Había una vez...y extendiste tus alas y volaste...
       Yo te conocí antes de verte, sabía de tus luchas, de tus sueños, de tus ilusiones, de tus enojos y tus tristezas.
        Y entonces te vi, oí el sonido de tu violín, después el de tu piano...tu risa y tu mirada, y ¿sabes?, tus ojos eran... eso, la ventana de tu alma; era fácil ver en ella y tú bien lo sabías.
        El paso de los años hizo que fuese mucho más evidente en ti, lo que ellas ya conocían, la generosidad de tu corazón.
        Sabemos Lalo, que donde estés eres feliz, que el sonido de tu música te acompaña, y que sólo te adelantaste a los que un día te encontraremos nuevamente, y mientras eso sucede, cierra los ojos y sigue acunando el corazón de ella, que cada mañana ve al cielo y entre lágrimas sonríe, dando gracias a Él, porque tú la elegiste como tu madre.
       Nosotros, tus amigos, en los que sembraste un recuerdo de ti imperecedero, te prometemos acompañarlas en el camino, pues tenemos el honor, como tú sabes, de ser sus amigos.

Magally Ferraez de Mullor

Once upon a time…and you spread your wings and flew…

      I knew you before I saw you, I knew of your struggles, of your dreams, of your hopes, of your anger and your woes.
      And then I saw you, heard the sound of your violin and later of your piano… your laughter and your gaze and, you know?, your eyes were… that, the window to your soul; it was easy to look into it and you knew that well.
      The passage of time made much more evident what they already knew, the generosity of your heart.
     We know, Lalo, that where you are you are happy, that the sound of your music accompanies you and that you only moved ahead of us, who will find you once again, and while that happens, close your eyes and keep cradling the heart of she who every morning looks up to heaven and smiles through her tears, thanking Him because you chose her for your mother.
     We, your friends, in whom you planted an undying memory of you, promise to walk with them on the path, for we have the honor, as you know, of being their friends.

Magally Ferraez de Mullor

RETURN TO PARADISE?

I had come to Mexico as a bride of 19 and had spent over 22 years here by the time my company relocated me to the States. A famous writer once spoke of the feelings an expatriate experiences insofar as the overwhelming nostalgia for one’s homeland, and yet that with time one comes to the conclusion that you no longer have a homeland here nor there. This becomes a reality after having made periodic trips home only to realize that nothing is as you remembered it, there have been both obvious and subtle changes, maybe in the place or maybe in oneself, which make you uncomfortable in a no longer comfortable comfort zone. He concluded, therefore, that the only piece of earth you may call your own is the plot of ground under which you will one day lie.
            It was apparent to me that his words had become my reality when I returned to the country I considered home, and although I was in another city and state than where I had been born, and even though the locale where Susan and I lived  was exceptionally  beautiful, I never felt comfortable, not even with my compatriots.  As Jim Croce says in his song, “New York’s not my home”. So, when Eduardo arrived from Paris, Susan and I were on the verge of returning to Mexico and my old job.  Eduardo decided to stay in Manhattan, and for a time lived with his lifelong friend Jorge Ritter who was also living there, later on renting an apartment close to him in SoHo.  Suzy and I journeyed home to Mexico and, quite by coincidence, on the same plane as my sister-in-law and Susan’s cousins. We had quite a committee waiting at the airport when we arrived, i.e. my best friend, Margaret with whom we were to stay until our household goods would arrive in Mexico, her family, and Susan’s father and his brother who was there to greet his wife and children.

