Modern Day Mystic: Journey of a SongCatcher

By Ron San Miguel

It is no accident that you are looking at this book. Modern Day Mystic is the story of one man's journey. Along the way Ron San Miguel discovered his Yaqui heritage and learned that he is a SongCatcher, whose life has led him to extraordinary yet ordinary experiences, inspirations and creations.

This book is not a Spiritua

• Language: English
• Publisher: San Miguel, Ronald, dba Global Roots Musica
• Release date: Nov 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736855416

Ron San Miguel

Ron San Miguel is a Singer/SongCatcher, recording artist, instructor of Yang Style T'ai Chi Ch'uan, Reiki practitioner, community activist, and career-long civil servant. A Peace Warrior of Yaqui and Apache blood, Ron is a graduate of St. Joseph's Seminary College and has an M.A. in Culture & Spirituality from Holy Names University.Born in El Paso Texas, he currently resides in Oakland, California.Ron is available for speaking engagements, music performances and T'ai Chi Ch'uan for groups. Please visit him at: www.RonSanMiguelAuthor.com E-mail: [e-mail]

Book preview

Keep Hope in your Mind, Faith in your Soul, and Love in your Heart—and nothing will ever prevent you from following the light that shines forth from within to illuminate your path.

–Dancing Hands

ONE

A Fine Line Between Being A Genius And Being Insane

Have you ever wondered if you’ve been here before? After all, we are Spiritual Beings having a Human Experience. I’ve heard it said that every soul chooses its parents and the family we are born into, and at birth the slate is wiped clean so we remember nothing from our past lives.

One evening in late summer of 1975, I finally decided to talk to my parents about the Altered States of Consciousness experiences that I had been having. I did not know what else to call them.

I sat down with them to tell them about some of my experiences, to ask questions, and to ask for guidance and understanding.

I started out by saying that I wanted to have a serious discussion about what was going on in my life.

Before I could get into any detail, my Dad asked, Are you thinking of converting to another religion?

I laughed, and said no. Then I described for them some of my experiences of Altered States of Consciousness. They listened attentively. After I shared just a few of my experiences, my Dad said, Mijo, there is a fine line between being a genius and being insane!

I laughed again, and said, But Dad, I’m neither—I’m not a genius, and I’m not insane. I’m just trying to figure out what these experiences are all about, and why they are happening to me. I thought that perhaps you and Mamá could help me to understand.

Mamá suggested that I go to the doctor to have my head examined.

Well darn; that did not go well. I now knew that my folks did not have a clue about what these experiences were, so there was no point in discussing it with them.

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The Search for Self Continues

My journey and search for understanding continued. Who am I? Why am I here? I had been trying to find out what these experiences were all about, but things were intensifying now. I really started paying attention to what goes on around me, and desperately sought answers. I read many books, but found no answers. I spoke to many teachers, Priests, Monks, and Nuns of different traditions. No one could relate to what I had experienced. Nor could they explain what was happening, or why. Why me?

I learned that to really discover one’s true self, it was necessary to transcend the Ego. And it was required that I remove myself from the blame game. Judging others was not helpful in any way. The truth seeker knows that such things are detrimental to Spiritual growth and development.

Of course, I seldom shared my experiences with anyone. If my own parents thought I was crazy, what would others think? I knew that I was not crazy. I was discovering that this life is about so much more than what one typically sees with the naked eye. The vast Universe is astounding, and we know so very little about it. In fact, we really know very little about life on this planet!

In those days, I was sleeping little. I was consumed with contemplation of the absence of peace in the world, injustice, social and economic inequity, racism, spiritual imbalance, and the lack of concern for taking care of Mother Earth. I was beginning to see the intimate interrelationship between such matters.

I was being called forth to fulfill my destiny, only I still did not know what it was I was supposed to do. Time would tell. Onward and upward!

So, let us now return to the beginning of the story: my childhood.

Childhood is a magical time of discovery, learning, joy, surprise, pain, and sometimes turmoil. Do not be discouraged when you reach your golden years and find that all of the emotions of your childhood are still with you. That means you have a good memory. Write them down before you forget. Kids don’t grow up, we just get older.

