A Day in Court

 For Antonio, long a friend of our son and our family, April 23, 2025, was not a normal day. He was scheduled to appear in federal court at the Dirksen building, 77 W. Jackson, downtown Chicago.

Antonio is 49.  He was born in Barquisimeto, one of Venezuela’s oldest cities, but spent most of his life in Maracaibo, center of the country’s oil industry. 

Hugo Chavez, who became president of Venezuela in 1999, reorganized that industry, boosted oil prices along with his OPEC partners, and used the profits to fund food subsidies, establish educational opportunities, and create health care programs for all Venezuelans. Under Chavez, unemployment and poverty were cut in half, and per capita income more than doubled between 2001 and 2013.

 That ended in 2013 with the global decline of oil prices and the early death of Chavez, of cancer, at age 58.  During the Chavez years, corruption, conflict between branches of government, monetary blunders, and poor policies across the board revealed the true face of the government in Venezuela, one of the most naturally rich nations on the American continent.

His successor, Nicholas Maduro, continued previously unrestrained spending levels despite huge drops in revenue.  That created a giant budget deficit that sent the country into a downward economic spiral.  In 2014, Venezuelans suffered food shortages and a scarcity of basic goods. 

In response to high inflation, a national electricity crisis, and an unprecedented increase in crime Maduro censored the media.  Corruption increased among government officials.  Added to those woes, rampant human rights violations became apparent to all throughout Venezuela.

Protests, led by university students, were supported by civil organizations and opposition political parties. Together they demanded changes to the political-economic model, the resignation of Maduro, and new elections. 

Thousands of Venezuelans joined the protests.  Over a three-month period of violent demonstrations, 43 people were killed.  Recession raged.  Inflation surpassed 63%.  Maduro’s government was forced to make huge cuts in public spending.  Average citizens struggled to access food and medicine.

Faced with the national crisis of 2015, Maduro’s government suffered an overwhelming defeat in the 2016 legislative elections.  The president’s opponents gained more than 75% of Venezuela’s national Congressional seats in 2016.  Such a majority would have allowed Venezuela’s National Congress to approve more sensible laws, enact constitutional reforms, and replace members of other public bodies such as the Supreme Court and the National Electoral Council. 

But before they were seated, rather than following the will of the voters, Maduro installed an alternative National Constituent Assembly in 2017 with the objective of usurping the functions of the National Congress.  A Supreme Court handpicked by Maduro legally validated his flagrant violation of the will of the Venezuelan people. 

Mass protests exploded all over Venezuela, lasted for months, and resulted in violent clashes with riot police.  Another 66 demonstrators were killed.

After the imposition of the sham National Constituent Assembly in 2017, neighboring Latin American countries as well as the U.S., Canada, and Spain refused to recognize Maduro’s newly installed assembly. In the presidential election held early in 2018, Maduro claimed victory despite readily apparent and widespread fraud. 

The U.S. decried his election as unfair and anti-democratic before voting even took place and applied crippling economic sanctions preventing Venezuela from trading with traditional partners.  Canada, the EU, Mexico, Panama, and Switzerland joined in.  Those sanctions remain in place today.

By November 8^th of 2017, the United Nations Relief Agency announced that over 3 million people had fled Venezuela due to massive shortages of food and medicine, along with political persecution of those perceived as the opposition.  Millions more Venezuelans have since left their homeland. 

Antonio was among the Venezuelans who sought haven early.  He came to the U.S. in 2018 and made his way to Chicago, where he applied for and was granted asylum. 

Antonio’s goals when arriving in Chicago were simple: find work, live cheaply, and help his family back in Venezuela.  He was no stranger to hard work, but his inability to speak English limited his opportunities.

Like many educated but non-English speaking immigrants, Antonino put his former career on hold and took whatever jobs were available.  I’m sure to miss some of the jobs he has held, but here goes:   Amazon warehouse, Uber driver, Door Dash, quality control at a suburban food plant, driving a truck route restocking spices at Mexican grocery stores (where his Spanish was an asset).  He worked constantly, often holding more than one job. Antonio put himself on a fast track to achieving legal status.  After gaining refugee status came a work permit, a driver’s license, and his green card (legal permanent residency). Green card holders must prove themselves worthy of keeping their status.  Antonio‘s approach was simple.  Work hard and stay out of trouble.

Antonio was helped by an affable personality and a network of good friends.  He settled in the Pilsen neighborhood where he met my son, who is fluent in Spanish. They have been close friends ever since.

Antonio networked with Venezuelans all over Chicago and beyond, sharing information and sharing strategies for success in a new country. 

As a legal resident, Antonio began helping family and friends in earnest.  President Biden created the Humanitarian Parole program for certain residents of Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela in 2023.  It was a new path to legal immigration that required an American citizen sponsor and considerable scrutiny prior to arrival.  This as opposed to blind admittance after immigrants crossing our border. 

On the first day applications were to be accepted, Antonio and I were at a laptop on my daughter’s dining room table in Chicago, applying for his niece and nephew, both in their late teens, to be part of that process.  I sponsored them because I trusted Antonio to keep them safe and ensure they became assets, not liabilities, to the U.S..

Once their applications were received and accepted, they were vetted online by Department of Homeland Security officials.  Antonio’s niece passed the online screening and was approved for an individual interview.  She traveled to Colombia (the U.S. Embassy in Caracas is long closed) to sit for an interview with the U.S. State Department.  She was approved. 

Being approved for Humanitarian Parole meant she could enter the U.S. legally and avoid the danger and expense of an overland trek to the border, putting herself at the mercy of coyotes, essentially human traffickers.  Instead, she flew directly to O’Hare, passed through immigration, and was waiting when Antonio and I arrived at O’Hare to pick her up.  Her uncle had a job lined up for her immediately.  It was the kind of legal immigration many Americans demand.  Why don’t we do that for more immigrants?

