Breaking Stones: A Rollercoaster Ride from the Stone Age to the Internet Age

By Herman Alves

Breaking Stones is a book about hope, about over-coming all odds, about coming to terms with ones self, and, above all, about the joy of giving back. Alves was born in a rural mountainous region of Portugal. The setting may have been mid-20th century, but the living conditions were Stone Age - no electricity, no running water, no creature comforts of any variety.

Breaking Stones follows Alves odyssey from a boyhood spent with his best friend, Burro the donkey, in Portugal to the social alienation he experienced in Germany to the culture shock he felt in Montreal, where his family moved when he was a teen.

The adventure continues as Alves tries to find himself as everything from a wannabe rock star to a worm picker, a club-owner to a calche-driver, a landlord to a political activist, a steel-worker to a high-tech consultant, a restaurateur to a philanthropist. In the midst of everything, Alves experiences the euphoria and heartbreak and tragedy of marriage and fatherhood. And ultimately, the kid from the Stone Age emerges intact and wiser in the Internet Age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462008001

Herman Alves

Herman Alves has lived many lives in just 50 years. He has been at the bottom and he has been on top. He’s made fortunes and lost fortunes. But he has never given up. He has persisted and he has dealt with whatever life has thrown at him.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1 – The Burro and Me

CHAPTER 2 – Strange New World

CHAPTER 3 – Like a Rolling Stone

CHAPTER 4 – Heartbroken and locked-up

CHAPTER 5 – Time to Kill the Pain

CHAPTER 6 – Living with Secrets

CHAPTER 7 – Horsing Around in the City

CHAPTER 8 – Sharing the Warmth

CHAPTER 9 – Driven by the Cause

CHAPTER 10 – The Turning Point

CHAPTER 11 – Catching the Internet Wave

CHAPTER 12 – Selling Passion

CHAPTER 13 – Amazin’ Grace

CHAPTER 14 – Sometimes it Rains

Chapter 15 – The road ahead …

Epilogue – Lessons Learned from Breaking Stones

Dedicated…

This book is dedicated to the women in the world who give life, raise children and fight the good fight everyday to put food on the table and keep the family institution healthy, generation after generation.

On that note, I’d like to say a special thank you and dedicate this book to the four most important women in my life who have given their sweat and tears to make this world a better place and who made me who I am. Without them, I would be nothing and this book would never have seen the light of day.

To my mother Helena Martins, to whom I’ll forever be indebted for giving me life and for singlehandedly raising me in the most challenging of economic conditions. She was always there, sharing her love and affection.

To my beautiful wife Gabriella Reale, who has been my life partner for almost a quarter century and gave life to our two beautiful boys Jeremy and Jacob, who bring happiness and joy into our lives every single day. Without her focus and determination on our well-being and on what’s important in life, I’d still probably be lost and searching for love in the wrong places. She is the foundation of our happy home.

To my first wife Fernanda Araujo, who was destined to deal with my immature ways and suffer through the ordeal of losing our first-born child, William. Despite that, we now relish in the pride and joy of seeing our son Rodney turn into a hardworking successful businessman and community builder. Without her spirited teamwork, Rodney and I would not be as successful as we are today.

And finally to my sister Alda, who gave me a sense of responsibility while growing up together. She kept me out of trouble on many occasions, and has always been there for me and my family with her unconditional love and support. I’m very proud of her.

To the aforementioned and all the other women with whom I have collaborated, I dedicate this poem written by John Lennon, my all-time source of inspiration:

Woman I can hardly express,

My mixed emotion at my thoughtlessness,

After all I’m forever in your debt,

And woman I will try to express,

My inner feelings and thankfulness,

For showing me the meaning of success,

Woman I know you understand

The little child inside the man,

Please remember my life is in your hands,

And woman hold me close to your heart,

However, distant don’t keep us apart,

After all it is written in the stars,

Woman please let me explain,

I never mean(t) to cause you sorrow or pain,

I love you now and forever

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I would like to thank the Creator of the Universe for giving me the chance to have been born poor, and for the health and power to pursue my passions, one of which is writing BREAKING STONES. And to all the collaborators who made this book possible, thank you …

Bill Brownstein for editing and weeding out my writing;

Monique Pambrun for her support in organizing the thought process;

Judy Stevens for being my spiritual guide through the process of writing this book;

Eva Blue for lending me her talented eye as a photographer and web adviser; and,

Steve Louis for his graphical talent and suggesting the title

BREAKING STONES

Introduction

I was born in the Stone Age. I now live in the Internet Age. It feels like I’ve been breaking stones all my life, trying to achieve milestones. Amazingly, this is a journey that has taken just a little more than 40 years. What a long, amazing trip it’s been. What an incredibly rewarding one, too. I’ve had my share of failure, but without the failure, I would have never known success. Not success on a material scale, but success on an emotional and spiritual plane. I’m not a religious man. I’m certainly not a preacher, but I have been inspired by my life’s experiences. I simply want to share my story with others who might find within it the inspiration to turn their lives around as well as to succeed with their life’s purpose.