–Dancing Hands

TWO

Childhood Memories

The Early Years

Icame into this life on March 30, 1953. My earliest recollection is from when I was but a baby crawling around on the living room floor. We were in Tucson, Arizona, visiting familia. Mamá was sitting in a rocking chair. I crawled a bit too close and yes, my little fingers decided to place themselves strategically underneath one of the rockers, and of course, they got smashed. I screamed bloody murder! In the rush to get me to the hospital, that same injured hand ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught in the car door when it was hurriedly slammed shut. Ouch! That clearly was not my day. Fortunately, the bones in my baby fingers were still quite malleable, so nothing was broken.

My two older brothers, Leocadio III and Rick, were born at Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas. I was also born there. Dad proudly served in the United States Air Force (USAF), so we grew up traveling.

My siblings and I were ‘military brats’. Next we moved to another USAF base in Wichita Falls, Texas, where, a bit shy of my second birthday, my brother Randy was born. Stephen followed just eleven months later. Mamá and Daddy were busy Catholics!

The only other thing I remember from my toddler days in Texas was a day in el campo. It was a family outing somewhere in the countryside. I recall seeing trees, a river, and most memorably—Texas long-horns. I was terrified of them. They seemed to be everywhere. Dad sat me up on the branch of a big tree so that the steers could not reach me. It was a long, hot day, filled with dust and fear.

Up to then we were five brothers, so when we moved to Plattsburg, New York, it must have been the cold weather that changed the baby-making formula, because the first girl, my sister Cynthia Marie, was born there. We were now six siblings.

Another scary thing happened while we lived in Plattsburg; cold country in upstate New York. Brrrr! Dad had been stationed up in them there parts. My sister Cynthia was the new baby. I remember rocking her to sleep in her bassinette. Trouble was, we were near the top of the long flight of stairs that led down to the front door. I rocked the bassinette too hard and Cynthia, who had been sleeping soundly, had a rude awakening as she flew out of the bassinette and rolled down to the bottom of the long flight of stairs. Luckily, because she was relaxed from her sleep and wrapped in a blanket, she was unharmed. Her cries brought everybody running. I cried too and felt so terribly bad. When she was brought up to the top of the stairs, I saw my toothless baby sister wailing and let out a shriek of my own. I thought the tumble down the stairs had knocked out all of her teeth! This was my first experience of guilt. Life would bring many more such guilt-ridden experiences. Mamá tried to explain to me that Cynthia’s teeth had not grown in yet.

Other than the terrible cold weather with tons of snow, the only other thing I remember about Plattsburg was the time my brother Rick and I were swinging on the old swing set in the back yard. We swung so hard and so high that the horizontal bar at the top of the swing set collapsed and folded in on us. We did not get hurt, and we laughed a lot. After New York, we moved back to Tucson while Dad went on a Temporary Duty (TDY) assignment.

My Mamá, Célia García, was born in Mesa, Arizona, and her familia soon thereafter moved to Tucson, where she grew up. Shortly after World War II, my Dad, Leocadio San Miguel, Jr., lied about his age and signed up for military service when he was only sixteen years old. Not long after that, he was stationed at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, the city where he and my Mamá met. They were both nineteen years old when they got married.

As mentioned in the previous paragraph, Mamá’s side of the familia lived in Tucson. While Dad was on TDY, we lived with her Mamá, my Abuelita, Feliciana Moreno García. That’s where I spent my fifth and sixth birthdays. Living with Abuelita was delightful. We called her Grammy.

I have so many fond memories of her. Summers in Tucson were, of course, extremely hot. One day I was out in Grammy’s back yard, playing in the dirt with little toy cars and trucks. Mamá and Grammy had been in the kitchen preparing lunch when I heard them calling me to the table. Covered from head to toe in desert dust, I stood up and (neat freak that I apparently was), promptly fixed the crease of my pants with the palms of my dirty hands before marching on in to eat. I did not know why Grammy and Mamá were laughing. Life was good. I had not yet turned five.

