Traveler
(Part III: New York)

            The famous open ticket my mother had insisted on buying for Lalo is what got him to New York. We were just a short time away from returning to Mexico, but Lalo’s best friend, Jorge, was living in Manhattan at the time and had also spoken to him and convinced him NYC was the place to be, musically speaking. After a brief period with us, Lalo rented an apartment in SoHo and moved there with a whole bunch of things my mom gave him to start off with and a plethora of giant roaches he told me he learned to scare off by stomping his feet before turning on the lights so he wouldn’t have to see them scamper away. He also told me there was an old LP nailed high up on one of the walls. There seemed to be a hole behind it, but he never got up the courage to take down the record and see what was there.

             One of the first day jobs he got was as a dish washer. Apparently, he was so incredibly good at this he was actually “pilfered” by another restaurant with offers of higher pay. At night, he played music in a punk rock group at the famous CBGB during the time when The Ramones, Patti Smith and the B52’s were playing there. At some point, someone in Patti Smith’s group approached him and asked if he would play for them, but Lalo panicked and said he wasn’t good enough. I remember his talking with my mom about it but although she told him to go for it, he didn’t feel he could.

            In New York, Lalo lived many of his now classical “adventures”; things that could only possibly happen to him. One night, for example, he was out walking very late at night when some guys came out of an alley, switchblades out. Lalo raised his hands and told the guys to take what they wanted. One of them said something to another…in Spanish! Immediately, Lalo began to speak in Spanish too, telling the guys he was from Mexico.  Naturally, they instantly put their weapons away and escorted him back to his own neighborhood, telling him to watch out for himself and to be careful where he went at night.

            Lalo’s apartment was on the “border” of Little Italy. It was incredible to see how the neighborhood changed by just crossing a street. On Lalo’s side, everything was dirty, grungy, old. On the other side, everything was clean, the streets were swept and I remember even the fire hydrants were painted green, white and red. One night, when Lalo was getting to his apartment after playing a gig, he was surprised to see a crowd gathered at the foot of his building together with fire trucks and patrol cars. When he asked what had happened, he was informed that there had been a fire; his apartment, and only his apartment, had been torched! He stood there among the crowd, stunned. All of a sudden, someone came up behind him and shoved something into his hand. He turned around to see who it had been, but he didn’t catch sight of the person. When he looked down, he saw all his papers: passports, id, birth certificate, everything. Evidently, someone gave the order to burn his things, but had the odd courtesy of saving his important documents. When I asked him much later who he thought it had been, or what reason they had had to do it, he told me he had always suspected it was someone from Little Italy, but that he really and truly had no idea of who it had been or why. Could it have been a case of mistaken identity? Was there something valuable hidden behind the mysterious LP? And who called my mother in Mexico to tell her there had been a fire hours before we heard from Lalo? None of these questions were ever answered.

            Lalo must have experienced many other things during his time in New York, but those he kept to himself. I know there was a point during his time there where he literally had no money and had to live in “Alphabet City”, a neighborhood of Manhattan which, at that time, had incredibly dangerous areas and empty buildings where people squatted and illegal activities were rampant.

            He stayed in NYC only one or two years. On his way down to Mexico for a visit, he stopped at Davenport, Iowa. There, Mimi, our grandmother, offered to put him through college if he stayed with her, which started a new phase in his journeys.

Susana Olivares Bari

Viajante
(Parte III: Nueva York)

            El famoso boleto abierto que mi mamá había insistido en comprarle a Lalo es lo que lo llevó a Nueva York. Faltaba poco tiempo para que regresáramos a México, pero el mejor amigo de Lalo, Jorge, estaba viviendo en Manhattan en ese momento y también había hablado con él y lo había convencido que la Ciudad de Nueva York era el lugar en el que debía estar, musicalmente hablando. Después de un corto tiempo con nosotras, Lalo rentó un departamento en SoHo y se mudó allí con un montón de cosas que mi mamá le dio para arrancar y una plétora de cucarachas gigantes

Traveler
(Part II: Paris)

            In the summer of 1976, my mother no longer knew what to do about Lalo’s problems. She had already sent him to live with my father as well as with my grandmother to see if someone other than she could manage to help Lalo. Neither of these experiments had worked out. Lalo had come back home to live with us but was still getting into trouble regularly; so much so that my mother had had to make good on her promise to ground him in Mexico while I went to Davenport, Iowa in the US to spend the holidays with my mother’s family.  It was during this time that a painter friend of the family, who was living in Paris, suggested to my mother that she send him to France with her. There, she said, he would learn to stand on his own two feet, get away from the “negative influences” his friends in Mexico represented, and finally face up to reality.

