Havana-May 1950-Nov 1960

Caridad de Baldor

2009-03-15T10:55:00.001-04:00

In September 2006, a formerly young Havana gent - formerly young, formerly from Havana - published a post about his school, a place which had much meaning in his life, then and now - Colegio Academia Baldor. One of the things written therein expressed not just nostalgia, but much regret...

"My buddies and I started at something equivalent to a Kindergarten level - 'Pre-Primario B,' as defined by the school administration, but more challenging than Kindergarten. Call it preparation for First grade, if you like. The classes were subdivided into groups, A, B, C, D, and so on, depending on how many 'lil students were registered. Our teacher - whom we loved - my friend Carlos B admitting recently he 'had a big crush on her' was Mrs. Caridad Lobato. Many years ago she popped into mom and dad's pharmacy, in Miami, and left a phone number, asking that yours truly contact her...did I do so? Of course, being an obnoxious teenager or too-busy young man then, the answer is - NO. To my shame! And then the phone number was lost...and now, of course, 'we,' meaning the four of us who have reconnected from Pre-Primario B and who were fortunate to have her as our teacher and mentor are desperately looking for her.

Moral of the story: When your beloved teacher comes calling, call your teacher!

And if anyone who reads this can help with this quest, we will be forever grateful."

Well! There is much joy in being able to report that we now are indeed forever grateful! For our much-loved Caridad Lobato Meunier has been found, and she was literally under our noses! And for this we are forever grateful to Joaquin P. Pujol, former Baldor Academy student, whose comment to the post on Baldor of September 2006 reads thus:

"You mention a former teacher of you at Baldor. She now lives in Miami and her address is

Caridad Lobato Meunier
(Address and phone not shown for privacy reasons)
I tought you may want to get in touch with her
Joaquin P. Pujol"

Did we ever want to get in touch with her, Mr. Pujol! If you read this, Profesora Lobato's "kids" profusely and with gratitude thank you for letting us know her whereabouts.

When the blogger emailed his Band of Baldor Brothers with the news, a joy-filled response from Carlos Bidot, who confessed to having "a big crush on her" back then, included a caveat, which went something like this: "Everybody hold off contacting her...I must be the first to do so!" And of course we honored brother Bidot's wishes. He both dutifully and duly contacted our teacher, and then reported back to his friend Quiroga: "She is very happy to hear from us - I'm gonna get us all together at my place. You must call her, as she remembers you well."

"She remembers you well..." I was honored! Must have done something right in her class and not been much of an annoyance, as most 5-6 year-olds can be. Sometimes annoying ways can be the hallmark of the 55+ set as well. This time, the former student did not fail in his duty and he called his beloved teacher; after a very pleasant conversation during which the meeting date and venue were confirmed, the student could not help but be impressed by his teacher's power of recollection and clear-as-a-bell mind.

Maybe she remembers the writer well because he was probably the shortest one in her class and she had to gingerly watch her step lest she accidentally step on him...

And so, after much anticipation and preparation, the students and their teacher experienced a wonderful reunion, indeed a love fest, on Saturday the 7th of February...over five decades after we had experienced the warmth, comfort, and love of Caridad Lobato Meunier's teaching in her "Preprimario B" class.

This is how she remembered us then - one only wishes the image was as clear and bright as her mind still is...

Baldor Academy Yearbook - 1955-1956 school year

Perhaps she remembered the blogger-to-be as this little pint-sized student, hauling his briefcase into her class - no "backpacks" back then...you carried what today might be considered a small suitcase, full of books, writing paper, pencils, erasers, pencil sharpeners and other tools of the learning trade...

...as he waited to get a ride to school in September 1955, aboard his dad's nifty '55 Chevy BelAir, accompanied by his aunt Dolores Granja, another much-loved woman in his life - another mother, really. Truly and painfully missed, aunt "Loli," as the little boy and his sister used to call her, is and will be until the day of our joyful Reunion; only God knows the day. His dad, no doubt seeing the "Kodak Moment" of his little boy off to his first day of school in Baldor, took his Kodak and recorded aforesaid moment in front of the apartment building where we then lived - Number 1303, Calle 42 - yes, 42nd Street, but not New York's - Miramar neighborhood, Havana.

No doubt she remembers her smart boys thusly - am speaking of my Baldor brother-friends Carlos Bidot and Carlos Cueto, proudly standing in the yearbook graphic with their medals earned for academic excellence - they were the "math whizzes," envied by their friend "Quiroguita" for that skill, in which he was lacking.

True, this was First Grade, a year after we were blessed to be in Caridad's class, but physical appearances were very much the same; she laid the groundwork for the pair's academic achievement - indeed, for all her "Pre-primario" boys' progress, including the writer's.

And this is how we remembered her, as she appeared in the 1956-1957 school yearbook...by then, we were first graders at Baldor.

Looking at that page in the yearbook, the blogger was reminded of another fellow blogger and indeed, Baldor Brother - for as far as this writer is concerned, all of us who shared the Baldor experience whether from the Class of '32 or the Class of '61 can be said to be one huge family of Baldor-eans, brothers and sisters all. The writer is speaking of Patricio Texidor, who with his twin brother Roberto is featured on the page, graced by Dra. Lobato. If you pay attention, you'll note Patricio's blog is linked to this one. A good one it is - you should take a look at Texidor Blog.

Havana Blogger had the good fortune to meet fellow Baldor Brother Patricio at Cuba Nostalgia in Miami, back in May, 2006...

Another Baldor student done good! Grammatically correct that statement may not be, but it is just a way to convey the feeling - the writer cannot help but think Caridad Lobato Meunier had something to do with that success. One wonders if Patricio remembers her as well as we do; perhaps the page from the yearbook helps recover treasured memories.

And in our group, in that year before first grade when we met our wonderful teacher, also were present Warren and Willie, who 53-54 years later once again reconnected with their classroom mother - "classroom mother?" - you wonder if that is not carrying it too far but...no...because that is who our teachers at that tender age stand for - our parents; our mothers and fathers away from home - in loco parentis.

This is how Caridad would have recognized them, were we able to miraculously reverse the Hands of Time and go back to 1955-1956...

Warren appears in the bottom image, first row, first on the left - your left, reader. The Holy Mass and Communion were held at San Juan de Letran church, 11th of May 1957. In poring over the pages in the yearbook, Baldor blogger, who himself did not make his first Communion that year - it would not be until May 1958 - noticed friend Wilfredo - "Willie," as we affectionately know him now - was absent from the lineups. Nevertheless, we did not want to leave Willie out of the picture, so here he is, as Caridad Lobato recalled him...in the days when, like the writer, he had copious hair.

The image is not very clear; apologies to the readership - it is a "photo of a photo," done in the best ad hoc state of the art technique; he was not taking Communion at the time but was present at a family baptism. And, wouldn't you know it? Of our group he is the true poet, as you shall see and indeed hear before you finish reading this post.

Throughout the afternoon, we engaged in pleasant conversation and exchanged reminiscences of our student and city life with our teacher, who also became acquainted with the spouses and children of her "kids."

And one could tell she much enjoyed reminiscing and re-telling, bringing back her memories of a long-ago time which yet seemed just like yesterday, as is clear from her focused conversation with her former pupil Carlos Cueto. We asked her many questions, and she kindly opened her Memory Vault, sharing anecdotes and facts from those days with us.

"So, Profesora - where did you live in Havana?" "It was on 25th Avenue, between N and O Streets." That was the first of many queries - so we'll summarize the rest and let her tell her story.

"I liked working at Baldor; the students were well-disciplined, the teachers well-treated, respected, and appreciated by the school administration. Good teachers received public recognition from the school administration. My salary was $115 monthly in the mid-fifties, and that was considered good pay at the time. My teaching career began in the late '40s - 1947 in fact; I was working in the town of Bauta. Later I was hired by Baldor, and taught there until 1961, when the school was taken over by the revolutionary government and closed. Fortunately, I was not there the day they swept down on the school and, therefore, did not witness the sad end of Baldor Academy.

The Baldors were good to me; in fact, Aurelio Baldor was one of the witnesses at my wedding to Carlos Meunier in 1950. I knew the Baldor family; Aurelio's brother Daniel was principal or director of Belen School in Havana; then there was Carmen Baldor, and Jesus, who ran the Baldor girls' boarding school."

Aurelio Baldor, Director - Baldor Academy; from the 1956-1957 yearbook

Well, as it turns out, this bloggin' Baldor boy got to know a few Baldors himself...not bragging, just glad to have made their acquaintance. One was - IS - my cousin; by marriage that is, to a blood cousin - Azucena is her name, daughter of Jesus Baldor, but our family and her friends call her "Susi."

Can you find a Fifth Grader we will call "Singing Susi" in this page of the yearbook? If you find the Lily, you find Azucena. One hopes Susi will not mind this flowery play on words and names - assuming she reads this, that is...

Now, back to Caridad. "After some false starts, my husband and I finally left Cuba December 5, 1966. First, we went to Spain and spent five months there - I worked in a factory making women's purses in Madrid. When we left Spain, we traveled to Portland, Oregon and stayed with my sister and her children until eventually we made our way to Miami."

We asked her to tell us a little bit about her husband. "We were very close, perhaps because we never had children, unlike my sister who had six. He was born in Belgium. As a young man, he traveled to Cuba, liked what he saw, and decided to stay. He was a musician and founded a cuartet, 'Los Bucaneros;' they made TV appearances, in variety shows such as Casino De La Alegria and Jueves De Partagas.

This was in the late '50s. Unfortunately, 'Los Bucaneros' did not last very long - castro came and...well, we know what happened; it was all over by 1961."

The DVD case title image is from Cubacollectibles.com - this is not an ad for Cubacollectibles; however, should curiosity get the better of you, order the video and watch the 1954 debut of Jueves De Partagas. Unfortunately, 'Los Bucaneros' are not featured; this was before their time. Since we are speaking about schools, teachers, and learning new facts here, time for a quiz: Who is the actress holding the Jueves De Partagas sign?

"After we arrived in the United States, eventually my husband went to work at Les Violins Supper Club in Miami, on Biscayne Boulevard. He was one of the 'Singing Waiters.'" If anyone reading remembers spending a nice evening at Les Violins from the '60s through the '80s, you may have seen Mr. Meunier perform. The writer was fortunate to enjoy several such evenings at Les Violins, but regretfully neither idea nor recollection which of the Singing Waiters was Mrs. Lobato's Other Half. No doubt the oblivious young blogger enjoyed his performances. This was a fun place; unfortunately the club closed down about 15 years ago.

Cover-souvenir photo holder - Les Violins Supper Club, 1966 - courtesy Nick and Teresa Quiroga

"I guess because we had no children of our own, my husband and I were very close." Compenetrados is the word she used. "I miss him much." Profesora, we cannot come close to replacing Mr. Meunier in your heart...but beg to differ on the children part...you do have them; your Preprimario B Kids are here for you.

"And what did you do after settling in Florida, querida profesora,?" the "kids" asked. And she graciously shared that experience with her attentive audience.

"I taught public school in Miami for twenty years, from 1972 to 1992 and retired from the Dade County Public School system. I spent fourteen years in Miami Shores Elementary and then my last six teaching in Sweetwater Elementary." "Sweet!," thinks her former Baldor student-cum-blogger; she returned to the profession so clearly loved.

Perhaps one or more of her former students from these schools who remember her as fondly as we do will read this and "drop in" to send a warm greeting to his or her teacher Caridad.

The reminiscing, story-and-anecdote telling continued; we remembered when she taught us-reading, for example...

From little readers, for little readers; thanks to our dear classmate Willie Hernandez, you get a small glimpse into our classroom day, when in Baldor, and throughout Cuba, First Graders would read and recite from this small book. "El Nuevo Lector Cubano," reads the title - "The New Cuban Reader;" indeed created for new and upcoming little Cuban lectores in those Fifties days. The lectores now in their fifties, together with their teacher, wistfully remembered those nostalgic times when they took their first tentative steps into the world of the printed word.

What memories were elicited, one wonders, as she paged through the little treasure Willie had conjured up for this occassion? No doubt happy ones, as evidenced by the frequent, easy and radiant smiles constantly written on her face as the evening wore on.

One memory she shared with us, about our first steps taken to acquire essential reading skills. "You may not remember," she said, "but we also used a reading book titled Elena y Danny." Elena y Danny, blogger tried recalling - then it hit him! "Profesora," asked her former student, "was there not a dog in the stories, their dog, named Sultàn?" "I believe so," she nodded. Then from the vault of blogger's memory, a memorable sentence, a command to Sultàn really, which somehow he still recalls, welled up: "Salta, Sultàn, salta!" "Jump Sultan, jump!" Or as this would have been expressed in the popular Dick and Jane reading series in the USA - "Jump, Spot, jump!"

And as the evening inevitably and irresistibly moved on, we spoke nostalgically about our beloved school, the source of our common, undissolvable bonds, our raison d'etre - the reason for our being together this unforgettable day. Then our friend, brother, and classmate - interchangeable terms, all - brought out some images, captured fragments of light enlightening us and helping in the reminiscence, recollecting, remembering, with the joy and the pain inherent in those acts of remembrance. "Recordar es vivir." "To remember is to live again;" to live the joy and also the pain of our childhood.

By April 2001, when these photographs were taken by Carlos, the name "Baldor" was no more, at least when it came to the physical location of Academia Baldor. The school had been re-named by the "revolutionary educators" after some minor entity in the pseudo-pantheon of the castro-cult. Somehow, the rusting bars give the place the appearance of a prison...a prison of the mind, no doubt. The middle image would be familiar to Baldor students - the main building with the marble stairs; the building where many of us in the elementary grades had our classrooms and where we dutifully assembled in the mornings for our orderly entrances into class.

The bust of Jose Marti still stands across from the same steps; somehow Carlos created an eerie, ghostly image of Marti...the ghost of Cuba's greatest patriot may perhaps wander the grounds and wonder how evil men could misappropriate his thoughts, his ideas, and pervert them in the pursuit of tyrannical control and for poisoning the minds of innocent children as well. "A school is an anvil for souls," reads the inscription beneath the bust. Except that, school in Cuba has become an anvil for hammering free souls into the oppressive mold crafted by the madman headmaster; the ideals and ideas of teachers like Caridad Lobato betrayed by a man - if he can be called that - who himself was blessed by a good, and religious, education in Belen School, under the Jesuits; alas, he did not learn from Jesus, but from satan...

Carlos' camera recorded yet more Marti aphorisms recorded on the walls of our school; these were already up when our little band was brought together in 1955; much meaning in few words, words regretfully unheeded by those who should have taken them to heart. One is not speaking of the girls and boys, men and women, of Baldor here - the writer's experience is that the vast majority of Baldor-eans he has known indeed have walked the talk expressed in these few words.

Let the former Pre-Primario B student translate, albeit poorly, from top to bottom. Perhaps if Caridad reads this, she will graciously grade her student - as she once did; he will accept said grading gracefully and gratefully.

"Who says educate, is saying love"

"Children are the ones who know how to love"

"Children are the hope of the world"

Beautiful, pithy statements...centered around children and love...as exemplified by the example of our loving teacher Caridad Lobato, one who practiced what Marti preached, on the grounds of Baldor Academy.

Perhaps this should now be engraved on the same walls, as a warning to those who have turned these great thoughts upside down in the pursuit of power for power's sake...

"If anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a large millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea." This, as Jesus Himself so succintly put it, is recorded in Mark 9:42 - for those who wish to be reminded; you will not read this in the turgid pages of Das Kapital, Mein Kampf, Granma, or other such delusional drivel which is crammed down the throats of helpless, regime-compliant students in Cuba's mind-prisons masquerading as schools, in other unfortunate places, in other times too.

Perhaps none of us will live to see this - certainly, as Caridad herself said, "I do not expect to live long enough to see Cuba again" - but we hope and pray someday a new generation of Cuban children will attend a newly-risen - from the ashes of the revolutionary "educational" trash-heap - Baldor Academy, as we remember it to this day...

...the memories of time and place evoked by this page from the 1956-1957 yearbook.

"At least," as our profesora had previously mentioned, "I was blessed in that, when Baldor was taken over or intervened, which was the term then used by the authorities, in April 1961, I was not there to witness that tragic event." Blessed too was the blogger and former student, by then having been exiled with his parents and sister, for almost six months, at that time attending Riverside Elementary School in Miami, Florida - where he felt much like a fish out of water, yet still harboring hope he would once again re-unite with his beloved buddies from Baldor; unbeknownst to him, said reunification would not take place for over 40 years! But take place it did - and he sees it, and will regard it for eternity, as another personal victory against fidel and his minions. It is our victory, brothers, sisters, profesores y profesoras de Baldor - to have escaped the claws of the beast, now prostrate and impotent as his miserable life ebbs away.

Time kept flying by as the conversation and good cheer both flowed, as if we had seen each other just yesterday, in class. We were hungry and thirsty, not only for beautiful and bountiful memories, conversation and camaraderie, but also for food and drink. "Man does not live by bread alone," but let us remember that companion and companionship come from the Latin cum panis - "with bread," referring to those we break bread with, in fellowship and with affection. So the Baldor companions made sure la profesora did not go hungry or thirsty.

Mrs. Bidot, ever the gracious hostess, made sure our teacher did not go thirsty, pouring her a refreshing, classic drink, as friend Cueto watched, possibly thinking of adding some fine Bacardi rum to his Coke. The blogger-photographer certainly thought this would be a fine thirst-quencher to pour for himself, but he had other assigned duties to fulfill.

La profesora was getting hungry, and so were the rest of the attendees; not to worry - good old American Entrepeneurship, taken to heart by Caridad's students, to the rescue!

Our quasi-official photographer Carlos Cueto's camera captured the debut of the Baldor Brothers' Barbecue Stand! Franchises available? Sorry, no...this is a labor of love, and too many cooks spoil the kitchen. Master Chef and host Carlos Bidot, more or less assisted by his apprentice Igor, oops - Freudian Slip - Albert - ensured no one starved, especially Caridad, who had already been exposed to a restricted diet courtesy fidel's hell-kitchen for several years.

Emerils or Bobby Flays we may not be, but no one beefed about the vittles!

The reminiscing and anecdote-telling continued; time seemed to have stood still, after all...we felt as if we were back in Pre-Primario B in 1955. Profesora Lobato was enjoying her "kids" once again.

Willie posed with our teacher, his shirt pridefully pinned with one of the medals Baldor would award students for excelling in different fields of scholastic endeavor, and for demonstrating good character and study habits as well.

This is the medal Willie wore, a beautiful gift which each of us in our Beloved Band received from our absent classmate Nelson, a bit more than a year ago. This award Baldor students would have received for "Aplicación," literally "Application," but more accurately translated as "Scholarship."

Some of the "brainiacs" in the group - not counting the Baldor blogger-boy - who sometimes unconsciously whistles the Scarecrow's song from The Wizard of Oz - "If I Only Had a Brain!," found ourselves suitably decorated by the end of the school year, when awards and medals were handed during special ceremonies. A young man could be weighed down by all that medal metal, but this did not seem to faze our class brother Bidot when he proudly posed with his in 1956.

You wonder where all this decoration, achievement, and medal talk is leading to...remember earlier it was said we were reminiscing and telling anecdotes, laughing about amusing classroom moments and such. Well, the subject of Willie's Scholarship medal gives us the opportunity to relate one of these amusing, indeed funny, stories. Willie won't mind; he is kind and possessed with a good sense of humor - which you need when you hang around us!

Here is Willie's Baldor report card - we informally referred to them as "boletines" - which recorded his academic achievements in Caridad Lobato's Pre-Primario B class. No, dear reader - you do not need glasses; the image is blurry - again, chalk it up to less than optimal, improvised "field photography conditions" - no scanner available at the time. Give the blogger-photographer a barely-passing grade here, if you wish. Perhaps it will be possible to provide a better graphic later.

This is the front of the "boletin." At the time - 1955-1956 - Willie's family lived on San Francisco Street, No. 464-462. This is for those of you readers who might be familiar with Havana. Maybe this was your neighborhood too?

The grading system should be explained a bit, so things will make some sense. The grading scale was numerical. The system is explained in the boxes at the bottom of the document. The leftmost square box provides the number scale for "Disciplina" - class behavior; 1 meant "Terrible;" 2 was "Bad;" 3 was "So-so;" 4 was "Good;" 5 was "Excelent." The box labeled "Aplicacion" - scholarship - explains the grading system for academic subjects; no grading "on a curve" either; if you scored less than 60, you flunked the subject. Period. No whining! If you scored 90 to 100, on the other hand, you were classified as "Sobresaliente," or "Outstanding." If you were a Sobresaliente student in Baldor, give yourself a well-deserved pat on the back.

This sets the stage for the amusing part of the story, illustrated by the well-worn document.

Now let it be said it was Willie himself who pointed out the creative modifications he made to the entries in the report card telling the tale without inhibition. As he put it at an earlier gathering of our tight band, when he had first shown us this memento, "I wasn't the greatest student back then, so I tried to make it look like I'd done better than I had. I did not want my mom and dad mad at me." So, since in those days we were given the report cards to take home for our parents to review, sign, and return same to the teachers, wily Willie changed and/or added some numbers to make some things look better.

He might have gotten away with it, except when he decided to add some creative comments about his academic prowess. In the block on the lower right side of the document, above Director Aurelio Baldor's stamped purple signature there is a short statement: "Muy buen alumno." Translation: "Very good student." "Problem was," Willie explained, "mom and dad decided the writing looked too much like my handwriting...so I got in trouble anyway!" Nevertheless, thanks to the kind, academic ministrations of Caridad, all was well in the end - Willie and his friends went on to First Grade in September 1956.

Blogger has this to say about his friend Willie...in the School of Life, from what little Quiroga has seen, Wilfredo has passed all arduous tests with flying colors. Our other marvelous mates have done so as well - not to say it has been an easy ride.

Well, let us backtrack a little bit. All good things must come to an end. After our obviously very warm and enjoyable year in Caridad's class, we more or less eagerly trudged into First Grade.

We had a new Profesora, or teacher, Srta. - meaning "Ms." - Elsa Delgado. Funny, we do not seem to remember much about her; this is not to cast aspersions or make anyone think we did not like her. Her face in the yearbook page seems to convey calm and kindness; we certainly have no negative memories of her. Perhaps one's first teacher has a greater impact on memory, for good or bad. For us, the memories of our first teacher are good plus ultra! We do hope and pray life has treated Ms. Delgado well and that, like Caridad Lobato, she had a successful career as a teacher or whatever other profession she chose to pursue. May she also have been blessed to escape the castro-claw...

As we lined up for our yearbook pictures in 1956-1957, so we lined up for a VIP - Very Important Picture - moment with our much-loved Profesora Lobato in 2009.

OK, guess it is not fair to make you work hard at guessing who's who...people change a wee bit in half a century's time; so here is the line up, left to right: Willie, Carlos, Carlos, Albert, and Warren; Caridad in front, as it should be. Ladies first, teachers first.

The unforgettable evening was coming to a close, but Carlos Cueto's camera once again captured another magic moment, recording our teacher's enjoyment over the small tokens of affection we had given her.

She surprised us with a tasty token of affection, lovingly made by her own hands - this luscious - call it a combination flan-and-pudding loaded with fruit - was delicious and quickly disappeared; but its sweet memory is preserved by photography forever! Our Profesora has obvious and considerable talents in the dessert-making arts. But the best evidence of her love and appreciation for us were her words: "If God were to call me Home tomorrow, the memory of this day would live in my last earthly thoughts..."

In Baldor-blogger's personal opinion, the nicest, most poignant token of affection towards our teacher was the poem Willie composed for her. A wonderful poem it is; yet he does not think of himself as being academically gifted...methinks he is too modest. Here are the words of our Preprimario B Bard's poem, dedicated to Caridad Lobato. Fear not, reader - it will be translated for you, to the best of the editor's ability, fearing nevertheless the translation will not do justice to the original.

Willie's Poem to Caridad

A LA BELLA PROFESORA CARIDAD LOBATO:

CON EL MISMO NOBRE DE LA VIRGEN
NOS EMPEZO A MOLDEAR

VINO EL MONSTRUO A LA ISLA, MAS BELLA EN ESTE MAR,

ELLA PENSO QUE AL SEPARARNOS SU TRABAJO NO PUDIERA TERMINAR,

38 AÑOS HAN PASADO Y PARECE QUE FUE AYER

Y SEGUIMOS VISUALIZANDO NUESTRO QUERIDISIMO BALDOR
CON SUS EDUCADORES EJEMPLARES E IDOLOS PARA NUESTRAS SIGUIENTES GENERACIONES.

AUN LOS QUE NO SACABAMOS BUENAS NOTAS NOS SEMBRARON LAS SEMILLAS DE RESPETO, ORGULLO, VALOR, Y BONDAD ENTRE MUCHAS OTRAS CUALIDADES,

LE DAMOS GRACIAS A ESA "CAMPESINA" QUE NOS ENAMORO PARA ESTE UNICO GRAN VIAJE DE LA VIDA,

Y COMO VE NOS EVOLUCIONAMOS Y CULTIVAMOS MUY BIEN.

" ENCANTADO DE LA VIDA"

Forgive blogger for doing a bit of editing, adding some punctuation here and there in a desperate attempt to preserve the essence, the "flavor" of the original; a small caveat as well is in order: Where Wilfredo speaks of 38 years going by - regretfully it should be 53...but this all-too human error is understandable; after all, we are desperately seeking to recover a very significant fragment of our past. If only it were 38 years, Willie!

TO THE BEAUTIFUL PROFESSOR CARIDAD LOBATO:

WITH THE SAME NAME AS THE VIRGIN
SHE US BEGAN TO MOLD

CAME THE MONSTER TO THE ISLAND MOST BEAUTIFUL IN THIS SEA

SHE THOUGHT WHEN WE PARTED HER WORK WOULD NOT BE COMPLETE

38 YEARS HAVE GONE BY, YET IT SEEMS IT WAS JUST YESTERDAY

WE CONTINUE VISUALIZING OUR BELOVED BALDOR
WITH ITS EXEMPLARY EDUCATORS, IDOLS FOR GENERATIONS FOLLOWING

EVEN IN THOSE OF US NOT BLESSED WITH GOOD GRADES, THE SEEDS WERE PLANTED WHICH
BLOSSOMED INTO RESPECT, PRIDE, COURAGE, AND KINDNESS, AMONG MANY OTHER QUALITIES

WE GIVE THANKS TO THAT “COUNTRY WOMAN” WHO MADE US FALL IN LOVE, FOR THIS AND ONLY GREAT JOURNEY THROUGH LIFE

AND AS YOU CAN SEE WE EVOLVED AND WERE WELL CULTIVATED

"ENCHANTED WITH LIFE"

Now, you are offered the opportunity to enjoy the live reading - the Baldor Poetry Hour - well, more like a minute and a half or so. Just point your "mouse" arrow to the box with the right-pointing triangle, bottom left, and "click"...the "mouse" that is. It is a "left" click, for you sinister types...

"Enchanted with life" indeed, my Baldor Brother Poet...and with this day of celebration, with our enchanting Profesora, and the enduring, unbreakable friendship of our Preprimario B Band; with our school and all Baldor-eans, past, present...and future; with that beautiful place and time, never to be forgotten. This is dedicated to Caridad Lobato, to you my Brothers and Sisters of Baldor, the Baldor family, and all the great educators there from whom we were privileged to receive instruction. God Bless and keep you!

Why Havana Had to Die...

2008-03-29T11:43:00.009-04:00

A sweet Sunday Memory, Havana 1950

...is the title of the article, here fully reproduced, sent by a friend, an Habanero friend and former schoolmate. It originally appeared in New York's City Journal a few years ago, but it is still topical. It is not policy, ordinarily, to reproduce and republish articles from other sources verbatim in this blog. An exception is being made here for two reasons.

First, and most important, the writer captures the essence and philosophy of the purpose for which this blog was created - not only as a means of preserving family history and lore, albeit of an ordinary and even unimportant family, but also because it dovetails neatly with the primary focus of Havana5060 - preserving the memory of a once beautiful and unique city which came to a state of ruination because of a madman's hatred of everything Havana and its people stood for; but Mr. Dalrymple the author of the article expresses said essence and philosophy best, so let us allow him his say.

Second, since your blog author has become heavily involved in helping preserve other memories, via a high school class reunion, and he has become intricately involved in the planning, organizing, and all the fun things that go into successfully launching the event, after this post it will be necessary to place the Havana5060 blog in a "dormant" state - not comatose, mind you...but the already sparse postings will probably appear on an other than monthly basis, at least during the next two to three months. Perhaps some will be relieved at these news. But, to paraphrase General McArthur, "Havana5060 shall return." And so will Havana, Cuba - The Once and Future City.

Savor the read. It provides plenty of food for thought. Pray you will also enjoy the accompanying images, grainy, evocative dreamscapes of a Lost City, yet one who still lives vibrantly in memory, preserved by my father with his robust Kodak and the magic of Kodachrome.

