gotta watch that culture shock. Why don't we take a drive to your new home so you can get settled in?"

"Sure," Newt agreed. "I'm really looking forward to a nice hot shower."

"Yeaaaaaaah, about that," Cletus hesitated and looked as if he were about to say something but then changed his mind. "Why don't we talk about that later, ok?"

Cletus escorted Newt to the underground parking garage where a beautiful, shiny new Bentley awaited them.

"This is mine?" asked Newt eagerly.

"Ah, no," answered Cletus. "This is actually mine. Yours is in the shop. Here's the claim check. It's a 1978 Dodge Omni. Should be ready some time next millennium. Sweet ride, eh?"

"Humph," said Newt as he shoved the claim check in a pocket and climbed into the luxurious car.

The Bentley floated from cloud to cloud like a dream as Cletus drove through heaven's shining streets and pointed out a few of the sights.

"Throne o' God on your right, angelic choir stalls on the left. There's the new Masonic temple going up just over there. They've been working on that for-ev-er." said Cletus.

"Ahhh," said Newt, feigning interest.

Cletus kept driving and driving. They passed through the business, entertainment and temple districts and reached the first residential districts. Street after street of breathtaking mansions with gardens, eternity pools and armed guards rolled past.

"Is one of these mine?" asked Newt eagerly with his nose and hands pressed against the window.

"Stop that!" snapped Cletus. "I just had this car detailed. Your place is a little further on."

He tapped a brilliant finger on the deluxe GPS monitor and muttered to himself. "Is this thing even on? I wanna stop somewhere for some angel food pie."

"Recalculating," said the GPS.

"Humph," said Newt.

Hours passed and Newt had just nodded off to a deep, restful sleep when he felt a burning sensation on his left arm and bolted upright.

"Ahhh!" he screamed. "What did you do? Put a cigarette out on me?"

"Holy, holy, holy drama queen," said Cletus. "I merely touched you. I'm burning here with zeal after all. If you can't stand the heat, get out of my car."

Newt glared at him.

"No, seriously, get out of my car," said Cletus. "We're here. This is your place."

"Oh!" said Newt. "This is...um...this is...well there's no other way to say it other than..."

"This is horrible," Cletus finished for him. "Yes, I know. But, this is what your pay grade gets you."

Newt looked with horror at the dilapidated shack before him. "It's an outhouse! This is where I'm supposed to live for all eternity?? You call this heaven??"

"Tsk, tsk, picky, picky," Cletus nagged. "I think it's rather quaint. Oodles of ambiance you know. Very rustic. I admit we're in the far, far outskirts of heaven but it's still heaven. Sure the area's a little rundown, but urban renewal's on the way! Give it another three or four thousand years."

"Oh man, it doesn't even have plumbing" Newt muttered.

"Yeah," chuckled Cletus. "How ironic is that?"

"Maybe I should have gone to hell instead," signed Newt.

Cletus reached out and slapped him soundly on both cheeks.

"Get a hold of yourself!" he scolded. "You think this is bad? Hell is in the Bahamas. If you're really evil they force you to stay at the Atlantis Resort. It's like Groundhog Day with water slides."

"Nooo," Newt moaned. "That's just horrible. Forget I said anything."

"Forgive and forget! That's our company motto! Take a look around while I make a phone call and check on your afterwife."

"My afterwife?"

"Wife, partner. Same thing really. You've been assigned Fidel Castro but he's not here yet. He's still alive--hanging out with Hugo Chavez at Sloppy Joe's bar and trading CIA assassination plot tales. I'd get Batista to stand in for him but you can bet he's in hell for sure."

"Fidel Castro! But...what...who...he..." Newt spluttered as his face turned several deepening shades of purple.

"Holy, holy, holy mackerel!" Cletus threw up his hands in mock horror. "Chill-ax Newt. No need to worry! I'm sure Fidel will be more than happy to let you wear the pants in this relationship."