            My mother decided it was worth a try; she bought Lalo an open two-way ticket in case he needed to come back home, and arranged things with my father so that he’d send Lalo’s share of the child support to him in Paris.

            After a short time in our painter friend’s home, Lalo started living on his own. At first, everything worked out pretty well. He got a tiny apartment that was actually too expensive because it had a private bathroom, took French classes and studied music at the Conservatoire de Paris. Later that same year, though, Mexico had the first of many future devaluations.  All of a sudden, Lalo’s money was reduced to half of what he was getting. He got rid of the nice apartment, rented a garret room in a building where he shared a bathroom with the rest of the inhabitants of his floor, and started trying to make ends meet. Because he couldn’t get a formal job, he began to play the violin in the Paris Metro.

            During his time in France, he also got a chance to travel to other places in Europe. One of the ones he told me about was a trip to Amsterdam. Pot was decriminalized in the Netherlands that year, so Lalo thought this was his chance to buy some. On his way back to Paris, the train stopped at the border and an inspector got on. Naturally, he was caught trying to smuggle the pot in but, luckily, because it was such a small amount, they only confiscated it and let him back into France. He told me those were some of the tensest moments in his life; he thought he might wind up in jail or banned from France, where he had all of his things, including the round-trip plane ticket.

            One afternoon in the summer of 1977, around the time my mother and I were getting ready to come back to Mexico after having lived in the States for about a year, the phone rang. When I picked it up, I heard Lalo’s voice on the other end. He asked if my mother was home, I said no, and he said he’d call back later. When my mom got home, she was amazed, shocked and angry all at the same time. “What do you mean he said he’d call back later? He’s in Paris and doesn’t have a dime! How’s he going to call back?” But, sure enough, he did call back later. He had been taught by another foreigner how to “trick” the public phone boxes into letting him call anywhere in the world for as long as he wanted for the price of a local call. He and my mother talked for hours, while he told her all about his life there and described the sunrise over the city. It was then that he decided to go to New York.

Susana Olivares Bari

Viajante

(Parte II: París)

            En el verano de 1976, mi mamá ya no sabía qué hacer con los problemas de Lalo. Ya lo había mandado a vivir con mi papá así como con mi abuela para ver si alguien distinto a ella podía lograr ayudar a Lalo. Ninguno de estos experimentos había funcionado. Lalo había regresado a vivir con nosotros pero aún se metía en problemas

Traveler

(Part I: The Acapulco Hilton Experience)

        It would seem that one of the things Lalo was born to do was travel. He is one of the persons I’ve known who has travelled the most. Not in terms of number of times, but in terms of the types of places he visited and the experiences he lived there. At his funeral, one of the things I said about him was that again, as usual, there was Lalo, going away to some exotic place none of us had gone to.

        As a baby and little boy, he travelled to the US with my mother on several occasions. They’d go up before the holidays and my father would catch up to them; later, they’d all come back down together.
        Here in Mexico, we would all frequently travel to different places for the weekends. I recall the drives over to Cuernavaca, a famous vacation spot we’d very often go to which was only about an hour away from the city. I remember the typical warnings about going to the bathroom because my father insisted he wouldn’t be stopping on the highway; the endless are-we-there-yets and the final amazing excitement at actually arriving, always when you least expected it. We’d go already dressed in our swim suits, some clothes thrown over them, to be able to peel the top layer away and run to the pool.
        Later, during his adolescence, Lalo would get away to other places in Mexico, like when he’d go to Acapulco with Carlos and his father or with other friends. Acapulco was, and still is, an incredibly popular destination for Mexico City dwellers because of its relative closeness; in those days, it was about six hours away by car or bus. On one of those occasions, Lalo had THE Acapulco Hilton Experience.
        Basically, what he told me was this. At some point during the early 70’s, he and some friends had gone over to Acapulco for some holiday or long weekend. One night, they decided to drop some acid, go out to the beach, and trip out watching the stars. After a while, they started back to wherever they were staying.  As they walked next to the surf, a little group of local hoodlums came up and cut them off.
        It was late and the beach was deserted. They knew they were in trouble because they really had nowhere to go. On the left was the sea; on the right, the beachfront areas of the different hotels, none of which they were staying at; ahead of them, their assailants. Still wired from the acid, they decided to charge.
        As they ran at the little gang, one of them stepped forward and punched Lalo square in the face. He went down flat on his back but, incredibly, sprang back up on his feet like some sort of mechanical toy, screaming like a madman. Everyone was absolutely shocked! The guy who had punched Lalo turned tail and ran away, scared out of his wits. The others, equally amazed and seeing their friend’s reaction, immediately ran after him. Victory!!
        Lalo and his friends decided to take the safe course and walked up to the beachfront area of the hotel nearest them: it just happened to be the Acapulco Hilton. They sat at the poolside chairs for a while and from there, walked into the hotel, through the lobby and out onto the avenue.
        When he told me the story, Lalo kept laughing. “You should have seen the guys face! He couldn’t believe it! I was like an animated cartoon! Nobody could believe it!”
        To him, the experience was iconic of his youth, of the times, of our country. To me, it is also like a sort of time bubble where I can still see his laughing face.