Habanera mom enjoys her day under a beautiful Cuban sky -1949

Theodore Dalrymple
Why Havana Had to Die
Decay, when not carried to excess, has its architectural charms, and ruins are romantic: so romantic, indeed, that eighteenth-century English gentlemen built them in their gardens, as pleasantly melancholic reminders of the transience of earthly existence.
Summer 2002

Decay, when not carried to excess, has its architectural charms, and ruins are romantic: so romantic, indeed, that eighteenth-century English gentlemen built them in their gardens, as pleasantly melancholic reminders of the transience of earthly existence. But Fidel Castro is no eighteenth-century English gentleman, and Havana is not his private estate, for use as a personal memento mori. The ruins of Havana that he has brought into being are, in fact, the habitation of over 1 million people, whose collective will, these ruins attest, is not equal in power to the will of one man. “Comandante en jefe,” says one of the political billboards that have replaced all commercial advertisements, “you give the orders.” The place of everyone else, needless to say, is to obey.

Havana has changed a little since I was last there, a dozen years ago. The vast Soviet subsidy has vanished; the economy now depends on European tourism. The influx of tourists, most of them in search of a cheap holiday in the tropics and cheerfully oblivious to Cuba’s politics, has necessitated a slight degree of flexibility. Small private family restaurants, called paladares (paladar is Spanish for palate), with no more than 12 seats, are now tolerated, though the hiring of non-family labor, deemed exploitative by definition, is still not permitted. Only certain dishes are allowed—not fish and lobster, reserved to the state restaurants—and those paladares that break the rules operate like speakeasies in the time of Prohibition, the fish-bootlegging owners keeping a nervous eye out for informers. (Committees for the Defense of the Revolution still operate everywhere.) The owner of one such that I visited—with no sign outside to mark its exi stence —anxiously looked through the peephole of the door before letting anyone in. The taking of a simple meal at one of the three tables turned into a scene from a spy novel.

Flea markets are also now legal in Cuba, and a petty trade in cast-off clothing and household goods takes place. Twelve years ago it was unthinkable for anyone to buy or sell anything in the open, for buying and selling were symptoms of bourgeois individualism and contrary to Fidel’s socialist vision, in which everything is to be rationed—rationally, as it were—according to need. (In practice, of course, this meant rationing according to what there was, which was not much.)

Openings to small-scale commerce have occurred before during Castro’s 43-year rule, but they have always soon succumbed to periods of “rectification,” after it became all too apparent that people were responding more vigorously to economic incentives than they ever had to the “moral” ones praised in the adolescent theories of Che Guevara. But this time the commercial activity is more secure, because it is essential to the regime’s economic survival. When last I was in Havana, even the dollar-laden foreigner couldn’t find food to eat outside his hotel—a situation that hardly encouraged mass tourism. Now, of necessity, cafés and bars aplenty cater to the visitor.

The economy is now extensively dollarized, a curious and ironic denouement to decades of impassioned nationalism. When I asked in my hotel to change money into pesos, I was told—quite rightly, it turned out—that I would not need them. The few dusty shops that were prepared to exchange goods for pesos—for moneda nacional—advertised this extraordinary fact in their windows, as if performing a miracle, though the goods for sale were few and of the lowest quality. Last time I was in Cuba, the possession of a dollar by an ordinary Cuban was a crime, virtually proof of disloyalty and disaffection, if not of outright economic sabotage of the revolution. Dollars were handled as if they were nitroglycerine, liable to blow up in your face at the slightest jolt; but now they are merely units of currency, which anyone may safely handle.

The sheer number of foreign visitors to Cuba means that, though the hotel lobbies are still patrolled by security men with walkie-talkies to ensure that no unauthorized Cubans enter, relations between Cubans and foreigners are more relaxed than they once were. To talk to a foreigner is no longer a sign of political unreliability, and conversations do not have to be carried out in a hole-and-corner fashion, behind walls, with one nervous eye open for spies and eavesdroppers. I even received a few requests that I send medicine, since none was available in the local pharmacies—an admission, unthinkable a few years ago, that all is not well in the much-vaunted health-care system.

People will even speak of lo bueno and lo malo, the good and the bad, of the revolution—usually adding that lo malo was very, very bad. One man, brought up in the 1970s, told me that he had been fired by revolutionary romanticism, with Che Guevara and John Lennon as his heroes (he told me proudly that Havana was one of three cities with memorials to Lennon, the others being Liverpool and New York). He thought then that a new world had been in construction: but he knew now that it had been a dead end. And old people in particular are inclined to murmur jabón (soap) as you pass, in the hope that you might have some of this rare and precious commodity to give away. When the first old lady came up to me and said jabón, I thought she was mad; but she was only the first of many.

There are now signs of a slight intellectual opening. In La Moderna Poesía, a bookshop in an art deco building on the Calle Obispo, I found a Spanish translation of Karl Popper’s The Open Society and Its Enemies. The price in dollars was unlikely to attract many Cuban buyers. Perhaps it was there only to convince foreigners of the regime’s intellectual tolerance; perhaps any Cuban who tried to buy it would be reported at once to the authorities: but even so, the mere public presence of a work so antithetical to the regime’s philosophy would have been unthinkable a dozen years ago.

By contrast, the newspapers, Granma and Rebelde, have not changed at all: to have read them 40 years ago is to have read them today and tomorrow and in ten years’ time, if the regime lasts that long. The incessant recital of social progress in Cuba in the face of adversity, and horrible social breakdown everywhere else (especially, of course, in the United States), would bore even the truest of believers. No doubt that is why I saw not a single Cuban reading a newspaper or taking any notice of the aged itinerant salesmen, each with about five copies to dispose of. When I expressed an interest in buying one, the old men took the opportunity openly to ask me for money: selling the newspaper was only a pretext to approach and beg. The question “How much is the newspaper?” always drew the answer “Whatever you would like to give.”

Forty-three years of totalitarian dictatorship have left the city of Havana—one of the most beautiful in the world—suspended in a peculiar state halfway between preservation and destruction. For myself, I found the absence of the most grating aspects of commercialism aesthetically pleasing: McDonald’s restaurants (and their like) would ruin Havana as a townscape as comprehensively as time and neglect. And the comparative lack of traffic in Havana demonstrates how mixed a blessing the inexorable spread of the automobile has been for the quality of city life. Had Havana developed “normally,” its narrow grid-pattern streets would by now be choking with traffic and pollution, a suffocating inferno like Guatemala City or San José, Costa Rica, where to breathe is to grow breathless, where noise makes the ears sing, and where thoughts turn to escape as soon as possible.

The streets of Havana, not like that at all, are pleasant to walk in. The air is clean, and there is no honking of horns. You can hear yourself think and talk. Most of the few cars that pass are American relics of the Batista era, battered but much restored; they rattle and wheeze like beasts of burden driven forward under duress. Some seem to progress crabwise, not straight ahead but sideways; and with the patina of time, these vehicles, which once would have seemed the commonplace, throwaway mass products of an industrialized society, have taken on an aura of romance, almost of personality. They are loved and treasured as irreplaceable old friends, and when you look at them you wonder how many of the objects that you take so much for granted might one day be regarded in like fashion. It helps you to see the world anew.

Few new buildings have been added to Havana, which is just as well, of course, since those few are in the style of totalitarian modernism, and ruin the neighborhood. In the very center of the city, moreover, which UNESCO has declared to be part of humanity’s patrimony, tasteful restoration work is under way. In the Plaza Vieja, a grand colonial building has been transformed into luxury apartments for tourists to rent, with an excellent restaurant downstairs (the very idea of an excellent restaurant in Cuba was unthinkable 12 years ago). The bourgeoisie is thus a little like nature: though you pitch it out with a revolution, yet it will in the end return.

But the scale of the restoration of Havana is as nothing compared with the scale of its ruination. It is quite literally crumbling away. One of the most magnificent of its many magnificent streets is known as the Prado, a wide avenue that leads to the sea, with a central tree-lined marble walkway down which people stroll at night in the balmy air. Some of the beautifully proportioned mansions along the Prado have collapsed into rubble since the last time I was there; others have their facades—all that remains of them—propped up by wooden struts. The palace along the Prado that houses the national school of ballet is a mere shell, the ground floor containing nothing but rubble: it is extraordinary to hear the sound of répétiteurs emerging from the upper floor of this shell. Havana is like Beirut, without having gone through the civil war to achieve the destruction.

No words can do justice to the architectural genius of Havana, a genius that extended from the Renaissance classicism of the sixteenth century, with severe but perfectly proportioned houses containing colonnaded courtyards cooled and softened by tropical trees and shrubs, to the flamboyant art deco of the 1930s and 40s. The Cubans of successive centuries created a harmonious architectural whole almost without equal in the world. There is hardly a building that is wrong, a detail that is superfluous or tasteless. The tiled multicoloration of the Bacardi building, for example, which might be garish elsewhere, is perfectly adapted—natural, one might say—to the Cuban light, climate, and temper. Cuban architects understood the need for air and shade in a climate such as Cuba’s, and they proportioned buildings and rooms accordingly. They created an urban environment that, with its arcades, columns, verandas, and balconies, was elegant, sophisticated, convenient, and j oyful.

Of course, not every Cuban shared it: there were large shantytowns outside the city, and in the countryside much of the peasantry lived in grinding poverty. In 1958, Cuba might have had Italy’s overall levels of consumption per capita, more or less, but the consumption was unevenly distributed. Yet what is so striking about Havana’s grandeur and beauty is how extensive it is, and how wealthy (as well as sophisticated) the society that produced it must have been. The splendor of Havana, rather than being confined to a small quarter of the city, extends for miles.

The splendor is very faded now, of course. The city is like a great set of Bach variations on the theme of urban decay. The stucco has given way to mold; roofs have gone, replaced by corrugated iron; shutters have crumbled into sawdust; paint is a phenomenon of the past; staircases end in precipices; windows lack glass; doors are off their hinges; interior walls have collapsed; wooden props support, though not with any degree of assurance, all kinds of structures; ancient electrical wiring emerges from walls, like worms from cheese; wrought ironwork balconies crumble into rust; plaster peels as in a malignant skin disease; flagstones are mined for other purposes. Every grand and beautifully proportioned room—visible through the windows or in some places through the walls that have crumbled away—has been subdivided by plywood partitions into smaller spaces, in which entire families now live. Washing hangs from the windows of what were once palaces. Every entrance way is dark, and at night the electric lights glimmer rather than shine. No ruination is too great to render a building unfit for habitation: Havana is like a city that has been struck by an earthquake and its population forced to survive among the wreckage until relief arrives.

It cannot be said, however, that the inhabitants of Havana appear notably unhappy—far from it. The children play baseball cheerfully in the street with balls of compressed rags and bats of metal piping. (Curiously, the Latin American countries with the strongest anti-Yanqui political tradition are those where baseball is most enthusiastically played, as if the politics aimed to assuage the guilt at having taken up the pastime of the enemy.) There is plenty of social life in the streets, much smiling and laughter, and it isn’t hard to find a small fiesta with music and dancing. When you look into the homes that the people have made among the ruins, there are the small, heartbreaking signs of pride and self-respect that one also sees in the huts of Africa: the carefully tended plastic flowers and other cheap ornaments, for example. A taste for kitsch among the well-to-do is a sign of spiritual impoverishment; but among the poor, it represents a strivin g for beauty, an aspiration without the likelihood of fulfillment. Only the old look downcast or crushed: old people’s thoughts turn naturally to the past, and the contrast between the Havana of their youth and the Havana of their dotage must be painful to contemplate.

The evident contentment of the population among the ruins, though, does not lessen my profound sorrow (and worse than sorrow, it is something indefinable that weighs on the heart) to see the destruction of a masterpiece of collective human endeavor down the ages, Havana. On the contrary, I find the very unconcern profoundly disturbing. What can it mean that people should live contentedly in the ruins of their own capital city, the ruination having been wrought not by war or natural disaster but by prolonged (and in my view deliberate) neglect? They are not barbarians who actively smash or destroy what they do not understand and value; nor do they fail to notice—how could they?—that the buildings in which they live are on the verge of collapse. It is not difficult to get people to show you the ramshackle ruins they inhabit, a service they perform with a laugh and a smile; it is simply that to live thus has become natural for them, and the collapse of walls and st aircas es seems no more avoidable than the weather.

An artist to whom I spoke, who was tentatively trying to use his photographs to draw the attention of his countrymen to the decay and destruction of their architectural inheritance occurring all around them, explained the neglect of the city as a manifestation of the government’s priorities. It had always been more concerned about education and the health service, he said, than with preservation of the fabric of Havana. Though he understood why the government should have considered the reduction of the infant-mortality rate to be more important than the care of mere material objects such as buildings, he himself had gradually come to see the importance of preserving that inheritance: once gone, it was irrecoverable. But in his opinion, most people were unconcerned by it.

Alas, I suspect that the neglect of Havana has a deeper and more sinister rationale than the one the artist proposed. It is not difficult to imagine Castro’s angry response to the accusation that he has let Havana fall into ruins. He would argue that, largely because of the American embargo, he had always had to establish clear spending priorities, and that schools, hospitals, and medicines mattered more for the life of a people than the upkeep of a capital city in which only a minority of the population lived. Life itself was more important than objects: and Cuba’s low infant-mortality rate and high life expectancy were justification of his policies.

But this answer would not, in my view, be entirely honest—even beyond the question of whether Cuba’s progress in literacy and public health necessitated Castro’s policies or justified the evident lack of freedoms enjoyed by Cubans. I suspect that the neglectful ruination of Havana has served a profoundly ideological purpose. After all, the neglect has been continuous for nearly half a century, while massive subsidies from the Soviet Union were pouring in. A dictator as absolute as Castro could have preserved Havana if he had so wished, and could easily have found an economic pretext for doing so.

Havana, however, was a material refutation of his entire historiography—of the historiography that has underpinned his policies and justified his dictatorship for 43 years. According to this account, Cuba was a poor agrarian society, impoverished by its dependent relationship with the United States, incapable without socialist revolution of solving its problems. A small exploitative class of intermediaries benefited enormously from the neocolonial relationship, but the masses were sunk in abject poverty and misery.

But Havana was a large city of astonishing grandeur and wealth, which was clearly not confined to a tiny minority, despite the coexistence with that wealth of deep poverty. Hundreds of thousands of people obviously had lived well in Havana, and it is not plausible that so many had done so merely by the exploitation of a relatively small rural population. They must themselves have been energetic, productive, and creative people. Their society must have been considerably more complex and sophisticated than Castro can admit without destroying the rationale of his own rule.

In the circumstances, therefore, it became ideologically essential that the material traces and even the very memory of that society should be destroyed. In official publications (and all publications in Cuba are official) the only positive personages from the past are rebels and revolutionaries, representing a continuing nationalist tradition of which Castro is the apotheosis: there is no god but revolution, and Castro is its prophet. The period between Cuban independence and the advent of Castro is known as “the Pseudorepublic,” and the corrupt thuggery of Batista, as well as the existence of poverty, is all that needs (or is allowed) to be known of life immediately before Castro.

But who created Havana, and where did the magnificence come from, if before Castro there were only poverty, corruption, and thuggery? Best to destroy the evidence, though not by the crude Taliban method of blowing up the statues of Buddha, which is inclined to arouse the opprobrium of the world: better to let huge numbers of people camp out permanently in stolen property and then let time and neglect do the rest. In a young population such as Cuba’s, with little access to information not filtered through official channels, life among the ruins will come to seem normal and natural. The people will soon be radically disconnected from the past of the very walls they live among. And so the present ruins of Havana are the material consequence of a monomaniacal historiography put into practice.

Yet foreshortened memory can be made to serve an ideological turn, as has happened with the restoration of a small area of the city—a much-needed restoration, for inhabited ruins will not long attract mass tourism. And so a large and glossy book has appeared, recording by means of before-and-after photographs the Herculean efforts of the regime to restore some of the buildings of old Havana that had fallen practically into ruins. Entitled Lest We Forget, the book omits to mention how the ruination came about in the first place. The restoration is thus one triumph more for the revolution.

The terrible damage that Castro has done will long outlive him and his regime. Untold billions of capital will be needed to restore Havana; legal problems about ownership and rights of residence will be costly, bitter, and interminable; and the need to balance commercial, social, and aesthetic considerations in the reconstruction of Cuba will require the highest regulatory wisdom. In the meantime, Havana stands as a dreadful warning to the world—if one were any longer needed—against the dangers of monomaniacs who believe themselves to be in possession of a theory that explains everything, including the future.

Ladies and toddler enjoy a beautiful afternoon at El Malecon - 1950

We will miss you, dear, dear friend...

2008-02-24T00:01:00.003-05:00

On February 24, 1996 a great guy, a "mensch," as author Humberto Fontova referred to him in an e-mail exchange with this writer a couple of years ago, was lost over the Straits of Florida, above international waters, at the 24th parallel. Armando Alejandre Jr. was his name; like the writer, another Habanero and a contemporary. We were school mates at Immaculata-LaSalle High School, Miami, from 1964 to 1968. He had many, many friends there and all of us who are still around will miss him greatly at our planned 40th graduation anniversary reunion later this year.

This is how we remember Armando during those - to us - nostalgic, sweet, and golden years.

The image comes from the Immaculata-LaSalle Signum yearbook published in 1968 - at the time of publication, our graduation loomed closer, and from there many of us would walk divergent paths through life. We had hopes, ideas, and dreams for creating a fulfilling and happy life, to the betterment of our future families, communities, and ourselves. For Armando, no doubt many of these dreams and hopes were realized, but other unfulfilled dreams and hopes were cut short that February day.

It is not the intent to retell and rehash the tragic story of that day here. That has already been done and better than this writer is able to do it. Other young men who had dreams and hopes - as did Armando - for a free Cuba perished that afternoon with him. They must not be forgotten either; as is true for Armando, they and their families wait for the full measure of justice which must be meted out to the perpetrators of this criminal act. They were Carlos Costa, Mario De La Peña, and Pablo Morales.

The last time the writer had seen him was at our graduating class' 20th reunion in 1988; we had a wonderful night, all of us, reminiscing, dancing, reconnecting at the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables.

Armando stands in the next-to-last row, fifth from the right, in front of the gentleman wearing a red tie - you cannot miss him; he was tall and stood out in many ways.

Of course, he will not be present at our reunion this year - the 40th, for the Class of '68. Well, let me qualify that. He may not be physically present, but he will be there. It is just a feeling...

The blogger has been drafted to play a part in making the 40th reunion reality. In connection with that, a blog for the Class of '68 was created. One of the first posts was dedicated to Armando, not just to remember and honor him, but also to help promote the movie/documentary his daughter, Marlene Alejandre-Triana produced. In the interests of completing this post in time for publication on the anniversary of his death, and because of constraints both of time and obligations, decided to feature the article from the Immaculata-LaSalle blog here. The original publication date was January 29, 2008.

"We do not want to have too many "tearjerker" moments during our reunion, or as we prepare for it. Inevitably, these moments will come. At some point, an "In Memoriam" post will be necessary to remember and honor those who sadly, are no longer with us.

One of our classmates, Armando Alejandre Jr., unfortunately became well known, in an entirely unintended way, when he and three other men were murdered by kaSStro's cowardly "puffwaffe" pilots on the twenty-fourth of February, 1996.

You could not help but notice Armando's lanky, 6-foot plus frame around campus during our sojourn at Immaculata-LaSalle. He and "shorty" bantered and kidded a lot about our respective heights, lack thereof in the case of the writer, exchanging witticisms, such as - "Hey, Seven Floors - how's the weather up there?" "Guys be careful - don't step accidentally on Quiroga!"

[Armando put his tall talents to good use playing basketball for LaSalle in '64-'65 - the image is from Signum, the school yearbook, 1965]

I miss the guy, and remember all too well when classmate Nelson Orta called, sounding very upset, to relay the news about the shootdown. The wave of shock which went through yours truly's short frame will never be forgotten.

The reason this is being written is because a documentary about this tragic incident has just been released. Here is the email received via a childhood friend - no, not an ILS classmate - which provides the details you need to know about it.

'Dear Friends & Family:

I'm writing to let you all know that SHOOTDOWN, a documentary film about the downing of two Brothers to the Rescue planes in February of 1996, one of which was carrying my father Armando Alejandre Jr., will be opening in theaters this Friday, January 25th. It was written and directed by my cousin Cristina Khuly. It will be the second largest documentary opening in the last 12 months, only after Sicko, Michael Moore's last film. It has been shown in numerous film festivals around the country and won Best Documentary at the Sonoma Valley Film Festival this year.

It is extremely important that if we all want the truth about what happened that day, and the simple truth about the Castro regime to be heard all over this country and hopefully one day the world, that we do our best to support this film on its opening weekend. Ticket sales have to be high on the first three days of showing (simply put, the only thing the film industry looks at) and will determine the future of this film into which my cousin has poured three years of her life. In case some of you saw a version of the film on the 10th anniversary, please note, that it is a completely different film from the one you screened. It has been worked and reworked until they produced the simplest, most concise grouping of facts which tell the story of February 24, 1996.

Even if you are not interested, please forward this e-mail to anyone you know who may have the desire to see this movie. Below is a list of theaters around the country where it will be playing. Three years ago people in the industry told my cousin this movie would never make it into even festivals because of its subject matter, Friday, January 25, it will be seen around the country.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this message and hopefully support Shootdown.

Marlene Alejandre-Triana'

There is a website for "Shootdown;" you can access it here: The Shootdown

The January 29th post in the Immaculata-LaSalle blog ends thus:

"Armando was part of our lives, our history during those four wonderful years at Immaculata-LaSalle, he being one who helped make those years memorable. See the movie if you can possibly do so, and spread the word everywhere. We do not forget our friend and neither should anyone else. The world must know and be reminded about this heinous murder, so that someday for Armando's sake, the perpetrators will be brought to justice."

There is nothing more than can be said about Armando Alejandre Jr. - at least not from this side;
much has been written about him...all one needs to do is enter his name for any half-capable search engine to find hundreds of references about him. There is one more subject the writer is compelled to touch upon. It is relevant, although some may think not - but as for the ones who think not, their opinion is totally irrelevant.

One of the unfortunate strengths possessed by Cuba's maximum criminal, fortunately not including the power to stave off the pathetic death which will soon come for him, has been the ability to size up and accurately judge the character of his adversaries, including their strengths and weaknesses. On the day of the shootdown, a certain sneering, leering, master of solipsism and narcissism occupied the White House, filling it with his self-appointed, self-important legend-in-his-own-mind presence. His name was then, still is, William Jefferson Clinton.

No one will ever convince the writer that Mr. Clinton, whose often-sneering visage will not dis-grace this post, could have been oblivious to the unfolding events on the 24th of February, 1996 and done something to either warn the criminal of Havana to make sure "it" did not try perpetrating any of "its" dastardly tricks, or better yet, ordering the professional and extremely capable pilots of the United States Air Force to blow down kaSStro's "puff-waffe" out of the skies over the 24th parallel. On that day, the only casualties should have been the rude, crude pilots of the "kubanski puff-waffe;" what heroes, they were...shooting down unarmed civilian aircraft.

Bet these "glorious revolutionary air heroes" would have crapped their flight suits and howled in terror had they been "locked onto" by F-16s from Homestead air base...no doubt their last thoughts would have been of their "glorious kommandant." What kind of thoughts is another matter. Unfortunately, that is not the way it turned out, being you had a vacillating, ne'er do well "commander in chief" sittin' pretty near the Potomac.

And today, Mrs. Clinton has pretensions to be the next Commander in Chief of the United States Armed Forces, hubby taking on the role of the eminence grise in that new administration, should such a thing regretfully come to pass. Well, mi querido amigo Alejandre, and am not speaking for your short blogging friend only, we're gonna do the best we can to make sure such a thing does not take place, rest assured. You do not want to contemplate, even remotely, the possibility of the tragic events of February 24, 1996 being repeated. Neither do we, your friends, your family, all who cared about you and do not forget you. Rest assured we will work hard to shoot down the electoral prospects of the pompous and pretentious, of those who do not even deserve to look at the White House, never mind occupy it for four years. Some day they will be forgotten, and rightfully so; let us pray instead, you will always be remembered and that your sacrifice will not be in vain. You will be honored and remembered in a free Havana, your birthplace.

A Lion Falls

2008-01-28T05:17:00.000-05:00

Luis Aguilar Leon was indeed a Lion of a man. He passed away earlier this month. The Quirogas were privileged to call him our neighbor for about three years, during our too brief sojourn at the Focsa Building in Havana. With his spouse, the lovely Vera Mestre-Aguilar and his two sons, they made their home on the 31st floor, under the "La Torre" - literally, "The Tower" Restaurant site. If you look at the building's "spine" in this period photograph, dating from about 1957-1958, "La Torre" being at the very top, you'll see their former abode.

This is meant to honor and remember, not merely a neighbor, but also someone who had an impact on, and was part of Cuban history - and who did his best to fight the good fight against the murderous, gangster regime of one fidel castro. The words of this writer are poor and inadequate; much better tributes have been written, and there are many more to be found on the Web. All you have to do is type Mr. Aguilar Leon's name into the text box for your favorite search "engine" and you will see for yourself.

In fact, some of the articles and tributes are best left to speak for themselves.

These were published in The Miami Herald and El Nuevo Herald, after he passed away, on the 5th of January. Time, energy, and skill are lacking here to allow for accurate translation of the articles/tributes - needless to say, though Alberto may be the blogger's moniker, he's no Carlos Alberto Montaner when it comes to powerful, incisive writing.

During his and Mrs. Mestre-Aguilar's years at Focsa, they participated, as was true for most of their friends, acquaintances, and neighbors there, in the building's active social life. No aloof, pompous types needed to apply back then; not that there weren't some of those...nothing is perfect. But that was certainly one description you could not hang on Mr. and Mrs. Aguilar Leon.

You can catch a glimpse of his profile in this photograph of a lunch sponsored by the condominium's Homeowner's Association, in 1957. He is sitting diagonally across the gentleman with the sunglasses, Rafael Aguirre; wife Vera sits next to Mr. Aguilar Leon, but unfortunately just the top of her head is visible.

And, needless to say, his good-looking sons were welcomed guests at Quiroga family events.

As they were welcomed for sister Marta's birthday party in October 1959. They are sitting in the front row, wearing striped shirts - Jorge on the left, as you look at the photograph, sitting to his brother Luis Enrique's right. Their nanny too was in attendance, Luisa - seen on the very left of the photograph, her head touching the photo's border. "She would not stay in Cuba, but came with us into exile - she was family," related Mrs. Mestre Aguilar once. "She was still with us when she passed away."

To those who might see this image as a symbol of "bourgeois exploitation of the working class," suffice it to say that Luisa, at least, appears not to have felt in any way exploited and no doubt understood well she was appreciated and loved. Obviously she KNEW who the "maximum exploiter of Cuba" was - and unfortunately is still - and wisely chose not to wait around to be truly abused and exploited by that gangster "family."

Jorge and Luis Enrique, together with the other participants that happy, innocent day, enjoyed the magic show put on by "Serpa The Magician," who enlivened many a kiddie party during those happy years in our congenial "beehive" at Focsa.

That day, Serpa called on cousin Oscar Quiroga to help with the wizardry...and here a brief pause for another remembrance, a small tribute to a then young boy who, still a young man full of life and dreams was taken from us by that insidious killer -cancer- in December 2002. We miss you dear cousin!

The roving blogger asked his parents for some recollections. some anecdotes about Luis Aguilar Leon, from those days. Mother said she remembered how, after the film The Bridge On The River Kwai was released in 1957, Aguilar Leon "many a time would be seen walking outside the building, out on some errand or what, whistling that catchy tune from the movie." That catchy tune was the Colonel Bogey March; a certain boy was privileged to watch the movie which popularized it, at a Havana film house, the name now forgotten - the Rodi, perhaps? And he even owned a 45 RPM record - remember those? - featuring aforesaid tune, and played many a time. Although now he sometimes cannot remember where he puts his keys, he still recalls the obverse side of the record held a no doubt very obscure piece of music, The Teenage March. Mr. Aguilar Leon did not go around whistling that one, though. Strangely, the blogger's brain still recalls it, and in fact it is playing inside his head even as this is being typed. Perhaps it should be renamed The Senior Citizen March at this point.

"Yes, I remember him well, walking by Palladium, whistling that march from the River Kwai...whenever I heard the whistling, I knew that had to be Aguilar Leon."

(Still from The Bridge On The River Kwai, featuring the late greats Alec Guinness and Sessue Hayakawa-from www.sensesofcinema.com)

Palladium Jewelry, Edificio Focsa - February 1957 - original print by Estudios Korda, Havana; Focsa architect Ernesto Gomez Sampera speaks with the propietors - as did Luis Aguilar Leon many a time, his happy whistling announcing his arrival.

Speaking of Leons, or Lions - do not think it inapropriate, and believe the Aguilar Leon family would agree - to remember another Leon we were honored and privileged to know at Focsa.

That refers to Vicente Leon Leon - twice a Lion - Focsa's classy, capable administrator and building manager, 1956-1960, fondly recalled, respected, and esteemed by many who made their home there. He kept things humming well around the place during his short tenure. He is seen here in the pages of Algo, the building's in-house publication, in the June 1958 issue. Leon Leon fell, fighting for Cuba's freedom, at a place called Playa Giron, April 1961 - thus living up to his name. Aguilar Leon fought fidelismo with his intellect and pen; Leon Leon fought the good fight with his skill, courage, and weapon in hand. Sed miles, sed pro patria.

