The end

What does it feel like to have an older sibling, a big brother? My mother asked me about it once. As she was an only child, it was something she never experienced. Not only that; she didn’t have any older cousins either, so it was something totally alien to her.

            For me, as I’ve said before, there wasn’t a moment of my life when Lalo wasn’t around. He was always there. He was an eternally present existence, either near or far, but always there. When we were children, he altered between savior, hero, teacher, defender and torturer. I was one of his favorite playthings and he loved to tease me. He also told me stories that I can still remember parts of, even though I must have been around three or four when he told them to me. I also remember he was one of my biggest fans when we were really small kids. One time, when I was around four years old, he and my mother and I were all looking through a coloring book. There was a bird on one of the pages and I remember saying, “Bluebird!”  Apparently, the caption under the drawing was, in fact, Bluebird, so Lalo immediately said, “Look!!! She can read!!!” He also saved one of my eyes once. He kept telling my mother and father that he could see there was something in my eye. Every time they’d look, there wasn’t anything there. He kept insisting and insisting and was finally able to explain that they had to look against the light; he was seeing the wing of an insect stuck to the eye. The only way it could be seen was at an angle.

            He taught me how to curse (when I was about 5), how to tie my shoelaces (when I was about seven), how to smoke (around 10), how to follow a football game (around 15) and how to whistle by blowing out instead of in (unbelievably, at around 20).

            His presence faded and strengthened alternatively as the six-year difference between us acquired and lost importance throughout our lives. During my first years, he was omnipresent. Apparently, he even became my interpreter when I first began to babble because he seemed to be able understand my baby-talk. He was definitely the leader in all things concerning what we were to play or watch on TV and, years later, when my parents went out at night and he babysat, he used to send me to the kitchen for different things by saying, “Slave! Get me a glass of milk!” If I got angry and protested, he would threaten me by saying he’d switch channels on whatever TV show we were watching. More or less during that same time period he was taking judo lessons and explained carefully that it was vitally important to learn how to fall correctly so you didn’t hurt yourself. He kept “teaching” me how to fall by throwing me around the house as much as he could. He played his records for me and introduced me to the music of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jethro Tull and Frank Zappa; later on he would also help make me an avid listener of Sting and Diana Krall. He was also curiously generous at times when having a little sister must have been a total drag; he took me to see Jesus Christ Superstar and Tommy when I was about 11 or 12.

            Different people have told me how wonderful it is that I’ve written all I have about him; that I’m a good sister for doing this, for talking about him the way I do. It is no merit of mine; if he hadn’t been who he was, I wouldn’t have said the things I have. He was more generous than anyone I’ve ever met, really and truly. The world is a much sadder place without him and all the people who never got to meet him lost out on something wonderful. He was kind and loving and incredibly funny. I know his absence is something that I will always carry with me, just like his presence was something constant and immovable in my life.

            He made me promise to write his book for him; I’ve done my best. I leave it now hoping it is at least a tiny bit of what he would have wanted. In reality, I have no way of expressing what I feel; how I long for him. But this is my tribute; this is my love song to my brother, whom I shall forever miss.

Susana Olivares Bari


                          

El final

¿Qué se siente tener un hermano o hermana, un hermano mayor? Mi mamá me lo preguntó en alguna ocasión. Dado que fue hija única, fue algo que nunca experimentó. No sólo eso; tampoco tuvo primos mayores, de modo que era algo totalmente ajeno a ella.

What would our lives be like without some sort of belief system, without faith? I have always thought that belief, faith, is an inescapable human trait. Even those people who claim to be atheists believe in something. Call it science, enlightenment, the power of the human spirit, will, whatever… it is still faith. The certainty that there is something else, if not greater. Something outside ourselves that can transcend our existence. Something that will live on after we’ve gone.

            For Lalo, the search for this faith became an essential part of his existence. His childhood was spent under the “wings” of the Catholic Church. He was even al altar boy at some point. And like every Catholic I’ve ever known, there came a moment when he doubted his faith and questioned his beliefs; especially during the difficult years of his adolescence.