"Humph," said Newt as he cast a longing eye at the depths below.

"Bahamas, Newt." reminded Cletus. "Atlaaaaaaaaantis."

"Brrrrrr," Newt shuddered.

The years passed and Newt worked very hard at acclimating to his new environment. Fidel Castro finally died at the ripe old age of 136 and--true to Cletus' word--he happily donned a dress and assumed the role of Newt's afterwife. (It turned out to be a pretty straightforward thing although Fidel did insist on keeping the beard; "I love you," he whined, "but papito it's my trademark!")

One day, the archangels made the rounds and announced that all of heaven was invited to attend a concert celebrating St. Peter's early retirement (after losing the keys to heaven for the umpteenth time, the powers that be had pressured him to step down). Newt and Fidel were very excited to revisit central heaven so they made a point of getting there early and doing a little people watching.

The crowds in central heaven were enormous (after all, everyone who had been anyone was there) and Newt soon found himself fascinated by all the familiar faces. Suddenly, he spotted Mitt Romney walking hand in hand with Kim Kardashian.

"Well, I'll be...Ouch!" he yelped as he felt a searing touch.

"Holy, holy, holy cow Newt," said a newly arrived Cletus. "When are you gonna learn to relax? It's just me."

"Cletus, hi, say, listen, isn't that Mitt Romney over there with Kim Kardashian?"

"Yes it is," answered Cletus. "She's his afterwife."

"What?! His afterwife?? How did Mitt Romney end up with Kim Kardashian and I end up with Fidel Castro? There is absolutely no way that he was any better than me back on Earth--especially with that whole Bain business."

"No, see, you don't understand." explained Cletus. "It has nothing to do with him. It's all about Kim. She just baaaaaaarely got in."

Voices Carry

The photo is somewhat faded and blurred, but not to a point where you cannot make out the features of his face. He holds a child in his arms and, while the rest of the family stares forward and smiles at the photographer, he is captured looking deep into the child's eyes as if he meant to ask a very personal question.

Family reunion, 1919.

Despite his prominent placement within the family portrait, his existence was never discussed nor were his foibles, maladies and flaws listed and dissected like those of other family members at our holiday dinner tables. He was omitted, for he was insane.

Insane is such an ugly, dark, outdated word. It conjures up images of babbling maniacs wandering drafty halls dressed in stained hospital gowns. Today we use technical terms that keep those images at arm's length--terms like schizophrenia, bi-polar and fugue state. Medication makes these conditions palatable to some degree and allows those who suffer from them to blend into society's woodwork where they are free to practice and enjoy anonymity.

What must it have been like for him, I wonder. What was it like for the rest of the family? The picture of him with the child is disturbing in that one cannot imagine giving him the small responsibility of holding her. What were they thinking? Was he mad then? Or was it much later in life that the voices drew him aside from the family to become his closet confidantes?

The questions are intriguing but the answers are not forthcoming. The disease stalks others within the family and therefore remains an impolite topic of conversation. I can imagine, though, that I know the question he asked the child: "Do you feel as I do?"

Centenary

Tokyo's mayor gave 3,000 cherry trees
to Washington, D.C. in 1912 as a gesture
of friendship between Japan and the U.S.

As children, we tend to view our parents as other-worldly people vastly different from ourselves. They wield such power in our lives that we set them atop towering pedestals that we ourselves patiently polish and raise to sometimes dizzying heights. Some pedestals come crashing down abruptly. Others grow so lofty that we are forever distanced from their tenants and we are left never really knowing who that parent truly was, what they hoped for and dreamed of and whether or not they approved of us.

Over the past several years, I've been experiencing a growing affinity for my elders. As I approach and overtake the moments within their lives when I first met them, I'm blessed with insights that infuse my recollections with color and enrich my experiences.