May both Lions rest in peace and dwell in the Peace which never ends.

Mrs. Mestre Aguilar was kind enough to share some recollections as well, during her visit on the occasion of dad's birthday back in September - which unfortunately her husband could not attend, as he was no longer able to leave the house. "Indeed, the Focsa years were happy ones for us as well as for you. We moved in early 1960 to a house we had purchased; ironically, five months or so later we had to leave, quite suddenly, after Luis published an opinion piece which angered the regime." Yes, that is the kaSStro way, isn't it? Destroy or attempt to destroy the truth and those courageous enough to wave it in front of "its" face. As we know, ultimately this was not successful...Aguilar Leon's pen-and-intellect continued the struggle against, as a fellow blogger has put it so well, "castrianism," the religion of hate.

A beautiful tribute, written by one of Vera's cousins, niece of Vera's uncle Goar Mestre - if you want to recall who he was you may want to revisit this post about Delia Carballo - was kindly shared by the Mestre Aguilars; translating it would be impossible because yours truly would be unable to capture the meaning, the heartfelt feeling, and emotions expressed therein.

Lundi para mí

Luis Aguilar León

"Lundi, mi querido, admirado Lundi. Hace tiempo ya que te estábamos perdiendo, pero no por previsible tu partida, deja de ser menos hondo el hueco que nos deja. Si tuviera que señalar el rasgo más significativo para mí, de tu riquísima personalidad, no hablaría de tu sabiduría, ni de tu maravillosa relación con las palabras, aunque vienen sin remedio a mi mente tu cuento El Profeta, o ese extraordinario poema tuyo que recitabas como nadie al ritmo de cacerolas a modo bongoes, describiendo a una mulata sudorosa y ardiente que camina contoneándose bajo el sol del Malecón.

Las letras, nuestro país y nuestro bendito continente, eran sin duda tu pasión, el tema de tu vida. Pero si yo tuviera que recordarte por una sola cosa, sería por tu incondicional y entrañable amor por Cuba. Por una Cuba que conocías como nadie, con sus virtudes y defectos, su historia, su política, su geografía, su idiosincrasia, sus ciudadanos ilustres y su gente común. Esa Cuba que fue una dolorosa daga incrustada en cada uno de los días de tu exilio y que no pudiste volver a pisar ni a ver libre. Y es esa justamente, la profunda desazón que me provoca tu muerte.

Vislumbrar el comienzo de un cambio, ver aflojarse las ataduras para dejar resurgir la libertad de nuestra tierra, hubiera sido lo único que te hubiera compensado toda una vida de desarraigo y añoranzas. No pudo ser Lundi, ni para ti ni para tantos otros como mi padre. Y ese dolor que sin querer se me mezcla con rabia, será el más difícil de sobrellevar.

Ani Mestre

8 de enero de 2008"

Given his profession and talents, and how he used said gifts fighting for the cause of freedom and human dignity, another gentleman's epitaph, one who was also a prolific writer, another strong intellect, who also employed his talents in the cause of freedom for his country - our beloved, adoptive land - the United States of America - is quite suitable for Luis Aguilar Leon; do not believe either party would be offended, but instead rather honored, with the idea of said suitability...

The Epitaph of Young Benjamin Franklin

                         The body of
                B. Franklin, Printer
           (Like the Cover of an Old Book
                Its Contents torn Out
      And Stript of its Lettering and Gilding)
             Lies Here, Food for Worms.
           But the Work shall not be Lost;
    For it will (as he Believ'd) Appear once More
          In a New and More Elegant Edition
                Revised and Corrected
                   By the Author.

This is an inadequate tribute and remembrance for someone who was a significant figure in Cuba's history, and by whom hopefully many will be inspired to follow his example, continuing the battle for the cause of Cuban liberation. Perhaps, in closing, we can give "Lundy," as he was affectionately nicknamed, a not inappropriate and cheerful send-off.

March on the River Kwai-Colonel Bogey March - Mitch Miller 1958

Maybe this is presumptuous, but there is a strong feeling he would approve, and perhaps impishly whistle the tune as he strolls within earshot of St. Peter...

December 31st, 1957...GROUNDED!

2007-12-31T04:14:00.000-05:00

Lil' Albert shoulda been there...he coulda been there...he would have loved to have been there...

The happy gathering took place at the New Year's Eve party hosted by the Focsa condominium Homeowner's Association, at the garden and pool level; yes, unfortunately the photo is blurred - it is a photograph of a photograph, taken by compadre Mario Garriga - he's sitting there, on the right - when he visited his sister, who keeps the original, earlier this year. There was no time to get a better copy, but this will have to do. In a way, the nebulous image symbolizes the blurred memory of a fun night.

Next to Mario is another good and close friend, Jorge Soto, now settled in Clewiston, Florida. Either memory fails or the eyes do, because yours truly cannot remember the young man in white - unless that is Jorge Luis Pintos - who, sadly is no longer with us. The next one might be Sanchez...darn, how can one forget names? We were a pretty tight bunch! Then there is - am I sure? - Eduardo Zayas, acting the part of a typical New Year's reveler. The kid on the very left, arm around Eduardo - who was he? Cannot remember, except he was not a regular around our group...when Mario and the writer examined the image and reminisced, he asked: "Hey, remember that kid? He was a character!" "No," replied the blogger-with-failing-memory, "I do not." Weren't we all rambunctious characters anyway, dear Mario?

You might be surprised to learn that, at Focsa, kids were welcome at many of the events, parties and celebrations hosted not only by the Homeowners' Association, but also by many of the homeowners themselves. Don't get it wrong, things were still done according to "age-appropriate guidelines," such as no alcohol drinks for minors, but the kids were made to feel part and parcel of the Big Focsa Family.
Said Association, the umbrella of the Big Focsa Family, being ably led by the classy gentleman in the at the time fashionable white suit, seen sitting in the first row during a homeowner's meeting, May 23, 1958 - Dr. Agustin Aguirre. Mom and dad are in the picture, sitting in the fourth row, about the middle, their faces partially blocked by other faces of friends and neighbors, still recognized...behind them, wearing sunglasses and sitting next to her husband, Rafael Aguirre, also sporting a white suit and, coincidentally, Dr. Aguirre's nephew, is Olga Rueda - known stateside as Olga Aguirre. They'll figure further in this story as you shall see.

Thus came to pass the jolly good gathering of Focsa's version of the "Little Rascals," imbibing the night away - dancing too, perhaps? - for there was music. The imbibing part, ahem, forgot to explain. It was Coke only, don't go around accusing Cubans of getting their children plastered!

Having found out the Focsa "Lil' Rascals" were invited to participate in the evening's doings a few days before, the arrival of the last day of the year was eagerly anticipated. Mother's "rules of engagement" for the party are still recalled: "Now, you know you will have to wear a suit, right?" "Yes mom! That's OK, that's OK!," enthusiastically replied the Little Big Man About Town. She added: "You'll have to be on your best behavior if you want to go." The seven more-than-halfway-to-eight year-old replied: "I promise - I'll behave!"

My partners, in the following days, as the party date approached asked if their buddy was going to be there, and confidently he advised them he would be and all would have a great time. He thought of the free-flowing Coca-Cola in genuine glass bottles; being with the buddies, dressing up and transforming into Big Sophisticated Habaneros; listening to the music and watching the adults dance, laugh, sing - maybe even dance ourselves? Now, THAT was the scary part, being (1) Mr. Little Big Man couldn't dance and still cannot, by the way - somehow his genome did not include, sadly, the Cuban Rhythm Gene; (2) if one danced, one had to dance with a GIRL...we didn't like GIRLS at our age - it just wasn't done!! We did "man stuff" at that age, and girls were to stay out of the way. Funny - once Little Big Havana Man entered the Age of Liking Girls, they made him nervous to the point of inducing pathological paralysis in their presence, the prettier they were, the greater the paralysis. Eventually, he more or less got over it, but just barely. Con las muchachas, nunca supe ser "muelero." With the ladies, I never learned to be a "smooth talker."

But, have no fear, that particular fear would not rear its fearful head for Party Boy that night. Because, at just about the last minute on the day of the happy event...he was grounded by his mother.

The cause, as best remembered, had to do with mouthing off to someone about something. Was it running the mouth with mother, or perhaps with nanny Maria - "Mari," as we affectionately referred to her? Cannot remember that. Of course, the offending party did not see the supposed offense as deserving such drastic punishment and, needless to say, he tried talking his way out of it to no avail. "Ahora si que no vas a la fiesta esta noche!" - "Now you definitely are not going to the party tonight!," decreed Maria Teresa Granja de Quiroga, and there was no appeal possible, nor court of appeal available anyway. Empress Maria Theresa of Austria no doubt would have approved Maria Teresa of Havana's disciplinary approach towards her short subject.

Thus, Little Man About Town's dream of partying with the guys was dashed; doubly embarrassing was the fact that after assuring the gang "he would be there," he would not be - talk about losing face with your buddies. Who, of course, later interrogated him about the unforeseen absence, to which interrogatories he replied curtly, with much shoulder-shrugging.

He and little sister Marta were left in the able and affectionate care of Mari, as consolation. Still, it was disappointing, even bitter for him to realize his First Big New Year's Eve Party was not to be. Friend Mario, recently speaking with blogger and his Better Half, reminiscing about those times including that night as well, put it best: "You know, they kept Albert on kind of a tight leash." Perhaps it was necessary, but why, oh why did it HAVE to be so that last night of the year 1957??

Mari - 1957 - still remembered by two grown kids with love. We'd love too, to find and reconnect with her...last known to be in New York but by now, who knows? Sis and I certainly pray life treated her beautifully, being she was a beautiful person, inside and out. A "gallega," from, of course, Galicia in Spain.

The party went on as scheduled, and the band played on into the night - no doubt the participants, including the Focsa Lil' Rascals, had a wonderful time.

Mother and father joined their friends and neighbors, the Aguirres for a good time and good cheer. Left to right: Olga Rueda de Aguirre, Rafael Aguirre, their daughter Yvonne and her escort, "Talo" Socallanes, standing - and last but not least dad and mother, The Enforcer. No Cokes on that table - seems the drink of the evening was Cerveza Cristal.

Mom and dad danced the night away, and rightly so - mother especially is a good dancer, which trait she passed on to her daughters but not to her little boy; however the son's own daughter apparently picked up the Cuban Rhythm gene her father missed out on, so that skill shall be carried on to another generation. No doubt they had a fantastic time in the company of their friends and acquaintances, that night. Please do not interpret this as sour grapes or sarcasm on the writer's part. After all, parents have privileges and that is one thing which motivates little boys to wish they may grow up fast "I wanna do what mom and dad can do!" Then one grows up too fast, and the inevitable question becomes "Wherever did the time go?!" Be careful what you wish for, you may get it.

Meantime, of course, a sore and dejected little guy twiddled his thumbs 25 or so floors above, notwithstanding Mari's ministrations to soothe his wounded pride and ego. The next day, the Sore Little Boy heard a report what a great party that had been, and "how his friends even danced!" Well, he thought, "the dancing I could have done without," trying to rationalize how perhaps missing the festivities had not been so bad after all.

Before you think evil thoughts about parent-child relationships damaged by seemingly unjustified confinement, gotta tell you and this is from the heart: I love mother dearly and all is forgiven even if not forgotten. Too bad the one and only shot at being a Havana Big Shot was aborted. There was no big New Year's Eve party December 31, 1958. The band of spoilers - you know who they are - was playing their deadly tune, getting close, disrupting the rhythm of life with the bombs and bullets which made up their complement of deadly instruments.

Forward ten years later...a teen with much growing up still ahead of him was invited by his Miami compadres to a New Year's Eve party - Hialeah was the venue, a small - not so small anymore - town or municipality. The partners in crime hatched a plot to liven up the party - well, at least liven up their participation in the party. Said one - was it Eduardo "Eddie" Acle - yeah, probably - "Listen guys, we're gonna take some booze to the party. We're thinking Colt 45 Malt Liquor; each of us takes a six-pack." That would have been twenty-four cans of the more potent than regular beer brew. The graphic below, sourced from www.beerkancorner.com, brings back memories of, ah shall we say a "wild and crazy night of fumblin' and stumblin'."

How could a nice ?? - former classmates may disagree - studious young man attending Catholic LaSalle High School get caught up in such doings? A reaction, perhaps, to unconscious memories of frustration at missing party time ten years earlier? Or perhaps a celebration of life...after all, just a week before that 31st of December, 1967 he had found himself airborne and upside down in his '67 VW Beetle, the result of a tipsy compatriot's T-boning the Beetle with a 1965 Chevy Impala. You can imagine the physics involved in the collision. No, you had to be there - but am glad you were not. God and a seatbelt saved the future blogger's hide, so perhaps he felt compelled to celebrate with abandon, with his band of LaSalle Rascals, a week later. Mention should be made he knew who to thank for the Gift of Life that Christmas Eve, and did so at Midnight Mass that day. Credit must also be given to cousin Fernandito who, heavy into auto racing at the time, and finding his younger cousin's Beetle was lap-belt equipped, admonished: "Always buckle up!" Wise advice, then and now. Thank you, dear cousin - perhaps you helped me be here to recall and write this.

By the way, the Beetle in the photo was not the late, lamented blogger's Bug. It belonged to friend and classmate Orlando Martinez - coincidentally another of the Quiroga's Focsa neighbors - who captured the image.

These were my partners in the plot - the question is, who thought of the plot? Who admits to it? Was it you, "Eddie?" Somehow, that seems to fit.

Nelson - left; Jorge - right. That's right! Taken during a visit to the Quirogas, circa 1975.

And then, there's Eddie - back in '71. Doesn't he look like someone who would hatch such a devious drinking scheme? Just kiddin' Eduardo. Rest assured all of us have been on our best behavior since then. And if you believe that, no doubt you also still believe in the Tooth Fairy.

The plan evolved by the four amigos - Nelson Orta - you met him before, that is if you read this blog - "Eddie," Jorge Pastoriza and you know who - was deceptively simple. First, the "fuel" was procured at a little market run by another compatriot, believe it was a Mr. Silva, who shall we say looked the other way and did not ask for identification. Those were the times; not saying you should approve. The packs were duly encased in brown bags. Next, transportation. No, we had no intention of drinking and driving. Besides which the one available car, a Java Green '67 VW Beetle now rested in pieces in some forlorn junkyard. Only the driver's manual remained to remember it by.

And of course, that would not suffice to get us to where we needed to go. Our parents were otherwise engaged in preparing to attend their New Year's parties, so a ride from that quarter was out of the question. Never mind they would also have questioned what we had in the bags, quickly bringing an end to the planned drinking spree and general carousing we anticipated with glee.

The Miami-Dade County bus system was our salvation. We took the requisite buses, making transfers as needed, and duly arrived at the party with our fuel packs. And the festivities were fun - we eyed the ladies, this guy even getting up the courage to dance with one or two...pausing here and there to imbibe our Colt 45s. At one point someone found the stash, and hid our treasure, causing distress and making us think all kinds of evil thoughts regarding the retribution we would visit on the perpetrators. But one of our own - was it you, Nelson? - found the goods and the liquid lubricating of the evening continued unabated. Yeah, believe it was Nelson - the leadership qualities of the future United States Marine Corps 2nd Lieutenant were already in evidence.

We expected no less than that from you, Gunny! The poster image comes from www.movieposter.com

You know you are in trouble when the horizon no longer stays level, the earth moves under you, and suddenly, your innards no longer feel at peace. You also know you are in trouble when one of your buddies - won't say which one - plops down on a lounge chair, and proceeds to "baptize" his nice suit with juice from disturbed innards. And it came to pass, we all got to that point although some of us "held" it better than others. The ladies, needless to say, no longer wanted anything to do with us and besides it was past midnight. So, we were starting from scratch January 1, 1968. Add to that the problem of somehow getting all of us back home and...you know you are in trouble. Curse you, Colt 45 Malt Liquor! Haven't cared for it since then.

Ah, but salvation was at hand. Fortuitously, mom and dad had been invited to a party nearby, at the home of a family friend. Mother and father had graciously offered us a ride back home "should you need it." Well - we needed it! We needed an ambulance, but father's '68 Olds, acquired a few weeks earlier, would do fine. So we were picked up by our saviors, except we had to go back to their party for a little bit - one recalls being offered food and drink, but being in no mood for any more of it. After the party ended, as the "Quiroga bus" went on its way to drop each of us off, the fella who lost his lunch on the lounge chair lost it again over the rear seat of dad's brand spanking new '68 Olds...but mom and dad as you know do not hold that against you. After all you have been their primary care physician for years.

By the time a future blogger hit the bedsheets, he was shivering and sick as a dog - and the next day felt like one, for most of the day. Thank God for forgiving parents! Now, you tell me: Should a young boy have been grounded in '57, or would it have been better to ground a foolish teenager in '67 instead? Things would have gone better with Coke instead of Colt 45 Malt Liquor, rest asssured! Cerveza Cristal in moderation would have been OK too - unfortunately by 1967 it was no longer available, at least in Miami, and not much in Cuba either.

And speaking of hangovers, one wonders how much longer it will take unfortunate Cuba to wake up from the hangover induced by drinking the toxic political brew she was seduced to experiment with, January 1, 1959?

Tonight we - meaning Mrs. and I - will head out to a neighbor's New Year's Eve block party. Although within walking distance from home, nevertheless the libations will be in moderation - might have a couple Blue Moons; that's a nice brew, brewed in the Belgian style. But that is about it. Colt 45 days were left behind a long time ago...do they even make the stuff anymore? Mrs. Q will ensure her Worst Half is on his best behavior. After all, now that he is a father, he must set an example of sobriety and good judgment for the benefit of his daughter - who exhibits at 14 far better judgment and sense than her father-to-be did forty years ago.

Time to close and, in closing, dedicate this to mother and father - no hard feelings, mom!; to my sisters and their families, of course to my suffering Better Half and dear daughter and my North Carolina kin; to my beloved friends from Focsa days, the ones lost, the ones found, the ones no longer with us - needless to say, this applies to our family's friends and neighbors from those days - the Aguirres, Sotos, Garrigas - too many to mention; to both my dear Baldor and Miami-LaSalle band - we may not see each other much sometimes, but we stay tightly connected; to all fellow bloggers, wherever you are. Last but not least: To the people of Cuba. If a Happy New Year is only a future dream for many, at least may I wish all of you a God-Blessed, Safe, Sober, Healthy and Prosperous one.

The Best Christmas Gifts

2007-12-21T21:20:00.000-05:00

One could argue - indeed, this is my belief - at least among Christians, that there is only one Best Christmas Gift - the Gift of The Redeemer. As has been said: "Keep Christ in Christ-Mas." But this sinner would also argue that the same Redeemer, the Essence of the Season, brings with Him, and freely hands out, many other Gifts towards which sadly, mankind sometimes appears oblivious. All too easy to fixate on that iPhone or Wii..."weep if you can't get a Wii."

But some of us, and please do not take this as Pharisee-like sanctimoniousness, do appreciate and cherish the Gifts from the God-Gift. One of them is the Gift of Friendship and Brotherhood. Speaking of which, remember this post from September 2006?

On Sunday, December 16 Anno Domini 2007, the Gift of Friendship and Brotherhood was freely shared among a certain "Band of Baldorians" - sounds like something out of Beowulf, I suppose - at the Rusty Pelican, a waterfront venue in Key Biscayne. That, should you wish to find the place, is in the Greater Miami area - and not Miami, Ohio either.

Jeez! I suppose a certain Baldorian-blogger coulda smiled a little more, given the conviviality, warmth, and good time had by all attendees. Finally, we who had found each other over the last few years were together again, celebrating our good fortune and rightly so.

This is now, and that was then, before the Grinch of Havana decreed an end to Christmas, to family, friendship, brotherhood, indeed to Love itself.

There we were...50 years earlier, during the 1956-1957 school year; the acquisition of that academic year's Yearbook was an early Christmas present to myself. Can you find us? Alright, no teasing the readership. Here's a "connect the dots" type aid, enabling you to link the faces from past and present. Refer to the "this is now" graphic...from left to right you have hmmm...Frightful, then Wilfredo or as we know him, "Willy" Hernandez, followed by Carlos Cueto, Nelson Orta, and The Other Carlos, Bidot. One of the Band unfortunately missed our fraternal reunion, Warren Chambless, although we know you were there in spirit, Warren - and will make the next one. And, to confuse you further, you will NOT find Nelson in the 1956-1957 Baldor yearbook when we began our journey through First Grade. Nelson did not come into the picture until the Fourth Grade. That, however, does not make him a Lesser Baldorian Brother, by any means.

If you examine the yearbook image and zero in on the future blog author, you will be amazed to realize he once had a fair crop of hair! What is less obvious is, then and now, he was and remains, proudly, the Shortest of The Baldorian Band. Well, good things come in small packages. So does poison.

Although Warren could not make it to our brotherly table at Rusty Pelican, he has made it to some of our sociable get-togethers since being "found" by bloggin' "Sherlock Holmes" about a year ago.

Such as, back in September, when he and Mrs. Chambless accepted our invitation to join the Quirogas for a night of partying in honor of my dad's 88th birthday. Warren sported a neat tropical-themed shirt; we certify that "a good time was had by all."

Unfortunately, do not as of this writing, have a Baldor School yearbook with Brother Nelson's face in it. The next best thing available is this quaint classroom depiction of our Seventh Grade class at Saints Peter and Paul parochial school in Miami - as in Florida.

Nelson sits with trademark smile and Elvis-ish hairdo - a "mota," Cubans would call it - in the first seat, first row on the right - and, in the very same row, the kid with closed, or closing eyes, fourth from the back of the class, is the future blogger and ex-Baldor cub. Nelson and I were the first to "reconnect" our friendship in style. We're talking 1962-1963 here. It has been a long time, brother! And yet, where did the time go? That is the scary part. The Gift of Time - now that is another precious one from the Creator.

Sister of St. Joseph Mary Anthony stands guard back in the corner. You did not want to incur her wrath...no disrespect meant, but somehow that brings to mind the opening minutes in The Blues Brothers movie. If you wanna know what I mean, rent it or buy it - the great music in it alone is worth it. Belushi's and Aykroyd's antics are a bonus. Our antics at Sts. Peter and Paul were suitably dealt with by the good nuns, somewhat as Jake and Elwood's were rewarded in the aforementioned flick.

Shoot! Just realized we found another former Baldor guy in the Sts. Peter and Paul class photo! Gabriel Rodriguez, sitting in the row next to ours, second from back of the class - he's in the Baldor yearbook First Grade group. Bidot is always after me to look our friends up, so guess Gabriel is the next subject of our sleuthing. How about that for another Christmas bonus; we may yet find another member of the Baldor Brotherhood.

Nelson and his frightful friend continued their adventures and misadventures together through our years at LaSalle High School in Miami, from where we both graduated in '68, and shared part of our college years as well. We were the first of this Band to band together, but we will certainly not be the last.

Our friend Bidot informally presided over the gathering, and said some beautiful words for the ocassion, reading them from his script, the emotion coming through loud and clear.

Don't worry - you don't need to crank up your translation software; I will translate the words for you, to the extent of my non-professional translating ability, always with the goal of translating the words as accurately as skills allow, the main goal being to capture the true spirit of the original statement.

"Dear Friends:

Just some lines to express what has meant to me this re-encounter with my first friends, those I lost suddenly in an April afternoon in the 60s, when we barely were 9-10 years old. Nevertheless, their names always appeared in my mind and heart with the certain hope of finding them again and share moments such as those we are sharing today. How many anecdotes relived and yet how many not lived among us! I give thanks to God first, then to all of you for maintaining alive the flame of our friendship which began in our beloved Baldor School, who I also thank for instructing me and giving me the principles which make an honest man.

To all many thanks for making my dreams reality.

Albertico (literally-and accurately-"Little Albert"): You were the first to initiate this re-encounter, thank you brother, for this and for inspiring me to improve my spelling skills, which were not bad but not as excellent as yours.

Carlitos: dear friend and study companion, of mutual academic competitions, of friendly knowledge and escapades to eat raw oysters.

Willy: dear friend from our Vedado neighborhood, picaresque and witty, who always managed to create something different and amusing out of our times together.

Nelson: although the last to join us and subject to complications due to your social activities and, if memory does not fail, one of the most easygoing in our class, for you our welcome to our dear reconnection of "Baldoristas."

So happy you were able to speak these wonderful words without a hitch, brother Bidot; speaking for myself, would have choked up during delivery. Maudlin, sentimental, all of that it may be, but so it is and glad it is so.

We did a gift exchange, nothing fancy, but a nice touch. During said exchange, Christmas cards were also given and received. Here is what amigo Bidot wrote on the one for the Quirogas.

Again, not to worry - free translation provided; hopefully it captures the words and the feeling behind them accurately.

"Dear Little Albert:

You were the first to initiate this re-encounter. You cannot imagine how grateful I am to you, for in my mind all of you were always there. Today my dreams from childhood have become reality, but I invite you to continue finding and gathering more friends from what was then Baldor School.

Of course I remembered you, even as you had forgotten your 'hundreds (100 pts)' in spelling. Brother, a hug and once again thanks.

Merry Christmas and a Prosperous 2008! The Bidot Family 12/16/07"

Well brother Bidot, truth be told, I may have scored "hundreds" in grammar and spelling, but always I envied your and Carlos Cueto's mathematical and analytical minds. Over time skill in these areas improved for yours truly. Nevertheless, am willing to swap brains - or at least part of brains - with you. The others are no slouches either. You guys "done good!" and am very proud of that. But then, that is what we expect from Baldor School students.

Back to the gift exchange for a moment. Nelson gave us all a very especial and unexpected present...

The wonderful gift is the medal on the left - an award for "Aplicacion," or Scholarship; when given by your Baldor teacher back then, it meant you were an "A" student. And "A's" were not freely given in those days. Our brother-friend scored a coup and found these almost mint condition pieces, together with their original ribbons. "I cleaned out the stock where I bought them," said our buddy, smiling broadly. Now this piece will proudly accompany the other well-loved relics of my Baldor days - the "Conducta" or Good Conduct medal acquired at the annual Cuba Nostalgia event almost two years ago, and the little lapel pin, spirited out of Cuba and once worn proudly by the writer during his Baldor years. To others, these may seem like insignificant baubles; to us, these golden objects, though not made of gold, are worth their weight in gold for both the happy and sad memories of a lost childhood and a lost time they evoke so well.

Medals and awards, worn proudly by those who earned them through hard work, scholarship, good conduct, civic duty, and love of God and country.

As did our friend and Baldor-brother Carlos Bidot, during the 1956 school year.

I am confident I speak for all when I say to you, Brother Nelson, in describing how we feel about this incredible gift: Te la comiste, hermano! That is Cuban slang, and literally translated means "You've eaten it, brother!" When a Cuban tells you "te la comiste," it means you've done something fantastic, great, incredible, first class, and all that sort of thing.

By the way, if you wish to explore the place where our most thoughtful brother-friend acquired these, take a peek - more than a peek, really...set aside some time to take it in, and head to
You will be amazed with the many interesting pieces Mr. Valdes has on display, and for sale too. A history of Cuba captured in the objects, literature, and graphics within the walls of the Cuban Historical Museum. In case you wonder, this is not an advertising pitch...it is just an invitation for you to take the opportunity to drink in some Cuban history. "Drink in" is appropriate - Mr. Valdes even displays still-filled bottles of Cuban beer from the 50s! Wouldn't recommend imbibing the contents at this point, however. Might turn you off beer.

All good and beautiful times and things must inevitably come to an end. After a few hours of fraternal camaraderie, anecdote telling, reconnecting and becoming reacquainted, the gathered Baldorian Band and their families had to say their goodbyes - for now. But there was still time for some photography to remember the event, and someday, via these images, pass on the beautiful memories to our children, and our children's children.

Well, how about that! The blogger can smile after all. How could he not, as he ponders the priceless value of the Gift of Friendship, which he thought was lost 47 years ago as he and his family celebrated their first Christmas in exile, with little but with love, in the cozy Westchester home of our beloved friend Delia Carballo and her gracious mother, who unhesitatingly took us in when we had nowhere else to go. A little guy, in the depths of sadness that Christmas, did not realize it, but besides the Gifts of Love and Friendship, he was given the Gift of Freedom. These are the ones that matter, the ones that endure and can never be taken away.

This Christmas, remember the Reason for The Season and give thanks to God for the Gifts that really matter. We have touched upon just a very few here - there are many. As for the Grinch of Havana, the one who sought to take away that which he hates because of his own self-hate - Love, Friendship, Freedom and so much more, alas, when it comes to our little group you failed miserably. When your time comes to leave this world, you will weep and gnash your teeth when you realize - too late - you rejected the Gift of Redemption.

From us to all of you out there, including but not limited to our other Baldor School friends and acquaintances, and to other dear and very close friend-brothers - "Cap'n Mario" comes to mind, but you all know who you are - A Very Merry and Blessed Christmas!