            Later on, he dabbled with different eastern philosophies. I know he was into the Sufis for a while (remember Mushkil Gusha? Today, Thursday, is Mushkil Gusha Day), and then he started reading Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, which eventually led him full-circle back to Catholicism, through John Grepe and his group.

            I never really understood why Lalo became so fixated with Grepe. If I’m honest, I have to admit I disliked the man; there was something about him I distrusted instinctively. And yet, I neither heard nor saw anything but the purest of intentions from him; as far as I know, he never extorted money from his followers, he didn’t ask for “gifts”, he didn’t ask for “favors”. Still, I disliked him and couldn’t understand why Lalo followed him so blindly, so wholeheartedly. In part, I always thought Lalo had finally found an acceptable father-figure he could place his trust in. Grepe would never betray him like my father, unfortunately, did. And, for all intents and purposes, Grepe helped Lalo “get his act together”. He became more responsible, more centered. He even became a sort of “heir” to Grepe once he died. Lalo kept on with the group for some time and became one of the “teachers” for the newer generations. In any case, it was Grepe who “returned” Lalo’s faith to him and it was that faith that saw him through the darkness of his disease.

            The whole idea of the Acapulco Hilton Experience, of the original book Lalo had planned, was that it would serve as a tribute to Lalo’s faith, that it would show the power of Jesus Christ and of His Glory; especially if one considers that Lalo had supposedly been cured of his cancer. And there, as Shakespeare would say, is the rub.

            Make no mistake. Even though it wasn’t “complete”, if it wasn’t all that we wanted, what happened to Lalo was still a miracle. In spite of having Stage 4 pancreatic cancer with metastasis to the liver and lymph nodes, he survived almost two whole years, one of which was the absolute sum of perfection for him: he stopped the chemo, continued playing and composing his music, got married, set his world and his soul to rights. And yet… and yet…

            What’s the problem, you ask? What could possibly be your beef with the situation? The man had faith, the man believed his faith would cure him, the man survived a really, really, REALLY long time with a disease that inevitably kills all who suffer from it. Look at Michael Landon, look at Steve Jobs, for Pete’s sake! If STEVE JOBS himself couldn’t make it, with all his millions, with any and every doctor at his beck and call… what do you expect! IT WAS A MIRACLE!!!! PERIOD.

            And I agree. Absolutely. But what pains me, what kills me, is that I’m not sure he knew, in the end, that it was. I think he died scared and disappointed. That there was a point in which his unshakeable faith, his absolute belief in the power of God became something else.

            I remember my mother trying to keep him grounded even while hoping the miracle would last longer. She would tell him, “Honey, I don’t want you to be disappointed if this doesn’t happen.”  And he would get furious. I think he thought that if we didn’t all “pull together” behind the miracle, it wouldn’t happen. And that’s not faith… that’s superstition. It’s the equivalent of knocking on wood or throwing salt behind your left shoulder. Faith is what he had at the beginning, when they told him at the hospital after they tried to perform a surgical procedure on him that there hadn’t been a chance to complete it, that the cancer was too advanced. We all cried; we all felt like dying. He said, “Mother, I don’t want to die, but if God calls me, I’m ready!” And he meant it.

            I don’t mean to criticize him; I don’t mean to make less of his attitude. On the contrary. He is the bravest person I know. In the end, I saw him face his last agony with a dignity and strength that humble me and take my breath away. Even during the worst of his pain, he had something nice to say about everyone; even when he was half out of it with the morphine, he would ask if you were ok. If I ever get to be a fraction of what he was at that most difficult time of his life, during the darkest of his moments, I will consider myself blessed. And that is, perhaps, the gist of it. I wish I could have given him back some of what he gave us, of what he gave me. I wish I could have spoken more openly to him instead of being afraid of his anger, of his desperation at our lack of faith. I wish I could have told him, with absolute certainty, “This was the miracle. You were the miracle.” I wish I could have found a way to comfort him and let him know he didn’t have to be afraid anymore; that he was going home.