Patricia and Eduardo Sr. the day we got back to Mexico

            I’d say about a month after returning, I received a call at my office that there had been a terrible fire in Eduardo’s apartment and everything had been destroyed.  At the beginning it wasn’t clear if he had been injured and the few hours wait to confirm that he was alright were torture.
            Shortly thereafter I was offered a job with considerably more pay.  I decided to take it (huge mistake) and things went from bad to worse for a while.  Eduardo wrote that he wanted to return to Mexico and I was delighted, but he decided to stop off to see my mother on his way south and she offered to put him through university if he would live with her.  He asked me what I wanted him to do and, of course, I couldn’t let him pass up the opportunity so the delight was short lived.
            Looking back, I don’t regret sending him to Europe although it wasn’t the cure for his addiction, nor do I regret putting aside my own need for him to be moral support for Suzy and me —it would have been totally selfish— because both situations broadened his cultural horizons and life experience, but there were days, in fact years, that we didn’t have him with us and that, too, is selfish; but very sad because of the way things have turned out.

Patricia Bari Frew

¿RETORNO AL PARAÍSO?

Yo había llegado a México recién casada a los 19 años y había pasado 22 años allí para el momento en que mi empresa me reubicó en EUA. En alguna ocasión, un famoso escritor habló acerca de los sentimientos que experimenta un expatriado en cuanto a la abrumadora nostalgia por la tierra natal y que, sin embargo, al paso del tiempo, se llega a la conclusión que ya no se tiene una tierra de origen ni aquí ni allá. Esto se convierte en una realidad después de hacer viajes periódicos a casa sólo para percatarse de que nada es como uno lo recuerda, que se han dado cambios tanto evidentes como sutiles, posiblemente en el lugar o en uno mismo, que hacen que uno se sienta incómodo en una zona de confort ya no tan cómoda. Concluía, por tanto, que el único trozo de tierra que puede llamarse propio es la parcela bajo la cual algún día uno descansará.

THE PRODIGIOUSLY PRODIGAL SON

Although Eduardo was undoubtedly talented, wonderful and amazing, by association to those qualities or simply because he possessed them, he also tended at times to squander them in the belief that they were unaffected by excesses unworthy of him and that, if somewhat diminished could be recaptured easily.  In the long run, that turned out to be true for him; whether or not that was a blessing is debatable.

Except for the unfortunate relationship with his father, Lalo grew up  to be a healthy little boy when, at approximately thirteen, we moved from an apartment to our own home .  The neighborhood was good as were the resident families.  We were all in our late twenties or early thirties, upper middle class.  However, very near by there was a complex of buildings the government afforded less economically fortunate families and it was a hotbed for pushers and such.  Eduardo later told me that he was approached for the first time one day when he was dropped off on the corner by the school bus, offered a trial run of pot and from there on was hooked.  Why do things happen the way they do?  I usually dropped off and picked up Eduardo and Susan at school every day.  Suzy didn’t take the bus that day, why did he?

The fact of the matter is that it was the beginning of the end for a long time because, of course, it escalated into further experimentation, and torment for him and for us all… well, for Suzy and me.  Fortunately, he was able to kick the worst of it in time (I suspect seeing what it did to some of his friends had a lot to do with that, but whatever the motive I’ve always been grateful for the lesser of many evils).

I had asked my family to help me get him out of the surroundings I naively believed were playing a major part in his inability to stop using, never realizing that, by that time, it no longer played the most important role in his addiction, but I was told that he was my responsibility and to deal with it.

Suzy, Lalo and I in Bronxville

A friend of the family who lived in Paris came to visit and, in discussing the situation with her, offered to give him room and board with she and her family until he could acclimate himself to his new surroundings, the language, etc. I bought him a new wardrobe and a round-trip ticket, and his father agreed to send him his share of the child support I had been granted in the divorce settlement for the two children so that he could get by. I watched as his plane took flight, afraid that I might never see him again.  He lived there for about a year studying music and traveling throughout Europe.  By then, my company had relocated me to the States and Suzy and I had been living there for about a year when he came home.  I can still see myself in my mind’s eye elated and running down the platform to meet him when his train arrived in Bronxville, safe if not altogether sound but at least back with me and his sister for a while.