Susana Olivares Bari

Viajante

(Parte I: LA Experiencia del Hilton de Acapulco)

            Parecería que una de las cosas para las que nació Lalo fue viajar. Es una de las personas que conozco que más ha viajado. No en términos del número de veces, sino en términos del tipo de lugares que visitaba y las experiencias que allí vivía. Durante sus funerales, una de las cosas que dije de él era que, de nuevo, allí estaba Lalo, yéndose a algún lugar exótico al que ninguno de nosotros había ido.

Anoche soñé con Lalo. Era uno de esos sueños extraños, oscuros, que me ha dado por soñar en los últimos años. Lalo estaba muy serio y me decía: “Tengo que decirte algo muy importante”. El contenido de su mensaje concernía a esas luchas morales que uno tiene siempre. Debo hacer esto, debo comportarme así, debo permitir tal o cual cosa. La mayor parte de lo que me dijo lo olvidé al momento de despertar. Así son los sueños. No puedo evitar que los años de estudiar psicología afecten mi análisis del contenido onírico. Es, como diría el mismo Freud, un simple cumplimiento del deseo. Una figura cercana que ha ido a un plano superior de existencia, regresa de entre los muertos para darme una guía moral. Obvio. El mensaje simplemente me da permiso para hacer lo que de principio quería hacer (pero ahora con autorización desde el cielo). ¡Vaya! Pero la otra parte del sueño es más vital para mí. Después, Lalo estaba acostado en su cama, como antes de morir, y yo me hincaba a su lado y empezaba a llorar a mares, disculpándome por no haber sabido hablar con él. Por no haber tenido el valor de decirle la pena que me abrumaba, por temor a que me rechazara o se enojara conmigo. Lo que más lamento de ello, y lo que me hace llorar hasta ahora, es que no pude ser yo misma con él. El resentimiento es contra mí y contra él, por no querer hablar del tema de su enfermedad o de su muerte, aunque fuera egoísta de mi parte. No hay remedio ya para eso. Ya no es posible sentarme de nuevo al borde de su cama y, en lugar de fingir que leo alguna cosa y que sólo le hago compañía, decirle cuán incrédula estaba –y estoy– de que tuviera cáncer. Que lo extraño, que hace falta, que la vida cambió para siempre y que me niego a aceptarlo. También aquí el sueño me cumple un deseo. Puedo llorar a su lado y disculparme por mi cobardía. Te extraño mucho Lalo y siempre lo haré. Ese lugar común sobre el hueco que deja la gente al partir es demasiado real. Casi puede uno meter la mano y dejarse devorar por ese vórtice oscuro, ese hoyo negro, que desde el momento de ocurrir una muerte nos acompaña todo el tiempo. Ya no estás, ya no existes y hay un vacío en el espacio. Una imagen borrosa donde antes había color. La devastación del nuevo paisaje hace imposible olvidar lo que ha ocurrido. Querido Lalo, ya que las palabras me fallan de nuevo, déjame robarle la inspiración a Sabines para expresar mi dolor, aunque te enojes:

Déjame reposar,
aflojar los músculos del corazón
y poner a dormitar el alma
para poder hablar,
para poder recordar estos días,
los más largos del tiempo.
“Algo sobre la muerte del Mayor Sabines”, Parte I, 1973

Gloria Padilla Sierra

Last night I dreamt of Lalo. It was one of those strange, dark dreams that I’ve taken to have over the past few years. Lalo was very serious and he said, “I have something very important to tell you.” The content of his message had to do with one of those moral struggles one constantly has. I must do this, I must behave in this way, I must allow this or that. Most

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.