Susana Olivares Bari

¿Cómo serían nuestras vidas sin algún tipo de sistema de creencias, sin fe? Siempre he pensado que creer, tener fe, es un rasgo humano ineludible. Incluso las personas que afirman ser ateos creen en algo. Llámese ciencia, ilustración, el poder del espíritu humano, voluntad, lo que sea… sigue siendo fe. La certeza de que hay algo más, si no superior. Algo fuera de nosotros que puede trascender nuestra existencia. Algo que seguirá viviendo aún cuando ya no estemos.

MOON RIVER

Moon River was Lalo’s favorite song when he was a little boy, and the lyrics say it all; describe his life, and even his departure from it. 

Susana’s last entry was so eloquent, so heartfelt, that there is nothing other than that to add to this good-bye letter, except to say… Eduardo, you have left a void in our lives which can never be filled. We loved you then, we love you now, and always will.

Mother

MOON RIVER

Moon River era la canción favorita de Lalo cuando era un niño chiquito, y la letra lo dice todo; describe su vida e, incluso, su partida de la misma.

La última entrada de Susana fue tan elocuente, tan sentida, que no hay nada más que añadir a esta carta de despedida excepto a decir … Eduardo, has dejado un hueco en nuestras vidas que nunca podremos llenar. Te amábamos entonces, te amamos ahora y así será siempre.

Mami

It is now the middle of August and we’re moving perilously close to the first-year anniversary of Lalo’s death. I use the adjective “perilously” because I can almost feel a darkening as we move towards September.

            Although I have tried to make this blog about Lalo’s life, it always comes back around to his death, to his absence and to our pain at losing him. I suppose you could say that, in a way, the degree of our collective pain becomes a tribute to his life.

            Is there more to be said about Lalo? More than could fill a universe of tomes and there would still be a whole additional universe of all that was not spoken. But, surely, every person who has loved another feels this way. Surely, most people enter into this category, at least for those who loved them. Is it really possible to say one was better or more worthy of love, attention or note than another? I don’t believe so.

            Death snatches from us all that is good and kind and beautiful of those we love. We are left empty handed; desperate not to fill a void we know will never be replaced by anything or anyone, but to see this object of our affections among us once again. Here is where we want to turn the clock back, again and again, to rewind the movie of our lives, to find a way to pause the story at precisely the last moment of laughter, of blissful ignorance, before the coming of the shadow that now covers our existence.

             This blog was started to keep a promise; I believe I’ve kept it to the limits of my ability. It is not that I have no more to say about my brother; it is not that there is nothing more to his life than what I and others have tried to express. But the cycle is nearing its end. After the two remaining entries for August, I will post one last entry for the first week of September.

            To those who contributed to the blog, I wish to express my deepest thanks. To my mother and Gloria, who tenaciously held on to the idea of the project and who truly helped me keep my promise with endless contributions of their own and words of advice for me when I faltered, I express my undying gratitude. To all of the readers of the blog, most of whom I’ve never met and who come from the most surprising places like Germany, Russia, Ukraine, Malaysia, France, Spain, the UK, and many more, in addition to Mexico and the US, I hope The Acapulco Experience gave you at least a taste of my brother’s life, of his country, of his essence. You can listen to some of his music at www.lalo-olivares.com. I also wish thank you for becoming what I never expected to find among strangers… loyal companions on this journey.

Susana Olivares Bari

Ya estamos a mediados de agosto y nos acercamos peligrosamente al primer aniversario de la muerte de Lalo. Uso el calificativo “peligrosamente” porque casi puedo sentir un oscurecimiento a medida que nos acercamos a septiembre.

In another of Lalo's notebooks, I found these sketches. I leave them with you...

En otro de los cuadernos de Lalo, me topé con estos bocetos. Aquí se los dejo....



Just a drum and the desert

GONE, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

In a way it seems impossible, yet in another way it would seem to be something that happened a long, long, time ago- - - in a little over a month from now Eduardo will have been gone one year. The initial pain has eased somewhat but lies just beneath the surface, and will probably never really go away.