I've found that context is one of the greatest contributors to insight. In other words, I can learn more about my parents and grandparents when I consider the events within their lives in the context of their times. For example, my great grandfather Sergio Joaquin emigrated from the Azores to Boston, Massachusetts in 1852. On the surface, that's a pretty pedestrian fact. But when you consider that the Azores experienced earthquakes in 1841, 1848 and 1852 and the fact that he was only 14 when he left, it suddenly becomes a drama that is pregnant with possibilities. It's like picking up a box of crayons and coloring inside the lines of a black and white drawing to create a portrait that's relatable and whose texture and depth establish a connection and--yes--inspire insight.

Building context in this way contemporizes the past. I can build my understanding of Sergio by comparing his immigration experience--choosing to leave his home in the wake of a natural disaster--with my experiences during Hurricane Wilma. That comparison creates an emotional connection with him, and I find myself admiring him for having the courage and foresight to journey alone to a foreign country and make a new start at such a young age.

I'm using context in this manner a lot lately because this is an important year for me and my immediate family. I'm 50 this year--the same age my father was when I was born--and next month marks my father's 100th birthday. Surprisingly enough, when I look at the events of 1912, I see a very familiar world.

One of the most significant events of 1912, of course, was the tragic demise of the Titanic, echoed by the recent sinking of the Costa Concordia off the coast of Italy. Other echoes abound. Italian forces bombarding Beirut, rapid change in Asia with the rise of the Republic of China, social activism in Africa with the founding of the African National Congress (ANC)--the political and social hotspots of 100 years ago are all too familiar today.

There were new and exciting applications of new technologies as well, such as the first parachute jump from a moving plane (Albert Berry); the first English Channel crossing by a female pilot (Harriet Quimby); and the first non-stop flight from Paris to London (by Henri Seimet in three hours).

The year had its heroes (Roald Amundsen announced he had reached the South Pole), its stars (Sarah Bernhardt starred in Les Amours de la reine Élisabeth), its tycoons (Carl Laemmle incorporated Universal Pictures) and its tragic figures (Robert Scott and his team perished in their disastrous bid for Amundsen's prize). It even had U.S. military action on two fronts with the U.S. Marines dispatched to Cuba and Nicaragua.

In short, I've found that 1912 was a lot like 2012 in very many ways and that my father's world was very similar to the world in which I live today. And that makes me believe that maybe he and I weren't so different after all.

Editor's note: My cousin Ruthie has pointed out that, while I was writing the above entry, she was marking her father's 106th birthday. RAF (as she and her sisters called him) was a legendary figure in his own right having graduated from Harvard University at the age of 20. Following the sudden death of our grandfather, RAF ensured that his brothers, sister and mother survived the Great Depression by putting his own ambitions and aspirations aside, moving back home with his new wife, Ellen, and dedicating himself to his family.

Project Nunway

During World War II, there was a very modest, humble Mother Superior who lived in a convent outside Rouen, France. Being a pious, good-hearted woman, she took it upon herself to stand up to the Nazis by hiding Jews from the Gestapo, feeding the poor and aiding the French Resistance whenever she could.

After the War, she was granted an audience with the Pope where she was to receive a medal in recognition of her heroic efforts. Her fellow Sisters--immensely proud of her accomplishment--took up a collection for her journey and urged her to update her travel wardrobe.

"After all," said Sister Marie-Claire, "you're going to meet His Holiness! You can't do that dressed like some poor church mouse!"

Residents of the surrounding community--especially those whose lives she had saved--were equally proud and equally vested in seeing that she received proper recognition. They pressed decreasingly modest sums upon her for the trip, urged her to throw out her travel wardrobe and insisted she indulge in a full-blown makeover.

"After all," said her dear friend Monsieur Arena-Homme, "you'll be representing your entire community! You can't do that dressed like a little brown mouse!"