Patricia Bari Frew

EL HIJO PRODIGIOSAMENTE PRÓDIGO

A pesar de que Eduardo, sin duda, era talentoso, maravilloso y sorprendente, por asociación de dichas cualidades o sencillamente porque las poseía, también tendía, en ocasiones, a desperdiciarlas en la creencia de que no se verían afectadas por excesos indignos de él y que, aunque ligeramente disminuidas, podían recuperarse con facilidad. A la larga, eso resultó ser cierto en su caso; el que haya sido una bendición, es cuestionable.

Father and son

My father was not a bad man. He was intelligent, charming and funny, but there seems to have been a deep undercurrent that prevented him from committing wholly to others and from bonding deeply with his children, especially with Lalo.

            What I remember of him is relatively scarce. My parents separated when I was about seven or eight years old and after that he wasn’t very much in the picture. If I were to give him a “geographical” presence from the moment I was born, he was there all through the time we lived on Louisiana Street and for a couple of years after we moved to Taxco Street. By the time we moved out of there, he had pretty much become an itinerant reality in our lives. Before that, he seemed to be a “typical” father, a man of his times. He would be at work during the week and home on the week-ends. We would all have dinner together and talk and laugh and play board games. He liked being with us all and didn’t ignore us like I saw many other fathers do. He also joked around a lot. He was sometimes exceedingly nice and I remember his being extremely affectionate to me when I was very little. I remember a time I woke up in the middle of the night and heard him in the kitchen. When I went over there, he made me a sandwich and we both sat together, talking, in the quiet. He was a good provider and always made sure we not only had what we needed, but what we wanted as well. He worked hard and made his way up the corporate ladder, like most of the men in his age group and social class tried to do. But there were also the rest of the now stereotypical aspects of a man’s life in the fifties and sixties. He drank too much, he played around, and he seemed to think life owed him more than what he could get from his wife and family.

            It would be tempting to go over my father’s earlier life and make some deep, complicated psychological analysis of his motives, but the fact was that his relationship with Lalo was difficult from the first. It bothered him that “the baby” needed special consideration. On one occasion, when my mother asked him to turn down the stereo because she had finally managed to put the baby to sleep, my father answered, “This is my house and if he wants to live here, he’ll have to get used to it”, or something to that effect. He was frequently cruel in his dealings with Lalo and put him down. He sometimes hit him, apparently harder and more violently when my mother wasn’t around to see. He acted intolerantly, made little of his accomplishments and, as Lalo grew to adolescence, became more and more domineering towards him.

            I suppose it was a relief for Lalo when my father left the house. He must have felt liberated to some extent. By then he was already into drugs so it wasn’t like things were peachy after that, but at least the fights died down to a minimum. After that, I really have no idea of what their relationship was like, but it seemed more cordial in general terms. I do know Lalo looked for my father’s approval and loved him dearly.

            So, what role did my father play in the making of Lalo? Was he mainly a negative force against which Lalo rebelled? I don’t think so, at least not entirely. Lalo seemed to have “inherited” my father’s capacity for making friends everywhere and anywhere. My father was proud of Lalo’s musical accomplishments and, apparently, became a regular of the place where my brother and his jazz ensemble played every week-end. When he died in 1998, I remember thinking what a shame it was he couldn’t be around for the new century’s celebrations. He would have loved to be there!

            But all of these are memories tinged by time and my own expectations of how he should have been. I think he loved Lalo, and the rest of us, as much as he was able to. I think, perhaps, he didn’t really know how to love or, at least, how to express that love. Maybe, someday, on the other side, I’ll be able to ask him.

Susana Olivares Bari

Mi padre no era un hombre malo. Era inteligente, encantador y gracioso, pero parece haber habido un trasfondo subyacente que le impedía comprometerse por completo con los demás y vincularse profundamente con sus hijos, en especial con Lalo.

MUSIC, MUSIC, MUSIC

Patsy and Aunt Gladys

No matter how I search for the words I need to express my feelings about  music and the bond that existed between Lalo and me because of my love and my necessity for it to form a very integral part of my existence, they just evade me.  Perhaps precisely because music is so important to me, the feelings regarding it and what they evoke cannot be written down.  Perhaps, if I could sing my feelings the intention would be clear.