I loved the Tucson desert. I loved Grammy’s tortillas. I remember wondering if everybody in this world was blessed to have frijoles and homemade tortillas every day. Yes, at the age of four I was already a reflective and inquisitive child. I never grew out of that. To this day, I still ask many questions and continue to marvel and reflect upon this mysterious life we live. And I thank the Great Spirit for that! I reckon that is why there has never been a dull moment in my life. Mother Nature, the Universe, Joy, and Love continue to take my breath away.

I also remember looking up into the desert sky and wondering if when rocket ships went up there, Do they punch holes in the blue sky to get into outer space? Years later, when I was an adult, Albert Einstein came and spoke to me in a lucid dream. Perhaps he explained the mystery of rocket ships to me. I don’t remember.

It was a fascinating dream. Albert Einstein and I were sitting upon a cloud in the sky. He spoke to me about many things. In awe, I listened attentively. After a very long while, we stood up; he put his arm around my shoulder and we walked off into the clouds. Although when he walked the earth he stood at only five feet, nine inches tall (I too am 5’9" tall), because this was a lucid dream, I observed that he towered over me as we disappeared into the clouds. I figured that was because his brain power was of such gigantic proportions; my dream painted him as a giant among men, which, indeed, he was.

When I awoke the next morning, I could not remember a single thing that he had said to me. Perhaps one day all of the information he shared in that dream will be revealed to me.

On another summer day in the desert I had another mishap. Not that I was to blame, mind you! My eldest brother, Leocadio III, and I were running around the house playing. I grabbed onto the back of his shirt and he ran so fast that I flew like Super Boy behind him. Literally, with my feet off the ground. In the living room he made a sharp turn and I lost my grip, went flying through the air until my head cracked open when it collided with one of the hard, wooden arms of the sofa. Blood spewed everywhere as frantic screams filled the air. The next thing I remembered was being held over the kitchen sink as my Mamá held my head down under the faucet, cleaning the wound. Blood continued to gush.

My Tío Marcelo had just stopped by for a visit, and when he happened upon the scene he yelled at Mamá to not hold my head down. He told her to hold it up and put pressure on the wound with a towel. Otherwise I would have bled to death. They rushed me to the hospital. Leocadio III got scolded. I got stitches. I still have the scar on the upper right side of my forehead. I don’t ride on my big brother’s shirttail anymore. But I still love frijoles.

Music was in my blood. Ever since I was a little tyke, I remember how Mamá would sit me down in front of the old stereo console. She would play all kinds of 331/3 rpm vinyl records: Pedro Infante, Hank Williams, Bing Crosby, Miguel Aceves Mejía, Perry Como, Jorge Negrete, etc. She used to tell me, Mijo, there is a big difference between singing and screaming. The variety of music she played on the stereo and sang along with watered my eclectic musical roots.

Believe it or not, sometimes it snows in the Tucson desert. The next winter, it snowed pretty heavily. There was a huge tree in Grammy’s back yard. The weight of the heavy snow cracked one of the big branches and it was threatening to fall. To eliminate the danger, my Tíos Marcelo, Roberto, and Eddie decided to remove the branch before somebody got hurt. They probably figured that I would find a way to be underneath the branch if it fell on its own. As close to the tree trunk that they could get, they sawed through the heavy, snow-laden branch. But it proved too stubborn to come down. So, Tío Roberto literally ‘went out on a limb’ and jumped up and down on it until the branch finally broke off and crashed down amidst what looked like a snow explosion. The memory is still fresh in my mind. I can still hear the laughter of my Tíos. They’re all in heaven now.

Tío Roberto was my Godfather; my Nino. He was heavier than my other Tíos. That’s why he was volunteered to jump up and down on that snow-laden branch. He always made us laugh.

Tío Marcelo was much older than Mamá.

My maternal Grandfather died when Mamá was fourteen, so Tío Marcelo was more like my Abuelito to me than an uncle. He would have a big influence on my life. Although I never met my maternal Abuelo, I do know that he played the guitar and sang. He taught my Mamá the song La Feria De Las Flores. Years later, Mamá taught it to me. My Tíos were also musicians, and my Mamá and her sisters sang. So, music runs in the familia—at least on Mamá’s side. My Dad used to say that he couldn’t even play the radio and couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

Tío Eddie was Mamá’s youngest brother. He was a cool dude. He and Tía Jeanie must have lived close by, because I remember spending a lot of time over at their house. I particularly remember watching cartoons on their television.