His nephew was not so fortunate. He was screened out of the process.  No reason was given.  He remains in Venezuela.

Besides helping his family, Antonio helped others. I often tell Antonio he should become a social worker.  In Chicago, he ran into a recently arrived friend from his community in Venezuela and became a mentor and guide for him.  Antonio provided him housing at the beginning and helped him find his first job, where he remains, now promoted to a management position.

Like Antonio, he worked constantly and lived cheaply, saving his money to finance the journey of his wife and two children to the U.S..  Humanitarian Parole was not yet available to them.  They were forced to make the difficult overland trek.  Having arrived three years ago, they gained Temporary Protective Status (TPS) and await asylum hearings.  Our new President revoked their TPS status, along with 350,000 other Venezuelans. That question is now tied up in our courts. 

They seem unlikely targets of deportation. Both parents work, they rent their own apartment, and their children are flourishing in school. Yet they are at risk deportation every hour of every day.

Early on I asked Antonnio why it was so important for him to help others immigrate, to leave Venezuela for a new life.  To him it is simple.

“They have no future there.  Venezuela is such a different place now than when I grew up.  I had access to schools, my parents had a stable income, I was able to get an education and a good job.  That’s all gone.  It will be years, decades more than likely, before Venezuela can provide their citizens with any kind of a future.  Or even the promise of a future.  They can’t wait that long.  Here they have a chance.”

Antonio was determined to become a green card holder, a permanent legal resident, and he succeeded.  With that in hand, he was able to sponsor his 19-year-old daughter to join him in America.  She lives with him now, working and seeking to further her education. 

Legal permanent residents must wait five years and a day from the date of asylum or refugee approval, to apply for citizenship.  Antonio applied for citizenship on that day.  His biggest worry was the citizenship exam, given completely in English.  He passed.  That is why he was scheduled to appear in federal court.  He asked that my wife and I be present with him.  We agreed right away.

The courtroom on the 25^th floor of the Dirksen Center was crowded.  A Bailiff entered and told us to rise.  Magistrate Judge Jeffrery Gilbert, appointed to the Federal Bench on May 7, 2010, representing the Northern District of Illinois, walked into the room.

We were told to be seated.  The Clerk of the Court presented the judge with a petition containing a list of applicants who had been approved for naturalization along with all necessary forms and documents.  She asked for approval of the petition and Judge Gilbert granted it, subject to each applicant taking the oath of allegiance. 

But before administering the oath, Judge Gilbert gave remarks to the candidates awaiting citizenship.   Here are some highlights.

“As a group you are 101 individuals from 39 separate countries.  Alphabetically you range from Albanians to Yemenis, no Z countries today.

You will become known as naturalized citizens, with all the rights and responsibilities of American born citizens, but I prefer another term.  I consider you ‘citizens by choice.’  I was born an American and remain so.  But you chose to be Americans.  You could have chosen to be a citizen of another country, but you chose America.  It’s a subtle but distinct difference.

All of you have a story of seeking arrival, as does almost every American family, unless they are Native American or were brought to this country against their will.  I want to share my family arrival story with you.

My grandfather was a tailor in a small village in Eastern Europe.  One day he walked some distance to a larger town to buy supplies for his shop.  As he returned, he saw smoke and as he got closer realized his village was engulfed by fire.

His house was destroyed but his wife and their son were spared.  They knew the fire in their village had been set by neighbors of a different religion, and that they had to flee.  They left with nothing.  It took them two years of hiding and travel across Europe, stopping to earn money, but finally they reached Europe’s western shore where they boarded a ship for New York.  They passed through Ellis Island in New York Harbor.  And now that man’s grandson, me, is a Federal Judge.

It is not an uncommon story.  Americans by choice are credited with extraordinary achievements.  I consider them to be the rocket fuel which powers America’s success.
Are you aware that some years ago 150 of the leaders of the Fortune 500 companies in United States were citizens by choice?  By your presence here you have proved your persistence, your independence, and your tenacity.  May you go on to do great things.  I have no doubt many of you will.  I want to be the first to thank you for choosing our country.  Please participate fully as a citizen, make your voice heard, and vote.  You can register today. 

Well, you’ve listened long enough to me.  Let’s get down to business.  Please repeat after me, inserting your own name at the beginning after the word I.”     

"I, _______________, hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

And with that, 101 people from 39 countries become Americans.

When you think of immigrants, perhaps Venezuelans in particular, you may think of them as opportunists who come to our country to take advantage of our benefits.  You may even think of them as a threat to your safety, as they are now depicted, as gang members, criminals who endanger our country’s safety well-being. 

You have no doubt viewed video of Venezuelans shackled, their heads shaved, pushed down and doubled over between two prison guards, being forced into an El Salvadoran prison.  It’s an image we have all seen repeatedly and can’t forget.  I see it as a politically concocted caricature of the Venezuelans I’ve come to know.

I have another image. I think of Antonio. I think of his niece, his daughter, and his acquaintances. I wish you could know them. You would feel fortunate, as we do, to have them as neighbors and friends.

Because of my interaction with them I know they will add to, not take away from, the well-being of our country. Just as the U.S.A. was changed for the better by that first immigrant in Judge Gilbert’s family, and by your immigrant ancestors and mine, the future of our country now belongs to our children, and the new immigrants that join them.  It’s the story of our country.  Rather than fear the future, let’s ensure that story continues.

Making Pulled Pork

  

A friend who shares original poems with me wrote about a pork butt, in free verse, which prompted me to ask him if he makes pulled pork.  He said no.

Pork butts and pulled pork go together like peas and carrots, and pulled pork is deceptively easy to make.  I do it all the time for people who need meals delivered, for big get-togethers, or just for my wife and me. It freezes nicely, keeps well, and people like it.  I feel better when I have some in the house.