            I cannot remember a time in my life when music was not paramount.  Some of my very first memories are those of sitting in a little rocking chair next to a Victrola, listening to jazz bands and their vocalists although, of course, at the time, I had no idea of the genre, only that the sounds were happy ones; or of falling asleep at night to the sound of my grandmother´s sweet renderings of Irish lullabies.  By two or three I was already standing on the bandstand of a club where my father or mother was appearing  —The Cave of the Winds, Russell’s Silver Bar, the Glass Hat at the Congress Hotel— singing my heart out. At my parent’s request, one of my aunts or uncles always saw to it that they could include me in their performance now and then.  So it isn’t hard to understand that the love of music became part of my children’s heritage; nor that, especially in the case of Eduardo, who chose to be musician, it was an increasingly important part of our relationship.

Tiny virtuoso?

            He was an especially gifted guitarist but eventually decided that he preferred to express himself on the violin, both classically and, later on, through interpretative renderings and composition.  There is a snap-shot of him at about age two playing a toy violin and he always teased me that had I given him a real violin at that age he could have become a virtuoso, therefore, I was responsible for stunting his creative growth.

            He delighted in teasing me about anything and looked for the possibility with gusto.  He was equally annoying to his sister, who would eventually become infuriated, at which time he would plead innocence of intentional malice and beg her forgiveness which she would usually, albeit grudgingly, concede.

            I cannot imagine life without him and yet it is now a reality, a very harsh reality.  People keep reminding me that I must accept “it”.  This causes me a great deal of incredulity at their understanding of life—I have no choice!!!!!

Patricia Bari Frew

MÚSICA, MÚSICA, MÚSICA

Sin importar cuánto busque las palabras que necesito para expresar mis sentimientos acerca de la música y del lazo que existía entre Lalo y yo a causa de ese amor y de mi necesidad de que formara una parte muy integral de mi existencia, sencillamente me evaden. Es posible que sea precisamente debido a que la música me es tan importante que mis sentimientos en cuanto a la misma y a lo que evoca en mí no puedan escribirse. Tal vez si pudiera cantar mis sentimientos, mi intención se aclararía.

EULOGY

Although there was no formal memorial service, as such, to mark Eduardo’s death, I firmly believe that what Susana has done in opening the door to family and friends via this medium, in order to share our memories of some part of his life that we were able to spend with him, is undoubtedly more appropriate than any stilted reunion might have been.

            Therefore, and taking advantage of the opportunity this venue affords me, I would like to offer some thoughts of other kindred, grief-stricken souls who felt as do those of us who have remained behind. 

W. H. AUDEN, APRIL 1936. 

FUNERAL BLUES (excerpt)

Stop all the clocks, turn off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can come to any good.

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL (1833-1899)

EULOGY AT HIS BROTHER’S FUNERAL (excerpts)

He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form and music touched to tears.  He sided with the weak, the poor, the wronged and lovingly gave alms.
   Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities.
   He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his last breath, “I am better now.”  Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead.
   Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is no gentler, stronger, manlier man.
Patricia Bari Frew

ELEGÍA

Aunque no hubo un servicio conmemorativo formal, propiamente dicho, que señalara la muerte de Eduardo, creo firmemente que lo que Susana ha hecho al abrirles la puerta a su familia y amigos a través de este medio para compartir nuestros recuerdos de alguna parte de su vida que pudimos pasar con él es indudablemente más apropiada de lo que pudo haber sido cualquier tipo de reunión artificiosa.

Why exactly did my brother begin to use drugs? Although he was open and frank about his addiction to pot, it was something I never asked him; it was simply something that was. I suppose that, like others in the family, I also blamed the usual culprits: his troubles with my father, his need to be accepted by others, the bad company. But I never really thought to ask him directly, of getting his version of the facts.