Visiting an Old Friend

2007-11-20T19:55:00.001-05:00

Very light, the posting, this month. Time is short, the "To Do" list too long. Some may call it the "Honey Do" list. But, it is not all work-no-fun. So when the opportunity to drop in on an Old Friend came up, the Mrs., ably aided and abetted by Number One daughter, booked us suitable passage and on we will soar towards our destination. Not expecting dinner with all the trimmings on board, regardless that Thanksgiving is upon us, there are plans to pack sandwiches for the journey. "Man doth not live on little bags of peanuts and/or pretzels alone."

It just happens that a little over 50 years ago, the writer and his Old Friend first became acquainted. Now, you may call it teasing, but this time you - the reader - will be given the opportunity to guess the identity of the destination, of the Old Friend, of whom there are so many fond memories, both happy and sad.

July 1957 was the first time, happily not the last - in fact, several re acquaintances there have been, in between.

The view was good from this spot. We went to visit a certain Lady, a very impressive Lady, who stands for a concept we should be grateful for, and give thanks we can live the concept as we have our Thanksgiving supper. Remember to thank God for all you have and say a prayer for those who do not have freedom, food, and a lot of other things we take for granted.

Nice to have some Guy Time with one's dad on a sunny, yet not oppressively hot summer day, taking in the sights...quite an experience for a Havana boy. It was on that same trip, thanks to father, who took us there, the Havana boy learned who was actually buried in Grant's tomb! OK, that was bad...remember, you are being teased. That is also one of the positional clues.

We took the opportunity to soar to new heights during our pleasant sojourn - it was windy up there; what an incredible view - call it an Imperial View, if you like.

That July we also paid a call to our good friends, Generoso "Gene" and Maria Teresa "Tete" Garcia. We knew them simply as "Gene and Tete." Both originally hailed from Manzanillo, Cuba. Early in the 20th Century - remember that one? - they emigrated, called to do so by the same Lady whom we greeted that summer of '57. As fate would have it, though they did not know each other in Cuba, they met and married in their new homeland.

At the time the Quirogas visited, they lived on Henry Street - another geographical clue for you. A year later, we met them in Key West, Florida, during another vacation stateside.

That's Gene standing on the left, mother in the middle, Tete Garcia on the right. Wonder who the annoying-lookin' lil' kid is, sitting in his father's '55 Chevy Bel-Air? In case you're wondering and if you've kept abreast of the news the past year or two regarding current Cuban "travel" inventiveness, the car was not modified to float and drive through the waves in the Straits of Florida. Back then, Cubans could come and go freely and did not have to come up with ingenious solutions to the problem of fleeing the bearded slave driver's plantation. We simply transported the Chevy on the Havana-Key West ferry. Drove the Chevy to the ferry, not to the levee. Teasing you again, but perhaps a few of you will recognize the words of a certain song having to do with Americana, and a Pie, though not necessarily an apple one.

Sobering to think that, just 90 miles from the spot where that July 1958 slide photograph was taken by father, today millions exist - cannot say "live" - in misery. So as you gather with your loved ones this Thanksgiving, give thanks over and over for what you have, and pray those unfortunates, maybe a year from now, are free to journey - again; to dream, to do, to pray and give thanks to the Almighty. Just as we do; may God bless your Giving Thanks day and may he bless and preserve the Lady who will greet future generations of Cubans at liberty to visit her, free again to come and go as they please.

A Curious Cuban Cub Conundrum

2007-10-30T21:21:00.000-04:00

Nothing to do, this post that is, with Cuban baseball players in Chicago, or Cuban bears for that matter. There were no bears, whether fully grown or at the cub stage in Cuba, in any case. No, for this story, thanks are owed to the friend who inspired it, a former colleague now blissfully retired, a native Miamian who now happens to live down the block - well, a few blocks - from the author. And to think we lived just a few blocks apart in Miami for years and did not even know it; more scary is the fact we wound up having so much in common, that becoming evident as our friendship progressed.

And one thing we share in common is an interest in things that fly, as well as the history and stories related to flight. So my good friend Steve, a subscriber to the Smithsonian Institution's Air & Space magazine just knew his blogger buddy would have a keen interest in the August 2007 issue of aforesaid publication, and it was indeed a pleasant surprise to find the gift in the mailbox one day. Inside the magazine was a postcard with a greeting, and these words: "Check out the article on Cuba's private pilots." On the cover of the publication this tantalizing article title jumped at the reader:

"The Country Where Nobody Flies"

And, gannet-like, the blogger dived right into the story of Cuban civil aviation, carefully fixing sights on every word, illustration, and photograph on a subject about which he - and no doubt many other aviation enthusiasts - knew so little. By the time the reading and re-reading was over, author Rafael Lima had brought this most interesting subject to life, indeed, had given it wings.

One paragraph, discussing the carefree days of Cuban flight in the 40s and 50s, described something the wannabe pilot-blogger found striking - what drew his attention is highlighted since that will lead us to the subject, to the conundrum being explored...and solved perhaps??

About one interview with Luis Palacios, now 67, who flew Piper Cubs - the connection to the conundrum you will see later - author Lima writes: "In those days (the 40s-early 50s) private pilots in Cuba flew unencumbered by airspace regulations or control towers, says Palacios, who flew for Eastern Airlines after coming to the United States in 1961. You could take off from one town, fly along the coast, and see a beach and land on it. Many pilots used to land on hard-packed sand beaches, have lunch or a swim, and get back in the plane and take off."

When this closet Wrong-Way Corrigan...you, the reader have the option to look up Wrong-Way...or not...read the last two sentences in that paragraph, a certain image flew out of his mind's hangar. An image which itself had been flown out of Cuba in a mail bag or packet in the early 60s, and validated Mr. Palacios' wonderful story.

And if you have been plodding through this blog, you would have spotted the colorful slide photograph not long ago.

I had seen this several times before, and the image resided in memory. You see, I have this thing for planes - always have; in the past, had asked mother and father, both standing to the right in the photograph, if they knew why this Piper J-3 Cub had come to land on Boca Ciega beach, due East of Havana, that fine day. Father would always say "he was not sure, but I think there was something wrong with the plane's propeller." Excessive vibration, perhaps? So the intrepid pilot had, if that was the case, to find a suitable place to land and pronto. It is clear from the graphic he succeeded in making a nice landing, his aircraft undamaged.

The intrepid Cuban aviator came down to earth somewhere along this coastline.

Location - approximate, am NO navigator...thank God for GPS...23° 10’23.23” N, 82° 9’ 42.71” W - these are in fact the correct coordinates; if you, my unfortunate reader saw this post prior to November 21, 2007 the coordinates initially given were 23° 09’16.01” N, 81° 52’ 19.31” W. Wrong! Wrong! Dead reckoning wrong! This was pointed out by observant cousin Fernando, who during a lengthy telephone conversation, reminiscing about our mutually-shared past, casually mentioned, chuckling, that "he'd just read the latest entry to the Havana blog and, have to tell you...the Google Earth image of Boca Ciega is incorrect - you're too far east! By the way, I was there that day, I remember the plane very well" Indeed you were an eyewitness - your father took the colorful photograph. Thank you, cousin. Perhaps you should change your name to Ferdinand Magellan - your island navigation skills are far superior to the blogger-pilot's. For shame, considering all the time spent happily carousing around Boca Ciega; shoulda found the Itabo river first. Good navigators know their landmarks and learn to recognize them, from air. land, and sea.

Leave navigating and flying to the professionals. And please, do NOT use this blog as a navigational aid - it is more of a navigational hazard!

Now, here is a mystery within a mystery, encased in an enigma. How do we know the name of the intrepid aviator? Well, no one did - certainly not my parents, nor yours truly who was a little over a year away from making his own landing on planet earth at the time the slide photograph was snapped by my uncle Prego Sr. Here is how a small piece of this puzzle was found. After my generous buddy gave me the August Air & Space issue, thought the editors might be pleased to see graphic evidence that, indeed, Cuban private pilots sometimes made beach touchdowns. A copy of the colorful graphic was quickly on its way in digital flight via email, together with this text:

"Dear Editor:

Thank you for the wonderful article by Rafael Lima on a subject I had regretfully little time to get acquainted with, as unfortunately my family and I had to leave Cuba in 1960. I was only 10-and-a-half then. I learned a few things I did not know - or had forgotten; the Day of The Aviator Parade was one of them - wish I'd gotten to see it at least once.

Mr. Lima writes about carefree flying days when Cuban pilots could choose to land on one of the many beautiful beaches. This may explain the slide my father has in his collection, one which made it into exile. It may answer the question why an unknown Cuban aviator landed his J3 Cub on Boca Ciega beach, east of Havana, circa 1948. The photograph was taken by an uncle by marriage, Fernando Prego Sr. - my parents are to the right, Mr. Prego's wife, my maternal aunt Josefina, to the left. The pilot may have decided to take a sightseeing break, although to this day my dad believes 'there was something wrong with the plane's propeller.' Perhaps the flier of J3 Cub CU N-124 is still around and will explain if he - or she? - ever sees this?

Once again, thank you for this excellent, evocative reminiscence. In no time, Castro clipped the wings of Cuban freedom, well symbolized by the untimely end of Cuban private aviation. May free Cuban wings once again grace the skies over the beautiful island. May it be soon.

Albert Quiroga"

A very nice reply was received from the magazine's Letters Editor.

"Dear Mr. Quiroga:

Thanks so much for the great letter and photograph. May we run both in our Letters section? It’s a beautiful little piece of aviation history and we’d be honored to share it with our readers.

Best wishes,
Perry Turner
Letters Editor"

Well, yours truly was flabbergasted, as there was no expectation anyone in the Air & Space staff would have the slightest interest in publishing the photo; the intent was merely to share a little Cuban aviation history to complement the great article, with a group of obviously very dedicated aviation-loving people. Without hesitation, and with the blessings of mother and father Quiroga, permission to publish was cheerfully given - really, the Air & Space staff did not have to ask, but of course they must follow protocol.

Unexpectedly, another email came from Mr. Turner...this made my eyeballs want to pop out of their sockets.

"Dear Mr. Quiroga:

Good news: One of the curators at the National Air and Space Museum was able to identify the aircraft in your photograph. He says: 'It was a Piper J3C-65 Cub and was registered in Cuba as CU-N124 to Cesar Leonard Santamaria between 1947 and March 1950, so apparently he was able to repair the prop.'

The curator was:

Dan Hagedorn
Archives Research Team Leader and Adjunct Curator,
Latin American Aviation
National Air and Space Museum

Best wishes,
Perry Turner
Letters Editor"

An exhilarated flights-of-fantasy blogger-type returned a congratulatory email, thanking Mr. Hagedorn for his good aerial archaeology sleuthing, and Mr. Turner for sharing the findings.

Inspired by all these doings and happenings, this post came to be - ably supplemented, as always, by the reminiscences, recollections, and anecdotes of my father, with a little help from mother, who sometimes comes up with things even he has forgotten. All said, his mind is still as sharply tuned and powerful as those Rolls Royce Merlin engines which powered Spitfires and P-51s...I told you I had a "thing" about planes; forgive my aerial-related imagery.

One little piece of the puzzle which was added to the picture - literally in fact, as it was stamped on the back of the black and white photo taken the same day, was the exact date this incident happened. Originally, "we," meaning mother, father, and I, had thought this had taken place sometime in 1948. However, when studying the B&W image, the photo developer's stamp on the reverse side clinched it: "March 24, 1949."

Well - let's qualify that. March 24, 1949 is when the developer printed the image from the negative - remember, this was in pre-digital camera days, right? However, it can be said with a high degree of certainty, that sometime between March 1 and March 23, 1949 a Cuban private pilot named Cesar Leonardo Santamaria landed J3 Piper Cub registration number CU N-124 on the sands of Boca Ciega beach, Cuba.

Boca Ciega...literally, "Blind Mouth." The Itabo river, usually only a small trickling stream until it fills and flows during rainy season, empties into the Caribbean Sea through its light tan sandy beach. Boca Ciega was one of my family's favorite places in Cuba, a site for many a gathering of Quirogas, Granjas, and their friends, and friends' relatives. The sun, the sand, swimming and boating at the mouth of the Itabo, where it met the sea - those are just some of the memories of that special place.

From the dunes lining the banks of the Itabo, a then little guy who had no idea someday he would be writing about such things, and certainly would never have conceived the idea of "blogging," fondly recalls jumping into the Itabo's mangrove-dyed flow. Somehow he still remembers how at first, the high dunes were intimidating, making him feel he was pushing off Everest's summit - as if the four year-old could know what "Everest" was; but the feeling of trepidation remains still.

Come to think of it, the dunes still look intimidating, 53 years after my first jump attempt! Sadly, they are no more. As Boca Ciega's development accelerated in the 1950s, the dunes provided building and land-fill material for the growing beach community.

But, life is good...more so when your dad wheels you to the beach on a beautiful day, so you can nap contentedly, sometime in the summer of 1950. You know, that was a fine day for flying your J3 Piper Cub, or whatever other aircraft was available for some fortunate Cuban aviator to pilot over Boca Ciega. No such opportunities to soar freely over beautiful beaches, under sunny blue skies in today's Cuba, sadly.

It was nice to share beach moments with mother and cousin Fernando - "Fernandito." His father took the great color photograph of Mr. Santamaria's Cub after its sandy landing.

Boca Ciega, September 1952 - somehow, the inflatable pool seems redundant...maybe mother had her reasons.

Cousin, assuming the old brain isn't going into a stall and fooling the blog-pilot, once proudly owned a J3 gas-powered control line model; the one time I was keenly anticipating seeing it in flight however, he had much trouble coaxing the Cox .049 motor into running reliably, so that his little Cub too, was grounded. He was not a happy camper. On the bright side, he was much closer to the ground and did not have to scout for a suitable landing spot. And said spot, if memory does not fail, would have been in Varadero beach.

Life is good, too, when your mom holds you on her lap as you take a much needed break after an arduous day of driving...this was the small house mom and dad owned in Boca Ciega for a few years - father refers to it as the "Casa Club" because in fact it had been a community club house until they purchased it and modified it; small but cozy, we spent some pleasant, memorable times there, entertaining and being entertained.

Some of the entertainment, besides that provided by unannounced aircraft landings on the beach, involved sports, played heartily and passionately by friends and family, as Cubans are wont to do.

Who says beach volleyball wasn't popular, sixty years ago? At least this proves it was popular in Boca Ciega, Cuba. The photo dates to around 1949; father is the gent with the striped shirt to the left of the pole; his brother Manuel is in the middle, white shorts, ball over his head; their brother Dario is on the far right. Pay attention, because the latter characters will play a part in this story. After all, you should know how this Quiroga - or shall we say, the Quiroga men - developed an interest in flying craft, evidently passed on to some of their offspring. So, fly along with us. Hopefully it will not be a boring ride. If it is, you can safely bail out.

Let's deviate from our flight plan a bit, expand our horizons...make sure the horizon is level as you fly, by the way - feels better, keeps your stomach in place. Unless of course you are one of those daredevils who likes to perform aerobatics to the delight of people like me.

Dad always had some interest in aviation, although less evident, at least on the surface, than his firstborn's. Sometime in 1955-56, he purchased a little Cox model racing plane; it was red, equipped with an .049 engine; we were living in an apartment and there were no good open spaces to fly it nearby. That did not keep him from cranking it up inside the place one day; the high-pitched buzzing/whining sound of the little engine excited his kid - "when can we fly it, Dad?!! When?!! When?!!" His mother's reaction, still remembered with a chuckle, after the noise died off: "Me han dejado frita con ese ruido!" Semi-literal translation: "You've fried my nerves with the noise from that contraption!" Mother, ahem, has never been as interested in aircraft...except perhaps for the one that whisked us out of Cuba in 1960.

This vintage Cox "Cosmic Wind" racer was very much like "my" first flying model - except I distinctly recall the cockpit was not glazed, but red like the fuselage; image from www.bargaininbobs.com

Dad and I talked about the subject of our mutual interest, after he read the Rafael Lima article in Air & Space, and he shared his reminiscences about civil aviation in Cuba, as he recalled it. Being a far better story teller than his wannabe-flyer boy, the controls are turned over to him, as he skillfully takes over command of this blog flight-of-fancy.

"Sometime in the 1930s - definitely before World War II - I recall gliders were popular; once there was an event in which seven or eight aircraft-towed gliders flew into Havana. The flight originated in Florida. The gliders came in on a southerly approach, gliding towards the National Capitol; they landed successfully at the Paseo del Prado (Prado Promenade) in front of the National Capitol; the Paseo runs on a North-South axis. This was quite a show and all gliders landed without incident."

Prado Promenade, late 20s-early 30s postcard - from Hilda's Cuban Postcard Museum - www.cubalabella.net

Father's narration of incredible recollections continues. "In the 1930s too, after my older brothers Dario and Manuel - "Manolo" (did you remember the volleyball players?) bought a small, used 'jalopy,' the three of us started attending the amateur flying events featured at Campo Columbia, Columbia Military Airfield. By the way, at that time the airfield was known as "Campo Curtiss" - "Curtiss Field" - in honor of the famous American aviator, Glen Curtiss.

Cuban pilots in small aircraft - I remember these were mostly biplanes - would take off, do aerobatics, land, take off, land again, on and on during the day. I believe, if my memory is accurate, there was one flier - Solorzano, that was his surname, but better known by his nickname, 'Potaje' or 'Stew,' who also flew commercial or passenger planes and also raced automobiles."

Allow me to briefly take the controls, Dad. Speaking of aerobatics, ever heard of the Cuban Eight maneuver? The blog-pilots will encourage you to fly maneuvers to this coordinate and you can train to do the Cuban Eight there, if so inclined - http://www.scaahof.org/HoF%20Pages/Povey%20Len.htm - just copy and paste to your Open Location file on your browser and you'll make a fine landing at the South Carolina Aviation Hall of Fame site. You will quickly find the Cuba connection. Len Povey is the daring airman you are seeking.

OK - turning over the control column of this blogcraft to the expert pilot again.

"Have to tell you about my brothers' jalopy, the one which made it possible - when it ran - for us to attend this exciting event. It was a small Citroen, an open car, which would hold only three, the driver and two passengers. The rear end was boat or wedge shaped; this led neighborhood kids to nickname it 'Culo de Pollo,' 'Chicken Butt.' As Dario or Manolo drove it through the neighborhood, youngsters would run after it, yelling 'Hey, Chicken Butt!,' or 'There goes Chicken Butt!'

The car had constant magneto trouble - back then, the magneto was the equivalent of the later generator, or today's auto alternator. So, off they would go to a junkyard in the Luyano neighborhood in Havana, one owned by a mulatto nicknamed 'Pescado Azul,' or 'Bluefish.' Manuel and Dario would then scout and hunt through the derelicts until they found a suitable, working magneto for the suffering Citroen.

They owned 'Chicken Butt' in the days of the Machado dictatorship, in the early 30s. At that time in Havana, because of the prevailing unrest, police and army patrols would frequently stop motorists and search their vehicles. 'Chicken Butt' had storage compartments built into the body, on each side, for tools and small items. Dario and Manolo, being natural pranksters, decided to smear the insides of these compartments, as well as the tools in them, with heavy automotive grease; as they put it 'If somebody wants to bother us with one of these searches, they're gonna have greasy hands and sleeves for their trouble.' I don't recall 'Chicken Butt' was ever searched, though."

Back in control again - and thank you, Dad, for sharing these bits of aviation lore and family folklore with us! Makes the blog-flight-of-fancy more interesting, no? By the way, regarding the possibility 'Chicken Butt' could have been searched by the authorities, maybe it was just as well said threat never materialized; I don't know how humorous it would have been to face a grease-stained, angry uniformed type carrying a Springfield rifle with fixed bayonet...

Have we deviated from course too much? Well, take it as a sightseeing trip. The fun is in not following a straight line between two points. Hopefully, you get the point. Here is one reconmmendation: If you wish to explore the subject of Cuban civil aviation further, see some interesting photographs and learn some interesting facts about that aspect of Cuban history, a history which must not be forgotten, strongly recommend you find the August 2007 issue of the Smithsonian's Air & Space magazine. Better yet, order it from Air & Space headquarters - you'll be supporting a wonderful museum and its great staff. Cyber-fly yourself here-

Air & Space

Then, just for fun, and if you are so inclined, pick up the November issue...and turn to page 6. And speaking of fun, whether or not Cuban aviation history interests you, if you visit Washington DC, assuming of course you are "into" flying craft and the history of flight, do not fail to visit the National Air and Space Museum's Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center.

If you do, as this virtual-reality flier did in October 2004, you'll see deadly, yet beautiful machines such as this P-40...always a favorite. Perhaps you've seen John Wayne in The Flying Tigers?

Well, sometimes one has a chance to emulate John Wayne in The Flying Tigers, from the safety of a comfortable chair, in front of a computer monitor; no worry a Zero is sneaking up behind you, so that you only find out when the windscreen is shattering, the instrument panel is exploding in your face, and the unmistakable clouds of ethylene glycol coolant fill your cockpit...

(Screen shot from Strategic Simulations' Pacific Fighters WWII air combat simulator)

It is time to get back on course, lest we run out of gas and fail to find a suitable landing place for our blogcraft; no nice hard-packed sand beaches at hand. Even if a good spot to touch down were to be found, the landing would not be as skillful as Mr. Santamaria's in his Cuban Cub. Now we come to the conundrum, almost 60 years later. Much of the inspiration leading to this post was the hope that, with the incredible exposure the Web provides to the average shade-tree journalist, perhaps someone out there - relative, friend, acquaintance, fellow flier, anybody who might know, could finish this story. What became of Mr. Santamaria? What compelled him to land his pretty plane on the beach at Boca Ciega sometime in March 1949? Did he continue to enjoy many more years of cloud dodging, or was his passion cut short by castro and cohorts, as was the case with so many in the ranks of Cuba's private pilots? And what about J3 Piper Cub registration number CU N-124? Was the little ship lovingly piloted for many years afterwards? Or, as one sadly learns in reading Rafael Lima's article in Air & Space, did it wind up a derelict on some forlorn field somewhere in Cuba, a victim of both castroite lunacy and merciless entrophy, eventually scrapped? Or dare we hope perhaps this little Cuban Cub somehow found its way out of that sad fate, so that today, a carefully and lovingly restored little ship cruises in the clouds under Lady Liberty's blue skies?

And here is another mystery: Will Cuban men and women someday revive the tradition and joy of Cuban civil aviation, so that other Cesar Santamarias and Luis Palacios will once again unhindered take to the air in the free skies of a free Cuba, in their Cubs or whatever other flying craft they choose, privileged to make skillful three-point landings on the beautiful beaches of the Pearl Of The Antilles? It is not in question they WILL, the only question is WHEN...

In Memoriam

2007-09-03T14:50:00.001-04:00

Ms. Delia Carballo, of Havana, Cuba, since 1960 living in Miami, Florida passed away August 30, 2007. Her obituary notices were published in The Miami Herald and El Nuevo Herald, respectively, on August 31st, 2007.

With complete certainty, it is possible to state her name and her biographical information mean nothing to 99.9999% of Havana5060's frequent or infrequent visitors. But to her family, her many friends - among whom the Quirogas count themselves - and others whom she touched, she meant much. Thus was written this unplanned post, in order to honor and remember her.

She was one of many making up the generation around which a once-young blogger grew up and had the fortune to experience; a great generation of Cubans. The Greatest Generation of Cubans? No, cannot say that. I am neither qualified nor anointed to make such judgments or confer titles. Perhaps the Greatest Generation of Cubans was Marti's; the one which offered so many sacrifices, and gave so many lives to free Cuba. Some would say it is the generation which has been forced to endure the pain and madness afflicting Cuba since 1959. Who would argue against that? Well, one could - and fortunately we are free to argue. Still, the writer can at least state that, in his experience Ms. Carballo's generation, which includes his parents, even with all its inevitable human faults and follies, was a great one. And it is passing on too quickly now; therefore a brief pause to fondly, even lovingly, remember some who were part of it is proper. Delia would no doubt approve.

Her obituary states: "Delia's concern for others was evident in her opening her home to many in need until they could find means to be on their own." The Quirogas will vouch for the veracity of said statement. Perhaps it should even be called an understatement.

This was written to the online Guest Book in the Miami Herald obituaries' web page, and perhaps illustrates why this lady meant so much, not just to us, but to many others.

"September 3, 2007: We were one of those families Delia so generously helped in the early days of exile. In December 1960, having left Cuba for Miami the month before, Delia and her mother took us in, and we lived in her Westchester suburb home for about three months. There were four of us Quirogas, my parents, Nicanor and Teresa, 5-year old sister Marta and the writer, then a 10-year old, plus one on the way. We felt as if we were with family and indeed that is how it was. We will never forget this selfless gesture, which says much about Delia.

Mom and dad had been her friends at the Focsa building; many times we enjoyed the delights of her pastry and bakery shop, Ailette - not only were the goodies wonderful, but also they were always served with a smile.

Another Focsa neighbor and relation to the Mestre family said to us not long ago that "Abel Mestre considered Delia Carballo the best secretary in the world." She was obviously very talented and capable, applying her talents for the benefit of many, both in Cuba and in the United States.

We will keep Delia in our thoughts and prayers - she will never be forgotten; our condolences to the Carballo and other family members. Even though there is sadness now, let us be certain she has gone to her joyful and well-deserved reward.

God Bless all,
Albert Quiroga"

This was one smart, warm hearted, capable cubana, not necessarily in that order. What her former boss Abel Mestre said about her was high praise indeed; after all, he and his brother Goar were prime movers and shakers in the world of Cuban radio, television, and publicity, having also pushed forward the planning and building of the RadioCentro radio-TV complex in Havana, and having a hand in promoting the financing and building of the Focsa condominium project. The Mestres never suffered fools or incompetents gladly, and always sought out the best and most able in a particular field.

Abel Mestre is on the left, and his brother Goar on the right, in this 1956 CMQ-TV publicity photo; an award or recognition is being presented to Goar by radio personality Juan Amador Rodriguez.

And she was what we call today a "multitasker," a skill not present in the blogger's make up; perhaps it is a "guy" thing, or maybe to "claim" that is just an excuse. Not only did she perform her administrative and support duties well, but also ran a very successful business. A sweet business it was, literally...

Ailette-a classy, flowing name; a pastry and bakery, patronized by many of the Focsa dwellers, as well as by other sweet-tooth afflicted habaneros in surrounding neighborhoods. When you walked in, the wonderful smell of the place enveloped you and you knew then there was no way you'd leave empty-handed. And as the comment in the obituary Guest Book goes, "not only were the goodies wonderful, but also they were always served with a smile." Whether it was Delia or her assistant Esther taking care of you, the warm, genuine smile was part of the service.

And fortunately, a little piece of Ailette, in the form of the advertisement displayed, which Delia placed in the Focsa's own publication "Algo," in June 1958 survives as a small testament to her business savvy and palate-pleasing abilities.

All was not work for Delia in those days, though hard-working she always was; as was true for many of the Focsa homeowners and their families, there was time for recreation and socializing. Many tight bonds of friendship were forged in those truly social - as opposed to socialist - "socialism" being nothing more than a one-word oxymoron - days, and Delia was in there, happily mingling with her friends and acquaintances, of which she had many.

As seen here, in this nice photograph capturing a pleasant evening in the garden level at Focsa, during a dominoes tournament sponsored by the Homeowner's Association, December 8, 1958. Her partner in this particular round was the late Rosa Bustillo de Melendez, a lovely person; their friendly opponents, Mr. and Mrs. Orlando Martinez - their son Orlando Jr. and I "hung together" a bit - although Orlando Jr. was older; later, in Miami, we wound up together in junior college. Orlando Jr. got into law enforcement and at one time was police Chief for the municipality of South Miami; do not know if his parents are still living. No matter, these good people should be remembered. All of them. The Quirogas are grateful to have shared good times - even some bad ones, too - with them. Shared hardships often bond friendships.

Delia and Rosa must have had a good "hand" and beaten Mr. and Mrs. Martinez; for this next image shows them competing against Mr. Montero and the jovial, smiling Freddy Lancet. You should know more about all of them, a wonderful generation, now disappeared and disappearing except maybe for Freddy...pray he is well even as these words are written.

Rosa Bustillo de Melendez, married to our good friend Ignacio Melendez, who perhaps should be anointed "The Focsa Historian," as you will hopefully find out some day, was a beautiful, classy person, yet never one to "put on airs" or look down on others. Never do we remember a cross word or look coming from her; often smiling and sociable, she had a knack for putting people at ease, and laughter came easy to her. If there had been a "First Lady of Focsa," she would have won the title hands down. Tragically, she was one of the first, if not the first, in that congenial group to leave us. A malignancy insidiously sapped her joie de vivre; in an extremely rare show of humanity, the castroites even allowed her to return from exile, and end her days in her Focsa apartment. Father remembers "she arrived at Rancho Boyeros airport so weakened, they had to put her on a stretcher and take her home in an ambulance." It seems even the "fidelistas" recognized her essential goodness and, for once, showed some consideration for one of the despised "bourgeois class." Shows you what kind of person she was...we mourn her to this day. She died in 1961. Ignacio never remarried, and himself passed away just seven years ago.