In 1959, we moved onto a little farm on the corner of Broadway and Arboga Road, just outside of Marysville, California. Dad had been stationed out at Beale Air Force Base (AFB), and there was no on-base housing available when we first moved to the area. I had turned six that March, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, I had not been sent to Kindergarten in Tucson. Since I was accident prone, perhaps they figured I would be safer at home.

After our very first night in the house on the little farm, my brother Rick and I got up early and went outside to explore our new territory. We ran over to the fence that encircled the pasture, where we had our first experience of seeing a cow pee. We roared with laughter and then continued running around the yard, examining every nook and cranny. As I ran around exploring the farm, I remember telling myself to run like the wind! A six-year-old is easily amused.

As of yet, I had no inkling of the winds to come. The wind would become a common ‘theme’ throughout my entire life. I loved living on that little farm. So many birds, bugs, and other animals to get to know. Fresh milk from the cows and fresh vegetables from the garden.

Grammy came to live with us off and on over the years. She spoke no English, so Spanish was our only means of communication with her. Well, no, her principal means of communication was Pure, Unconditional Love. That was the first of many lessons I would learn from my saintly Abuelita.

One summer morning of my sixth year, my brothers and I were out in the yard playing. I am not sure how we accomplished the feat, but we actually captured a Colibrí (a Hummingbird), and brought it up to the back porch. We had placed a large jar upside down over it and left it on the porch just before Grammy called us in for breakfast. We were all excited, and told Grammy about our catch. She served us and then went out onto the back porch.

After breakfast we went out to observe our Colibrí. But alas, Grammy had set it free. She told us that Hummingbirds pollinate flowers and need to be free to fulfill their destiny. Destiny. That was a new word for me. After innumerable wrong turns along many a dead-end road, countless moons would pass, and numerous lessons would be learned before I would discover and finally embrace my own true destiny: I was born to sing!

Mamá worked hard while Dad was away on military assignments (he, of course, worked hard as well; sometimes three jobs at a time). Raising kids is not an easy job; especially when the other parent is not around. I really don’t know how Mamá put up with all of us kids.

One Saturday morning, we were all sitting around the table eating oatmeal and toast. I was just sitting there, innocently and meticulously enjoying my oatmeal, when Mamá started yelling at me, Stop chewing your oatmeal! I snapped out of my own little world, trying to figure out why Mamá was upset. Turns out, she thought I was making fun of her for making lumpy oatmeal. Though that was not the case, how does a little kid convince his Mamá that he wasn’t making fun of her cooking? I was simply enjoying my breakfast, chewing my food thoroughly with my mouth closed; the way I was taught. That was when I began to understand that there can be many misunderstandings in life, even with simple little things, like chewing your food. Thus, I began to compile an arsenal of tips and tools that would help to navigate the waters of a world oftentimes void of clear and effective communication. I still love oatmeal, but I try not to chew it.

I was learning about unconditional love, accidents, animals, nature, the importance of communication, and the meaning of destiny. All of which spawned a sense of wonder that has accompanied me throughout my entire life.

Let the children wonder and wander. Let them jump and run like the wind as they explore the mountains. May they talk with the animals and swim like the fish. And may they be forever grateful for and respectful of all living beings—for we are all brothers and sisters.

–Dancing Hands

THREE

My First Near Death Experience

The Formative Years

Ibegan my formal education at Arboga Elementary School. It was a small country school, with the typical playground and grassy fields upon which to run. I cannot recall anything memorable from the first grade other than the concussion. Perhaps that’s why I can’t remember anything else from my first year of school.

It was recess time, and I hurried out to the playground to run like the wind. I was about to learn a new lesson. Do not hold your head down when you run, and watch where you are going. Though I have long since forgotten his name, I will never forget the day I ran into that giant kid! He had a crew cut and a big belly. He had a round, lily-white face, and must have weighed at least 150 pounds at age six. So, there I was, running on the playground with my head down. Who would have known that another dumb kid was also running around with his head down, and not watching where he was going?