I told my poet friend I could send him my pulled pork recipe if he’d like.  He responded with enthusiasm.  And when I still hadn’t sent it days later, he reminded me.  Sometimes you shoot off your mouth without thinking. Truth is, I don’t have a pulled pork recipe. I just make it. Could be the pulled pork is different every time, but the final product doesn’t seem to be.  

I tend to think everything is simple but it’s not.  After much thought I decided rather than writing down a list of ingredients in made-up amounts, followed by a step-by-step process, the kind of recipe your mom wrote on an index card and kept in a box, I should write it as a blog. I apologize in advance to my friend the poet. There’s background to consider. And nuance.  Everybody likes a little nuance, don’t they?

For starters, pork butts aren’t butts at all. They are cut from the shoulder of a pig.  The actual butt, or hindquarters of a pig, are cured and made into hams.  On a side note, if you see a small cut of pork called a picnic ham being sold in your favorite store know that it is a chunk of brined and cured pork shoulder extending possibly to the front leg.  Meat cuts are named with marketing in mind.  The reality is that when you buy a 7-9 pound pork butt, you’re buying a pig shoulder.

You’ll know that for certain after you bake it at a low temp overnight when it is fall off the bone tender, and you see a chunk of smooth bone poking up from the fat end of the butt.  That bone is the pig’s shoulder blade.  Pull it.  It comes out easy.  But I’m ahead of myself, talking about a fully cooked butt.  Let’s start at the beginning, with the pot.

I was once driving through Tennessee on a road trip and found a factory second kind of place selling imperfect Lodge cast iron cookware.  I may have been close to South Pittsburgh, Tennessee where Lodge cookware is made.  Doesn’t matter.  I bought a Lodge 5-quart cast iron Dutch oven.  If it was flawed, I couldn’t tell.  I’m glad I bought it because I use it a lot.  It’s my "go to" pot for baking a whole chicken, and I don’t make pulled pork in anything else. 

I don’t want to get all snobby here.  Any oven-safe cookware will probably do, I just think cast iron works best.  You could probably cook pulled pork in the big roaster made of thin steel you cook a turkey in.  You know the one with a speckled blue finish?  It’s not as thick or heavy.  My experience with cast iron has been good but in the end, anything big enough with a good lid will do.

I am challenged to find pork butts small enough for my 5-quart pot.  Butts are amazingly uniform in weight.  Seems like they’re all about 9 pounds.  A nine-pound butt threatens to take up all the room needed for the liquid that cooks out of the butt and collects in my pot.  If you’re cooking a big butt, and it is crammed with pork butt and ingredients, put a cookie sheet under it to be safe.  You might avoid an all-out emergency involving smoke alarms and opening all the doors and windows downstairs.  You get the idea.  Now on to the butt itself.

I trim some but not all the fat off the butt. If you’re queasy about fat, this may not be the dish for you.  One side of the pork butt is covered with a solid sheet of white fat.  I remove the thickest parts of that fat blanket.  I suppose you could take all the outside fat off because there’s lots more fat running throughout the pork butt you can’t get to.  I know that’s vague but use your own judgement. 

After trimming some fat, I let my butt sit on the counter to warm up and dry off before I start getting it ready for the oven.  First, I coat the butt with olive oil, then salt it well with kosher salt.  I’m sorry, I have no idea how much salt I use.  Maybe a big handful or more.  Be generous, a pork butt is a big chunk of meat.  You’re just salting the outside of it.  I use a lot of salt and have never been told my pulled pork was too salty.

If you need to prep your pork butt a long while before cooking it, like prep in the morning before cooking it at night, you can put the salted pork uncovered on a plate in the fridge and take it out later to warm up.  It’ll dry out well that way.  You need your butt dry when you put on the rub. 

I wish I could tell you more about the rub.  It’s the most vague part of this story.  But then again, why should I assume I know the kind and amount of spices you like?  The goal is to have enough powdered spice to cover the whole outside surface of a dry salted pork butt.  The proportions?  The ingredients?  All I can do is tell you what I do. And so far, I’ve never screwed this up.

I go to the cupboard and get the kind of bowl I eat dry cereal or oatmeal from.  You have a stack of those somewhere. I want to end up with just a little more than half the dry spice in the bowl as compared to a portion of Cheerios I would eat for breakfast.  I don’t measure the amounts.  Here’s what I can tell you though. 

The biggest part of my spice mix is garlic powder.  I start with that.  Not garlic salt, mind you, the powder.  On top of that, I put powdered red pepper of some kind.  I like using powdered Ancho chili mixed with a smaller amount of cayenne.  I add about the same amount of powdered black pepper.  I also put in some Chipotle powder. 

When my granddaughter June was a baby, I was making pulled pork at an Air B&B in Wicker Park in Chicago.  From a fully stocked spice drawer in someone else’s kitchen, I discovered two spices called Harissa and Zaatar.  They are Middle Eastern spice blends. Think of them as you would the chili powder Americans put into Super Bowl chili.  Zaatar has sumac in it which makes it distinctive.  I think it adds a lot to the pulled pork.  I use plenty of both in my spice bowl.

So, with your half a cereal bowl of spices, thrown together by instinct, you’re ready to apply the rub.  Stir the dried spices well.  Put your butt on a big cutting board and rub every inch of it with the spice mixture.  Hold the butt on its side and blot the edges with the spices that fell off.  Plop it in your cooking pot.  Then scrape together the spices strewn about on the cutting board and counter and throw them in there too.

Don’t skip the vegetables.  I cut two or three poblano peppers in half, take out the seeds and stems, and put those in the space between the pork and the side of the pot.  You can use any kind of peppers you like, although bell peppers don’t add much.  Add a serrano or two if you’re brave.   

I cut two or three yellow onions in half and do the same thing, along with some garlic cloves.  I’ve done carrots too, but they’re not as important as fresh peppers and onions.  There is only room for so many vegetables.  The veggies cook up so soft that when you mash the contents of your pot, the pork and the veggies meld together.  The veggies disappear but their flavor and texture are part of the dish.