Mr. Montero, Freddy Lancet's elder partner in this round, was the owner and founder of "Banco Hogar Propio." This more or less translates to "Homeowner's Bank." The enterprise was created for the purpose of providing aspiring homeowners with affordable loans, thus facilitating and promoting the growth of home ownership - and it was steadily growing - throughout Cuba. Needless to say, Banco Hogar Propio disappeared in the wave of confiscations following the passage of the infamous "Laws" 890-891 in October 1960. Mr. Montero went into exile, living and working as a free man in Miami until his passing, years ago. We remember him here.

The young, smiling Freddy Lancet's father was also an empresario, owning and managing a textile manufacturing firm, which produced stockings, socks, and similar products under the brand name "Once-Once," not as in "once upon a time," although that is unfortunately the case, but as in "Eleven-Eleven." Perhaps a reader or two may have worn "Once-Once" brand stockings or socks. We called them "medias, calcetines, o escarpines." Freddy and his family too eventually left Cuba, but we have heard nothing more from him. Hopefully, as this is written, he and his loved ones are doing well, wherever they may be.

The reminiscences associated with this pleasant evening gathering, almost fifty years ago come to us, once again, thanks to father, who joined his friends that evening to enjoy one of his favorite pastimes, with his game partner, Rafael Aguirre. Aguirre, an attorney in Cuba, is now peacefully retired, enjoying the Golden Years with spouse Olga in the Old Dominion State. We stay connected and hear from them frequently. As it happens his uncle, Agustin Aguirre was the first - unfortunately the only - president of the Focsa Homeowners' Association, which he ran smoothly and competently with nary a complaint from anyone. His uncle was Dean of the Law School at the University of Havana. Shortly after the castro clan seized power, he resigned because he refused to aid and abet the takeover of the University by the lawless usurpers. He died from a heart attack while delivering a classroom lecture at the University of Puerto Rico Law School in the early 60s. Perhaps it was a broken heart over what had happened to his beloved homeland? He is honored and remembered here also.

On dad's right, that would be your left, sat Mr. Walton, the manager of the La Torre Restaurant on top of the Focsa, at that time. A very nice dining venue it was, offering spectacular views of Havana to the diners. A then young boy had the fortune of being treated by his parents to an enjoyable dining experience at Club La Torre, one fondly remembered to this day. Of Mr. Walton we have no knowledge, except that as with all others who gathered to enjoy the dominoes competition that night, we do know eventually he took the road into exile.

Walton's partner, Mr. Ferrer, had been an officer in the Army of the Republic of Cuba - father seems to think he attained the rank of colonel. During the 1933 uprising against the dictator Machado, Ferrer and other soldiers fought pro-Machado forces during a battle and siege centered around the Hotel Nacional, the Focsa incidentally later being built only a few blocks away from the Nacional. Ferrer too ended his days in Florida because, clearly, he could not abide dictators. Requiescat in pace, miles.

December 8, 1958...as the participants in this congenial evening of dominoes played, no one would have thought that thirty days later, the pestilence from the Sierra Maestra would soil Havana after metastasizing through the other Cuban provinces. That would begin the process of social and economic destruction which very soon scattered these friends and neighbors - their families as well - forcing them into exile, in most cases forever.

The pestilence may have taken their material goods, but that is not important. We come into the world with nothing, and we leave it with nothing, as someone will find out when his day of reckoning comes...Delia Carballo, her friends and family, our friends and family who are no longer walking this vale of tears, and to whom the Quirogas lovingly dedicate this inadequate memorial, lost neither their souls nor their freedom to the devil from the hills. This is their victory. We miss them and mourn them, but know in our hearts they are Home, in peace and happiness, this great generation of Cubans. God bless and keep them in eternal joy and bliss!

Friends are the Brothers You Get to Choose

2007-08-31T22:10:00.000-04:00

Finally catching up - though not caught up as much as desired - after some well-deserved (is there any other kind?) R&R - Rest-And-Recreation, for you acronym-haters. Certainly, there is no expectation you are interested one iota in Old Blog Boy's mis-adventurous adventures, but as said exploits were made possible by one of his best buddies - if not THE best "compadre" ever - from those bygone growing-up-in-Havana days - thought it would be nice to do this post as a way of saying "gracias, mi querido amigo!" and at the same time take the opportunity to delve into more Havana-That-Was lore. And a Havana connection there was, since friend Mario and this now Old Kid started our brotherhood as playmates on the grounds of the Focsa building. Let's see...that would be almost half a century ago. And yet more meaningful connections: Although my dear amigo and the writer were not schoolmates in Cuba, we wound up attending the same school...except in a different time and space, in another plane or dimension if you want to look at it that way. More on that later. You'll have to check in with us and see; annoying, isn't it? Along the lines of "tune in next week for the next exciting episode!"

And the trip came with a bonus, as another excellent friend - another brother I got to choose in my travels and travails through life - joined us; like the writer, another Habanero, a school friend from Academia Baldor days, said friendship beginning in 4th grade and continuing, albeit with a brief interruption thrown in, strongly through the present day. The interruption, by the way, and perhaps you had already anticipated it, caused by evil types to whom love, friendship, and loyalty mean nothing. Be that as it may, nevertheless it takes much more than a dying, inarticulate has-been who has neither known love nor friendship, to keep friend-brothers apart.

Is it possible to have more than one Best Friend? I say "yes indeed!" After all, is it not possible to have more than one beloved brother? And here is a bonus: My Best Buddies bonded well on this adventure, and now my Best Buddies are Best Buddies to each other as well. How about that? Sometimes yours truly does something right.

The rendezvous was in Astoria, Oregon. From there, brother Mario - we shall use the terms brother and friend interchangeably in this post because to the blogger, they are essentially the same, brotherhood and friendship - ably captained his 22-foot StarCraft 400 miles upstream, on the Columbia, Willamette, and Snake rivers, in beautiful Oregon and Washington states. We, his motley crew, appreciated his skill and judgment, christening him "Cap'n," and deferring to him in all matters naval. Because after all, Cap'n Mario was a Navy guy at one time. He's got enough naval stories to do a blog about; maybe someday he will. He knows how to make said stories come alive and many a time ripped his companions' guts with his unique tales.

Now, Mario's connection to Havana came later in his childhood. He started life in the city of Cienfuegos, Cuba; political circumstances forced his family's relocation to Havana in September 1957, due to the turmoil in the aftermath of an uprising at the Cienfuegos naval base earlier that month. His father decided they would all be safer and better off in the capital. And wouldn't you know it, twists of fate like these can lead to beautiful and long-lasting friendships...at least something positive came out of the turmoil.

And in his, and his family's honor and for all you "Cienfuegueros" out there, permit me to dedicate this Beny More song to you...after all, my dear friend quite understandably still has a soft spot for the lovely city of his birth and of his early, carefree years. I have heard compatriots refer to this wonderful, stirring "guajira" - loosely translated, a country song, that's the genre - as the "National Anthem of Cienfuegos."

Cienfuegos - Beny More

As we did during our trip, let us take some time, meander off the beaten path, or the liquid path, as the case may be...and travel back in time with some Habaneros you may already know, who appreciated the enchantments of Cienfuegos - "Hundred Fires" - goodness, time flies!...almost six decades ago. This is for you too, Cap'n Mario, in honor and fond remembrance of your birthplace.

Well, the happy travelers did not get to Cienfuegos by boat, although they could have done so - after all the place is blessed with a nice bay. They were conveyed by dad's faithful '46 Plymouth, the first family car I dimly recall.

Of course, you have to take time to do the "touristy" thing - although I would classify the young couple as "travelers" not just "tourists." There is a difference. Travelers getting acquainted with their beautiful country. The ornate building? The Casa Velasco, a landmark well-known to our "Cienfuegero" compatriots.

Tell you what, my brother-friend Mario had already been treated to these images; his reply after receiving them, not quite a year ago, says it best...and most accurately-after all, he is the "Cienfuegero" here:

"Hey, Quiroga!

Thanks for the photos re:cienfuegos. Since gmail has been rather slow of lately, I have not been able to open the views larger, but from what I can see it sure all looks rather grand. By the way, your mom IS standing in front of Casa Velasco, with the bowler hat dome, but your dad seems to be in front of el yacht club de cienfuegos...I see you dad has class!! (much Garriga history in that building!!)"

Yes, mi amigo - much history...much to share - the good, the bad, the ugly. Thank God, the good outweighs everything else. For the good people in this world, goodness wins out in the end, regardless where our travels, planned or otherwise, take us.

We must not leave Cienfuegos without taking in a view of the bay...after all, you must have figured water plays a part in setting the theme for this post - travel by water, discovering or rediscovering old and new places, reconnecting and renewing friendships, recalling beautiful times and places never to be forgotten.

Father fondly recalls capturing this image with his hard-working Kodak 35mm, from the balcony of their hotel room that December, soon to be sixty years ago. Seems like yesterday in many ways. They were fortunate they saw Cienfuegos, and many other places in Cuba. Perhaps someday Mario, you, Nelson, I, our families, maybe even mom and dad may pose for the camera in front of Casa Velasco and sail out of the bay - as your dad taught you. We all know before that happens, certain evil winds must cease blowing their poison through the Beautiful Island, forever.

Back to the reality of the river. The river or rivers of travel, as well as the river of life. And, must say, life was good on the river, or the three ones on which we journeyed. To see the beauty in nature and its workings, as we worked our way upstream, and throroughly enjoy our time and adventure together was something priceless. And, speaking am sure for all participants, more than once this thought worked its way into the Old Kid's mind: "We are so fortunate to be here doing this, free to do so of our own choosing, at liberty to decide the time, the place, and with whom to share the experience; so many others have so little choice, if any." A measure of guilt indeed creeps in and stays there, a small voice nagging you.

And more than once, contemplating the churning, wavy waters of the Columbia, waters that once almost caused the boat to tip over, and another time made the bow plow into the river with enough force to cause Cap'n to yell, "get on your life jackets!," this river rat could not help but think of the men, women, and children who brave the Straits of Florida, many never to be seen again, for the sake of that priceless concept we call "freedom." Perhaps we might all gain some understanding and empathy if we took on journeys spiced with enough danger to engender appreciation and respect for those who will disregard any and all perils to be free. Freedom ain't free.

We must move on. Here's the stout and sturdy little craft which took us upstream on the Three Rivers - in case you've forgotten, the Columbia, Willamette, and Snake.

For the boaters who might perchance be reading this, the sweet vessel is a 22-foot StarCraft, fitted with a 200 hp Mercury outboard. Very reliable, boat and engine; it is equipped for fishing, although the Cap'n says "she'll never be a fishing boat - she's for cruisin'!" For good measure, he lined all the bait wells in thermal foam - you would be amazed to see how many pounds, quarts, indeed gallons of "vittles" she can haul - and how long the ice lasts, keeping brew and bread nice and cool. No complaints, Cap'n! Ah, in case you care to know where she was moored at the time the photo was snapped, it was at the port of Arlington, Oregon. Yes Virginia, there is an Arlington in Oregon.

As the "swabbies" - nickname for sailors, just in case you're scratching your head and wondering - headed off, the Old Kid, fancying himself some kind of amateur photo journalist, could not help the temptation to engage in a bit of playful photography.

Nelson on your left, Mario on your right, and never mind the jester in the middle. By the way, "the jester" was the only "civvie" on the boat - Nelson did his duty in the Marine Corps, Mario in the Navy. However, rest assured that in all matters naval the Old Kid always deferred to the Navy and the Marines. After all, he did not wish to walk the plank before the voyage ended.

Not all things that float are boats, and some folks prefer other means of transportation, for example, the unknown owners of these vintage J-3 Cub float planes on the Willamette near Portland, Oregon. Fly and float, float and fly - that's the ticket. And perhaps you'll be able to avoid those pesky airline delays plaguing travelers these days.

Speaking of alternate modes of transportation, creative traveling, sightseeing and all of that enjoyable activity, you might be interested to know adventurous Cuban aviators sometimes would take their planes on a beach outing...don't believe it?

Well, Doubting Thomases, here is an unusual graphic preserving a bit of Cuban aviation lore. Sometime in 1948, the pilot of this Piper J-3 Cub made a perfect landing on the sands of Boca Ciega Beach, east of Havana. Uncle-by-marriage - he was married to maternal aunt Josephine, the lady in the slide image, to your left - Prego, with his precise Leica, preserved the moment for us. Mom and dad surely by now you recognize - get a load of their fashionable beach outfits; they were practical and in the style of the times, of course.

To this day, father seems to think "there was a problem with the airplane's propeller," explaining the presence of the plane in this unusual setting. However, by coincidence, recently read an article in the Smithsonian's Air & Space magazine, the August 2007 issue, to be exact. In a very interesting article by author Rafael Lima, titled "The Country Where Nobody Flies," whose subject is the world of now-extinguished Cuban private aviation, he quotes Luis Palacios, now 67, who himself soloed in a Piper J-3 at age 19: "You could take off from one town, fly along the coast, and see a beach and land on it. Many pilots used to land on hard-packed sand beaches, have lunch or a swim, and get back in the plane and take off."

Was that the reason the daring aviator flying J-3 Cub registration number CU N124 landed at Boca Ciega Beach that beautiful day? Perhaps if he - or she?? - is still around and reads this, the mystery will be definitively solved, assuming said aviator wishes to share the tale with us. Still, a heckuva fun way to get to the beach, I say! Sadly, those free, carefree days are over - if a pilot today were to even think of landing his craft on a beach, anywhere one can think of...the authorities would quickly clip his or her wings.

Well, the River Travelers cannot soar like the eagles, or even like a J-3 Cub - but our trusty hull nevertheless gets us to our destination. We may not be able to land on a beach, but we can certainly beach our boat on one.

One of the most impressive features to be found on the Three Rivers were the systems of dams and locks, most built in the 1930s, mainly for the purpose of taming the wild Columbia and improving navigation through this important waterway.

Here is a "boat's eye" view of the Bonneville Dam lock on the Columbia, very near the Oregon town bearing a name inspired no doubt by aforesaid locks - colorful Cascade Locks.

The capable Cap'n always ensured the lockmasters would be ready for us upon arrival, allowing the craft and crew safe passage through the lock system. The engineering and design skills required to build these structures and keep them functioning properly and smoothly are nothing short of amazing.

At Cascade Locks, where we spent one night in more comfortable circumstances, that is, not sleeping on the boat, we took in and appreciated some of the local color.

Such as these hydrangeas, sitting pretty near the river; one of many beautiful sights enjoyed during our fluvial travels.

We also enjoyed some of the local amenities, the Best Western in particular, where we lodged for the night; roughing it a la Lewis and Clark it was not, but no doubt their daring exploratory party would have enjoyed such a restful, restoring opportunity.

And where the opportunity to replenish some vital supplies was taken. Hardware and liquor? An interesting mix - recommend you keep your tools, tool-intensive tasks, and spirits separate...in other words, not a good idea to hammer away if you are tipsy. But Cubans gotta have their rum ration, mate.

Mention was made earlier about a somewhat hair-raising experience on the Columbia. In Lewis and Clark days, the river was wilder, narrower, much more tumultuous than it is now. It has been somewhat tamed by the lock-and-dam system but must still be respected; failure to do so can come back and bite you. Near Hood River, in Oregon, the Columbia almost got the better of us.

Not long after this view of a tumultuous, roiling river was captured by the amateur journalist-cameraman, a wave caught the boat on the port side; the hardy vessel rolled about 45 degrees, but felt like a heart-stopping 90; that was when the able Cap'n yelled, "Get on lifejackets!" Yes, feel free to criticize - we should have been wearing them at that point. But the boat handling skills of Cap'n Mario saved the day. That Navy service came in handy...well, let me add it was a good thing his naval skills were not FULLY tested, since Mario specialized in rescue operations during his service. No doubt the last thing he wanted to do was fish out floating Cubans on the Columbia!

Another time the boat's bow plowed into the greyish water, as if the little craft had decided to metamorphose into a submersible - but the stout bow popped right out of the waves and all was well. The most amazing thing was, throughout the trip and despite the rockin', rollin', and shakin' goin' on, no one became seasick. Perhaps we're not such landlubbers after all.

Eventually, our upstream travel took us into the Snake River, and we said our goodbyes to the Columbia. We learned to respect the "mighty Columbia," as the cliche goes, and understood better the daring exploits of the Lewis and Clark party, making their way in primitive conditions, through hitherto unexplored areas, when these rivers were truly untamed and far less forgiving.

More beautiful sights were to be had in Washington state, as we proceeded on the Snake, in the Kennewick-Richland area, the waters now calmer, allowing the crew to take in the natural beauty surrounding us, such as this painted-in-pixels view at dusk.

All good things must come to an end, it is said. Hopefully so do bad things. Our good trip, the Travels of the River Brothers, came to an end in Burbank, Washington after we went through Ice Harbor dam and lock, and we moored our faithful craft to the dock in Charbonneau Park. The Cap'n and his life mate have the pleasure to daily gaze at the park's greenery and the flowing Snake from the vantage of their cozy home.

Ah, yes. We did make one more OBLIGATORY stop before heading back to the Sunshine State, obligatory in our collective opinion, given the wonderful vineyards gracing this quarter of our adoptive country.

The Connoisseur Cap'n, who tends to go ballistic when he can only find California wines on the menu when dining in his current home state, capped off the trip with a stop at the Three Rivers Winery of Walla Walla. There, the gracious staff allowed us to taste their good product, and good it was so we made OBLIGATORY purchases, with no regrets.

What better way to celebrate this friendship, this rite of passage, this Brotherhood Of The River than with the earthy convivial taste of the vine? Speaking for myself, a bottle has been reserved to celebrate - mutedly and quietly, but with inner joy - another rite of passage...one that will hopefully not be long in coming, one that, for the people of Cuba, will mark if not the end, at least the beginning of the end of their nightmare.

That's a bunch of Crockett!

2007-07-04T07:55:00.003-04:00

On this Fourth of July, as we ponder the sacrifices which made possible the independence of our adoptive land, the mind conjures up iconic images which are associated with the Great American Experiment from those heady days in 1776 and forward to our times.

I recall one of my childhood heroes, and a hero he was to many a Cuban kid, although it was in the good ol' USA that he made his greatest mark. Davy Crockett is who this old kid is talkin' about.

Did you know there was a Cuban Crockett?? Really, I KID you not - pun intended...he came to help the mambises - that's the Cuban rebels against Spain - in their quest for Cuba's independence.

OK, OK - not meaning to be irreverent or flippant about Cuba's independence issues. Yes, am kiddin' you, but you are smart enough to figure it out for yourself. You simply are gazing at the image of a lil' Davy Crockett fan at Isabela de Sagua, Cuba in early 1956. It must be said the outfit is not, strictly speaking, historically accurate.

The wife did comment on the sourpuss look of the wannabe Davy, but memory fails to explain what caused said countenance to be forever frozen in time. Perhaps there was a reluctance to pose for the photographer, but Davy couldn't deny the pleasure to his father; perhaps it was the thought of cousin Fernando pulling the tail off the coonskin cap, although that happened later, I believe. Reminder: You owe me a brand, spankin' new coonskin cap, Fernandito! Davy never forgets...

Speaking of never forgetting, the Cuban Crockett's birthday cake later that year featured a little diorama made up of plastic backwoodsmen, Indian warriors and, of course! The great Davy himself...taking aim with his musket, Old Betsy, from a crouching position, bringing down an Indian and his steed. "Davy Crockett aimed well," commented his observant dad, "and brought down the warrior." And those little plastic Indian warriors and Indian fighters fought in many a heroic encounter in the wilderness of the Cuban Crockett's room. And, of course! Davy and his faithful band always came out of the fray victorious.

Brief pause for a Davy Crockett trivia tidbit - kind of a sad one, really - especially for those fond of sporting coonskin headgear - a backwoods way to help Old Kids cover up bald spots - from the South Florida Sun-Sentinel -

Gives special meaning to sporting a cooonskin cap on the top of your dome, doesn't it? So if perchance you've managed to hold on to your Jack Werber-made headgear through this year - and the many others beforehand - dust it off, wear it with pride and honor the gentleman. Godspeed, Mr. Werber!

OK, Crockett fans - apologize for gettin' you off the trail; not that it was a bad thing to do. Sometimes, we must get off the often-beaten path as we might learn something. Now, let's get back on the trail, treading lightly and quietly in our moccassins.

Therefore, given said lack of accuracy as evidenced in the image of the young Cuban Crockett , perhaps even irreverence, with a bit of "WH" (Warped Humor) thrown in, it is hoped Mr. Fess Parker, who ably played Davy Crockett in the Disney TV series as well as in the wonderful movies the little fan saw with his dad at a Havana theater - don't ask me which one, but it might have been the Rex - will not sue for Defamation of Character.

Forgive the Old Cuban Crockett, but time for another brief moment of sidetracking off the trail:

Speaking of the fondly-remembered Rex, there are no images available, regretfully. Like most cinemas in Havana, it boasted a 35 mm projection screen and catered mostly to the younger set, showing cartoons, adventure movies, westerns, a lot of Disney stuff. Like most movie theaters in Havana, it was shut down a long time ago. Its location, found by delving through www.guije.com, was "REX Pasaje y Cinco, Buenavista 568," Havana.

(www.tvparty.com)

Back on the trail, you Crockett trailblazers!

Nah, I don't think Mr. Parker will - sue, that is - he's a gentleman, and quite busy running his

Fess Parker Winery.

Now that's a place a Crockett Fan must find his way to, one way or the other, even if it means trekkin through the mountains of Tennessee...and the Rockies too, for that matter.

Oh, yep - before I forget: "King of the Wild Frontier," and "Davy Crockett and the River Pirates" - these are the movies, in case you care to track them down and enjoy a Crockett Experience, a la 1950's.

Returning to one of the Davy Crockett flicks, the Old Kid recalls with pleasure how hero Davy outwitted that scoundrel Mike Fink...in one scene, he and Fink get into some kind of challenge involving catching a fired musket ball - DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!! - in the mouth, after bouncing it off several targets, firing the gun backwards, using mirrors and other props. Davy cleverly hides a ball in his mouth, fires, the lead missile flies all over the place, and then Davy grins and spits out the ball as Fink's eyeballs pop out. Pretty clever, thought the little kid back then.

Davy faces off against the dastardly Mike Fink, played by Jeff York, in this scene from "Davy Crockett and the River Pirates," 1956 - from www.ultimatedisney.com

Remember the Ballad of Davy Crockett? This is the Tennessee Ernie Ford version; a catchy tune still fondly remembered 50+ years down the trail.

Born on a mountain in Tennessee
Greenest state in the land of the free
Raised in the woods so's he knew every tree
He killed him a b'ar when he was only three

Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier

Fought single-handed thru the Injun war
'Till the Creeks was whipped and the peace was in store
And while he was a'handlin' this risky chore
Made hisself a legend forever more

Davy, Davy Crockett, the man who don't know fear

When he lost his love, his grief was gall
In his heart, he wanted to leave it all
And lose hisself in the forest tall
But he answered, instead, his country's call

Davy, Davy Crockett, the choice of the whole frontier

He went off to Congress and served a spell
Fixin' up the government and laws as well
Took over Washington, so I hear tell
And patched up a crack in the Liberty Bell

Davy, Davy Crockett, seein' his duty clear

When he came home, his politickin' done
Why, the big western march had just begun
So he packed his gear and his trusty gun
And lit out a'grinnin' to follow the sun

Davy, Davy Crockett, leadin' the pioneer

His land is the biggest, his land is the best
From grassy plaines to the mountain crest
He's ahead of us all and meetin' the test
And a'follern' his legend right into the west

Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier
Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier
(wwww.lyricsdownload.com)

Maybe you'd just as soon listen to the Disney version - it may bring back pleasant memories of an afternoon watching the adventures of Davy Crockett at the Rex or perhaps some other venue fondly remembered...

The Ballad of Davy Crockett - Walt Disney Version 1955

Ah, first, Crockett-like, you must be led through the wilderness of modern-day media, if you are to listen to the catchy tune, in any case. When prompted, open the file with Windows Media Player - Quicktime claims not to recognize the ballad as a "movie file" - an anti-Davy bias, perhaps? You may receive an error message from Windows Media player in a pop-up; "it" will ask if you want Media Player to..."play this content;" click the "Yes" button - it should work. Davy could reload and fire "Old Betsy" quicker 'n we can blaze our trail through this procedure! Perhaps you will not have to go through any of this, but if you do, as Mr. Parker, in his Davy Crockett role would have put it, "Be sure you're right, then go ahead"

Now a substantially older kid evokes and conjures up the past, his daughter patiently taking the place of his father in the composing and capturing of the graphic - and GRAPHIC is the term to use...

No, not this one! Fooled ya, pardner! This is Mr. Parker portraying Davy, with his faithful "Old Betsy" - sourced from www.tvacres.com

THIS one...

Some things don't change after 51 years! Still historically inaccurate, except for the weapon, a nice rifled-musket my late father in law crafted a few years ago. It is a sweet gun. This thought entered the blogger's warped mind: Suppose it was possible to pay a visit in this very garb, with this very equipment, to a certain stinkin' skunk who these days wears track suits instead of being outfitted in olive drab, said skunk cowering somewhere in a Havana hospital - or possibly veterinary clinic? Then Old Kid Wannabe Davy might show him how to catch a .45 caliber lead bullet in its mouth...at short range. But then, it might not even be necessary to go that far. It just might get frightened to death upon beholding Old Kid Davy.

Well, time to close this one, which will be the only posting in July. No doubt, you are greatly relieved at the news. The blogger has his reasons for cutting back a little bit - not that he does a great bit anyway. Time for a little adventure, a little relaxation with some ol' buddies, a couple of the friendships dating to carefree growing-up days in Havana. Inspired by Davy Crockett, and the newish concept of "man-camping," going off to

The Mariowether Lewis And Clark Adventure

on the - pardon the cliche - mighty Columbia. Given the setting, it is doubtful we'll run into Mike Fink or other river pirates; perhaps we'll run into some fine Fess Parker Wines. That would be a mighty fine thing - and offer a toast for Davy, Lewis and Clark, friends who are brothers, and to everything that matters in life, endures, and transcends time.

PS - should you decide to venture into the link, be warned, the following is to be found therein: Politically Incorrect and Other Forms of Warped Humor; Unintelligible Inside Jokes; Extremely Bad Puns; Stereotyping; and an overall sense of Monty-Python-ness, with the spirit of Three Stooges thrown in for good measure. You've been warned. On the upside, it may confirm your suspicions the Old Kid is borderline insane, and perhaps even a figment of his own imagination. Then too, the wife and daughter will be gettin' a sorely-needed breather...

And speaking of breathing, perhaps by the time the Old Kid resumes bloggin', a certain stinkin' skunk will itself have stopped breathing...would it be appropriate to toast with some fine Parker Winery libation then?

Gallegos

2007-06-28T09:25:00.000-04:00

Gallegos - Spanish for those born in the region of Galicia, Spain, and also applied to those with Gallego or Galician - the English equivalent - ancestry. This post was inspired by a tragic event a few months ago. A fellow blogger, La Ventanita, author of the Wall Street Cafe blog, to which Havana5060 proudly links, unexpectedly lost her father. Messages of condolence and sympathy were sent, and some emails exchanged; in one of these exchanges La Ventanita provided her father's surname, which was clearly of Gallego origin. Since the greater part of this blogger's family, on both maternal and paternal side, hails from green Galicia, this son of Gallegos decided authoring a post on Gallegos and their strong connection to Cuba might be a nice way of honoring the gentleman, my family, on both maternal and paternal side, and the hardy, hard-working sons and daughters of Galicia at home, in Cuba, and indeed in the many corners of the world to which Gallegos have emigrated, by the thousands.

Let us allow our friend, La Ventanita, to introduce the gentleman who inspired this post, the words taken from her own, moving entry in her blog, October 12, 2006.

"Papi was an immigrant all his life. Born in Lugo, Galicia Spain he migrated as a child to Cuba where teased by his classmates he quickly dropped his Spanish accent for the Cuban accent. He worked hard all his life. At the age of 14 he worked side by side with his father, while going to school as well. He barely got 3-5 hours of sleep. At the age of 21, he had achieved his dream - to own his own business: a restaurant bar named Wall Street.

In the 60's he left Cuba as soon as he could and moved back to Spain, where he met my mother who was also fleeing Cuba. They settled in Puerto Rico, where he worked for a while as a salesman for Kimberly Clarke. But Papi was a hard worker, and he liked to own his business. So once he had enough capital, he and three other Spaniards he had befriended in the island, created a partnership of four Panaderias. Papi loved us all very much - but his Panaderia was the love of his life. The picture above was the opening day of said partnership, and that is how I want everyone to remember my father."

We exchanged emails. In one of them, she wrote: “His full name was Jesus María Boveda Carvallo originally from Lugo, Galicia.” In other emails she revealed his "panaderias" - combination bakeries and grocery stores, in Puerto Rico, were called "El Mino." By the way, tilde over the n...pronounce it "Min-yo." The Mino - or Min-yo, as you please, is a river in the province of Galicia. The bakeries, aptly named, obviously reflected his pride in his ancestry.