Mind you, the literal head-on clash was not intentional. But it was devastating! Too bad it wasn’t captured on video. It would have won a contest for funniest video ever. There was no such thing back then, though. No video cameras, no cell phones with cameras. No body cams.

Anyway, it was a pretty solid hit. I was just a skinny little guy; probably no more than 45 pounds soaking wet. The next thing I knew, the school janitor was driving me home in his truck. Mamá met me at the front door to the house on the little farm. She telephoned Dad, who rushed home from work to take me to the hospital.

This was not the first time and would not be the last that my busy Mamá would not understand the full extent of my childhood injuries. When she told me to go to the bathroom to wash my hands and face and get ready because Daddy was going to take me to the hospital for a checkup, it became all too clear that something was seriously wrong. Mamá watched me reach into the toilet to scoop up some water to wash my face. Now she knew that something was very wrong.

Dad arrived and got me down to Travis AFB Hospital in record time. An ambulance would have lost if we were racing. The hospital at Beale AFB had not been built yet. The doctor at Travis AFB examined me, and I was kept overnight for observation. They said I had suffered a concussion, and should stop playing football without a helmet. I was too groggy to explain that I had not been playing football, I was just a stupid kid not watching where he was going. Lesson learned. Apparently, playground events would be a recurring theme up to and through the twelfth grade—no, even during my first year of college.

For the second half of first grade, we moved onto base housing at Beale AFB. My first lesson on injustice happened in our home on Octavia Way. My sister Cynthia was now a toddler. After the bassinette incident in Plattsburg, I was never again allowed to rock her to sleep. She couldn’t talk yet, but she was a busy little girl. Grammy’s bedroom was the last room at the end of a long hallway. Just outside her room, there was a linen closet where the hallway came to an end. I had observed Cynthia playing around the linen closet, but did not think anything of it. Grammy had an old Singer sewing machine. The manual kind with a foot pedal.

When Dad came home from work that day, he was informed that someone had been pilfering things out of the drawers of Grammy’s sewing machine, and was hiding them in the linen closet. Dad was determined to find out which of his five sons was the culprit. When none of us copped to the crime, he got out his big leather belt and lined us up for spankings. From the oldest to the youngest, we went through the first round with nobody admitting guilt.

As I awaited my second turn for a spanking with that dreadful belt, it occurred to me that perhaps Cynthia had been playing in Grammy’s bedroom and innocently took some things out of her sewing machine and stashed them in the linen closet. I was not trying to throw Cynthia under the bus. After all, she was just playing. I was earnestly trying to solve the mystery. Since none of my brothers was confessing, and I knew I had not committed the robbery, I was trying to provide a logical explanation for what had happened. I was six; Cynthia was almost two. Dad said no, that Cynthia was too young to have done such a thing. We went through a few more rounds of spankings. Still, no one confessed. I figured it was time to stop the insanity.

So, when the time came for my next spanking, I pled guilty. I confessed to a crime that I had not committed. I chose to take the rap to save my brothers and myself from further spankings.

Dad was pissed. So were my brothers. They thought that they had gotten spanked because of me. At that point, I dared not speak the truth. I did not tell them that I had lied to stop the madness. Well, that didn’t go over too well. I had thought the ordeal had come to an end, but no!

Dad told my brothers to line up once more, only this time, to take turns spanking me with that loathsome leather belt! My brothers, thinking that I was guilty, were merciless. I must have blocked out the pain by then. I do not recall how many days went by that I could not sit down, but I have never forgotten that harsh lesson on injustice and sacrifice.

Mrs. Dolby was my second grade teacher. Long before Charlie Brown’s little red-haired girl, there was this little red-headed girl who lived just up the street from us named Sandy Parker. She was soon to become my very first puppy-love crush.