Soon the day came for her to take the train to Paris and, from there, to fly to Rome. She set out in the morning shortly after Matins wearing her traditional habit and sensible shoes. She carried a battered, borrowed valise in one hand and a spare rosary in the other. As she traveled down the winding, cobbled street, her fellow Sisters trailed behind singing quiet hymns of praise and scores of local villagers marched with farewell bouquets of spring flowers. Outwardly, she frowned over their attentions and frequently asked them to return to their daily lives. Inwardly, she nursed a tiny nugget of pride.

The train's arrival at Paris Nord--a riot of sound, color, steam and bustle--was incredibly daunting for the Mother Superior and she was highly tempted to simply turn around and return to her quiet little cell in Rouen. Instead, she gritted her teeth, adjusted her coif and bandeau and struck out for the nearest taxi stand.

She soon discovered that Monsieur Arena-Homme had prepared the way for her when she noticed a liveried driver standing next to a very respectable Rolls Royce Phantom and holding a crisp white placard on which her name appeared in black, block letters.

"Pardon Monsieur," she inquired, "Am I to understand you are waiting for me?"

"Mais oui, Madame!" he riposted. "For you are the little Mother Superior, and I am your faithful servant!"

A small smile crept across her face followed by a warm flush of pride and recognition.

"This is Monsieur Arena-Homme's doing, is it not?"

"Oui, Madame," he said as he took her valise and gently placed it in the Phantom's generous trunk. "He has given me complete instructions for your stay and arranged for you to have everything you wish while you are here in Paris."

She laughed out loud and softly demurred. "Well, Monsieur, that remains to be seen. For now, would you be so good as to take me to the guesthouse in Sacre Coeur? I need to obtain lodging."

"But Madame," he protested. "Did you not know? Monsieur Arena-Homme has purchased a suite for you at the Hotel Ritz!"

The little Mother Superior stood there aghast; but while she was speechless over her friend's generosity she was secretly thrilled to be in a position to enjoy the finest accommodations Paris had to offer. Her eyes drank in the sites as her driver negotiated the busy streets and delivered her to the Place Vendome where he gently escorted her faltering steps through the breathtaking lobby and into the waiting presence of the hotel concierge who, to her immense and private delight, had been expecting her.

"Ah, Madame!" he cried, smoothing his pencil thin mustaches, "You have arrived at last!"

"Au revoir pour le moment, Madame" her driver intoned while bowing and politely kissing her hand, "I shall entrust you to the capable ministrations of Monsieur Gabrielle. If you have need of me, tell him and I will attend to you at once."

Monsieur Gabrielle clapped his hands and servants suddenly appeared to press a glass of champagne upon her and take her tired valise from her hand. Someone offered her a piquant amuse bouche, and she soon found herself ensconced in no less than the hotel's finest room: the Imperial Suite.

"Oh," she enthused, "It's just all so beautiful. And here I am, just a tired little country mouse. I'm afraid all this opulence is not for me."

"But Madame," insisted Gabrielle. "It is! You are famous throughout all France for your heroic deeds! Allow us to repay you in part for all your sacrifices. Shall I order more champagne and arrange for your dinner?"

"Well..." she said, "All right, but do you think I might freshen up a bit first?"

"Ah but Madame," he said, guiding her to a nearby sofa the size of her convent cell, "You must first meet with Monsieur Dior for your fitting!"

"What!!??" the little nun shouted, spilling her champagne on the lush Aubusson rug. "Monsieur CHRISTIAN Dior??"

"Mais oui!" said Gabrielle. "Your dear friend Monsieur Arena-Homme has arranged for the great Dior to transform you for your audience with Monsieur Le Pope. After all, you stand for all of France! We can't have you doing so feeling like, how you say, une souris fatigués!"

Her fitting with the legendary Dior was like a dream overflowing in taffeta, lace and organza. Dior, for his part, went above and beyond the confines of his dress duties and engineered an entire makeover that included facial, makeup, hairstyling, manicure and pedicure. He even gave her a crash course in charm, poise and etiquette. She caught a brief glimpse of herself in a mirror and was outwardly alarmed--though inwardly pleased--when she spied a slightly familiar heart-shaped face peering back at her with curiosity.