Here's the best part.  After you’ve done all that, simply put the lid on the pot and put your butt into a preheated 225 oven (on a cookie sheet to be safe) shut the door, and don’t open it again for 12 hours.  I usually start mine in the evening.  If I get it in the oven at 7:00 p.m. I wake up to the smell of it at 7:00 a.m. and it’s ready for the last steps.  I’m usually up anyway. But if you happen to take it out a little early or let it go a bit longer don’t worry about it. 

After taking it from the oven I leave the Dutch oven on top of the stove with the lid on and have a cup of coffee. Then I take the lid off and have another one.  With two big spoons, one on each side, I then transfer the whole butt from the pot to a bigger shallow pan.   I scoop the veggies out with a slotted spoon and put them in the pan with the pork. 

To finish off this dish I switch to two utensils; a big fork and a simple potato masher.  Pull that shoulder blade out of the butt and push the potato masher straight down into the middle of the whole thing.  It will probably moosh right through the meat and touch the bottom of the pan.  Taste it.  It’s beautifully soft slow-cooked spicy pork. 

Keep mashing.  Your vegetables will disappear into the pork.  If you have some leaner butt chunks you may need to separate the grain of the pork, pulling it apart with the fork, but if it’s cooked right pulling the pork is not a big deal. I find the potato masher does most all the work.

The last steps are simple.  Put some pulled pork on a slice of bread, eat it like a taco, and see how it tastes.  It’s a good time to add one of your spices if you want a particular taste to stand out more.  All up to you.

Just two things left.  If you are going for a more commercial tasting pulled pork, add a bottle (or more) of barbeque sauce along with liquid left in the pot your butt was cooked in.  It’s good without it but your guests may think it’s better with the BBQ sauce.  That’s probably what they are accustomed to.

Then there is the liquid left in the cooking pot.  A lot but not all the liquid left behind is grease, and we’ve been taught that grease is bad for us. And I’m sure it is. But you don’t eat pulled pork every day.  Chances are you don’t eat it often at all. 

The hidden truth about grease, or any kind of fat, is that it makes food taste really good.   To get your pulled pork to the texture you want; first add the barbeque sauce (if using it) and then some (or all) the liquid from the pot. I’ve done it both ways. Don’t skimp. Live a little.

My kids talk to me about food a lot. My daughter was a food science major, and my son is a great cook like his sister. They’ve been trying to avoid high fructose corn syrup, or any corn syrup really, for years. I’ve gone along. They’re smart kids. By checking sauce ingredients, I’ve found a barbeque sauce sweetened with cane sugar called Montgomery Inn.  Not Montgomery, Alabama but a renowned BBQ joint in Montgomery, Ohio.  I like it.  Use as much of any kind of sauce as you like. It’s important to make this creation your own. 

And then serve it on a quality bun while it’s hot.  Put some in the fridge for later. Freeze some. Share it with friends.  A whole pork butt makes a big bunch of pulled pork. Enjoy it.

And don’t worry about the specific amount of anything.  It’ll turn out fine.   

Goodbye to the Trib

 I figured it would end, imagined it happening, but not like this.  The Chicago Tribune no longer appears on my driveway every day of the week.  I had a long run of having the most read newspaper in Illinois in my hands and on my kitchen counter with morning coffee, answers to crossword puzzle clues ready to be solved and recorded with a yellow Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil. And now it’s over.  Just like that. 

Used to be you couldn’t get home delivery of the Tribune in Ottawa.  I don’t know when it started.  Before I subscribed, I bought single issues from Earl Gray off the news rack at Senate billiards.  I’d buy it when the state legislature got serious about passing a budget in Springfield, so I could get a good analysis of what they had done to social services.  I had a vested interest; kids and families in LaSalle County, later more counties.  I needed good information, and they gave it to me. 

The Trib always had good political coverage.  They had Mike Royko for God's sake, with slats Grobnik and news from the Billy Goat Tavern.  Later there was Mary Schmich, Erik Zorn, and the Greek guy.  You know his name.  Famous for beer can chicken and barbecuing a whole lamb at Easter somewhere in the suburbs. 

I also wanted the inside scoop on the Cubs from fanatic sports writers.  There were reviews of movies, stage plays, concerts, and a schedule of bands and solo artists coming to Chicago.  The Trib offered what I wanted in a single source.  I coveted the information and had it in black and white on paper for I’m guessing 34 years.  And now I don’t.

I still have it, however, in pixels with the print blown up on this giant screen I’m typing on.  I also have it on my tiny cramped I Phone screen.  But it’s not the same.  It will never be the same.

I figured they would simply end delivery in small towns, reversing the trend that brought home delivery to Ottawa when I first subscribed.  The costs must be enormous compared to sending it over the Internet.  There are tons of newsprint, 50-gallon drums of ink to buy, presses to maintain, and trucks hauling printed papers in the middle of the night across Northern Illinois. 

All that coupled with a local carrier who loads papers in the back of a car with chronically worn brakes and heads out into the early morning.  They pull into my driveway and throw a real paper that thumps against my garage door while I’m still sleeping.  I figured those costs would be what took the physical paper out of my hands.   

I thought home delivery would implode, they would discontinue the paper edition in outlying towns, and I would have no other choice but to read it in the shack on my desktop computer, or squint and swipe on my tiny I Phone screen.   But that’s not the case.  Something else happened, ever more insidious.

The Chicago Tribune has made the cost of having a printed paper delivered to homes outrageously expensive.  I have gotten postcards every couple of months for all these years telling me how much the Tribune appreciates my readership and support, and how much they are going to automatically charge my credit card for the privilege.  I’ve known it was high, but I’m pretty good at ignoring the cost of things that are important to me. 

And then I read this latest postcard.

“Your credit/debit card will be charged $400.00 on approximately 3/24/25 for service period 3/26/25 through 5/20/25.”