We were at recess. I was playing tetherball with another kid while others waited in line for their turn. The schoolyard bully decided to interrupt our game. He grabbed the tethered ball and would not let us continue to play. So, I beat him up. The other kids on the playground cheered me on. I became the hero. We both ended up in the principal’s office, and we both got suspended. I protested and had a whole slew of witnesses who testified that the bully had started the whole thing. This was my second lesson on the topic of injustice. I still don’t like bullies.

My sister Rebecca and my brother Mark were born while Dad was stationed at Beale AFB. We were now eight siblings.

Sandy Parker was in my second grade class. Just before Valentine’s Day, I came down with the chicken pox. I was at home in bed, feeling miserable. Until after school on February 14 th, when the doorbell rang. It was none other than that little red-headed girl, Sandy Parker. As previously mentioned, she lived just up the street from me. At the class Valentine’s Day party, Sandy had collected all of my Valentine cards and brought them to me, along with goodies from the party. I was on cloud nine!

Our second grade teacher, Mrs. Dolby, liked us all so much that she requested to keep the same group together and became our third grade teacher for the following school year. I was a well-behaved kid and a good student all through school, from first grade and all the way through my senior year of high school.

We were raised Catholic, so Catechism (Sunday School) was also part of our educational formation. I had made my First Holy Communion in the second grade, and must have been a good boy in Catechism class, because my teacher gave me a plastic statue of the Blessed Mother. It is all white, about eight inches tall, with a black base. It is the image of the Miraculous Medal; the one with Mary’s open hands down at her sides, palms facing forward. I still have it all these years later. The little sticker at the base still says 1961.

One hot summer day, us kids were outside talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I have long since forgotten what each of us had said about that, except for my little brother Stephen’s memorable answer. When it was his turn to speak, we asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Without hesitation, he blurted out, An air conditioner! It was a very hot day. We all cracked up.

I caught the measles that year. I was home in bed that first day when my little brother Randy got home from school. Mamá told him to stay away from me because I had the measles. Randy went running out of the house and down Octavia Way to intercept my other brothers, who were walking home from school. Randy shouted out to them twice, saying, Ronny’s got the fleas! Ronny’s got the fleas! Yes, when I was a kid the familia called me Ronny. Tíos, Primas, and Primos did, too. In fact, they still do. I still don’t know how measles turned into fleas.

At the end of the third grade, Dad received military orders to transfer from Beale AFB to Morón AFB, just outside of Sevilla, España.

Morón is the cradle of Flamenco music. We were so excited because, in our ignorance, we assumed that in España we would be able to eat fresh tortillas every day, like when Grammy lived with us. Abuelita would not be going with us to Sevilla.

I remember that before going on the trip overseas, we were all lined up at the new Beale AFB hospital for a battery of inoculations. As we each took our turn, us tough boys were ready. We all did fine. Except for my brother Randy. He fainted before his turn came up. He still had to get his shots, though.

The movers came and packed up all of our belongings, furniture, etc. into a huge moving van. Our stuff would be driven across country and then shipped to Spain.

We all loaded into the station wagon and began our trek across the country, stopping along the way to visit relatives in Arizona and Texas. As we drove up Octavia Way, we drove past Sandy Parker’s house. She was outside in her yard. I was way in the back of the station wagon, peering out the rear window, and tried waving at her, but she did not see me. Sandy was the very last person I saw when we left Beale AFB. My eight year old heart was heavy.

Moving around as much as we did as military brats, I understand how for some people that could cause great difficulty in making friends. It had the direct opposite effect on me. I was motivated to make the best of things, and opted for learning to make friends easily.

Growing up, we never lived in the same house for more than two years, and I never went to the same school for more than two years until my last three years of high school. So I learned to make new friends everywhere I went. Consequently, I also learned to say good-bye and move on with my life.

Dad drove us to Tucson, where we stayed for a few days visiting with my Mamá’s side of the familia. We left Grammy in Tucson, and continued on to San Antonio, Texas, where Grandpa Leocadio San Miguel lived. Just like with Mamá’s side of the familia in Tucson, I always enjoyed visiting with Dad’s side of the familia, with many fond memories of San Antonio. Climbing up into the big fig tree and gorging myself with black figs. Searching for eggs in the chicken coop and throughout the yard. Texas-sized watermelons under the large bed on the screened-in back porch.