I’ve been remembering random scenes and situations of his growing-up and adult years lately without any special chronological order to the memories, some of which follow:

Mimi

Our trips home when he was very little, especially the one when he learned to walk while we were visiting my mother in Chicago. Teaching him to speak what now seems to me a trial I put him through (and for that matter later on, also, his poor sister ) by using a dual language vocabulary system - - -e.g. mira/look, coche/car, luz/light. I have to justify my madness by saying that the motive was to avoid my mother-in-law’s disapproval should his first words be solely in English.

Chayo and Lalo

Then there was the time the D.F was plastered with “Gringo go home” placards. He and I were in a cab and he began speaking to me in English. Needless to say, I thought it best to forego our usual mode of communication, whispering to him that just for the moment it would be fun to speak only in Spanish.

His disapproval of the egg white facial mask I was applying one day- - -“Mommy, egg is for eat, not for face!”

Hours and hours listening to music together, beginning with my singing him to sleep every night and the daily wake-up renditions from his crib of what I had sung to him the night before. Then came the first records I played for him,“Tubby the Tuba” and all of “Cri-Cri’s” songs, learned and sung year in and year out. We were travel companions throughout every other conceivable genre (not all of which I necessarily enjoyed), up to and finally including his own compositions which, of course, I not only enjoyed but which also made me very proud, although he nearly drove his sister and me crazy repeating one particular phrase on the piano in a piece he was composing over and over again into the wee hours of the morning until he felt it was just right; however, the end result was the presentation of the composition at the Pinacoteca Virreinal. The endless hours of practicing classical guitar which, to me, was the instrument through which he best expressed himself but which he later abandoned in favor of the violin.

Throughout his childhood he came to me for solace and/or advice since his relationship with his father was not all that one might wish, and as an adolescent and adult I became his confidant although some of the things we dealt with I would probably have preferred not knowing - - -not because they shocked or insulted me, but rather due to the fact that as his mother, anything that hurt or offended him broke my heart. Well, I guess he saved the worst for less maternal reaction because Susana has reported several hair-raising experiences he confided to her that he must have felt I simply wasn’t up to.

Returning to childhood; when Suzy came along there was a good deal of obligatory teasing of the big brother and the pleas for help from the baby sister- - - “Mami, mira Lalo!!!” (“Mommy, look at Lalo!!!”) And oh!, my horror at finding out that he and his little friends were rolling her up in a throw-rug and then proceeding to roll same down a flight of stairs with her inside. She was deliriously happy about the whole thing, I was not.

He lived, worked and studied in Cuernavaca for a while and formed a group of musicians who played blues, jazz and bossa standards at a very nice bistro there on week-ends. He convinced me to become their vocalist and for a time I travelled to the city of eternal spring every Friday to Sunday and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Later, when he became a producer and was composing client’s jingles for media exposure, if my voice was right for the product and/or the lyric had to be sung in English, he would book me and so we shared those musical moments, too.

The last time I sang for him was a very few days before he died. To cheer him up I sang him an old “ditty”about accentuating the positive, and eliminating the negative that had been sung to me as a child. He was enthralled with the message, asked me to repeat it over and over and, at the last, sang along. He asked me to write down the words. Suzy did me that favor and we gave them to him.

When he was about five or six he was constantly reprimanded by his father for, I must admit, pretty sloppy table manners. His father would say “you must learn to eat like a prince”, and so, as I close these remembrances I’ll borrow Horatio’s words to Hamlet:

Goodnight, sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Patricia Bari Frew

DESAPARECIDO, MÁS NUNCA OLVIDADO

De alguna manera parece imposible, pero por otra parte parecería ser algo que sucedió hace mucho, mucho tiempo…en poco más de un mes Eduardo habrá cumplido un año de fallecido. El dolor inicial se ha difuminado un tanto cuanto, pero se encuentra justo por debajo de la superficie y casi con toda seguridad nunca desaparecerá del todo.