That’s not all.  “Your subscription may include up to fifteen Premium issues per year.  For each Premium issue, your account balance will be charged an additional fee up to $13.99 in the billing period when the section publishes.  The charge will shorten the pay-through date listed above.”

The time period projected above is 55 days.  Let’s see, 365 divided by 55 is about 6.6.  Multiply that by $400 and you get $2,654 and some change.  Can that total be right?  Wait.  What about those Premium issues that you get whether you want them or not? 15 of those at $13.99 is $210 in round numbers.  So, $2,864 total?  Can that be right?  I think it is.  I’ve run the numbers more than once.  Math is not my strong suit.

But being cheap, now that has served me well.  I try to look at what I’m spending and align it with what I value.  $2,864 is darn close to $240 a month.  I could support local charities more with that money, donate more to June’s (my granddaughter’s) college fund, or pay the entire cost for a fishing trip to Northern Ontario with a thousand bucks to spare.  I might even be able to self-publish a book for that amount of money.  In the end, I had to break off our relationship myself.

Here’s my current reality: I’m not going to be on my driveway at 6:00 a.m. gathering up the news in a blue plastic bag anymore.  Adios, Chicago Tribune paper edition.  It was great while it lasted.

Panimatzalan, Guatemala 2025

 I Care - Panimatzalan, Guatemala 2025

The hour-long van ride to Panimatzalam, the first of I Care International’s two clinic sites in Guatemala this year, told us a lot about the village we had never before served.  From our hotel in San Lucas Toliman, on the shore of Lake Atitlan, it was way up the mountain in the neighboring Solola district.  

As we made the steep and winding climb in a caravan of three vans, we passed through smaller and smaller villages: Aguas Escondido, Godinez, Las Conoas.  Along the way, we drove by the very full local landfill.  In contrast, the views below of Lake Atitlan were spectacular.  

But most striking to us were the steep fields of corn, fava beans, mangoes, and avocado trees.  Those fields could not be farmed with tractors and conventional farm implements.  As evidence, field workers with heavy hoes walked along the road to begin their day of manual labor tending those fields with hand tools.  

Word has it that in some fields the campesinos tie themselves to trees with rope to cultivate and harvest the most dangerous inclines.  We didn’t see that, but most of the corn had been harvested, the stalks left standing, indicating the ears were shucked by hand.  

When we turned off the main road into Panimatzalam, we climbed even higher.  It felt as if we were on the very top of the volcano.  The town was small.  I can’t find a population count, but a tour guide with a commercial website estimates 150 to 200 families live in the village.  It is described as a Kaqchikel community that few outsiders visit.  Kaqchikel refers to their shared pre-Columbian language spoken in Panimatzalan, one of 21 pre-Columbian languages spoken in Guatemala before the conquistadors introduced Spanish in the 1500’s.

I Care International gained entry to this community as we always must, by establishing rapport and trust with community leaders and receiving an invitation to serve.  We can’t do our work without such contacts.  We have partnered with national, state, and local government, health departments, Rotary clubs, hospitals, and clinics.  I may have left some partners out.  

But our community partner in Panimatzalan was new; a committee representing the Ancient Mayan Authority of the Solola region, pictured here, with their leader Tata Domingo Quino. 

 

They’re trying to keep their community alive by attracting tourism, practicing sustainable farming practices, and preserving their Mayan customs.  Tata, along with his wife and members of the committee served our 30+ volunteers lunch at noon down the street at their home.   

They let us use their community center, a simple concrete block building with a basketball court, a stage, and good bathrooms.  It was a perfect place to work, with lots of space and the added benefit of having our whole clinic operate in one big room.  

We set up our six stations: Intake, Nurses (checking blood sugar and blood pressure), Acuity (eye charts), Autorefractors (machines which measure the eye), Eye Exams by our optometrists and optometry students, and finally, the Dispensary where pickers choose an appropriate pair of glasses from our inventory of used glasses and fitters give them to our patients. 

Watching each other work together in an open setting like that not only reminds us how important every volunteer is to the process, it also fosters good communication between us.

Late on the second day, when presented with a 24-year-old woman with a serious case of astigmatism and a very strong prescription to correct it, I asked her this.

“Tienes lentes antes?”  Have you had glasses before?

“De nina, tenge lentes.  Pero ahora son muy pequenos, y roto también.”   

“De niña” is a convenient Spanish phrase I just learned.  It means, “as a girl.”  She was telling me that “as a girl she had glasses, but they are now too small and also broken.

“Cuantos años sin lentes?”  I asked.  How many years without glasses?

“Diez, mas or menos.”  Ten, more or less.  

I put my hand on my heart.

“Hace diez años, que no ves bien?”  For ten years, you haven’t seen well?

I have similar eyes.  Without my glasses, I’m lost.  With her condition, her field of vision would be extremely limited.

I pulled out my stock phrase for such moments.

“Sin lentes, el mundo está muy pequeña para ti.”  Without glasses, the world is very small for you.

She understood too well.  I showed her the glasses the pickers selected for her. Thankfully, the prescription was extremely close to the one the optometrist had prescribed.  

“Pruebe estos.” Try these. 

I carefully put them on her face.

“Mira el arbol afuera.”  Look at the tree outside. 

I pointed through the open exit door where a tree stood some 25 feet away.

When I put glasses on a person in the clinic I look closely at their face for their reaction.  She smiled.

“Como es la vista?”  How is the view?

“Muy claro.  Tan claro.”  Very clear.  So clear. 

She spoke to the four-year-old who had been so quiet through the process.

“Mama tienes lentes nuevos!”  Mama has new glasses!

“Con tu permiso, un juguete para tu hijo?  With your permission, a toy for your son?

“Si.”

I went to my stash of Pez and fished one out, with a couple of sleeves of extra candy.  I held it in front of him.

“Mira aqui.  Es un juguete, y también tienes dulces.  Look here.  It’s a toy, and it also has candy.