For Grandpa, eating watermelon was an art; he was a pro. To this day, I’ve never seen anything like it. Nor such large delights—Texas watermelons are HUGE! He would cut a humongous watermelon in half, grab a tablespoon, pull up a chair on the back porch, set the watermelon on a stool in front of him with a salt shaker at the ready, and dig in. He could eat an entire watermelon all by himself! I was always amazed at how he could do that. It was at Grandpa’s place in San Antonio that I also learned to eat pomegranates; the fruit that helps one to develop patience, if you know what I mean.

Texas cucarachas are HUGE, too! I remember the hot summer nights. All of us kids camped out on the living room floor, lights off, with the old black and white TV blaring as the adults watched the news broadcast. All of the screened windows were open, and the screen doors of the house kept most of the mosquitoes out. But as anyone from Texas knows, all it takes is one big-ass Texas mosquito to keep you awake all night! We tossed and turned, swatted and missed, scratched our mosquito bites, and dreaded the occasional cucaracha that climbed down the walls to explore the floor upon which we slept on light blankets, covered with sheets. It must have been very entertaining for Grandpa. Every time one of us saw a cucaracha, a scream would pierce the thick, muggy, humidity-laden air and a Chancla would fly across the room and make a clapping sound as it smashed a cucaracha into the wall.

The news broadcast on the TV would eventually lull us all to sleep. It would be years before I would discover the importance of honest, impartial, investigative reporting that permeated news broadcasts en aquellos tiempos. Something that now seems to be but a distant memory.

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Sevilla, España

After San Antonio, we piled into the station wagon and headed for Massachusetts. Tía Juanita (my Mamá’s sister), whose actual name was Margarita, had married a wonderful Gringo named Carl Thurston. Uncle Carl was from Massachusetts. He was the typical pull my finger Uncle. I have many fond memories of Uncle Carl, especially how he used to make us homemade root beer! Makes me wonder what else he may have brewed, back in the day. We spent a few days in Massachusetts visiting with my Tía Juanita, Uncle Carl, and my cousins. After Massachusetts, we drove to Newark, New Jersey, where we boarded an old propeller-driven passenger airplane. The station wagon was shipped to España.

Flying was new to all of us, except Dad, of course. I got to sit by a window, just above one of the wings of the plane. As we flew over the Atlantic Ocean, I remember being terrified as I watched a large bolt on the wing below me. I watched in horror as the vibration of the plane slowly turned the bolt, bit by bit, ever so slowly. I thought that surely it would come completely loose and the wing would fall off over the middle of the ocean. I brought it to the attention of my Dad, and to the pretty stewardesses, but they all assured me that everything would be okay. It was just an illusion. Another new word for me. I thought they were all delusional. That darn bolt was turning, and I was too young to die!

I do not recall how long into the flight it was, but eventually the ups and downs of the turbulence got to us. Remember, this was our first flight. There we were, all clustered together in our individual seats. I learned about chain reactions that day. I do not recall which one of us was the impetus, but it really did not matter who spewed first, because once it started, the immediate chain reaction flowed from one child to the next. Or shall we say, out of each child? Can you imagine eight children vomiting, one right after the other? Geez! It must have been a nightmare for my parents. I remember my Dad frantically trying to quickly clean up the mess. That was no fun at all. I still don’t like flying. I figure that if God wanted me to fly, She would have given me wings.

Ever since I was very young, I was taught to ask questions, to mind my manners, to eat all of the food on my plate, to say what I mean and mean what I say, and to not start a fight. But should somebody else start a fight, it was my responsibility to finish it! Dad was a tough old military guy. He was always teaching us how to fight. Though I picked up a few tricks along the way, I remember telling him often, But Dad, I don’t want to fight with anybody.

Dad was stern, tough, often used colorful language, and was very much the disciplinarian. Discipline was a word I would come to loathe and disdain. I vowed to myself that if I ever had kids, I would not raise them that way, and I would never hit them. We were raised with his tough love. I feared my Dad until around the age of twenty-two. I always respected him, but the fear was real.