            He began to use pot after we moved to the house on Taxco Street, in the Colonia Roma of Mexico City. He must have been around 14 or 15 at the time and it got him into a world of trouble, in addition to the problems he and my father already had. It was, of course, the early 70s. Drugs were part of the scene and they made you look cool and hip and with it, so I suppose that had something to do with it.

            Because of the nearly six-year difference between us, I wasn’t really in on the discussions that arose from that; I was more of a bystander. I remember big fights and lots of tears, especially from my mother, who tried desperately to get him to stop and to make peace between the two men in the family. I remember the time that I walked into the bathroom and saw all of the sink and the floor around it covered in clumps of hair. My father had grabbed Lalo and cut his hair off willy-nilly after some enormous shouting match. The impression it left me was like that of a crime scene. Although it was only hair and I hadn’t been there to see it, I could sense the violence behind the act. It could have been blood all over; the feeling was the same. Lalo ran away to God-knows-where after that. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.

            My mother, as usual, tried to find some sort of solution. She talked to him, talked to my father, talked to both of them. She got Lalo involved with a church group that was led by a cool, young priest. When my parents separated, she sent Lalo to live with my father for a while to see if the two could “bond” more significantly. In a way, they did; my father wound up smoking pot with my brother. He now wanted to be cool and hip and with it as well. Then she sent him to live with my grandmother and her ward, a friend of Lalo’s whose parents had also split up and who lived under my grandmother’s tutelage. That didn’t really work out either (they also wound up smoking pot together!). In the end, Lalo came back home to live with us, kept using and, in 1976 was sent to live in Paris with a painter friend of my mother’s; she thought living alone might get him to act more responsively. He did, but he never stopped using pot; he was hopelessly addicted.

            As time went by, Lalo traveled to New York while we were there, stayed in the US for quite a while, came back to Mexico and lived with us for another spell and finally went on to live independently. He fought his demons, got off all the really hard stuff, and even managed to do without pot for different periods of time. Throughout all this, he never became anything less than what he always was: kind, loving, sweet. What was left was a whole series of “adventures” that I’ll try to recall and tell, little by little, and an undying passion for life.

            When I remember all of this, the only thing I can think is that I’m glad it all happened. Even with the fights, the problems and the tears, it all shaped him into what he became, and he became an exceptional person. Don’t take my word for it… ask anyone; they’ll all say the same.

Susana Olivares Bari

¿Por qué exactamente empezó a usar drogas mi hermano? Aunque era de lo más franco y abierto acerca de su adicción a la mota, nunca se lo pregunté; sencillamente era algo que así era. Supongo que, como otros miembros de la familia, también responsabilicé a los culpables habituales: sus dificultades con mi papá, su necesidad de aceptación por parte de otros, las malas compañías. Pero en realidad nunca se me ocurrió preguntárselo de manera directa, de averiguar su versión de los hechos.

Lo que define la esencia de lo que uno es tiene que ver con tantísimas cosas que resulta difícil definirlas. Ciertamente, parte de lo que definió la esencia de Lalo tiene que ver con nuestra familia, no sólo en términos de la dinámica de la misma, sino en cuanto a las dos culturas que formaban parte de ella. Nuestra Mamá siempre se esforzó por inculcarnos amor y respeto por ambas. Al tiempo que celebrábamos el Día de Acción de Gracias, pasábamos mucho tiempo con ella cantando canciones mexicanas típicas como “Cielito lindo”, “La llorona” y “Allá en el Rancho Grande”, mientras nos acompañaba con la guitarra. Esta “doble vida” tenía consecuencias muy peculiares.

            Tanto Lalo como yo aprendimos inglés y español al mismo tiempo, a pesar de las críticas de la familia, tanto del lado paterno como del materno, en cuanto a que nos íbamos a “confundir”. Al parecer, al empezar a hablar, los dos tendíamos a dar una especie de “interpretación simultánea”. Decíamos cosas como “perro-dog” o “luz-light”, en lugar de simplemente decidirnos por un término u otro. Ya después, empezamos a separar los dos idiomas y, por último, todos, incluyendo a mi Mamá y Papá, terminamos hablando esa extraña combinación de las dos lenguas, el ahora afamado Spanglish, que hasta la fecha usamos en casa.