I bent the head back and the little sugar tablet poked out.  I got a smile from him too. 

Next, I fit her sister, age 20, with an infant on her back.  She had almost identical eyes.  Yes, these conditions do run in families.  We had glasses that met her needs very well also.  Her story was similar.  Glasses when young.  No means to replace them when she outgrew them.  I was so glad they came to our clinic.

About the time I was finishing with the sisters, my friend Mark Bindner, a fluent Spanish speaker who does intakes, came over to see what was going on in dispensing.  It was slow at his station.  I was impressing upon the sisters the importance of eye exams for their kids when they were older.  Maybe we would be back in the area in a few years.  

When Mark walked up to me, the second sister looked at us standing together, about the same age, both with white hair and beards, and asked me,

“Tu hermano?”  Your brother?

We looked at each other and laughed.  Mark put his hand on my shoulder. 

“No. Pero viejos amigos.  Muy viejos.”  No.  But old friends.  Very old.

As we talked, the four-year-old was getting quite good at getting the candy out of his Pez.  Mark was talking to the sisters in Spanish when he felt a little tap on his leg and looked down.  

The boy was holding a Pez up to him.  Big eyes.  Big smile.  Not so common for a four-year-old to share so freely.

“Oh my god, he’s giving me his candy.”

I saw tears in Mark’s eyes.  The boy handed me a sugary tablet as well.  All we could manage to say was gracias and put the candy in our mouths.

 

After Panimatzalan, we served the larger more urban town of San Lucas Toliman for two days at a hospital there.  San Lucas Toliman is a different place, a popular lake town with gringo visitors, now developing tourism and the businesses that go with it quite well.  It’s a very different place from the Kaqchikel village of Panimatzalam on top of the volcano. 

In our four days of clinic, we served 1100 patients, each getting a thorough eye exam and glasses if needed.  It was a joy to work with I Care volunteers again bringing quality eye care to people outside our borders.

Each year I seem to forget how much I love that work.  And then the people we serve remind me why.

Santa Gave Me Advice for Christmas

I've been writing for the local paper these past six months.  When I do that I write shorter pieces to keep within their word limit and tend not to put them on my blog.  I'll start the year off their team and hope to communicate with you more through regular postings.  Hope you like this one.  Merry Christmas.

Life changes in subtle ways. After swimming laps at the old YMCA, I would spend time in the park the city created in the “flats” near the end of the Fox River.  At the new Y, I loop down to the Illinois River on my way home. The Illinois River is bigger.  I see barges sometimes, heading south toward Alton.  Some go all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and the cargo they carry goes all over the world. 

Last week I was on the riverbank between the 23 bridge and the railroad trestle when I heard a familiar voice.

“So, McClure, you decided to come back after all.”

My wife and I recently returned from Bolivia where we visited my son.  I turned around to find Santa Claus walking towards me out of uniform, sporting not a bit of red.  Bib overalls, a thick grey sweater, and a black stocking hat. 

“You left and didn’t come back once before, right?”

“That was fifty years ago, Santa, in Europe.  I was twenty-three.  The Vietnam War had just ended.  Watergate forced Nixon from office.  Tumultuous times.”

“But you thought about staying away this time too, right?”

“Yeah.  We spent most of our time in Cochabamba, a city at 8,500 feet in an Andes mountain valley just 17 degrees south of the equator.  Beautiful weather, technically the start of their summer though the weather changes little. We relaxed and stopped reading American news.  We shopped at outdoor markets and cooked fresh food.  It’s a small country of around 12 million.  Calm and peaceful.”

“Why didn't you stay?”

“I’m not 23 anymore.  I feel like I belong here.  My family, my church, June, the shack, these rivers.  It’s where I live, good or bad.”

“But you’re not happy with where your country is headed?  Or do I have that wrong?’

“No, you’re right.  I’m fed up with division, violence, hatred, and greed.  I fear for our future.”

“But here you are.  Now 73.”

“Yeah.”

Awkward silence.

“How about you Santa?”

“Well, unlike you I’m still working.  Been doing Christmas one way or another since the 4^th century.  That century began in 300 A.D. you know.  Can’t forget those first years before they add to a hundred.  But we’re on different paths. My future is unlimited, while yours, you know…”

 He paused, looked away, then went on.

“Life changes hardly at all for me, but your life changes quickly.  Mortals speed through their lives and disappear.  It’s hard for me to comprehend because I have such a long view of the world, but I it happens all the time.  I think of you McClure, living within your thin slice of history, and I want you to end it well.”

“That’s big of you, Santa.  Tell me, what do you think after pondering my brief life almost over?”

“You spend too much time worrying.  You know your life is finite, right?  Worry is taking you away from the thing you do best and satisfies you the most.”

“And what’s that, Santa?”

“Writing.”

“But I’m writing right now.”

“You’re not telling people the whole story.  Finish it.  Polish it up.  Put it out there.  Let the people you love know the real you.  Contribute to their future.  You won’t regret it.  Consider that you were made to do just that.  I’m doing what I’m supposed to do.  How about you do the same?  Stop worrying, keep your fingers on that keyboard in the Shack, and get to work, for Christ’s sake.”

“Christ?  Have you been talking to him about me?”

“Jesus?  NO.  I mean, we chat occasionally.  Everybody needs to check in with peers from time to time, but we don’t talk about individuals.  If he wants to say something to you he will.  I’m just handing out friendly Santa advice.  Consider it your Christmas present.”

“Well, thanks.  I wish I could give you something in return.”

“You can.  Remember what I told you and write a story about me.”

“Consider it done.   Thanks, Santa.  Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, McClure.  Hope I see you again next year.”

My Heroes are Crashing Down

 This story will only repeat.  A voice on early morning radio informs us of another musician’s death.  A musician whose life paralleled ours, whose music lives in your heart along with lyrics that name your fears and hopes, joy and sadness.  Gone. 