Among some of the things Lalo left in boxes at my mother’s house throughout the years, I found a little notebook I gave him when he went to Medjugorje. The following are his travel notes. I have transcribed them exactly as he wrote them, with the exception of names, which I have omitted in favor of initials, which he himself used on most occasions. As you will find, they are in a combination of Spanish and English. The language he originally wrote in I have left in normal script. The translated material is, as usual, in italics.
S.

 November 14, 1993

FRANKFURT

Tired after a long journey, I couldn’t sleep on the plane. “Giddy” with the excitement of the flight. Joking with S. A woman, incredibly beautiful, distractions, wine, food, etc. At the same time, blown away about where I’m going. Mr. G, Mrs. D, Mrs. E absolutely convinced about the Virgin. Lunch at an Italian restaurant; very pleasant.

            Upon arriving at Frankfurt the cold from the North. I recognize it like an old friend (enemy). I enjoyed walking in the cold with the rain stinging me like cold needles, delicious. Europe with a very definite taste. Thinking of U. The end of the world? etc. etc. A certain sadness, lack of definition. What am I going to do with my life?

MEDJUGORJE    Nov. 17

I’ve been here three nights and two days. Many conflicting feelings and thoughts. I don’t like many of the “fanatical” activities but, on the other hand, strange things have happened. Yesterday I was touched by the Rosary, the children saying it and I wept. Mr. G, Mrs. D and E also conflict me; on the one hand, I think they feel and want to see their own desires. On the other hand, I respect them enormously and I think they have something special.

            The journey here was mind-boggling. They didn’t want to let us into Croatia. At last, we took the plane from Zagreb to Split; from there in a van to Medjugorje. Five checkpoints on the road – Soldiers in the night. Rocket launchers, etc. Dead tired at night, we eat dinner at 3-4 in the morning. We wake up at 9:30, I go down to breakfast. Cold, very cold. The mount of apparitions serene, strange, rocks, eroded stones, strange landscape, somewhat arid. Doubts, disappointment: naive people? Fanatical?

            Rosary with children, crying. Crazy New Yorker. Lies? I told S today in the morning, “I’m losing my faith” Medjugorje will serve me as an excuse to party like crazy. Rebelliousness? V. I just can’t make her out. Is she for real? I don’t know. She has a constant, contagious smile.

            After breakfast, Father G threw up. ??? He blessed me. I felt good. I’m going to see the Virgin…ludicrous?? Mr. G loses his temper easily with me. B… hoping for a job. I really like Mrs. D. She and Mrs. E are like little girls, laughing. Confessions at the blue cross with Father H. Adultery… What am I going to do about U? Forget her? Go on alone? What about ’94? Three days of darkness? Many contradictions. If Medjugorje is real, what about other apparitions, etc etc?

            Self-righteousness makes me sick. At times I can’t stand all these people. All of a sudden, Mrs. D. Now are you going to quit smoking pot?

            I’m confused, a little sad. At a definite crossroad. I miss, I long for other times. Help me Virgin Mary.

The Adoration…

I decided to go. I felt very identified with what Mr. G said. I understood something that wasn’t that way. Delicious cold, I enjoyed it. Extremely starry sky. Wonderful. Mr. G after 8. Long drawn out talk. I tell him all about my doubts. I feel much better. I need to find my way. My own way within the Faith. Help me Virgin Mary.

Entre algunas de las cosas que Lalo dejó en cajas en casa de mi mamá a lo largo de los años, encontré un cuadernito que le di cuando fue a Medjugorje. Las siguientes son sus anotaciones del viaje. Las he transcrito exactamente como las escribió, a excepción de los nombres, que omití a favor de iniciales, que él mismo utilizó la mayor parte de las veces. Como verán, sus anotaciones están en una combinación de español e inglés. He dejado el idioma en el que escribe de origen en redondas. El material traducido está, como siempre, en cursivas.
S.

Traveler
(Part VI: Medjugorje)

During the time Lalo lived with my grandmother Chayo, way back in the early seventies, he had a dream I remember he told us about. I guess the memory is extremely vivid for me because I had never heard anyone tell that kind of dream before. In the dream, Lalo said he was looking up to the sky when he saw the Virgin Mary appear above him. She had smiled sweetly at him, and had then dropped two carnations into his hands: one white, one red. I recall he was quite surprised with the dream and kept wondering what it meant. Maybe I’m reading too much into it now, but later events seemed to give it a special significance.