Of course, there is also a Havana connection since Mr. Boveda Carvallo's Wall Street Cafe was one of the many bar-restaurants gracing the city, to be found at Aguiar 370. My father remembered the place well, and he speculated the name "Wall Street Cafe" was probably inspired by its location near Havana's financial and stock exchange district. Yes folks, there was a stock exchange in Havana - notwithstanding attempts by certain "rob-o-lutionary" robber-barons' insistence in painting the town as the capital of some Third World joint.

Now, there is no claim to certainty this is the original Wall Street Cafe. The exact location of these photographs is as of this date undetermined. However, let's just say a friend we shall refer to as our Anonymous Havana Correspondent took these photographs on a trip there not long after Mr. Boveda Carballo's unfortunate demise. Our friend had been asked beforehand to try and find the old Wall Street Cafe. If this is the right place, it sports a new name - "El Gallo," "The Rooster," and is under new...mis-management, as witnessed by the peeling paint and overall aspect of decay.

Dad, blessed with his prodigious memory, had previously said on one of his trips down Memory Lane, that the original Cafe was located around Aguiar and Obrapia streets. The Anonymous Correspondent did confirm the place pictured was near Obrapia. Perhaps we hit paydirt after all. One cannot help notice how the "rob-o-lutionary mis-management" ensured the name was changed so as to erase all trace and memory of a place whose name was inspired by a once-vibrant and relatively free economy.

There are interesting, yet not entirely unexpected, connections between Boveda Carvallos, Quirogas - my father's side, and Granjas - my mother's side. For starters, grandfather Quiroga also hailed from the province of Lugo in Galicia - from a town called Monforte de Lemos. Maternal grandfather, Manuel Granja Castro - hopefully no relation to ay member of the kastro klan kabal - also hailed from Lugo province; paternal grandmother Pastora Enriquez Alonso was another "gallega," from the tiny village of Caldelas de Tuy in Pontevedra province, this being dad's birthplace as well. The one exception to the Galician Connection was my maternal grandmother Maria Fernandez Aja, who was from the town of Ribas, Santander region, now referred to as the province of Cantabria. Nevertheless, she was not born that far from Galicia. Close enough to meet grandfather Granja Castro, at least.

As was the case with Mr. Boveda Carvallo, these gallegos, gallegas, and cantabrians wound up in Cuba, seeking opportunities for a better life. For this, we must thank the first President of the Republic of Cuba, Don Tomas Estrada Palma. There is a reference to the large-scale immigration from Spain to Cuba after the establishment of the Republic, as quoted in "Cuba - The Pursuit of Freedom," by author Hugh Thomas, found in Chapter XXXIX, page 471: "Spanish immigration began on a lavish scale, a bizarre consequence of the severance of Cuba's last formal ties with the homeland." We further learn, in Chapter XLI, page 497 - where Thomas discusses the increase in Cuba's population following the War for Independence from Spain, that "Economic recovery from the war and improved medicine and health were partly responsible but immigration from Spain was almost as important (blogger's emphasis): between 1902 and 1910 almost 200,000 Spaniards, mostly Gallegos or Asturians, emigrated to Cuba, attracted by opportunities for high wages."

There was a reason for this, and this takes us to the Estrada Palma connection, thoroughly explained by my father not too long ago. "My father, your grandfather Dario, took advantage of legislation promoted by President Estrada Palma, allowing Spaniards who were in Cuba and were willing to swear loyalty to the new Republic the opportunity to become Cuban citizens. In fact, President Estrada Palma opened the doors to immigration from Spain. He believed Spaniards were sons and daughters of Cuba, and we were as family, regardless of the conflict in which Cubans and Spaniards had engaged in not so long before his Presidency. So, your grandfather as well as many others, took advantage of this generosity and stayed in Cuba, becoming citizens of the Republic."

To which I can only add: Gracias, Don Tomas!

Unfortunately, some who took advantage of Don Tomas' generosity were the kind who did not care for Cuba, who wanted to use Cuba as a springboard for their own personal gain, and who deep down cared little for the Island Pearl and its people...such as a certain angel castro, inappropriately named, hailing from a small village in Galicia, Biran; who had found himself in Cuba as a Spanish army conscript. Regretfully, no stray bullet from an American Krag-Jorgensen found its mark into his fateful body, which was later to father a certainly satanic spawn, whom he named fidel castro...

You may wonder how grandfather Dario wound up in Cuba. His son had also previously told that story, discussed in an earlier post. "Your grandfather and his brothers Nicanor and Alvaro left Spain for Cuba hoping to avoid military service. They did not look forward to fighting Cuban rebels or any other foes. Nevertheless, shortly after they arrived in Cuba, sometime in 1897, they were inducted into the Spanish army. Because your grandfather had flat feet, and considered unable to do heavy marching, was posted to an artillery battery in La Cabana Fortress. His brothers Alvaro and Nicanor did go into the infantry, and saw some action when a troop train they were being transported in was derailed by the Cuban rebels, the mambises."

Grandfather was stationed here. This particular wall of the Cabana bastion is referred to as "Foso de Los Laureles," or Linden-tree Pit - the scene of many an execution of Cuban mambises by the Spanish. The same sad tale would be repeated inside its walls about 57 years after this image was created.

Fortunately, all came out of the experience unscathed. And then in 1902, following President Estrada Palma's generous decree, they all became citizens of the new Republic.

A brief pause to show you where most of our cast of characters hailed from, Lugo Province, Galicia, Spain. If you look carefully, you might find a small town to which my father's side has a strong ancestral connection...and I do not mean Monforte de Lemos, grandfather Quiroga's birthplace.

(www.rollingrains.com)

Well, lets see...how did these "gallegos" and "gallegas" make it to Cuba? What were the circumstances which, in at least this one family's case, intertwine their lives with, and become part of, the lives of the other inhabitants of the Pearl of The Antilles? Father's Prodigious Memory Bank to the rescue again! You can bank on it.

A grammatical aside: You'll notice throughout the rest of this post, descriptive names relating to nationality or ethnic origin, when the Spanish versions are used, will not be capitalized. This follows the usual grammar and punctuation conventions for Spanish. It does not mean one is diminishing the importance of a word or term.

Let him tell the story. He can do it far better than the son. At least the son can take good notes. No, thank you - do not aspire to be a journalist. Specially for the New York Times...being that we seek both news and truth here, backed by FACTS.

"After the war ended - the Spanish-American War - your grandfather Dario stayed in Cuba with brothers Alvaro, Nicanor, Alberto, and Constantino. Another brother, Antonio, had decided to emigrate to Argentina and made his life there. My father and my uncles went into business, setting up a small shop, a "baratillo," at the Manzana de Gomez commercial center. A "baratillo" could be described as a small dry-goods store, where they sold cheap household items, trinkets, and things like that.

As far as I know, the business was doing fine until 1907. That year, there was a fire at Manzana de Gomez, and the entire block burned. Your grandfather Dario and his brothers lost their shop - it was totally destroyed. These were the days before it was customary to carry insurance, so they lost everything."

Manzana de Gomez, 1899-1903 - by way of Pedro Pablo Peralta - his mother, Elvira Quiroga, was my father's aunt, one of the players in this story. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to meet her.

"My father had to return to Spain, to Monforte. Uncles Alberto and Constantino decided to find opportunity in the United States and went to New Orleans, together with their brother Alvaro. My other uncle, Nicanor, stayed in Cuba. Once in Spain, my father earned a living as an itinerant salesman, selling jewelry. This is how he met my mother; stopping during one of his travels at the village of Caldelas de Tuy in Pontevedra province, he stayed at the Hotel Enriquez, owned by my mother's family.

Mom worked with her family at the hotel. So, they met, courted, and then married in May 1910."

And, to use a historically-recognized cliche, "the rest is history."

Father at the ruins of the Hotel Enriquez, Caldelas de Tuy, Pontevedra, Spain - July 1976

Nicanor's narrative continues; that is, my dad Nicanor, not his uncle Nicanor, who unfortunately passed away in Havana March 1939, so regretfully our paths never crossed. "Eventually, things started going better with my father, and he returned to Cuba in 1922 to help his brothers Alberto and Constantino, who were in business importing eggs from New Orleans by way of their brother Alvaro's wholesale egg company Alvaro had founded in New Orleans."

Little, littler and littlest Quirogas at Caldelas de Tuy, the year before emigrating to Cuba - left to right: Dario Jr., Lola, Dad, Berta, and Manolo

"My father decided it was time for the rest of the family to join him, so he purchased steamship tickets for us and instructed mother to prepare for travel to Havana. Near the end of February 1923 our mother traveled with us to the port of Vigo from Caldelas, and from there we sailed to Havana February 28th, arriving at the port of Havana the 13th of March. The ship was the "Orcoma," belonging to the British Pacific Steam Navigation Company. Two recollections of the trip come to mind; these are thanks to your grandmother Pastora, who related them to me when I was older and could remember these better.

(www.huh.harvard.edu)

She said the steamship company's initials, PSNC, stood for 'Peor Servicio No Conozco,' that is, 'Worse service I am not acquainted with,' and 'Puercos Son Nuestros Cocineros,' translating to 'Our cooks are pigs.' Then there was the mystery of the disappearing cookies. Mother had bought several tins of cookies for the trip and kept them in our cabin or berth. We were traveling in 2nd Class steerage. Anyway, the cookies started disappearing and the culprit could not be found. This went on for several days until I was caught sneaking into the cabin and getting into the cookie tins. That stopped the cookie filching and solved the mystery."

To this day, father loves his bread, crackers, and cookies.

The "Orcoma" at the port of Liverpool, England - from www.simplonpc.co.uk; father was quite pleased when he learned images of "his" ship were available, and some interesting information as well, found while sailing through the Web at www.theshipslist.com/ships/descriptions/ShipsO.html.

"ORCOMA 1908
11,546 gross tons, length 511.6ft x beam 62.2ft, one funnel, two masts, twin screw, speed 14.5 knots, accommodation for 246-1st, 202-2nd, 106-intermediate and 456-3rd class passengers. 247 crew. Launched on 2nd Apr.1908 by Wm. Beardmore & Co., Dalmuir. Glasgow for Pacific Steam Navigation Co., Liverpool, she started her maiden voyage on 27th Aug., when she left Liverpool for the West Coast of South America via Straits of Magellan. She was the largest and fastest vessel on the South American Pacific coast route at the time. From Mar.1915 she served as an Armed Merchant Cruiser with the 10th Cruiser Squadron on the Northern Patrol, fitted with 6 x 6inch guns and 2 x 6 pounder guns. On 7th Nov.1919 she reverted to PSNCo service via the Panama Canal and in 1923 was modernised and converted from coal to oil fuel. Jun.1933 scrapped at Blyth having been replaced by the REINA DEL PACIFICO. [Merchant Fleets, vol.8 by Duncan Haws]"

Father also added, confirmed by further dives into the Digital Ocean out there, that the PSNC favored giving their passenger ships names starting with "O," such as "Ortega," "Orbita," "Oropesa," and "Orizaba." "These ships bore some resemblance to the Titanic." But fortunately none are known to have suffered the same fate as that Unsinkable Leviathan...

Well, enough steamship stuff, before we get seasick. Suffice it to say traveling 2nd class in a steamship those days was an experience far removed from the one enjoyed traveling today's cruises to the Caribbean, Europe, and other exotic places. There must have been a reason why my grandmother's wry humor was manifested through her play on words or play on the initials of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company.

The voyage was uneventful, and on March 13, 1923 these Quirogas - grandmother Pastora Enriquez de Quiroga, her sons Dario Jr., Manuel, and Nicanor, with daughters Lola and Berta disembarked in Havana, there to stay until the 1960's.

With their father, my grandfather Dario Sr., they settled into their first home, an apartment in Old Havana, at Tejadillo No. 42, between Aguacate and Compostela streets. This is one of the first of many family photographs taken in Cuba. Sadly, of that group of Quiroga offspring, only dad and aunt Berta, standing next to him in front, remain as of this writing.

Commenting on this first address, dad explained that "in the 1950s, the mayor of Havana, Justo Luis del Pozo, decreed changes in the street addressing system of Havana, to make addresses clearer and more rational. The plan was that each city block would be assigned 50 specific address numbers. Many addresses from the beginning of the 20th Century changed, no doubt including that for Tejadillo No. 42. For example, Aguila street No. 71, where we lived at one time, became Aguila 257, across from 'El Mundo' newspaper; Muralla 82, where Charles Irving first set up his business, later was renumbered to Muralla 458; by then it was the Quiroga Hermanos (Quiroga Brothers) jewelry store.

Considering the rapidly progressing ruination of Havana these days, it is not at all certain that Tejadillo No. 42 - or whatever number it became - still stands; it is very doubtful dad would want to stand next to the ruins, if ruins is all that is left, and have his photograph taken.

I mentioned earlier the egg importing business my great uncle Alvaro - sadly, another Quiroga never met by yours truly - ran out of New Orleans with his brothers Constantino and Alberto - yep, another Alberto Quiroga. Constantino and Alberto had emigrated to The Big Easy in 1907. The United States 1910 census "found" them living at what no doubt was a boarding or rooming house somewhere on St. Charles Street.

It was not the intention to torture your eyes with this document, but it is the best that can be offered. If you count from the bottom, you will find Constantino on the 15th line, with Albert right below. They were bartenders at a saloon. Which one? I don't know, but no doubt they had a fun job...I'll drink to that! No, must stay sober to ensure this tale remains well-knit. Don't drink and blog. You might spill your cerveza Hatuey on the keyboard and prematurely end your blogging session.

They did well, and did all kind of jobs, as father recalls, sharing his wonderful recollections. I get the impression these two were his favorite uncles; certainly the ones who lived longest so dad had ample opportunity to share in their company. And lucky for this Alberto Quiroga, so did I. They were colorful, lovable characters. Constantino the quiet type, Albert the more voluble and volatile...hmmm, some characteristics appear to be genetically shared between Albert and Albert. Perhaps this is why my mother sometimes would jokingly express her belief that perhaps her son was really his great uncle Albert's offspring. I don't think so, though. Albert the great uncle was smarter.

They were not afraid of hard work because they knew that provided the opportunity to get ahead in their adoptive country. Years ago I remember examining a photo of Constantino, taken in a farm or ranch where he labored - said image unfortunately no longer available. Alberto cooked for crews of laborers in New Orleans or other places in Louisiana. Perhaps that is why he was a commanding presence in the kitchen; I still remember fondly a tasty, spicy, meat-n-vegetable stew he prepared which yours truly had no trouble wolfing down, only regretting reaching the bottom of the bowl so quickly. The dish seemed a combination of Spanish-Cuban-Louisiana Cajun flavors and its delectable taste is missed to this day. He was a first-class Kitchen Kommandant, and when the time came for him to do his magic, he had no hesitation in telling his brother, or anyone else who needed tellin', "get out of my kitchen!"

In New Orleans, for those of you who know The Big Easy a bit, they lived in St. Charles Street, Poydras number 515 - father states there is now a parking lot where the building was located, and Willow Street. Later they returned to New Orleans, and settled again in St. Charles Street; they owned a two-story home I recall visiting in 1954, during my first trip stateside. The stairwell to the second story seemed to go on forever, to a then four-year old.

Mother and father visited them at home in New Orleans, sometime in 1949-1950.

That's Alberto on the left - no, not THIS Alberto, although there is a Quiroga resemblance there. His brother Constantino took the photograph. Speaking of photographs, this is another thing the Alberto Qs have, or had, in common - a love of photography. If only the hundreds, perhaps thousands of photos and slides they took were available...what treasures! But sadly, after their death, these were scattered and we have but a handful to share with the readership - such as this one. The Quiroga photography gene lives on, though - just check out cousin Jorge's website and you will see. He too was fortunate to enjoy the company of this pair for a while.

They had stories to tell, many told to my father who engraved them in his outstanding memory. Mention was made that these Quirogas were not afraid to work and work hard, as needed. Father relates that, during the Great Depression, they had to look for work outside Louisiana and had to leave their beloved Big Easy for a while. "They had very little money, so they hitched rides on railcars - illegally, of course - and went North to Cincinnati, Ohio. There they found work as waiters at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which was a posh place in those days. One thing, Alberto was a hairy type, and had a lot of hair on his arms. When he applied for the waiter position, whoever was sizing him up for the job told him he'd have to shave his arms. Alberto was a little upset at that, and explained that since he would be wearing a long-sleeved dress shirt, he did not see how anyone would notice. Well, the boss or boss-to-be replied that he could see hairs sticking out of the shirt sleeves and Albert could either shave his arms or forget being a waiter. Albert shaved his arms..."

No whining in those days about "constitutional rights being trampled because I am being discriminated against for having hairy arms! I will complain to the Hairy Arms Protection League!" Alas, times have changed.

The job had its rewards. Dad's narrative continues. "Actors and actresses stayed at the Beverly Hills in those days, and dined there. Alberto and Constantino told me once how they waitered for the actor Al Jolson several times. They considered him a good tipper, because he gave 50-cent tips!" That was a fair piece of change at the time, in the Depressed 30's.

(www.musicals101.com)

Perhaps you recognize Mr. Jolson better in his blackface alter ego - depicted here in this album cover, from www.parlorsongs.com; now don't get too excited..."politically correct" this may not be TODAY, but that was THEN, this is NOW. Live with it. At least one can say he was a generous gent - at least to my great uncles, he was.

Father tells how they saved and spent money wisely - no doubt aided by those 50-cent tips; they invested in the stock market and somehow, when others were losing their shirts in the market, they did fine. Their streetwise financial savvy allowed them to hang their waitering garb, or whatever work outfits they wore at the time, and they retired early, when that was but a fantasy for most people. They also profited from their association with brother Alvaro's egg exporting business, which eventually was liquidated. Here's another Cuban connection: the business closed its doors when, in the late 20's or early 30's, then-President -some would say dictator- Machado of Cuba imposed heavy tariffs on the importation of eggs into Cuba, which
caused the business to tank. But these Quirogas - once again - recovered from economic misfortune. It would not be the last time the family's economy would be affected by a dictator; no, worse - tyrant.

And for over 30 years, they quietly enjoyed life in New Orleans, and traveled extensively - to Europe, mostly to Spain; to Cuba and Mexico, and, of course, within the United States. During a trip to Cuba, in the early 50s, they were treated to lunch - or perhaps they did the treating? - at a popular countryside restaurant outside Havana, El Sitio - "The Place," located in the town of Wajay. Great food was to be had; I know - I was treated to lunch at said venue, more than once. Lucky 'lil guy!

This memento of a visit to El Sitio, from a Kodachrome slide dating to 1950-1951 could be titled "Gallegos in Guayaberas," don't you think? For those who might be a little puzzled, a guayabera is the typical, dressy linen shirt worn in Cuba and other Caribbean places. It has become a popular fashion item in the last 50 years.

Maybe the blogger is getting a little off track; maybe you think this is too much information, or perhaps it seems this exercise is turning into an "Albert & Constantino Quiroga Festival." Well, maybe so. These two were favorites, the equivalent of wise old owls with a good mix of life-and-street smarts, humor, bluntness - mostly on Albert's part - generosity, and overall fearlessness. You wanted to hang on to their words and advice, because there was much worth learning from them, and profiting from their experiences was very worthwhile.

Speaking of wisdom, experience, and bluntness...they saw through castro's poisonous political bulls...immediately, and made no effort to hide their displeasure with that toxic creature. On one of their visits to Cuba, in '59 or '60, I recall Alberto vehemently arguing with a niece about the bearded one's merits and demerits. For Alberto, there was nothing redeeming about that character and to put it bluntly, as he would have, he hated that bad scion of gallegos with abandon. The brothers' wisdom became evident when, once having given thought of purchasing an apartment at the Focsa building, they quickly gave up the idea after experiencing the changing environment in castroite Cuba. Thus the "bearded eminence" - sarcasm intended - did not get to filch a single penny from their pockets. I told you they were smart!

In January 1960 during one of their visits - perhaps their last - to Cuba, they gathered with most of the Quiroga clan in our last home, apt 29 CD in Focsa. It was winter, and although perhaps not particularly cold, the custom at the time was to wear dark colors for social events, even family dinners.

Maybe, given the dark, gloomy clothing worn by the participants, this one could be titled: "Gathering for Cuba's Wake." A wake-up call to the Cuban people would have been better...

Constantino is to the left; well, that would be your right, as you look at the image, speaking with an unidentified family member. Albert took the photograph; the young man holding little Albert is my cousin Raul Fernandez. Later, he was "treated" to a stint in one of castro's slave-labor UMAP - "Unidades Militares Asistencia Produccion" - "Military Units for Assisting Production" camps. These camps were punishment centers for those who displeased the "revolution" for "crimes" such as Raul's - daring to apply for permission to leave Cuba thus taking his engineering skills with him. Eventually, he got out but not before taking on a skeletal appearance from being overworked and underfed, with poor quality food at that. Think about these things next time you hear some ignorant never-been-there-or-done-that bozo extol the "virtues" of Cuba's crypto-nazi paradise.

During that probably final visit from the great uncles to Cuba, we took them on a road trip to the port of Batabano. It was a cool, gray, indeed dreary day and quite apropos, reflecting the mood of the times - which perhaps may also be seen in the faces of the subjects.
Great uncle Alberto did the honors with his trusty 35mm camera - probably a Kodak. Let me introduce other Cuban gallegos, or gallego Cubans, whatever you like, they were not picky about labels, unlike today's thin-skinned types. My uncle-by-marriage, Fernando Prego Sr., nicknamed - what else? - "El gallego Prego;" is translation necessary? - is to the right on the upper-right photograph. He was married to my mother's sister Josefina - who is seated next to her husband on the seawall. Mother and father you should be acquainted with by now; and, have no fear, they had military escort that day! You see, there were these stinking green-clad stormtroopers milling about, and naturally, suitable escort was required. Fortunately, all went well...which is a good thing as we were outgunned.

The next time we saw the great uncles was in the States, after our exile began in November, 1960. Thankfully, over the years, we were in frequent contact with them, and having themselves experienced upheaval and unforeseen change, they lent a generous hand when we needed it - but then, that is what a real family does...help each other through thick and thin.

Their former military escort from those Batabano days snapped this photo during a visit to our Miami home, summer 1975. By then, they had mostly given up wearing their traditional suits, although they still did so any time they went out to dinner. Dapper gents, they were, from another time, another generation - a great generation.

By then too, they had re-retired to a condo in Miami Beach - the Maison Grande, to be exact, Collins Avenue and 60th Street, for those who know the beach. And it was here that cousin George, in his early photography days, captured a slice of life in their condo, sometime in summer 1976.

Dad's sister, my aunt Berta, is in the middle, next to my grandmother. Little sis Grace is next to grandma. Whose birthday was it? Maybe Albert's, maybe Constantino. Within six months, Albert would be dead. Constantino passed on in December 1981. Both are buried, together with their brother Alvaro, in Metairie Cemetery, New Orleans. To this day, they are both greatly missed. But then, they were GREAT uncles, so that is appropriate. I can picture Albert arguing some fine point with St. Peter, while Constantino patiently and diplomatically looks on, getting a point or two across...

The brothers were not the only travelin' Quirogas, and the travel went both ways. In 1956, a young man - well, a six-year old - had his first opportunity to become acquainted with his family's ancestral homeland.

After an 18-hour flight in an Iberia Airlines Super-G Constellation, including a stopover at Lajes airfield in the Azores, an out-of-sorts mom with an 8-month old daughter in tow did not seem all that happy to be photographed at Madrid's Barajas airport, and having to pay 15 pesetas - the coinage at the time - for the privilege. That might have been all of 25 cents, in Cuban or USA coins.

Rule of Travel Number One: Do not spend 18 hours in the air with small children ...aren't you happy you live in these times of cramped seating, delayed flights, surly inspectors, terrorist threats, and bags-of-peanuts for passengers?

Things did not go that much better from that point. Grandma Fernandez, who traveled with us, became very ill in Madrid and had to be hospitalized. The six-year old also got sick...bowels got loose, perhaps due to withdrawal from rice-and-beans; he became dehydrated and to this day remembers being extremely thirsty because fluid intake had to be rationed - lest the bowels start a-grumblin'. Fortunately, there was literally a doctor in the family - one of dad's relatives, Dr. "Pepe" Parames, who tended to the boy and got him back on his feet. The memory of the intravenous fluid bag attached to his thigh is still kind of unsettling, fifty-one years after the "experience."

Dad, in true Quiroga photojournalism-verite style, captured this image of a pasty faced, thin, still-recovering future blogger at the port of Gijon, July 1956.

For these and other reasons, the trip was cut short, and we returned to Havana early September 1956, in time for school. That was fine with the little guy - he vowed never again would he set foot in Spain, gallego ancestors be damned!

He lied...in July 1973, he went back with four wild-and-crazy college friends, one a childhood friend from Havana days, to "do" Pamplona.

And he got sick again! This time, it was, as the Jimmy Buffett song goes, "my own damn fault."

Rule of Travel Number Two: Do not drink an entire bottle of cheap red wine - at the time, given the exchange rate, costing about 50 cents USA - for breakfast. It'll put you off wine for a long time, and the girls will have nothing to do with you.

All was forgiven and forgotten, and in 1976 an older, wiser, and sober future blogger returned to Spain with his family, visiting dad's birthplace for the second time, twenty years having elapsed since the first visit.

He took this image of his grandfather Dario's home, still in the family at the time, by the railroad tracks in Caldelas de Tuy. The house is to the left - the train barrier points to it.

It was a nice place in which to stay, if you could ignore the train's whistle, clack-clack, and rumbling. I seemed to have no trouble sleeping through the ruckus.

And in 1980, for the fourth and, so far, last time, and older, wiser, and married future blogger went to Spain, this time on honeymoon with his Carolina cutie, the happy couple finding their way to grandparents' Dario and Pastora's home in Caldelas de Tuy. The sad part of that pilgrimage is neither were there to greet us with their traditional kiss-n-hug. Nevertheless, we spent a few very pleasant days there, enjoying the hospitality of my grandmother's cousin Alvarito - "Little Alvaro," who plied us with his wines, food, and his family's warmth.

But in order to get there, we first had to cross over the Quiroga River, not a difficult feat when a good roadway is available for the crossing.

We stopped briefly at the town of Quiroga, where a nice "Quirogan," who had this eye-catching poster on display at his bar-restaurant, presented it to the visiting Quirogas and would not take a single peseta for it.

The poster announced the upcoming "Quiroga Summer Festival," to be held in August; wish we could have extended our visit and enjoyed the festivities. The object at hand today proudly hangs from a wall at the Quiroga home in Miami. It is a Quiroga thing, you know.

We continued our journey and then, before long, grandpa's house was just ahead, by the railroad tracks.

From whose upper story, a pretty girl would happily wave to her Worst Half during those unforgettable days spent there in July, 1980.

We need to backtrack a little bit, because perhaps the readership wonders, "why has he not said much about his mother's side of the family? Did he not care for them? Where they Black Sheep?" You do know the term, right? Well, on the contrary, your web-world friend is and was as close to his mother's side of the gallego confederation as anyone can or could be; yet, regretfully, he does not know much about the Granja-Castro-Fernandez family. Perhaps this is because the main players in that story passed away long before the writer developed an interest in delving into the family history, and before all these wonderful tools became available, enabling the average person to do a reasonably good job of cobbling these bits of history and graphics together.

This image was made before 1920. At the time, only four of the seven Granja-Castro-Fernandez children were in the world - from left to right, my uncle Manuel, whom we must all thank for most of the photographs which enliven these postings; my aunt Dolores, on her father's lap, her sister Josefina, and daughter Esperanza - "Hope" - next to her mother. Later, uncles Mariano and Eduardo - the youngest of the seven, and Teresa the blogger's mother would arrive. It is a shame there isn't a family photo with all of them together - children and parents. There is a reason.

According to mother, now the only one left who remembers family lore, her father was a successful electrician and a good provider to her family. In those days, that technical profession, as cities became increasingly "electrified" enabled a man to feed, clothe, and shelter his family reasonably well. Grandmother Fernandez was, typical for those days, a housewife. Never were any of her offspring heard to complain about her mothering skills, which were many.

Grandfather Granja-Castro enjoyed dressing well, and was usually seen in a suit. He also liked photography, and delighted in being photographed. Unfortunately, in 1929, a week before his youngest son Eduardo arrived, he died after an unsuccessful battle with a big killer in those pre-antibiotic days, pneumonia. And in those pre-insurance, social welfare, and retirement account days, the family was left with little to fall back on - so on to work they went, all except my mother and her brother Eduardo, the youngest of the seven. Grandmother fortunately found work ironing for a nuns' convent nearby. They had a tough life, but they rolled up their sleeves and looked after their survival, with success. "When life gets tough, the tough get going," - and get a life.

Perhaps later, these experiences helped all of them to survive worse times to come - in the form of "political pneumonia," asphyxiating those who refused to trade freedom for a few miserly crumbs from the table of a bad, self-appointed potentate, the spawn of a "family," if that is the term to use for that bunch, a disgrace to honorable gallegos everywhere.