There are three compelling reasons I have for wanting to write this book: first, before anyone has a chance to chisel my name on a tombstone, I simply want to share with others the lessons I’ve learned from my own life experiences – lessons that I hope will help others learn from my mistakes.

Second, I want to show others that it is never too late to get one’s house in order. Yes, like many others, I’ve made many mistakes along the way, but I’ve found my way out by embracing change as part of life.

Third, I want to share my appreciation for all those caring people who feel a commitment toward social justice. I’m forever touched by the efforts of those who give so much of their time and money for the greater good.

The world is chock-full of opportunity. Amidst the chaos, there is love and happiness to be found and I have realized that life is more than self. It’s about sharing what you’ve learned with others and giving back to the community. I am living proof. Welcome to my world. Enjoy the ride.

CHAPTER 1 – The Burro and Me

Character is like the foundation of a road – it is below the surface.

(Portuguese proverb)

I was awakened by the sounds of crying outside in our front yard. People were chatting loudly. There was a huge commotion. I got out of bed and rushed to the window to check what all the fuss was about. Still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I could make out people loading luggage into a broken-down old taxi. Next thing that I remembered was my father lumbering into our house and coming up to hug me. He muttered something about leaving for Brazil for a better life. I was shell-shocked.

I ran outside where I found my mother and grandmother sobbing uncontrollably. It was as if someone or something had died, and in effect, something did. My father was only 30, and he was leaving. We weren’t sure if we would ever see him again. I was just five at the time, but I was already traumatized.

Later, I learned that my father went to pick up my 18-year-old Uncle Antonio, who lived on the other side of the mountain. We lived in the tiny, desolate rural community of Barreira Junqueira, Sao Bento, Porto de Mos in Portugal - not that far in kilometers from the urban hustle of Lisbon, but light-years removed on the technological front. Though this was the latter part of the 20th Century, it was still the Stone Age in our village.

Uncle Antonio, too, was leaving the relative comfort of home for this far-away country called Brazil that few of us had ever heard of. His mother had to accompany him and help him carry all his worldly possessions on a mule through a treacherous and rocky mountain passageway from their home to the nearest road accessible by car. This was a good 25-minute trek.

In hindsight, I can understand why my father and uncle would leave their dirt-poor communities in pursuit of a better life, but at the time I felt devastated. I just couldn’t quite fathom how anyone could leave behind their wife and child. In lieu of any money, he did leave my mother with two gifts; the donkey I called Burro, and me.

The following day, I was actually surprised to see that the sun did rise. Somehow I didn’t expect that would happen again. My mother, however, was still weeping and inconsolable. The house felt so empty. We felt so lost. We had no idea where my father was going and no idea if we would ever see him again.

This emptiness and pain lingered for weeks, then months. Finally, though, with the passage of time, a certain sense of normalcy returned to our lives. We had no choice. It was all about survival. I was being raised by a single mother who had to work the land to get by. It also gave me a sense of responsibility to help out, even at my young age. I felt that I had to make a positive contribution if we were going to make it. Not that I had much choice. I was both my mother’s sole company and her right-hand man. Me and Burro, that is. It could have been worse, although it was still pretty tough. In order for my father to pay for his airplane ticket to Brazil, he was forced to sell our two milk cows and two calves. Unfortunately, we had relied on them to plow the fields and pull our carriage. That left my mother and Burro to do the heavy lifting and moving and plowing. So it would go.

Before I started school at the age of seven, I worked by my mother’s side plowing the land, planting vegetables, feeding the animals and doing whatever chores that were required of me. We lived off the land. If we wanted to eat, we had to grow it or kill it. And we did; peas, red-kidney beans, lettuce, collards, cabbage and potatoes. Because the land was so rocky, there were only a few strips of land where we could grow produce, and most of this land could only be cultivated by hand.

Getting our goods to market was another nightmare. There were no paved roads in the area. We had to go on foot through some rocky passageways which were even difficult for donkeys to traverse. This was the only way my mother could ensure there was food for us and some leftover money to purchase life’s necessities like shoes and clothing. And if there were enough funds left over we could even contemplate luxury goods like rice, salt, sugar and the occasional bar of soap with which we would wash ourselves and our clothing.