"Oh," she sighed. "This is too much."

"But Madame," they said, "This is what you deserve!"

In the end she graciously accepted Dior's ensemble and turned her attention--and direction--to her impending flight to Rome. Once on the ground in Italy, she was met by one of the Pope's staff and whisked through the ancient streets to the storied doors of the Sistine Chapel where a receiving line of dignitaries, nobles and other illuminaries waited to greet a glittering, richly dressed Pope.

As His Holiness walked down the receiving line the little Mother Superior fussed quietly over her outfit and focused on not falling off her unaccustomed high heels. She adjusted her trendy cloche, smoothed her flowing silk gown and tugged on her matching gloves. Soon, it was her turn to be presented.

"Your Holiness," said the Pope's attaché, "May I present Mother Superior Marie-Souris Pauvres of the Convent of St. Anne de Rouen."

Mother Superior curtsied deeply and beautifully (she'd practiced with Gabrielle for hours the night before) and rose with a flourish and an impish smile.

The Pope cocked an eyebrow at her, scanned her from the top of her fashionable head down to her delicately clad toes and looked at her questioningly.

"Dior," she whispered conspiratorially and giggled.

The Pope reared back, grinning ear to ear and opened his pristine white cloak to reveal his opulent, richly made robes. He spun around twice, looked her full in the face and crowed with a flourish, "Balenciaga!"

No Habla Espanol Please Yes?

My father was a relatively private man and despite a great deal of potential conversation starters--two marriages, six kids and a dozen or more different careers--he remained that way throughout his life. When he did tell the occasional story, it was often worthy of repeating. I've recently discovered that many of these stories are unknown to my brothers and sisters. Since I've always found these tales to be entertaining and illuminating, the least I can do is to set them down and share them liberally.

I like coffee, I like tea. I like the girls and the girls like me*
*"Java Jive" by the Ink Spots--the one song Dad played on the piano and sang

Dad (right) on the SS Pennsylvania       

In 1936, when he was 25, my father left Boston and set out for the greener pastures of California at a pivotal time in his life. His father, Arthur William, had died five years earlier and the family had seriously struggled during the economic crisis. It was also a pivotal time in history. The nation was still working through the Great Depression but things were looking up; unemployment had dropped to its lowest rate in five years (16.9 percent), and the newly established Social Security Administration gave people a modicum of hope for a measure of future stability.

Moving to California was a natural choice since my father's family has always been "bi-coastal" with half the family living in California and the other half along the eastern seaboard. Getting there, however, proved to be a challenge. Dad didn't own a car and flying to California was prohibitively expensive so he booked passage with a few friends on the SS Pennsylvania. Owned by the Panama Pacific line, the Pennsylvania sailed from New York to San Francisco with stops in Havana, Panama, San Diego and Los Angeles.

Considering his age, this must have been an incredibly exciting trip for Dad. It was very likely the first time he had ever ventured this far from home and he was doing so without his family. The Pennsylvania--and its destinations--undoubtedly added to the excitement. It was a relatively new ship (less than a decade old), carried 750 passengers (first class and tourist) and boasted a crew of 350. A tourist cabin at the time cost just $125. However, Dad's only comments about the ship--and the trip, for that matter--were limited to how close he came to being left behind in Havana, Cuba.

As he told it, he and his friends were very excited to go ashore and visit Havana when the ship docked en route. The fact that this was his first (and subsequently only) trip abroad must have made the urge to explore completely irresistible. The intrepid trio decided to rent a car and visit some of Havana's more famous sights, including the now legendary Sloppy Joe's bar.