My aunt Esperanza was the repository of her family's history and, being the oldest, remembered her father well. Unfortunately, she is no longer around to help us knit the story together and do it justice.

In January 1950, she paid a visit to dad and her sister Dolores, on the left, at the Quiroga Brothers store on Muralla Street, number 458. Not only Dolores, but her sisters Josefina and Teresa worked there with father, his brothers and grandfather Quiroga. I told you these gallegos were all hard-working! This fortuitous conjunction of Quirogas and Granja-Castro-Fernandezes resulted in the creation of this blog. Amazing, isn't it?

Dad, proud of his Galician heritage, did what many gallegos did in Havana, and other places in Cuba. In his young days - excuse me, but he is still thought of as a young man - he joined a fraternal society for gallegos in Cuba - the Centro Gallego, or Galicia Center, in Havana.

Membership conferred various benefits, not the least of which were the social aspects, the camaraderie, and the opportunities to make friends and make business contacts. We call that "networking" today.

Even medical benefits were included in membership privileges, providing access to clinics, hospitals, and medical care for nominal or very reasonable fees. This can be considered an early example of the health maintenance organization system in the United States, and from what father tells, the concept worked well and beneficiaries were pleased with the system.

His last Centro Gallego membership certificate was issued in 1960...

This is the back of the certificate.

Available physicians, medical centers, days and hours of operation are listed; there are even listings for physicians who made house calls - imagine that, in 1960 Cuba, BEFORE the mengele-of-Havana wrecked the Cuban health care system. Imagine that, "Micky" Moore - you're the real Sicko...go find yourself some "free kaSStrokare" in crumbling Havana.

The Centro Gallego still stands; its essence is well-captured in this 1920s postcard featured in www.guije.com; at the time the image was created, grandfather Quiroga was himself a member, and remained so until he departed from Cuba.

Depart...such a final sounding word. And final it was for these families, as the decade of the Fifties faded and we crossed into the fateful Sixties. For Quirogas, Granjas, and Fernandezes, the Wheel of Fate came full circle; the time arrived to say goodbye and go into exile - final exile, for most; for some it would literally involve returning to the land from which they had once sailed with high hopes.

In May 1960 the Quirogas gathered for what would be - unbeknownst at the time - our final get-together in honor of Dario and Pastora Quiroga's Fiftieth wedding anniversary. The photograph was taken at grandfather's home in Havana; the house was located in the Almendares neighborhood or suburb - "I believe," father says, "it was Calle Del Rio but do not remember the address, exactly."

A month later, my grandparents left for their home in Caldelas de Tuy. Granfather's distaste for the bearded, un-Godly gallego had reached its boiling point. The sadness evident in his visage cannot be hidden, and no doubt he was worried about his sons, daughters, and grandchildren. Perhaps deep down he foresaw never seeing most of them again. What should have been a happy occasion was instead marred by foreboding and fears of an uncertain future.

In Caldelas, he and grandmother received a pleasurable visit from Albert and Constantino in October 1962.

The rest of us, having just started rebuilding lives in exile, could not afford a visit, no matter how brief, timewise or moneywise. Dad and his brother Manuel were able to see their father one more time, in his last days. He died March 1964 and is buried at the Almudena Cemetery in Madrid. Grandmother Quiroga then came to the States, and she passed on in 1979.

Most of my mother's family made it across the Straits of Florida, where they lived out the rest of their lives in peace and freedom. Mom is the only one left now. Her brother Manuel Granja, his wife Emerita, and son Luis are buried in Cuba. We never saw them again after November 1960, although we stayed constantly in touch by mail and telephone - whenever it was possible to get a call through.

There was good to go with the bad, in those early exile days; even as some of us left our country or this world, there were new arrivals to brighten the scene - new life with a pinch and a dash of Galicia, Cuba, and Florida...

And so, we welcomed littlest sister Grace, who's graced us with her presence since mid-1961 - we celebrated her 6-month anniversary in Miami, at 471 SW 6th Street, to be exact - the first place we called our own in exile, even if it was a rental - for which mom and dad paid a whopping $110 monthly at the time. It was not Focsa, but most important, it was home, and we were home-free - if you catch the meaning, which surely you do.

That is the story. There is much more to tell about Quirogas, Granjas, Castros, Enriquezes, Ajas, Boveda Carvallos, about these gallegos, but there are time, space, and psychic limits, as well as limits to the patience of those kind enough to take a glance. Perhaps you have come to the conclusion that gallegos are determined, resilient, indeed tough, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud; passionate - with a tendency to fly off the handle sometimes - rational, yet irrational when passions are ignited...and hard to keep down, no matter how many times they get knocked down; unafraid to pick up and go, uprooting themselves, yet leaving roots behind, to which they long to return. Maybe that just proves they are...human.

Before closing this post, allow me to be a bit preachy about a subject - speaking of passions - over which your blogger has become somewhat passionate. You should not ignore your family's history. Every family has a valuable, and interesting history which should not be lost. Corral and cajole your elders, talk to them, interview them, get to know them well - you would be surprised how they warm up to this exercise because, in effect, you are saying: "You matter - your life means something to me;" as well it should. Explore your roots and your ancestry - you will not be disappointed. Do it before it is too late, before your beloved family members disappear and you are left with nothing more than nebulous recollections and a sad feeling of "what could have been." Do it now. Warm up to an excursion into genealogy - whether you are Cuban, American, American-Cuban, Cuban-Gallego, Irish-Cuban - yes, they exist - Moroccans with maracas, you name it. Honor your family, your roots. "Honrar honra," said Cuban patriot Jose Marti - "To honor, honors." Nothing more need be added. If you are blessed with a good, loving family, who sticks together through all adversity and survives tyranny, fighting to provide nurturing freedom to its members, you are rich and blessed indeed. Richer than any tyrant, even those who have taken all the material wealth and patrimony of a people. They cannot take those baubles with them - they will die without true riches - love, honor, peace, and God's forgiveness.

Consider this starting point for your quest...

Mr. Elizondo, on the right, ably aided by friend George - I work with his wife, a gallega herself; poor woman, not because she is gallega, but because she has to bear with me - will be happy to guide you through the world of Cuban genealogy. They patiently posed for the amateur wannabe photojournalist during his visit to Cuba Nostalgia 2007.

Go for it!

They were there, and that is why I am here...

2007-05-28T11:39:00.000-04:00

Sunday evening while channel surfing, happened upon a wonderful program on the local Public Television station about the reunion of the carrier Lexington's Air Group 16 at the World War II Memorial in Washington, DC. Many of the now frail survivors of the Air Group believed this would be their last reunion. One recurring theme of their determination to reunite at least one more time was to honor their service, sacrifice, and to bond again, not only with the living, but also with their brothers who had been cruelly claimed by war. For one thing this civilian has learned from veterans of different conflicts is that there is a brotherhood and kinship forged from the sharing of a common purpose infused with danger and demanding sacrifice which cannot be duplicated in any other way.

I also learned that, sadly, we are losing our World War II veterans at the rate of 1,500 a day. Not much time left to thank them for all they did, and indeed, have done for the past 60-something years. A simple "thank you" should not be by any means limited to just World War II servicemen. All servicemen-and-women deserve our thanks, our gratitude, today and every day.

And if you are reading this while enjoying Memorial Day off, you are probably wondering what this has to do with Havana themes, anecdotes, and related history. And the answer is: directly, nothing. Except that yours truly is convinced that if these men-and many a woman too-had not been THERE - at Pearl Harbor, Midway, Guadalcanal, Oran, Kasserine, Licata, Salerno, Iwo Jima, Pusan, An Loc, Hue, Basra and Baghdad - I would not be HERE in digital space bloggin' in your face. Pardon me - don't mean to get in anyone's face. You are free not to read these poor words. That is what the sacrifice of these veterans has bought - freedom.

So, the Havana Connection is: This ex-Havana Boy wishes to thank the veterans who, he is convinced, made his freedom possible, as he and his family thankfully landed in a land of freedom quite a few Memorial Days ago. My family and I are truly thankful for your service, and stand in awe when contemplating your sacrifice.

I am also grateful for the opportunity, over the years, to know and love three of these veterans, all of whom had significant influences in my life; thought it appropriate that in remembering all who fought the good fight for freedom this Memorial Day, these three should be especially remembered and the good memories about them cherished. All served in World War II - but by no means should anyone think only World War II veterans should be honored. ALL require our humble thanks and our determination to never forget them, their service, their sacrifice. "Sed miles, sed pro patria."

First, and for obvious reasons, I remember my late father-in-law, a wonderful guy, from whom I learnt much and yet not enough - Carroll Lamon Sheppard, originally from Hickory, North Carolina. The Tarheel State.

The young Tarheel was called to war in 1944, when he joined the United States Navy, eventually becoming part of the crew aboard the carrier U.S.S. Lake Champlain, CV-39, where he attained the rank of Coxswain and specialized in radio communications/communications intelligence.

Carroll L. Sheppard, USN 1944

This was his ship...

And this was his duty station, or "office," if you wish to think of it that way...

His "boss," the carrier's Captain, Logan Ramsey...

Apologies are made for the quality of the image - at the time, was attempting a last minute copy at my mother-in-law's with a digital camera and the results were less than optimal. Carroll once provided an interesting anecdote about his Captain, which revealed a bit of the pugnacious Ramsey's character.

"We were summoned to the deck, and our Captain addressed us. I knew he had the hots for the Japs, as he'd lost a couple ships to them. He spoke to us: 'I'm gonna take her [the Lake Champlain] in right into Tokyo bay - I'm gonna be the first in Tokyo bay!' We thought we were all going to be killed..."

But a Fat Man and a Little Boy ensured that daring dash into Tokyo would not be necesary. And after peace came, the "Lake" helped bring back troops from Europe. "We also spent about three months cruisin' around the Caribbean, and I saw Cuba," said my father-in-law.

With unidentified shipmate, 1944-1945 - perhaps looking forward to returning home?

The war ended, he returned to his native North Carolina, where he married, raised a family, and did well in everything he set out to do. Of course, your blogger here was a direct beneficiary of Mr. Sheppard's achievements! He passed away in 1993. I still miss him.

The Navy has been honored. Now it is time for the Air Force - or should I say Air Corps? Well, the Air Corps was the Air Force by the end of W-W-II.

We - my immediate family and I - were blessed and privileged to know Paul Brestel. He was our friend, neighbor, and really, adopted family member for eight years when we lived in West Palm Beach. Paul was an Air Force veteran, serving as navigator in a B-24 bomber group. He was attached to the 98th Squadron, 344 Bomb Group of the 15th Air Force, based at Lecce, Italy from June to December, 1944.

Wish there was another graphic to share besides this one, since it was made for his funeral service in 2005 and carries great sadness with it. But you should have known Paul and unfortunately this is as close as it gets.

Much like Carroll Sheppard, he was modest, self-effacing, gentle and indeed, "gentle-man" is the word to describe him. Handy like I never could be, he saved me from the consequences of my ill skills more than once.

Ocassionally, one was fortunate to be within earshot as he shared some of his experiences; some were actually quite humorous. Let us allow Paul to tell some of these stories, reconstructed from deep memories of good, entertaining conversations with him.

"We flew a lot of missions over the Alps, hitting targets in South Germany and Austria. You know, we had no 'facilities' in our airplanes, so when you had to go, you went as you could. We used empty .50 ammo boxes for toilets. So on this mission, it was decided to 'flush' the contents over enemy territory, the bomb bay doors were opened and the load discharged. Then we heard some commotion over the intercom - it was our ball turret gunner, Don Benoit. He was yelling, 'Hey, hey! Have we been hit?! Have we been hit?! I can't see! I can't see for SHIT! There's oil or grease all over the plexiglass!' Well, he couldn't see for shit, because it WAS shit, all over the plexiglass. It wasn't that funny because that meant his guns would be useless if we were attacked, but fortunately the mission ended without incident and then we had a good laugh about the whole thing." He chuckled and smiled impishly as he told this tale.

This is the type of Sperry ball turret Mr. Benoit would have been cramped into, basically in fetal position. This one hangs from the belly of a B-17 owned by the Collings Foundation, photographed by the Roving Blogger at the Boca Raton, Florida, airport Feb. 27, 2005. It is clear (no pun intended) it would not have taken a lot of "material" to smear up the glass and blind the gunner.

It takes a lot of ball...turrets to get a mission accomplished.

A few years ago, it was the early '90s, I believe, our Nebraskan friend and neighbor said he was going to Colorado for a reunion with his crew. "We haven't seen each other since the war." Off he went; but before he left, I pestered him and asked he and his buddies autograph this book which savvy Mrs. Quiroga had given her Worst Half being she kinda understands his psyche.

Paul, being a very observant and precise type - which are the qualities a good navigator should possess, looked at the book and said, "Now, Albert, you know we weren't in the 8th Air Force..." And Albert replied, "I know Paul, but this is all I've got." He smiled. "Sure, I'll get the guys to sign it for you." Later he told me they had all enjoyed poring through the book and talking about their experiences.

And, yes, they did sign it. Other Air Force vets have signed it as well over the years. I feel like a pest when I approach one of them to ask for an autograph, but they all seem well pleased to give one.

This is Your Day, Paul. Have no fear, he undoubtedly and successfully "navigated" himself to his final destination, the Heavenly Air Base. "Mission accomplished, Sir!" "Well done, my good and faithful servant!"

Now it is time for the Army, the Ground-Pounders, the Sloggers, the Infantry. I met John William English when I reported to work, fresh out of college, at a certain Federal government office in West Palm Beach, Florida. The future Blogger Boy was then an unfinished 24-year piece of work. Hmmm...now he's merely an unfinished 57-year piece of work. You know, when you first start out you might think you know everything, but deep down you're scared poop-less. You're convinced you are going to screw up and get fired or perhaps flogged and fired.

But another quiet, self-effacing, yet confidence-instilling gentleman helped me get over youthful fears. John William English, veteran of the U. S. 84th Infantry Division - "The Railsplitters" - informally took me under his wing and a friendship began, which regretfully lasted only four short years before cancer did what the Germans could not, and John was taken, too damn young.

He was quite capable in his position, and he radiated confidence, which he shared with yours truly. "There's a good brain in there, Alberto," he would insist. I don't know if that is true, but he definitely had one, and many other good qualities as well. He was not only a great friend, he was like an uncle, the kind you might want to design and build if that were possible. Perhaps our affinity grew from his postwar experiences, when he went to find work in the Florida Keys. "I worked with a lot of Cubans in the Keys, back then. They were great people, and I made many friends. They took up for me more than once and I won't forget that," he said to me one time. Had you known John, you woulda taken up for him more than once, rest assured.

Sadly, there isn't a single photograph of the man to display, just a very blurry one taken in poor conditions at an office party back in '75. His and his date's features are virtually unrecognizable, and the image is practically useless.

Although he shared a couple of anecdotes about his service before his death, his mother, who outlived him - she was a little lady, literally, but tough as nails, shared the best ones. Such as this one, and again, her thoughts and statements have to be pulled from the vault of memory, since no recordings were made. Mrs. Q was present when Mrs. English regaled us with these stories, and she graciously consented to review and vet the retelling.

"Well, John told me about the time they were already going through Germany. They were somewhere by a river; the river current was strong and the water was rising. John spotted a German sniper perched up in a tree, drawing a bead on two officers across the river bank. All he had was his pistol, a .45 Colt and it was going to be a difficult shot - he was 75-100 yards away. But he took the shot and hit the sniper; the German tumbled into the river but because the current was so fast, he was swept away and never found.

After someone realized what had happened, John was called in to be congratulated by the grateful officers he had saved. One of them said: 'Your father must have taught you to shoot so well.' 'No sir,' John replied. 'It was my mother. You see, when I was a kid and we lived in Texas, she'd take me out into the desert and there we'd practice shooting rattlesnakes with our revolvers.' I think they were pretty surprised," said Mrs. English, slightly smiling with obvious pride.

Well, he definitely got another rattlesnake - except this one was dangling from a tree.

He was attached to the 557th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battallion of the 84th, sailing from Southhampton, England to France in August 1944, serving until the end of the war and, fortunately, without a scratch. The way he spoke about his service in the 84th, it was obvious he was justifiably proud of his outfit. He was more than justified, because the 84th did some serious butt-kicking, "from Louisiana to the Elbe."

One treasure he left for me was a book about the 84th, documenting the history and the war service of "The Railsplitters" - "The 84th Infantry Division in the Battle of Germany," by Lt. Theodore Draper. Here is the inside cover page, signed by John.

The book is dedicated "To The Railsplitters Who Never Came Back." Nothing more need be said - except today we remember those Railsplitters, honor and mourn them, and whisper a prayer. "Well done, my good and faithful servants!"

Today, when you are having a good time, enjoying your beer and barbecue, or whatever, at least take a moment and remember a Railsplitter who once had to gulp down his chow in the snow...he was there for you, even if neither he nor you thought about it, then and now.

Mention had been made that John was fond of Cubans. There was one "Cuban," however, who irritated the hell outta him. Towards the end of his life, but while he was still able to get around, he asked me to drop by one evening. He had some personal items he wanted to leave with me - "I don't have anyone else to leave them to, and can't think of anyone better to leave them with." I did not want to take them, and even offered, if he insisted I have them, to pay him, but he would not hear of it. I did not want them because I realized, deep down, it was his way of saying goodbye "Not ready for that!," I thought to myself.

As I was getting ready to leave, he said: "I was thinking - suppose I could find someone who would plant some plastic explosive in my chest cavity, where my lung was; then a detonating device, maybe something resembling a pacemaker. Maybe I could convince the Cuban government to extend an invitation to visit castro. I could say I was a dying American veteran who much admired him, and my dying wish was to meet him."

"Then maybe as I approached him to shake hands, I could embrace him tightly and blow both of us up..."

I was horrified, not at the thought of this ingenious yet quasi-insane scheme to take out the hitler of Havana, but at the notion my dear friend would wind up splattered all over the place for the sake of destroying that scumbag. I think I said something like, "John, he is not worth your sacrificing yourself like that, even if you could do it." He just smiled, and said "well, I don't think I could find anyone to rig me up like that anyway." Shortly after, he passed away, in October 1978.

Once in a while, I wonder if this mad plan might actually have succeeded; leave it to a Railsplitter to think of such an ingenious tactical solution to this particular problem.

On this Memorial Day we are blessed to celebrate in freedom - which isn't free - take a minute to remember these brave soldiers, sailors, and airmen-airwomen too, past and present, who were there doing what needed to be done, for you, for me - so that I could freely post these words and images unmolested by petty, cowardly tyrants. If you are fortunate to come across one of our veterans today - or any day - thank them for, and honor their service. Do not forget them, ever.

Let them eat cake!

2007-05-12T16:33:00.000-04:00

And cookies, and other sweets - "pastelitos," perhaps - delicious little flaky pastries stuffed with savory sweet fillings of guava or other tasty things, ground meat and such. You can find them at Cuban-style bakeries in Miami and other places filled with the Cuban presence, still.

Wash it all down with Jupina - tilde over the "n" - a sweet pineapple soft drink; or Materva, or Maltina, Coca-Cola, Pepsi,Cawy - another native soft drink; now made in the USA-whatever you like.

What is this leading to? Well, Cuba Nostalgia 2007 is "taking off" next week in Miami; inspired by that, and a significant anniversary for yours truly, decided to "gift" the long-suffering readership with a little personal "Cuba Nostalgia" of my own.

For, you see, this photograph, depicting an almost seven-year-old and his sister was taken at the garden level of the Focsa building on May 12, 1957.

Exactly 50 years ago as this is written, to be precise.

Then the party was on; I see little sis had her finger on the cake even before "Happy Birthday" was sung and the candles were blown out. Yes, we sang "Happy Birthday" at birthday parties in Havana and other Cuban places in those days. Whatever we wanted to sing, without frowning looks from bearded types.
Cousin Manny was nattily dressed in his white, long-sleeved shirt that day; cousin Gina, to my right-that would be your left, from your perspective, looks as if she's ready for the photo session to end so she can begin to party. Then there's the nice-looking lady in the spotted dress, smiling - Maria, or as we knew her, "Mari." From Spain she was; took excellent care of us - just like having another mother, and a beloved part of our family, though not related to us either by blood or marriage. In fact we "lost" her when she married, a couple of years later. And many years later, birthday boy heard she was in New York. If she could ever be found, it would be the greatest birthday present of all time - at least to this old kid and his sister.

The cake probably came from "La Gran Via," a well-known Havana bakery catering to the capital's sweet tooth. Any reader who has a copy of the 1958 Cuban Telephone Company directory should find this fine purveyor of cakes, breads, pastries and palatable delights within its pages. "La Gran Via" had a second - and successful - life in Miami, after the original enterprise was squelched by frowning, bearded types who hate it when you sing "Happy Birthday." Ah, well. Their loss, our gain.

Perhaps the cake was homemade and concocted with a set of fine Wecolite cake-making and baking aids, but this is unlikely; am pretty sure "La Gran Via" did the honors that 12th day of May, 1957. At least, there is no recollection of mother making a mess in the kitchen in the process of baking a cake.

The young 'uns sang "Happy Birthday," ate cake, drank soft drinks, ran around, screamed, smashed the pinata (tilde over the "n" again!) - yes, there was a pinata with those little flimsy favors inside we who have smashed one know so well. I wish I could get hold of our Time Travelers - you know, those guys and gals flying around into the Past and the Future, the Once and Future Cuba, in their unusually-equipped Delorean - if you have been reading this blog carefully you should be able to locate them - and travel with you back to that fun-filled day, fifty Mays ago. We'd have a great time. The kiddies would have to forego the beer for a day, though - since we'd all be under age. Then again, you might prefer Cawy, Materva, or Maltina.

Happy birthday, Tauruses of Havana and other provinces, the 50 states, and the whole world, for that matter. May someday another group of happy Cuban children and their loved ones celebrate their special day and sing "Happy Birthday" with abandon, or whatever they want to sing in whatever language they desire to sing it, on the once-again green grounds of the Focsa building.

A Funny Thing Happened...

2007-04-24T17:59:00.000-04:00

But it did not happen on the way to the Forum. Just teasin' a little bit. Remember "A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum?" If you do...you may be as old as I am.

No, the funny thing referred to is perhaps not so funny. While reviewing the blog, past entries, settings, and so on, in preparation for the next posting, happened to notice the images originally displayed in the "Primavera Negra Memorial and Remembrance" entry for March 23, 2007 were no longer visible. They had been trashed. Curiously, this, as far as could be determined, had not occurred with any other of the Havana5060 blog's graphics.

The sleuth in me said: "Investigate; find the culprits and round up the usual suspects." Blogger.com's Help feature was forensically combed through to see if the aforementioned problem was widespread. In fact, some information on the subject was found, to wit:

"Wednesday, April 18, 2007

RESOLVED: We are seeing reports of uploaded images not appearing properly on blogs. We are investigating the issue.

Update (12:36AM): there was a problem introduced during the maintenance earlier today which has now been resolved. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Labels: fixed

Posted by Vincent at 23:29 PDT"

Well, Vincent - no doubt you tried, or somebody tried; but none of the images used for the Bobby Fuller story featured in the March 23 post re-displayed.

So today, having some time on my hands, this being one positive benefit of the root canal procedure endured earlier in the day, and with the calming assistance of Ibuprofen 600 mg, the blogger bit the bullet...actually, not a good idea when you have been "canalized" - biting soft noodles might be better...and fixed the problem. Thankfully, all image and text files used had backups.

The lessons to be learned here, especially if you have invested much time and effort on your blog - this is for you too, Brothers and Sisters of the Blog 'Hood:

1) Give your blog a periodic checkup - postings, images, links, audio, video, whatever you have on it; if it ain't broke, don't fix it, but if it is, do your
repairs.

2) Back up your work - back it up, back it up, back it up. This is essential.

3) Remember that, just because you are paranoid, doesn't mean there isn't someone out there trying to get you - so protect your work whenever possible. Now, I am willing to accept Blogger.com's explanation about the image display problem, and even that "they" considered it fixed. Nevertheless, I find it curious that no other posting except this particular one, in the wake of the Fuller's stunning legal victory against the crumbling creep of Cuba, was affected by the mysterious problem. A closet acolyte of castrianism at work, perhaps? Anything is possible.

Since we are revisiting the Primavera Negra and Bobby Fuller subject, and since we are speaking of images and graphics, why not bring you a minor photographic update, courtesy of my younger sister, who had graciously volunteered to shoot some images for the original post, but which unfortunately were not ready on time. Nevertheless, the time is now.

The Bobby Fuller Way sign looks particularly nice with the Miami sky and the glorious greenery surrounding it, set in the neighborhood which he knew well.

And the very same mailbox next to which he was photographed in the early '50s still hangs on the facade of the Fuller home, a small memorial in its own way.

So, a blog glitch is fixed, the Robert Otis Fuller story continues to be told, and we remember once again the victims of Primavera Negra - The Black Spring.

April is a Taxing Month...

2007-04-20T21:47:00.000-04:00

Pun intended! At least those who, like this blog author, must deal with the Internal Revenue Service here in the Good Ol' USA, would agree with the title of this post.

And this is one of many matters which have gotten between me and Father Time, this month; as well as many other chores, obligations, family and friend issues - fortunately nothing life-threatening or life-changing - and have made it very unlikely the usual reminiscence and bygone memories-filled post will become reality before the end of the month. The subject to be discussed requires thorough research and preparation to do it justice. Since yours truly is a firm believer in "quality before quantity," the planned post could not in good conscience just be slapped together. Therefore it will not be cobbled together carelessly. It should be ready for May publishing. Maybe? No, it will be done, God willing and with Father Time's cooperation. Bear with me this once, dear readers.

Instead, a little unusual post, hopefully short and sweet, out of character with the theme of this blog perhaps, is offered. Events in the past few weeks, and especially in the last few days have gotten your blogger down a bit, and have caused him to do some thinking - too much perhaps - and get a bit philosophical, pondering why bad things happen to good people, whether they are students cut down by a madman in the prime of life and intellect, or decent Habaneros and other Cubanos slowly being strangled and stifled at the hands of human predators who do not wish to allow them a life; or blogger brothers and sisters tearing each other up, rather than making common cause against the common enemy...

This anecdote, courtesy of a dear friend, sums it up perfectly - at least for me, at this time; sums it up because it points the way out of the strife, the turmoil, the violence, the agitation and restlessness of these times. Perhaps too simplistic, but simple lessons often hide deep wisdom by which we can all benefit. Starting with me.

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two "wolves" inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?"
The wise old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Which wolf are you feeding? I know I am having a lot of trouble feeding the Good Wolf within me...let us be careful not to feed the Evil Wolf within - lest it devour us instead.

March Madness

2007-03-23T20:42:00.000-04:00

(Another Tarheel Victory in the Dean Dome - UNC vs William & Mary January 2nd, 2005 - photo by Albert Q)

Around this time of year the Quiroga household experiences a unique sort of madness, not an insane madness - a contradiction in terms, it is realized - but a sporting kind. You see, and college basketball lovers will instantly understand, the NCAA tournament is on; the lady of the house and Number One Daughter - for there is only one - are driven by the madness. The sport of the indoor court is in their blood. And in this household, interestingly, the ladies are the fanatics when it comes to sports...and when the wife's school team is awesomely performing, as they are this year, no one around is more passionate...the screaming in front of the TV...the daily checking of the team standings...the armchair coaching and cajoling. March Madness with Mrs. Q and her Tarheel Team, daughter adding to the din of the cheering fans.

Almost fifty years ago, there was another sort of March Madness going on in Havana. Not the sporting kind, unfortunately, though Habaneros - indeed, Cubans in general, were then and still are today very much into their sports, specially baseball. But no, the March Madness of Cuba then was in the political arena and there wasn't much to cheer about.

The Batista regime was starting to visibly totter as winds of change intensified; rebel types in the hills of Oriente province and other places lurked and pestered; urban unrest grew - assassinations were engineered by both sides, bombs exploded, citizens were jailed, protests proliferated, strikes were attempted. Stress, strife - you name it. Trouble in paradise, to use a cliche.

Not this kind of Mad-ness - you've seen this image before; you know, or perhaps you do not, Mad Magazine was sold in Cuba - too bad this cover wasn't published in '58...might have inspired someone to suggest a peace offering to the blusterin' beard-in-the-hills...if not a cigar, maybe a peace pipe - with some plastic explosive embedded - coulda staved off the crazyness to come. Oh, well. Just a Mad thought.

A certain kid back in those End Times was deep into comic books, indeed into reading anything and everything - of course, only those publications subject to parental approval. Here and there, he would stop at Mr. Pando's newstand in Focsa, "Vidriera N," meaning "Countertop N" on-of course-"N" street, and buy nifty comic books. Nice Mr. Pando, a Focsa neighbor, there standing to the right leaning on his countertop, was only too happy to sell the entertaining publications, as well as candy and other goodies, to the little boy and his friends.

Sometimes the young man would make an about face after the purchase and head right across to the Windsor Barber Shop, treasured comic book in hand, for a tonsorial session with the jovial Luis, who smiled a lot despite his serious look in the photograph...but quality barbering should after all be taken seriously, shouldn't it? His partner, not that you care perhaps, was another Alberto...an older gent also blessed with seemingly a gentle character. Unlike the kid, who's been kindly described, then and now, as...annoying.