That morning, I pictured the cover of an album in a wooden crate in the shack.  On it is a picture of the long-haired singer/songwriter as a young man.  There is a shadow image beside him.  His thumbs are tucked behind his belt buckle, and between his fingers is a lit cigarette.  In my mind, he walked a path I also traveled.  Perhaps creating that feeling of familiarity was his gift.  I walk into our bedroom as my wife is waking up.

“Kris Kristofferson died.”

“I’m sorry.  I know how much you liked him.  Which of his songs was your favorite?”

“Want me to sing it for you?”

“Sure.”

I struck up an acapella version of “The Silver Tongued Devil and I” while putting on my socks.  It had been running through my mind since I heard the news.

              I took myself down to the Tally Ho tavern

              To buy me a bottle of beer.

              I sat me down by a tender young maiden

              With eyes just as dark as her hair.

              And as I was searching from bottle to bottle

              For something unfoolish to say.

              That silver tongued devil, just slipped from the shadows

              And smiling, stole her away.

              Chorus

              I said ‘Hey, little girl, don’t you know he’s a devil?

              He’s everything that I ain’t.

              Hiding intentions of evil, under the guise of a saint.

All he’s good for is gettin’ in trouble,

And shifting his share of the blame.

Some people swear he’s my double,

And some even say we’re the same.

But the silver-tongued devil’s got nothing on me

I’ll only live till I die.

We take our own chances, and pay our own dues,

The silver-tongued devil and I.

(In my head a spare dobro and a tinkling piano back his voice)

Like all the fair maidens who’ve laid down beside him

She knew in her heart that he lied

But nothing that I could have said

Could’ve have saved her

No matter how hard that she tried

Cause she’ll offer her soul to darkness and danger

Of something that she’s never known,

And open her arms at the smile of a stranger

Who’ll love her and leave her alone.

Repeat Chorus

@1971 Combine Music Corp.  Used without permission. Apologies to the Kristofferson estate.

 

“I’m amazed you still know the words.”

“I think I knew all the songs on that album at one time. “

“Which others?”

“When I Loved Her.  Jody and the Kid.  Black and Blue.  Loving Her Was Easier Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again.”

The Silver Tongued Devil and I was also the name of Kristofferson’s second album, recorded in 1971.  It was a bigger success than his first, both coming before he became Grammy winner, a movie star, and a legendary Nashville songwriter. 

But it was his life as much as his songs that drew me to Kristofferson.

He grew up in a military family, his father an Air Force pilot who retired as a major general.  His son followed in his footsteps though unlike his dad Kris first went to school as an English major at Pomona College, California.  At Pomona he studied creative writing and was named a Rhodes scholar, enabling him to complete his studies at Oxford University in England.  It was 1960.

In Europe, Kristofferson’s life expanded.  At Oxford, he continued to write and studied in detail the works of William Blake, a visionary English poet and visual artist of the late 1700’s and early 1800’s.  Kristofferson also used his time in Europe to travel.

In an interview with David Letterman, Kristofferson described a trip he made following the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway.  Kristofferson said “I figured if I wanted to become a writer I had to go out and live.  One of the ways I did that was trying to be as much like Hemingway as I could, doing all the wrong things he did except, you know, blowing my brains out.”

Kristofferson became an aficionado of bullfighting, running with the bulls in Pamplona, and attending bullfights throughout northern Spain.  As he recounted the trip to Letterman, he was young and “thought of myself as immortal, impossible to kill.”

In the Spanish town of Burgos, he and several friends gathered outside a hospital where matador Luis Miguel Dominguin was taken after a near fatal goring in the bull ring.  As they waited to receive word on his status, a car pulled up and from it emerged Ernest Hemingway.  He described their encounter to Letterman this way. 

“All of a sudden, Hemingway was standing beside me.  I looked him right in the face.  It was ravaged.  I had no idea of the awful shape he appeared to be in.  I don’t know if he reacted to the look on my face or what but without a word, he wheeled around, got back in his car and sped away.  He died within months of that day.”  Hemingway was 61.  The year was 1961.

After Oxford, Kristofferson enlisted in the United States Army.  Stationed in Germany, he completed Ranger School and went on to fly helicopters.  He volunteered to go to Vietnam as a pilot, but instead the Army ordered him to report to West Point to serve as an English Literature professor. 

When Kristofferson found out he would be required to turn in lesson plans as a West Point faculty member, he is reported to have said that the job “sounded like hell to me.”  He resigned his commission in the Army and moved to Nashville to pursue his interest in songwriting. The year was 1965.

That decision was not without consequences.  Upon learning their son gave up a promising military career, his parents, both veterans, disowned him.  Kristofferson claimed he had no regrets, believing William Blake was correct in asserting these words; “anyone divinely ordered for spiritual communion that buries his talent will be pursued by sorrow and desperation through life and by shame and confusion for eternity.”

Heavy stuff, even for an English major.  Kristofferson reframed Blake’s 200-year-old advice this way. “Blake is telling you you’ll be miserable if you don’t do what you’re supposed to do.”

Not that it was easy.  Kristofferson worked as a janitor at Columbia Studios in Nashville for years, writing songs that went unheard, hoping to make connections.  Unsuccessful, he began piloting commercial helicopters to make a living.  That led to his boldest move.

Kristofferson flew one of those helicopters to Johnny Cash’s home near Nashville, landed on his lawn, and personally delivered his idol a demo tape.  Cash listened to the tape and liked it so much he recorded it.  That song was “Sunday Morning Coming Down.”  And the rest, as they say, is history.  The year was 1969.  I was graduating from high school.

Johnny Cash believed Kris Kristofferson fundamentally changed songwriting and with it country music.  Kristofferson argues it was Bob Dylan, whose country album “Nashville Skyline” was recorded there.  He’s quoted as saying “the direction Bob Dylan was pointing made it (songwriting) a respectable thing to do.”  I credit them both.