        Years later, near the end of 1993, when Lalo was participating in John Grepe’s study group, it was decided a small number of the participants would travel to Medjugorje, where there were claims of apparitions of the Virgin.

Virgin of Medjugorje

                 
      Lalo really wanted to go, but knew it was completely out of the question. There were a number of insurmountable obstacles which made it impossible for him to travel to Medjugorje. First and foremost, there was the question of money. He didn’t have any and so couldn’t pay for the trip. Besides that, he didn’t have his cartilla, the obligatory military document all Mexican males must get when they turn 18 years old. This document indicates that the person in question has completed his “military service”; in Lalo’s day, this consisted of a year of Saturday mornings spent doing marching drills and calisthenics. After that, the document was “liberated”, which meant it had been cleared officially. Without the “cartilla liberada” a man couldn’t get a passport between the ages of 18 and 45, after which the document was unnecessary as his “military duties” were over.

         Lalo had never even gone to get his preliminary military document, the precartilla. In those days, you could have more than one nationality until you turned 18, when you had to decide for one definitive nationality. As usual, for Lalo, luck intervened; he had left the country for Paris a little before his “last” Mexican passport expired and with a brand new US passport. From Paris he had travelled to the US as an American citizen; from the US he had come to Mexico on a tourist visa, had returned to the US as an American citizen, and had again come into Mexico definitely as a tourist. Once here, he had used his Mexican Birth Certificate to get official documents like his driver’s license, and had asked my father to get him a not totally legitimate precartilla with a relative of my father’s second wife; this family member was in the Mexican Army. This he used in all other cases where it was necessary. Most of the time, you could get by with the precartilla, except in the case of a passport. For that, you had to have the whole thing, the cartilla liberada, or there was no getting out of the country unless you still had a valid tourist visa (which allowed a maximum “visit” of six months) or you literally walked across the border to the US with your American Birth Certificate in hand, pretending you were from the US and had just taken a stroll across the border, losing the tourist visa along the way (Lalo, of course, did this a couple of times when he went to the US for a visit with his friend, Carlos). In the case of Medjugorje, there was no possibility leaving without a valid passport and, without a cartilla liberada, there was no possibility of getting one.

        If something like this had happened to any person other than Lalo, it would have been the end. In Lalo’s case? Difficult, maybe, but not impossible. A friend of his within Grepe’s group offered to lend him the necessary money as he believed Lalo absolutely had to go to Medjugorje. Why did he believe this? I can’t remember, but it was important enough for him to actually finance Lalo. But what about the cartilla, the passport, the impossibility of getting out of the country? Some friend of a friend knew a guy who knew a lawyer who knew someone else who got Lalo a temporary dispensation so that Lalo could get a temporary passport which would only last long enough to get him to Bosnia and Herzegovina and back.

        During the trip, I think Lalo found more questions than answers; he couldn’t totally make up his mind about what was happening in Medjugorje. But he did meet another man from Mexico who offered him a great job in charge of the complete musical department of a small Catholic TV channel. Lalo worked with him for several years and was able to cement his reputation as a musician and producer. He also brought back some weird cold virus he propagated among all of us. He did the same thing again some time later when he travelled to Venezuela in search of another set of apparitions of the Virgin.

        Did all this contribute to his fervor? Undoubtedly. Even if he was never sure about the manifestations of the Virgin in those two places, they were a part of his spiritual journey. And, curiously enough, apart from the dream he had as a teen and these two voyages in search of the Blessed Mother, I like to think he was called to her service the day he died: September 8^th, Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and, naturally, a Thursday.