Did you read "El Halcon Negro?"-or "Blackhawk," as titled for the American or British editions. The one being avidly read by the blogger-to-be was the Spanish edition; the subject episode in this particular chapter of the Halcon Negro saga was "Amenaza En Los Cielos!" "Threat From The Skies!" An enjoyable carefree reading and barbering moment back in that fateful Nineteen-Fifty-Eight.

Should you care to look at more Halcon Negro-Blackhawk covers and re-live your adventurous reading memories, fly your imagination to these links: www.kingdomcomics.org and www.bookpalace.com - the latter for the British editions.

"Okay, Annoying Kid; you've been ziggin' and zaggin' long enough - get to the point! Where are you taking us with this!? You will see. You will see. You see, Cubans have always been blessed with a well-developed sense of humor and carefree - you could almost say careless - jocularity. And in those days, as is the case now, humor helped the Habaneros and Cubans from other cities, towns, and provinces through what could be a tough day. There was one publication that fed, and fed upon, this Cuban sense of humor. And this too the kid read and enjoyed, even if, at that quasi-innocent age he did not always understand the subtle cynicism and sarcasm permeating the pages of...Zig Zag! Hawked by the street vendors with a distinctive marketing call: "Vaya el Zi' Za'!," the "g" usually truncated from the Zig and the Zag. "Here is Zig Zag; here comes Zig Zag!," they would announce every week. Fresh off the press.

Well, let's dig in our pocket for the necessary "niquel" or five-cent piece, and pick up the March 15, 1958 edition of Zig Zag for our reading pleasure. Ahh...one thing. It will help if you can read Spanish. Cuban Spanish, that is. Sorry, but Zig Zag was not bilingual. Come to think of it, neither was the young reader at the time.

Although there is neither will nor time to distill the humor from Cuban Spanish to the Anglo-Saxon tongue, a valiant effort will at least be made to explain the message of these pages; some of the meaning perhaps now being dated, and anachronistic. Perhaps some of you out there still remember and understand, and perhaps you will be kind enough to enlighten the rest of us regarding both the humorous and not-so-humorous meanings within these now yellowing pages.

The cover is interesting. A bearded mailman comes down from the hills delivering a letter from...well, it says so right on the letter. A not-at-all subtle allusion to certain bearded types skulking in the hills of the Sierra Maestra mountain range, making a nuisance of themselves. Wonder what message the letter brought? Some pious manifesto about all the "good things" guys with beards were gonna do for Cuba?? "And Then The Mailman Arrived," says the headline.

If you had the need to travel from Havana to the city of Santiago on the opposite end of the island, at that time all you had to do was hitch a ride - well, let me qualify that - pay your fare first - via the appropriately named Santiago-Habana Bus Line. However, things were getting a little too hot around the Santiago area at the time, what with scurrying bearded types in green fatigues and what not, so it might have been better to stay home, savoring some cafe Cubano and reading Zig Zag.

The political cartoon in this page -page 3- depicts a gent displaying a Cheshire cat-like grin. The title: "In the courtyard of Cuban-ness." The gentleman, who may be former Cuban president Grau, declares: "Friends all, why not say it, Cuban-ness is love." Behind him, his compatriots punch, kick, bite, and generally visit mayhem upon each other. A Zig Zag-ian and quite sardonic comment on the boiling, un-social ambiance in March 1958.

The editorial, to the left of the political cartoon-the placement probably not accidental, actually discusses a serious subject, the failure of the so-called "Commission of Harmony." This Commission was a well-meaning attempt to bring peace to the country through the formation of a government of national unity. This was an initiative on the part of the Catholic Church, spearheaded by Cardinal Arteaga and the Papal nuncio, Monsignor Centoz. By that late date, however, that initiative had the same probability of success as the probability of an Eskimo successfully building an igloo in Hell. Batista would not budge, and neither would "the mailman." Which takes us back to the cover of this issue - the mailman on the cover was delivering the response to this initiative from the stink-beard-in-the-hills: "No way, Fulgencio!" Batista's first name, by the way.

The government tried preventing news of this unwelcome plan - unwelcome to the government - in the press; but as can be unambiguously seen when one carefully turns the yellowed pages of this Zig Zag issue, that initiative was also a failure...

Which brings up an interesting paradox: Here we are - no, we should properly say "were" - living in the midst of a dictatorship, said regime being attacked physically and psychologically from many sides. Yet, Zig Zag was able to print an issue containing quite a few articles openly discussing the political turmoil, the doings of the opposition, jibing the government and engaging in not so subtle satire at the expense of Batista, his ministers, and Cuban politicians as a whole.

However, sometime in 1959 or perhaps early in 1960, after Zig Zag published a caricature of the by-then reigning stink-beard-formerly-from-the-hills, "it" took offense and Zig Zag was history...so to understand the paradox, we must ask this question: Will the real dictator please stand up? But don't stand too long, please. Just drop down through a loooong, dark shaft. There will be a reception committee wating. With pitchforks.

Even the horoscope page was not exempt from the satirical, wiseacre treatment from Zig Zag's talented writers. They could have found jobs with Mad Magazine...as did the cartoonist Prohias, creator of the "Spy vs Spy" characters. Here are some examples of undivine divination, straight from the pen of Zig Zag's swami.

"ARIES.-(March 21 to April 22).-Not favorable days for studies. There are student strikes."

"Taurus.-(April 21 to May 22).-Also not a suitable time for solving problems. Notice that even the Commission of Harmony has failed."

The large blank area in the next page is an ingenious advertisement, drawing the eye to the message more effectively than many other graphics-and-text laden examples we have been bombarded with since 1958. The simple message, which may require a magnifying glass for us folks with older, tired eyes to read: "TODAY we are not publishing an ad, since everyone knows, for air conditioning, refrigerators, televisions, and household appliances , the only firm which provides warranty, service, prices, and quality is Chez Matalon. - Galiano - Trocadero - Lagunas." Perhaps you or someone in your family purchased a Nifty Fifties' appliance from Mr. Matalon at his Galiano, Trocadero, or Lagunas location? Maybe this very ad induced the purchasing process, through clever marketing.

During those End Times of the Batista regime, evidently the not-so-great-dictator - because when it comes to being a REAL dictator, the stink-beard-in-the-hills wins the prize, hands down - appointed friends, cronies, and hangers-on to various governmental positions, or "ministries" to reward said appointees for some service or other, perceived or real. Many of the appointees were nameless, faceless types, little know or unknown to the average citizen. The cartoon alludes to that practice; the mother says to the daughter: "You, my daughter - going steady with that unknown, that nothing! The daughter retorts: "Don't criticize me, mother - perhaps he will be made a Minister."

Notice too the little cartoon in the middle of the page - a bearded character rides a tree saw, a "sierra" in Spanish. This is a play on words and images. "Sierra" means both "saw" and "mountain range." Back then, a certain bearded character was riding - some would say zigging and zagging - around the Sierra Maestra mountains in Oriente province; that would be near Santiago if you cared to explore the subject further courtesy the Santiago-Habana Bus Line.

There's always time to pause our reading and grab a cold Hatuey beer. The man standing next to the bottle was Manolo Ortega, a well-known sportscaster on radio and TV. He was more or less the spokesman for Hatuey beer. I wonder if he too was made a Minister? Doubtful, for after the reign of stinkbeard-the-first - hopefully the-last - began, Mr. Ortega regretfully went over to the Dark Side.

By now you must have noticed the advertisements which grace the pages of this issue. This was quite typical. In pre-bearded Cuba, advertisements were the life blood of newspapers, magazines, radio, television - all media. Just like now. That is, assuming you live under a normal, sane, freedom and free-market promoting government.

Despite deceptive declarations to the contrary, Cuba was no Third World country then. However, stinkbeard-the-first made sure he turned it into one. He did not want to see any more annoying ads in Zig Zag, no doubt...maybe he was afraid the sober merchants of Cuba would not let him buy on credit. Hmm...come to think of it, how much does he still owe his once-upon-a-time Russki friends??

Perhaps you can try your hand at completing the crossword puzzle. Should you succeed, please share your answers...just puzzled by the whole thing. Next to the crossword puzzle is a brief item, containing some puns and between-the-lines messages, the meaning a bit obscured by the passage of time, about the inauguration of the Havana Hilton hotel, which was to take place March 19th. "It comprises 30 floors, with 630 rooms," states the story.

Cubans have always been rabid sports fans, blogger's atypicality in that regard not at all representative of that national passion, and Zig Zag naturally featured a sports page. "La Venganza de Puppy" - "The Revenge of Puppy" heads off one article. Now, Puppy Garcia was no dog. He was a pretty damn good boxer, so you would not have wanted to crack jokes centered around his name within striking distance of his fists. Otherwise you might have wound up a wailing puppy on the ground, with a redesigned nose.

There is a little sarcastic gem about the middle of the page on the right, page 11 to be exact. Look at the small box next to the cartoon depicting an ill-tempered Indian chief. It reads: "Fangio will compete in the Sebring 12-Hour Race the 22nd." That refers to the 12-hour event held in Florida every year in March or April. The last line simply states: "If they let him." And if you read the February 25 post about the Grand Prix of Cuba you know where this is coming from, don't you?

This cartoon page pokes yet more fun at the free-for-all dispensing of political appointments and sinecured government jobs going on at the time. To explain the nuances, hidden meanings, the cynicism, satire and other components of this piece of politically-derived humor would probably take a dedicated blog or maybe require a thesis. Maybe it could be the basis for someone's thesis on Cuban politics of the late '50s. In a nutshell, the various characters represent nee'r-do-well, insignificant types, of dubious competence who, "by a miracle, were not appointed Ministers." That tells you a lot about the ones who WERE appointed...

Many Cuban magazines and newspapers back then had sections containing news and gossip about radio and TV personalities, shows, features and entertainment in general. Zig Zag was no exception. The article about the closing of the Paramount Films of Cuba company is interesting. This caused quite a bit of turmoil and the article details the complaints lodged by the Cuban employees of Paramount because of the company's evidently sudden and surprising decision to pull out of Cuba. Did the Paramount excecutives know something everyone else failed to grasp? Did they have a crystal ball which allowed them to read the future of Cuba? One wonders.

Nice pants, Yolanda...

This is the movie and movie critics' page. There are writeups about a new Marlon Brando and Miiko Taka movie, "Sayonara." And where did you see "Sayonara" in Havana? The Rodi theater perhaps? Or maybe at the Radiocentro radio/TV complex? "Sayonara" - that means "goodbye" or "farewell" in Japanese...something many of us would be saying to our dear Havana within a couple of years.

Were you allowed to smoke in movie theaters back then? I believe so - therefore if you went to the screening of "Sayonara," you might have puffed on a Partagas. "Una Tonga de Gusto" - literally, "A Heap of Taste."

The burning bus cartoon is a not-at-all-subtle reference to the ongoing sabotage mounted by the anti-Batista forces, daily taking place in Havana and elsewhere. The attendant shouts at the hapless would-be rider, "The bus coming behind ain't lit!" Not yet, anyway.

The cartoon on the next page is a comment on the sinister practice of eavesdropping and keeping the citizenry under watch. The man with open arms is evidently speaking out against the regime; the officer listening in obviously does not like what he's hearing and arrests the offender - who turns out to be an informer. Everything is fine as he identifies himself to his colleague. The citizens around them are puzzled. It is a good thing they did not take a cue from the declaiming dissident and started spouting their political disagreements and dissatisfactions...

"Entrapment" is what you call this kind of game, in true democracies usually reserved for purposes of catching low-level scum-types, such as drug dealers and pimps. It must be said that while under Batista there were a few who lent themselves to playing the role of informer - or as they were known, "chivatos" - "little bleating goats" - under the rule of stink-beard, the entire nation has been recruited for this despicable role. Thus, you have the infamous "committees for the defense of the revolution," whose ranks are made up of what can only be too kindly described as neighbors from hell, spying on everyone's comings, goings, and on their most minute and insignificant acts and actions. Maybe it is time for Cubans to revive the "Commission of Harmony" and obliterate the "committees for the defense of tyranny, incompetence, theft, cruelty, and criminality." That is what they are.

There are pages set aside for political news and commentary, the articles again couched in sardonic and/or satyrical language, directly or obliquely addressing current events and other comings-and-goings. A definition from the "Diccionario Particular," or "Personal Dictionary," sums up the times.

"CALOR.-A veces se siente
sin ser el tiempo de estio,
porque en Cuba, aunque haya frio
la cosa sigue caliente."

"HEAT.-Sometimes it is felt
although it may not be the season,
because in Cuba, even when it's freezin'
things are still heatin'."

That, admittedly, is sort of a fractured translation attempting to make the words rhyme more or less like their Spanish counterparts. Less, not more.

If things are indeed too hot - or were too hot - one can grab a refreshing, cold Maltina. Think of a sweet stout or porter, sans alcohol, and you will have some notion about the nature of this drink. You may have to find another brand, but well-stocked food markets today, specially those catering to the Spanish taste, carry these soft drinks. Ask for "malta." Wonder how it might go down mixed with a Guinness? Gotta try that sometime. It might be a good way to ruin a Guinness, or ruin a Maltina, come to think of it.

These pages you saw already, if you read the post about the Grand Prix of Cuba. This is the account of race driver Fangio's kidnapping and release the month before.

The back cover is an advertisement for Omega Bottlers from Spain, bringing fine cognac to Cuba. Back then, any Cuban could buy it. Good luck if you are a native living in Cuba now and you develop a thirst for Omega cognac - for one thing, the warehouse will no longer be there. For another, it is not listed in the food ration booklet as a basic staple. Maybe some foreign tourist can find and buy some for you, amigo Cubano.

The ship depicted in the ad was a real Spanish vessel, the "Marquis of Comillas." Most of Cuba's Spanish clergy and nuns were...shipped out of Cuba on this ship in 1961 by decree and order of king stinkbeard-the-bastard. Who would have thought...

Well, your blogger friend plunked down his "niquel" - five cents, that is - so you could enjoy zig-zaggin' through Zig Zag. In truth, it was more than five cents, but it was well worth it. Hope you have enjoyed this trip through the pages of the past.

By the way, Zig Zag was reborn in exile and continued publishing successfully for many years. Eventually, it came to be known as "Zig Zag Libre," or "Free Zig Zag." This February 1963 cover, which you have also seen here and there throughout the blog, is a favorite, for reasons which perhaps are too obvious.

The headline states: "Like that, like that, like that I want you." Shall we send a letter to fidel, suggesting he check in once and for all into Hell? Excuse me, have to buy some postage.

Primavera Negra Memorial and Remembrance

2007-03-18T00:19:00.001-04:00

These poor words, cobbled together hastily cannot do justice to the subject of this post. Justice is the keyword here, for there are many in Cuba who seek it and have yet to find it. As promised on the entry for February 17th, here is the story of one man, one family, caught up in the terrible turbulence, the storm of "castrianism," as our friend Asha Nair of the "Castrianism-The Religion of Hate" blog so well puts it, at the beginning of that storm of hate, which continues unabated. His mother did not want him forgotten. We also neither want him forgotten nor the victims of the Black Spring of Cuba four years ago; let us also not forget good people like Dr. Biscet, Guillermo Farinas, and so many others, unjustly imprisoned-or worse-whose names and stories would fill blog-volumes. We of the Band of Bloggers united in remembrance of the Black Spring hope you will acquaint yourself with the names and stories of the victims and remember them. And we hope you will add your voice as well as your actions to the task of ending the nightmare which has brought many Black Springs to Cuba since 1959.

The Quirogas never had the honor and privilege of knowing Robert Otis Fuller. But we had-indeed, still do-the honor of calling the Fuller family our neighbors for many years. Since 1962, to be exact. I still remember the first thing I heard about the Fullers, from my mother, not long after we moved into their neighborhood. My mother, spotting Robert's mother across the street said, to the best recollection of this aging mind, "Ah, there is Mrs. Fuller...her son was shot by castro." Shot by castro. To this day, those words make me shiver.

Allow this document, documenting the wrongful death lawsuit filed by the Fuller family on Bobby's behalf, to tell the story. It does so succinctly, through the cold, hard facts. A suit filed against a cold, hard, brutal terrorist government. The source document can be found at the www.cuban-exile.com site, together with Bobby's photograph featured next to the Primavera Negra banner. Look for Document 256.

IN THE CIRCUIT OF THE 11TH
JUDICIAL CIRCUIT IN AND FOR
MIAMI-DADE COUNTY, FLORIDA

GENERAL JURISDICTION DIVISION

CASE NO. 02-12475

LYNITA FULLER CASKEY, as
Personal Representative of the
Estate of ROBERT OTIS FULLER,
Deceased, on behalf of Lynita Fuller
Caskey, surviving daughter, and The
Estate of Robert Otis Fuller.

Plaintiff,

vs.

THE REPUBLIC OF CUBA

Defendant

_______

COMPLAINT

Plaintiff, LYNITA FULLER CASKEY, as Personal Representative of the Estate of ROBERT OTIS FULLER ("BOBBY FULLER") Deceased, on behalf of Lynita Fuller Caskey, surviving daughter, and The Estate of Robert Otis Fuller, through undersigned counsel, hereby sues the Defendant, THE REPUBLIC OF CUBA ("CUBA") and alleges as follows:

1. This is an action for damages in excess of the minimum jurisdictional limits of this Court.

2. Plaintiff, LYNITA FULLER CASKEY is, and at all times material hereto was a national of the United States of America and a resident of South Florida.

3. Defendant, CUBA is, and at all times material hereto was, a foreign sovereign state as defined by the terms and provisions of 28 U.S.C. 1603.

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4. At all times material hereto, Plaintiff LYNITA FULLER CASKEY, was, is and/or will be duly appointed Personal Representative of the Estate of ROBERT OTIS FULLER, Deceased, and the proper party to bring this action.

5. This court has jurisdiction over the subject matter of this cause pursuant to the terms of 28U.S.C. 1330 and 1331 as Plaintiff's claims are brought pursuant to the Foreign Sovereign Immunities Act, 28 U.S.C. 1602, et seq.

6. Defendant CUBA is subject to suit in a court of competent jurisdiction in any state court in the United States pursuant to the provisions of 28U.S.C. 1605.

7. Congress has crafted an exception to the Foreign Sovereign Immunities Act, through the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996 ("AEDPA"). Under 28 U.S.C. 1605(7), the sovereign immunity of a foreign state is waived when a U.S. national Plaintiff seeks money damages in United States courts for acts of extrajudicial killing for which the foreign state is responsible.

8. The substantive cause of action is based upon the Civil Liability for Acts of State Sponsored Terrorism, 28U.S.C.A. 1605. Said statute creates a cause of action against agents of a foreign state that act under the conditions specified in section 1605(a)(7) of the Foreign Sovereign Immunities Act.

9. An additional substantive claims lies in the Torture Victim Protection Act of 1991. Said Act establishes a civil action for recovery of damages from an individual who, under actual or apparent authority of a foreign nation, engages in torture or extrajudicial killing.

10. A foreign nation is liable for damages to the individual's legal representative, or to any person who may be a claimant in an action for wrongful death. For purposes of this Act, the term "extrajudicial killing" means a deliberate killing not authorized by a previous

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judgment pronounced by a regularly constituted court affording all the judicial guarantees which are recognized as indispensable by civilized peoples. See 28U.S.C. 1605(e)(1).

11. Summary executions are considered "extrajudicial killing" within the meaning of 28 U.S.C. 1350. See Lafontant v. Aristide, 844 F.Supp.128(E.D.N.Y.1994)(dicta).

12. Defendant, Cuba is designated to be a state sponsor of terrorism under the terms and provisions of 56(j) of Export Administration Act of 1979, 50U.S.C. 2405(j).

FACTS OF THE CASE

13. In 1903, Jennie M. Fuller, (paternal grandmother of Plaintiff), moved to Holguin, Cuba with her family from Massachusetts. Her father, Alvin Jewett purchased and develop certain land and held other assets and personal properties in Holguin, Cuba including but not limited to:

Plantation at Holguin, Cuba consisting of approximately 120 caballerias of land and improvements thereof-(approximately 4,000 acres of land)
A saw mill, equipment, livestock (cattle) crops,
A sugar cane business and other personal property.

The family owned and operated a saw mill, they raised crops, cattle and grew sugar cane on the island.

14. Jennie M. (Jewett) Fuller, (paternal grandmother of Plaintiff), married William Otis Fuller in 1925, (both United States citizens) and had seven children, including the Plaintiff's father, Robert Otis Fuller all of which were born in Cuba. Bobby Fuller was born on May 11, 1934 in Santiago de Cuba.

15. The Fuller family assets and properties located in Holguin, Cuba were jointly owned by Plaintiff's paternal grandparents, Jennie M. Fuller and William Otis Fuller, her husband, and by Plaintiff's paternal uncle, Miles Chester Jewett.

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16. On July 21, 1940, the family formed a corporation called Cia. Agricola De Lewiston, S.A., a Cuban Corporation. All assets were assigned to Cia. Agricola De Lewiston, S.A., which was created for the specific purpose of carrying on and/or conducting the family business in Cuba. The Cuban Corporation conducted business in Cuba continuously from July 21, 1940 until August of 1959.

17. In January of 1959, Fidel Castro and his 26th of July Communist revolutionary rebel army movement took power over Cuba and began to radically alter the economy and social structure of the island.

18. By May of 1959 the Castro government restricted or set forth the maximum limits of land ownerships allowed for individuals and corporate entities. All additional or excess (privately owned) land was expropriated or confiscated by the government. Shortly thereafter, all lands were nationalized and became "state owned" properties.

19. In August of 1959, the Castro Government ordered that the Fuller family corporation be dissolved.

20. By September 3, 1959, the family corporation, Cia Agricola De Lewiston, S.A. was formally dissolved pursuant to orders of the Castro government at which time the family distributed the corporate assets among its stockholders as follows:

Mr. & Mrs. William Otis Fuller 68.994 caballerias of land/ 2,287.97 acres
Mr. & Mrs. Miles Chester Jewett 58.730 caballerias of land/ 1,947.60 acres.
(1 caballeria equals 33.162 acres)

21. By December of 1959, the Cuban Communist Revolution was in full force and the survival of existing businesses and institutions were threatened. Due to the foregoing, the late William Otis Fuller returned to the U.S. while Jennie M. Fuller, his wife remained in Cuba to look over and protect the Fuller family land and their assets.

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22. As of February of 1960, the Fuller's land, property, and saw mill including all of it's improvements, livestock, personal belongings and other items of personal value situated on the property, were intervened, and/or confiscated by the Castro Government.

23. Subsequently thereafter, the Plaintiff's father, Bobby Fuller, ventured to Cuba in an effort to protect his family's land, businesses and other interests.

24. On October 15, 1960, Bobby Fuller (ex-U.S. Marine) along with another American and two Cuban nationals, were captured and arrested by Castro agents who charged them with counter-revolutionary activities. By 4:00 P.M. on the same day, Bobby Fuller and the three others were placed in a sham trial held in Santiago de Cuba. They were all convicted within a few hours followed by an immediate appeal which took less than fifteen minutes. Sentences were instantaneously imposed and upheld as follows:

The two Cuban Nationals were sentenced to imprisonment.
The two Americans were sentenced to death by firing squad.
[For the sentences of remainder of the invasion force, see document 0118]

25. By 4:20 A.M.-October 16, 1960, less than twenty four hours after his capture and arrest, agents of the Castro Government in San Juan Hill, acting under orders of the Castro Government, led Bobby Fuller to a firing squad where he was shot and killed after being tortured by having his blood drained from his body. Thereafter, his body was thrown into an unmarked mass grave in an unknown location

COUNT 1-WRONGFUL DEATH

26. Plaintiff re-alleges and reasserts paragraphs 1 through 26 as if fully set forth herein.

27. On October 16, 1960, Defendant, CUBA intentionally, unlawfully, and with complete disregard for human life, tortured and executed ROBERT OTIS FULLER.

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28. Defendant, CUBA caused the deliberate and wrongful death of ROBERT OTIS FULLER by directing and participating in the torture and execution of the deceased.

29. As a direct and proximate result of the Defendant's actions, Lynita Fuller Caskey, as surviving daughter and Estate of Robert Otis Fuller have suffered the following damages:

a. Lynita Fuller Caskey, as surviving daughter, has lost the support and services of the Decedent, Robert Otis Fuller in the past with interest and will continue to suffer such losses in the future, and;
b. Lynita Fuller Caskey, as surviving daughter, has suffered the loss of the father's love companionship and protection in the past will continue to suffer such a loss in the future.

c. Lynita Fuller Caskey, as surviving daughter, has suffered severe mental pain and anguish in the past and will continue to do so in the future.

d. The Estate of Robert Otis Fuller lost net accumulations and sustained economic losses, and;

e. The Estate of Robert Otis Fuller also seeks compensation for the pain and suffering of Robert Otis Fuller prior to his death.

f. Any and all other damages to which Plaintiff may be entitled.

WHEREFORE, Plaintiff, LYNITA FULLER CASKEY demands judgment against THE REPUBLIC OF CUBA for compensatory damages, plus interest and costs.

COUNT II-PUNITIVE DAMAGES.

30. Plaintiff realleges and reasserts paragraph 1 through 26 as if fully set forth herein.

31. The extreme and outrageous acts of CUBA, the Defendant, in intentionally torturing and executing the deceased, ROBERT OTIS FULLER constitute willful and/or wanton

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acts.

32. Pursuant to 28U.S.C. 1606, Plaintiff, Lynita Fuller Caskey is entitled to recover punitive damages from Defendant, CUBA for this extreme and outrageous conduct.

WHEREFORE, Plaintiff demands judgment against THE REPUBLIC OF CUBA for punitive damages.

JOHN S. GAEBE & ASSOCIATES, P.A.
Counsel for Plaintiff
2950 S.W. 27th Avenue
Miami, FL 33133
Phone (305) 445-3800
Fax (305) 448-5800

RASCO REININGER, PEREZ
& ESQUENAZI, P.L.
Counsel for Plaintiff
283 Catalonia Avenue, 2nd Floor
Coral Gables, FL 33134
Phone (305) 476-7100
Fax (305) 476-7102

By__________________
JOHN S. GAEBE, ESQ.
Fla Bar No. 304824

Date: 5/13/02

By: _________________
ALFONSO PEREZ, ESQ.
Fla. Bar No. 220620

Date: 5/13/02

Do not let the Fuller surname fool you. These good-no, great people- were and are Cuban to the core. The family had New England roots, but eight Fuller children, Bobby among them, were born in Cuba. The Fullers and Jewetts adopted Cuba, and Cuba adopted them. As American as apple pie, yet as Cuban as "arroz con frijoles negros" - rice-n-black beans.

Now that you are acquainted with the tragedy of the Fullers, representative of many such tragedies played out in Cuba since 1959, you may ask if there was any justice done. Yes, there was some justice done. Bear in mind it is incomplete, at least in this world. The verdict of the court against the criminal government of fidel castro cannot bring back Robert Otis Fuller nor the many who were, like him, viciously murdered.

This article from the Miami Herald explains it well - wish it displayed better, but it comes from a photocopy. Father - rightfully so - gave the original to the family.

Note that the Fullers who should have lived to see this day come to pass sadly did not...

The Quirogas received this keepsake when we came to pay our respects to the Fullers in their family home, after Bobby's mother passed away. We well remember her, still strong in her eighties and into her nineties, looking after her yard and her lovingly-tended plants, wielding a machete with dexterity, slicing off weeds and too-tall blades of grass. She too, and Mr. Fuller, her husband, must not be forgotten. They were victims of the vicious, inhuman weed which should have been cut off and cut out of the soul of Cuba before it could take root. Have no fear - the inhuman weed will soon be cut off; the wheat separated from the chaff. The chaff shall be burned...

I think this is a beautiful tribute to Jennie Fuller from her loving family. She did not want her son forgotten; let us pray that even in a small way, this post will help accomplish that. And also keep the many victims of terrorist state murder, the long-suffering political prisoners and prisoners of conscience in the minds of all who read this and see the videos, hear the audio messages, examine the graphics and read the texts contributed by the other bloggers for the Primavera Negra campaign. May this all lead to the quicker demise of that criminal regime! How much longer must it be endured?

The City of Miami has done its bit to ensure Bobby Fuller indeed is not forgotten, designating SW 19th Avenue "Bobby Fuller Way - - the image comes from the Cuban Information Archives site.

We do not forget, Mrs. Fuller. We keep you, Bobby, all the Fuller family in our prayers often. Some measure of justice has been accomplished, but the full cup of justice must still be forced down the throat of the perpetrators. It would be most satisfying to see the criminals responsible in these settings...

(Trial of adolf eichmann, Jerusalem 1961 - Yad Vashem photo archives image 1572/11)

Isn't it time to bring these genocidal criminals to justice, before they cheat the hangman?? We wait. But as we wait, there will be no forgetting the Bobby Fullers, the Biscets, the Farinases, the Seventy-Five, the thousands more who have died and endured torture and unjust imprisonment at the hands of the nazi-like acolytes of castrianism, 1959-2007.