After a satisfying few hours of sightseeing, the three friends headed back to the dock for the ship's impending departure. Driving in Havana in 1936 must have really been something especially with the free-for-all traffic and lack of traffic signals. Unfortunately, Dad and his friends were a little lacking in driving skills and a bit ignorant of the dangers tourists faced abroad. As they wound their way through the streets of the city, they passed a cop who immediately flagged them down.

"Is there a problem, officer?" asked Dad.

"Dame tu licencia de conducir, por favor," said the cop, holding out one hand and rubbing his first two fingers against his thumb.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dame tu licencia de conducir, por favor," he repeated, a little louder, still rubbing the thumb and fingers of his outstretched hand together.

"I don't understand. Um, oh! No comprender!"

"Dame tu licencia de conducir, por favor!" the cop shouted furiously pantomiming the act of opening a wallet and extracting a few bills. 

"We're in trouble," Dad's friend muttered.

"You have no idea," muttered friend number two.

"What did I do?" Dad ask, flustered.

"You stopped," his friends said in unison.

The cop, embarrassed and at a loss for words, now struggled to save face. Dad's limited Spanish and lack of street smarts gave the policeman no choice but to arrest the three of them and charge them with leaving the scene of an accident. According to the cop, the car had grazed his ample belly when they had passed him standing on the curb.

Over the next few hours, Dad and his friends gingerly negotiated for their release. Despite how frivolous they may have seemed, the charges were serious. Those who struck a cop got one year and 29 days in jail. Just arguing with a cop could get you 3 months and 29 day.

Because they were plainly tourists, Dad's friends were released after a few hours. However, thanks to his darker complexion and latin features (courtesy of his grandfather, Sergio Joaquin), Dad was not so lucky. The cops were convinced that he was a Cuban native and that he was trying to flee the country. Ironically enough, it was Dad's inability to communicate with his captors that earned his release in the end. They finally let him go once they decided that no real Cuban could ever speak Spanish so badly.

(Editor's note: the veracity of this little tale may rightfully be questioned since the more I recall it, the more it sounds like an episode of "I Love Lucy!")

Digging Through The Past

Family weighs on my mind lately. Not in a bad way you understand. It's good. You see, I've returned to the pursuit of my family's history and flushed a few cousins out of the bushes and reconnected with people I love in the process.

Genealogy can be fun but it can also be frustrating. Think of all the John Smiths in the phone book and then imagine some future curious relative trying to identify which one of them was his or her long lost uncle. Then, of course, there's what I like to call the "Cleopatra Syndrome." The most well researched names and lines are those descended from kings and other people of importance. So it's easy (and fun) to take a few shortcuts, accept someone else's research at face value and declare yourself the 11th descendant of the Thane of Cawdor. After all, it sounds a lot better than being descended from Murray the Floor Scrubber.

Duncan and Christina were wed at Kilchrist Kirk.

One of the most rewarding parts to all this comes from gaining insight into family you've never met. For example, my great great grandparents Duncan Macdonald and Christine Campbell were married on the Isle of Skye in 1825 in a country church--but what a church! Kilchrist Kirk (Christ Church) is now a famous romantic, spooky, weather-torn ruin. Originally built after the Reformation in the early 1500s, it replaced an earlier, medieval Catholic Church on the same grounds. A new church was built in nearby Broadford in 1840 and Kilchrist was apparently abandoned to ruin.

This kind of stuff really gets me going. Dates and place names are all very dry but when you combine them with a picture of a person or a place you're inspired to keep digging and filled with the hope of finding more. What's truly rewarding is when "more" brings new relationships (such as with my newfound cousin Graham and his wife Holly on my father's side) and reinvigorates old relationships (such as with my sisters Susan and Donna, Uncle Dean and Marquis cousins on my mother's side). Genealogy gives you something to talk about together and allows family to bind over the subject of family. Sure, we toss around religion, politics and other hot potatoes from time to time and drive each other crazy but we're always pulled back to earth by what we have in common--like a simple country church.