Susana Olivares Bari

Viajante
(Parte VI: Medjugorje)

Durante la época en que Lalo vivió con mi abuela Chayo, allá por principios de los años setenta, tuvo un sueño que recuerdo que nos contó. Supongo que el recuerdo es extremadamente vívido para mí porque nunca había oído a nadie contar ese tipo de sueño. En él, Lalo contó que estaba mirando hacia el cielo cuando veía a la Virgen María aparecer

Traveler
(Part V: back to Mexico)

Unless you have never been to Mexico City or you’ve returned to it after having been away from it for some time, it is unlikely you will perceive the incredibly musical quality it possesses. This was something all of us noticed when we came back; my mother and I in September of 1977, Lalo when he returned from the US to stay, around 1980. Mexico City, the Federal District, el DF, is full of sounds associated with all different types of activities.

            There is, of course, the sound of the mail carriers’ pipes. The discordant but not unpleasant blow of a miniature “pan-pipe” of three or four notes, not to be confused with the similar sound of the knife grinder, the afilador,  who blows his own miniature pipes in a more sequenced manner, not all at once.

            There is also the strident blow of the yam seller. He goes around at night, pushing his odd cart made up of a sort of cylindrical drum placed on its side with wheels, a fire raging inside, yams and bananas “baking” on top and a sort of train whistle that explodes from some sort of pressure or steam device with a high-pitched wail that dies down slowly to a sad, low warble. If you happen to be next to it when it blows, not only will it pierce your eardrums, you will also probably die from the heart attack you’ll get from hearing this sudden, deafening howl at your back.

            Then there is the repetitive, mechanical sound of the tortilla stores. They all have exactly the same machinery which makes exactly the same noise no matter where you go in the city or, for that matter, in the country. It would almost seem the manufacturers have given all of their machines the same characteristic clanks, creaks, squeaks and jangles. Anyone who has lived in Mexico can recognize a tortillería just from the sound.

            In addition to all of these, there are the now fading cries of different hawkers, some of which have disappeared almost completely, and the new, noisier versions, recorded and played through a loudspeaker, announcing Oaxaca style tamales or asking if you have “old refrigerators, mattresses, microwaves, any metal for sale!”

            Lalo came back to his birthplace for a visit… and stayed for good. He lived with us on Dakota Street for some time, sleeping on the couch in the living room. He got a job as an English teacher, something he was extremely good at, and began to play violin in a bluegrass group on the weekends.

            Later on he moved to the city of Cuernavaca, the famous “city of eternal spring”, about one hour away from Mexico City. There, he played at different restaurants and nightclubs with different fellow musicians. During the days, he would play classical music in some elegant restaurants of the city and at night he would play in nightclubs in jazz ensembles and rock groups. He also founded a company that made jingles for TV and radio commercials.

            At some point during this rather large time period (about 10 years) Lalo met John Grepe, a man who had originally been a follower of the Fourth Way of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, but had converted to Catholicism together with Rodney Collin, the direct “inheritor” of the teachings of Ouspensky. Grepe was tremendously influential in Lalo’s life and in many ways became a stable father figure for him. It was through John Grepe that Lalo “returned” to Catholicism and became ardently dedicated to his childhood faith.

            Grepe directed biblical study groups that also undertook charitable works. Among some of the things they did was the staging of Nativity plays in homes for poor elderly people. Little by little, Lalo became more immersed in religiosity. Although on some occasions his religious extremism led us to some disagreement, it is also true his faith supported him through his disease and helped him face his death the way he did. When he was given the news that the cancer would only allow him to live between six months and a year more, Lalo said to my mother, “I don’t want to die, but if God has decided it’s time for me to go, then I’ll just have to go.” I have never seen anyone face death with the composure, serenity and dignity that Lalo exhibited to the end.

Susana Olivares Bari

Viajante
(Parte V: de regreso a México)

A menos que nunca hayan visitado la ciudad de México o que hayan regresado a la misma después de estar ausentes un tiempo, es poco probable que puedan percibir la cualidad increíblemente musical que posee. Esto es algo que todos nosotros notamos al regresar; mi mamá y yo en septiembre de 1977, Lalo al regresar de EUA para quedarse definitivamente alrededor de 1980. La Ciudad de México, el Distrito Federal, el DF, está lleno de sonidos asociados con todo tipo de actividades distintas.