            Pero también se daban conflictos muy extraños. Mi Mamá inscribió a Lalo en un jardín de niños bilingüe. Algunos días después del inicio de clases, la directora le habló por teléfono, enojadísima porque Lalo no hablaba inglés. Cuando mi Mamá fue por él, le preguntó insistentemente que por qué no hablaba en inglés. Lalo se le quedó viendo, mudo. Ya en la casa, el problema se resolvió como por arte de magia. Aparentemente, le daba “pena” hablar inglés en la escuela porque los demás niños se burlaban de él. En otra ocasión, al llegar de la escuela no quiso hablarle a mi Mamá porque “los gringos nos robaron parte del Territorio Nacional”.

            Esta biculturalidad requiere de un equilibrio muy fino. A ambos lados de la frontera, uno es de allá, pero no. Es de acá, pero no. Hay aceptación y rechazo a un mismo tiempo, tanto de los demás, como dentro de uno mismo y dentro de la familia. Se termina por no ser de ningún lado y ser de ambas naciones por igual. No se quiere ofender y de alguna manera uno termina tratando de acoplarse a lo que se tiene frente, reminiscente a lo que le pasa al personaje de Zelig en la película de Woody Allen. Uno se mimetiza con sus alrededores, con sus interlocutores. Pero de alguna forma, al final, se forja una extraña identidad dual, una especie de “Spanglish” del alma y del corazón.

Susana Olivares Bari

What defines the essence of what one is has to do with so many things it becomes difficult to define them. Certainly, part of what defined Lalo’s essence has to do with our family, not only in terms of its dynamics, but in regards to the two cultures that formed a part of it. Our Mother always strived to instill love and respect for both of them in us. Even as we celebrated Thanksgiving, we also spent a lot of time with her singing typical Mexican songs like “Cielito lindo”, “La llorona” and “Allá en el Rancho Grande”, while she accompanied us with the guitar. This “double life” had some peculiar consequences.

Conocí a Lalo por primera vez en 1962. Como ya saben, yo era “la nueva” y aparentemente mi presencia no le fue nada grata al principio. Según lo cuenta mi Mamá, Lalo se paseaba por la casa diciendo, “¡Quiero pegarle a algo!” al tiempo que le daba de puñetazos a los cojines del sofá de la sala. Además, como tendría que ser, uno de nuestros primeros encuentros sólo sirvió para meterlo en líos.

La nueva, Mamá y Lalo

            Lalo me contó que un día entro al cuarto donde estaba mi cuna y se asomó para echarme una mirada más a detalle. Tomó una sonaja que estaba en la cuna y la empezó a agitar para divertirme. Como tendría que ser, la sonaja se le cayó, me pegó en la cabeza y yo empecé a aullar como loca. Mi mamá y todos los demás que estaban en la casa entraron corriendo y lo regañaron por “pegarme”.

            No hay recuerdo alguno de mi infancia en casa en que no figure Lalo. Veíamos la tele, jugábamos y, por supuesto, nos peleábamos constantemente. Probablemente no hallaba la manera de deshacerse de mí. Sé que lo seguía por todos lados y que, en ocasiones, inventaba “juegos” que inevitablemente terminaban con algún drama de mi parte. Recuerdo una vez que me dijo que íbamos a marchar y que yo iba a ser el general. Empezamos a marchar por todo el cuarto, yo por delante, hasta que me dijo “Síguete por la sala”. En el momento preciso en que pasé por la puerta del cuarto, la cerró de un portazo detrás de mí. ¿Yo qué hice? Aullar, claro está. Una gran parte de mi infancia la pasé llorando, gritando y acusando a Lalo. Mi mamá dice que el mantra cotidiano era “¡¡Mamimiralalo!!”, así, todo en una sola palabra, acompañada de lágrimas y gritos.