Dad was also super intelligent, creative, hard-working, courageous, and driven. We were raised with a triple dose of strict — after all, Dad was Mexicano, a military man, and Catholic. I was in my early twenties before it dawned on me the importance of the discipline with which I was raised. Only then did I learn to distinguish between self-discipline and discipline imposed upon me from the outside. That’s when I began to appreciate the discipline that had been instilled in me since I was young. And of course, I much preferred self-discipline.

When I was little, Dad called me Pendejo so often that I thought Pendejo was my middle name. Looking back, I now see that it was merely a term of endearment. He never actually thought I was stupid. (Hey, this is my story, and I’m sticking to it!)

Mamá, on the other hand, was hilarious. Always singing, laughing, telling off-color jokes, and on occasion she would share her serious side with me.

Mamá was Mexicana too, of course, only she was of a softer nature. Joy, Laughter, and Música. That is what I most recall about Mamá.

Sevilla, España is a beautiful city. The old buildings, cobblestone streets, steeples, castles, parks, city sounds, unique neighborhoods, churches, etc. Upon our arrival to Sevilla, we stayed in a hotel in the downtown area of the city. The first morning, we were all seated at the hotel restaurant. When we saw tortillas on the menu, we were thrilled! Of course, we ordered a bunch of tortillas. How disappointed we were when the food showed up. In España, a tortilla is an omelet filled with onions and potatoes, cooked in olive oil. Very plain. Not even any hot sauce! So, we had bland omelets for breakfast. I don’t believe I ever ordered a tortilla at a restaurant in España again.

We were still at that same hotel when we received word that Marilyn Monroe had died. It was the summer of 1962. This was approximately one and a half years before John F. Kennedy was shot dead in Dallas, Texas.

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Heliopolis

We moved into a four story mansion in Heliopolis, a wonderful old Spanish neighborhood that to this day still invokes so many wonderful childhood memories—discoveries, adventures, turning points, friendships, and lessons. Our first address in Heliopolis was 12 de Octubre, Número 12. It was an immense house of four stories. With a wrought iron fence around the perimeter, plum, orange, lemon, and tangerine trees in the back yard, and balconies on each and every floor. The top floor gave us access to an extended patio that provided much room and enticement for play. A wrought iron fence around the perimeter of the rooftop patio kept us safely within its bounds. All of the houses in the neighborhood were huge, with a square spiral staircase in the middle of the house that went all the way up to the rooftop patio on the fourth floor.

I recall the early morning calls of the street vendors; one in particular. To this day, I have never been able to figure out what he was saying as he sang out to let everyone in the neighborhood know that he was there. To me and my yet-untrained ears, his Castellano sounded like, ¡Ay que riiiiiiiiico potty chair! He was riding an inverted tricycle with the two large front wheels attached to a large box-shaped frame filled with long, tubular, wafer-like pastries that were about three inches in diameter and at least a foot long. They were light, tasty, and certainly didn’t taste like a potty chair to me! I never learned what they were called, but the señor selling them as he sat above the singular rear wheel of his tricycle was a colorful addition to the old neighborhood. I can still hear his sing-song voice today, ¡Ay que riiiiiiiiico potty chair!

Johnny Mears lived right next door to us. His Dad was a Gringo, his Mom was Española. Johnny didn’t talk much, but he was friendly enough. We played together. He had a cute sister named Annie. One day we were running around inside our house. I ducked into the den and was pushing on the frame of the frosted glass double French doors so that she could not get in. When Annie tried to push the doors open, my hands slipped and both hands went right through the glass. Shattered glass flew everywhere. The scars on both of my wrists are still visible. Mamá stopped the bleeding with towels. I got sewn up again.

Mamá was also there in the nick of time one day to save my little brother, Mark, when he was just a toddler. The large house had many bedrooms. Each bedroom had little electric buzzers at the end of long wires. There was a buzzer adjacent to each bed. These were used to call the maids. In Sevilla, it was common to hire servants to clean and cook. We had two maids working for us; they were sisters.

Mark was playing on a bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He grabbed the buzzer, which had an exposed wire, and received the shock