Traveler
(Part IV: Iowa and Illinois)

Lalo lived with Mimi, our grandmother, for some time while he studied music at St. Ambrose University in Davenport, Iowa. Later on he changed to Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois, across the Mississippi River; years later, Augustana would commission a piece for their “Music of the 20^th Century” series from him. Acapulco en la Azotea, a quintet for trumpet, tenor saxophone, vibraphone, classical guitar and double bass was premiered the 27^th of October of 1998, the night before his birthday, giving birth to tropical minimalism in classical music.

            Of all the stories Lalo ever told me about his stay in the Quad City area between Iowa and Illinois, the one I most remember is what I’ll now call “The great pot tree incident”.

            Lalo was renting one of the units of a vertical duplex; his neighbor, a girl we’ll call “Sandy” for purposes of anonymity, was incredibly gorgeous, had blond hair and blue eyes, a body to kill for and was adorably sweet… in addition to being a dealer.

            Some friend of Lalo’s had heard a rumor that there was an enormously gigantic marihuana bush growing somewhere in the nearby countryside. One weekend, Lalo and his friends drove out to the country in search of this mythical plant. When they finally found it, they were totally amazed. It was truly enormous!! “The only way you could describe it was as a marihuana tree it was so huge!” he told me.  They enthusiastically cut it down, hid it in the trunk of their car and drove back to Lalo’s house. They carefully took the “pot tree” out of the trunk and decided to hide it in the attic, where they hung it upside down to dry. The thing dangled from the rafters and hung all the way down to the floor. Some time later, when it was completely dry, they tried it. It was the equivalent of smoking oregano. The humongous plant had no effect whatsoever. Not knowing how to get rid of it, they left it up in the attic and forgot about it.

            Now then, something you should know about the attic in the vertical duplex is that one of the walls had a hole that communicated both units.

            Time went by and one day Sandy decided to move out of the duplex. Lalo said that Sandy’s “side” was a lot better than his, so he asked her if they could trade units, as she would no longer be living in hers. She said yes and so Lalo moved all his things into what had been Sandy’s unit. Although she wouldn’t be living there anymore, she told him she would not be vacating a small bedroom on the ground floor. It was secured with a huge padlock and she told him that if anyone should ask, he was to say he didn’t know what was in there; that it had been left that way by the previous tenant.

            Apparently, she must have suspected something was going to happen because one fine day, the police came and pounded on the door. They had some questions. Lalo told them he had just moved in (he didn’t mention where from) and knew nothing of the previous inhabitants. When they asked him if they could search the place, Lalo stepped aside and told them they could do whatever they wanted.

            They immediately asked about the padlocked door, to which Lalo answered what Sandy had told him to say. When the police forced their way into the room, they found part of Sandy’s stash, but not anything significant. They kept looking and, of course, eventually went up to the attic.

            When they saw the hole in the wall and peeked through, there was the gigantic pot tree! They were enormously excited! They went in through the hole, recovered the plant and dragged it down the stairs out into the street, where two officers held it up with difficulty, posing for the photographs that were published in the newspapers the next day, together with the story of the “major drug bust” they had achieved.

            When they finally left, they thanked Lalo profusely for his cooperation and apologized for the mess of leaves and twigs they left on the stairs after dragging the pot tree out of the house. Lalo kindly offered to clean up the mess.

            On their way out, one of the officers said, “Don’t try smoking that stuff, now, you hear?” in a warning voice. Lalo promised he wouldn’t.

Susana Olivares Bari

Viajante
(Parte IV: Iowa e Illinois)

Lalo vivió con Mimi, nuestra abuela, durante un tiempo mientras estudiaba música en la Universidad St. Ambrose en Davenport, Iowa. Más adelante se cambió a la Universidad Augustana en Rock Island, Illinois, al otro lado del Río Mississippi; años después, Augustana le comisionaría una pieza para su serie “Música del Siglo XX”. Acapulco en la Azotea, un quinteto para trompeta, saxofón tenor, vibráfono, guitarra clásica y contrabajo, se estrenó el 27 de Octubre