When this happens, I sit in the shack and listen to the songs of my departed hero.  Unlike Hemingway, Kris Kristofferson was old when he died.  During his career, Kristofferson was generous to those around him.  In 1992, he risked and received criticism while publicly defending Sinead O’Connor.  The troubled artist had protested sexual abuse and its coverup within the Catholic Church by ripping up a photo of the Pope on Saturday Night Live.  In 2009 he wrote a song “Sister Sinead” about her.

But Kristofferson’s most memorable good deed happened on a snowy night in Chicago.  He was performing in Chicago with Steve Goodman.  The conversation may have gone like this.

“Kris, I know you want to get out of town, but there’s this mailman you gotta hear.”

“Because?”

“He’s special.”

“Does he write like you?”

“Sort of.  More clever maybe.”

“Tell me a song of yours that compares to his.”

“Oh hell, I don’t know.”

“Come on Steve, give me something.”

“OK.  The Dutchman.”

“Really?  All right.  Let’s hear what he’s got to say.”

Soon they were knocking on the door of the Fifth Peg, a short-lived folk club in Lincoln Park on Armitage.  It was closed.  Prine was having a vodka and ginger ale at the bar when they let in Goodman and Kristofferson. He unpacked his guitar and played his songs to an empty house save for them.  Within months John Prine signed a record deal with the help of Kris Kristofferson.  The year was 1970.

And so it goes.  Steve Goodman left us way too early in 1994 at the age of 36.  Johnny Cash died in 2003 at age 71.  In 2020 the pandemic delivered a cruel blow when COVID took John Prine from us at age 73.  84-year-old Gordon Lightfoot left the stage last year.  And now 88-year-old Kris Kristofferson.  Like old trees in a forest, they come crashing down. 

Bob Dylan is 83.

Hamburger Mary Comes to Ottawa

 I now know how to respond when people ask me this;

“Are you from Ottawa?”

That question is usually asked by longtime Ottawa people, and I know what they mean.  For a while, I didn’t understand, but now I do.  They’re asking if my family, like theirs, lived here when I was born.  Or did I grow up somewhere else?

So, I answer by saying “No, I grew up on a farm in McLean County, between Bloomington and Pekin.  I came to Ottawa in 1973.”

And that’s how you can live somewhere for fifty-one years and still not be from there.  I get it.  And I really don’t mind the question.

But I want to point out that those of us from somewhere else add to our community.  Take my friend Sam for example.

Sam goes to my church, Open Table United Church of Ottawa, downtown on the corner of Columbus and Jackson.  Now that I’m retired, Open Table and the YMCA are where I interact most with other people. You can get isolated during retirement if you’re not careful. I value my association with both organizations very much.

Like me, Sam isn’t from Ottawa.  He grew up in Cleveland, went to university in California, lived for a while in Chicago, and now teaches at the college level.  Sam is married and raising his family in Ottawa.  And like many in our church, he’s a lot younger than me. 

Open Table UCC is an Open and Affirming church, meaning that we opted as a congregation to be intentionally welcoming to members of the LGBTQ community.  “Intentionally welcoming” is church code meaning we do more than put words on the website and go about business as usual on Sunday.  We live that welcome seven days a week all year long.  Not only talking the talk but walking the walk.  We’ve found offering a genuine and meaningful welcome helps us reach younger people who as a group are more comfortable with our stance. 

Open Table sponsors and provides space for another organization, Youth Outlook, to operate a weekly support group for LGBTQ young people.  The Ottawa Chapter of PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) also meets at Open Table on the third Sunday of every month.  And of course, there is worship, with open communion, at 10:00 a.m. every Sunday.    We’re a diverse and active congregation, young and old, gay and straight, attended by people of all types and persuasions.  I feel good being part of it. 

One of our most successful programs is Second Sunday Lunch.  We followed the lead of our neighbors, the Episcopalians who began providing a free lunch to the community years ago.  After us, other churches signed on: First Presbyterian, First United Methodist, Christ Community Church, and Trinity Lutheran.  Now, each Sunday of the year anyone in the community who needs or wants food, fellowship, or both can enjoy a community meal in Ottawa.  Your local churches do more than you realize.

Back to Sam.  He has a lot of talents.  In a past life, he was a line cook at Hamburger Mary’s in Chicago.  There are eleven Hamburger Mary’s restaurants in cities across the country.  As a company, they support LGBTQ organizations and causes in the communities where they operate. 

As you know, there is a Pride Festival in Ottawa this weekend. It begins with a Night of Remembrance for victims of violence against the LGBTQ community on Friday the 7^th in Washington Park at 7:00 p.m..  It is sponsored by Open Table Church.  Saturday opens with a parade, followed by a day full of events in both Washington Park and the Jordan Block.  Look for Open Table’s booth there.  Ottawa’s Pride celebration includes a performance by the Ottawa Community Gay Pride choir, led by Open Table’s choir director Donna Martin.  Ottawa Pride activities end officially on Saturday. 

However, on Sunday, in honor of both Pride weekend and Hamburger Mary’s, Sam and his family are cooking Mary’s famous burger with their distinctive fixin’s, hand-cut steak fries, side salads, and like every Second Sunday Lunch meal, great desserts made by members of our congregation.

 

 Hamburger Mary’s is famous for distinctive “mocktails”, or non-alcoholic drinks.  So, added to the food menu on Sunday are Virgin Marys, Wonky Donkeys (a local takeoff on an NA Moscow Mule), and Orange Creamsicles – all with fabulous toppings.  A Wonky Donkey is made of ginger beer and lime.  I have a sneaking suspicion one of Sam’s kids may have gotten in on naming that drink. 

Sam is preparing lunch for a large crowd.  So, if you would like to cap off Ottawa’s Pride Event with a hamburger only Mary (and Sam) can make, or just have a mocktail, please join us.  We serve from 12:00 to 1:00 p.m. June 9th.  You’ll meet a nice group of people.  As always, everyone is welcome.  Really.