My specific job was to take care of the calves, cows, pigs, sheep, goats, rabbits and pigeons. We had a dog and a cat and, of course, my best friend, Burro, who was not only my main source of transportation but also my soul mate. I swear he could read my mind. All I needed to do while riding him was say the name of the place where I wanted to go and Burro would turn in that direction and take me there. What a buddy. However never more so then the time when Burro saved my life. Really!

One day, while helping my mother transport a heavy load of hay on a carriage pulled uphill by two young calves, the wheel became stuck and the calves just weren’t strong enough to pull it out. So my mother had this great idea of putting Burro in front of the calves, and me in front of Burro and have us all pull together while she pushed in the back with all her might. We did get it dislodged but the force was so strong it caused an instant movement forward. Walking backwards, I tripped on a rock and fell on my back - with the two rampaging calves, Burro and the carriage about to run over me. But then a miracle, Burro noticed my predicament and froze into a crouching position in front of the onrushing calves, stopping them instantly. It worked and I was to live another day much to the relief of my terrified and screaming mother.

When I wasn’t helping my mother with all her chores, I would go off to assist my grandfather who would always need someone to help with his cows and crops. All in all, I was putting in long days, from sunrise to sunset, and I wasn’t even seven yet. Our home was situated on the side of a hill. The view was majestic.

As far as the eye could see, there were rolling hills and mountains and olive trees. It may have been the stuff of postcards, but the reality is that we lived in a home without running water or electricity. There were no bathrooms or toilets in our region back then. Of course, we did have the biggest bathroom on another level - the great outdoors, where we did all our business.

My hometown Barreira Junqueira, Sao Bento, was located in Serra dos Candieiros, a national park which means Mountain of Lanterns. About 20 minutes to the west of us was the famous town and religious shrine Fatima, where, according to lore, the Virgin Mary appeared to three young shepherd children in 1917. About 30 minutes to the east was Nazaré, a beach resort renowned for its panoramic views and fresh fish. But where we were it was always cold, windy and foggy. In winter we froze. In summer we sweltered.

Our area was considered Jurassic because there were still remnants of dinosaurs, fossils, anyway. We lived somewhere between the Stone Age and the Steel Age. I can easily imagine dinosaurs roaming around there. Frankly, I can’t imagine that our way of life had evolved much in the last 2,000 years. Windmills spinning giant wheels carved out of stone would help crush wheat, oats and corn into flour. Similarly, black olives were picked by me and my mom and crushed into an oily paste, then filtered through baskets into olive oil.

In March we’d sow wheat, oats and hops. In April we’d plant the corn which was mainly used for flour and animal feed. In July we’d harvest the field using only a hand-held sickle. It was really grueling work and it would take between three to four weeks to complete the harvest. If the physical aspect of the job didn’t get to you, the heat would. I’d have to drink about three litres of water a day to avoid being dehydrated on the job. Meanwhile, my mom was also working nonstop. She would put up a tent of straw for me to rest in. She also feared for snakes in the area. Apparently, the smell of milk from the mouths of babies would attract snakes. A baby near our village was choked to death by a snake that had followed the milk trail. The worst the snakes inflicted on us was sucking our cows and goats dry.

I was fortunate, however, to be alive. When I was about a year old, while harvesting the fields, my mother came to check on me in the straw tent and found me white as a ghost. With no doctors or transportation, she rushed me back home and gave me a cold bath. Miraculously, it worked. But a year later, we were not so fortunate. My mom gave birth to a second child, a beautiful boy named Agostinho. He appeared normal in every manner, but he had difficulty sucking on my mother’s breast. My mom tried to get him to a doctor, but to no avail. He died five days after he was born before she could get him medical help. We only learned later that he was born with the palate of his mouth wide open, which is why he couldn’t suck and ultimately died of starvation. Sadly, doctors were few and far away and unaffordable. It was easier to get a priest to see the deceased than it was to get a doctor to heal the living.

I was much luckier. When I was three, I was kicked by my grandmother’s mule. It ripped half my scalp off. My grandmother was in a panic, thinking I was near death. But somehow she managed to send someone to find a taxi in a nearby town to take me to a doctor. The trip took two hours, but the doctor did manage to treat the wound without leaving any permanent damage. All that’s visible on my head is a scar in the shape of a horseshoe. It turns out that it’s a lucky horseshoe that will stick with me my whole life.

I finally started school when I was seven, but life remained pretty much the same. My mother and I soldiered on. I continued to take care of the animals and garden after school. Dinner was also my responsibility. It was easy, because it was always the same; beans and potatoes in various combinations. And don’t talk to me about fava beans. For two months, that’s all we ate. After a while, the smell of the beans made me so nauseous