            Pero también me vengaba. Durante varios años me dio por morderlo. Cada que me hacía enojar le hincaba los dientes con una saña que ahora me da entre vergüenza y risa a un mismo tiempo. Me le colgaba como hurón enloquecido mientras él gritaba de dolor y trataba de desprenderme como pudiera. Pero, que yo recuerde, nunca me pegó. Se sacudía, le gritaba a mi mamá, me agarraba la cabeza para quitarme de encima, pero no me pegaba. Al final, se le ocurrió una idea brillante.

            Un día, después de una de las clásicas sesiones de mordidas, me dijo, “¡Ya basta! ¡Le voy a hablar al Antirrábico para que te vengan a recoger!”. Con lo que tomó el teléfono, discó quién sabe qué número y dijo, muy enojado, “¿Antirrábico? Sí, quiero que vengan por mi hermana porque siempre me está mordiendo. ¡Muy bien! Gracias.” Volteó y me dijo, “¡Ahora sí! ¡En un ratito viene por ti!”.

            Recuerdo que me congelé de pánico. Empecé a llorar y a rogarle que no dejara que me llevaran. Le prometí que nunca más volvería a morderlo. Finalmente, cedió y volvió a tomar el teléfono. “¿Antirrábico? Ya no vengan por mi hermanita. Ya me prometió que no me va a volver a morder”. Y nunca más lo hice.

Susana Olivares Bari

I first met Lalo in 1962. As you already know, I was “the new one” and, apparently, my presence was not at all welcome at first. According to my Mother, Lalo wandered around the house saying, “I want to hit something!” while punching the living room couch pillows. Besides, as would be necessary, one of our first encounters only served to get him into trouble.

Every Thursday, all of us would get together for lunch. For some odd reason, it had to be Thursday. Even when our different activities made it harder to see each other, the suggestion of changing the day of our weekly meetings never prospered. I tried to find out if there was anything special about Thursdays; some mystical or spiritual meaning, but I came up with nothing concrete.

            Apparently, Moses came down Mount Sinai with the Tablets of the Law on a Thursday. Both Judaic and Islamic traditions say Thursdays are a propitious day for fasting. It is also the day for Thanksgiving in the US and, of course, Thursday is Mushkil Gusha day.



Lalo at my place on a Thursday

            The first time I heard of Mushkil Gusha was from Lalo. For a while he became very interested in Sufi philosophy and came across the story of Mushkil Gusha. It is a relatively involved narration of a poor wood-cutter and his daughter and how their troubles are made to disappear by Mushkil Gusha, dissipater of all difficulties, whose only request is that they share what they have with others and remember him on Thursdays. In a discussion about the story, I read that although the identity of Mushkil Gusha is never specified, one can only conclude that he is a representation of God.

            Today, Holy Thursday, I noticed there is an interesting parallel with the story and the institution of the Holy Communion. In the Last Supper, Jesus essentially asks his disciples to do the same thing. To share what they have with others and to do it in remembrance of Him. During the pontificate of John Paul II, he instituted a “new” set of Mysteries for the praying of the Holy Rosary: the Luminous mysteries. One of them is precisely the institution of the Eucharist. These Mysteries of Light are to be prayed, of course, on Thursdays.

            Is this why Thursdays became so important? Is there something about the day itself that invites us to share, to commune, with others in the real sense of the word? For whatever reason, it was our day, the day we shared what we had with each other: news, jokes, sorrows, stories. So, in keeping with our tradition, have a good Thursday and share what you have with others.

Susana Olivares Bari

Cada jueves, todos nos reuníamos a comer. Por alguna extraña razón, tenía que ser en jueves. Incluso cuando nuestras distintas actividades hacían que nos fuera más difícil vernos, la sugerencia de cambiar el día de nuestras reuniones semanales nunca prosperó. Traté de averiguar si había algo especial en relación con los jueves; si tenían algún significado místico o espiritual, pero no encontré nada concreto.