COMMENTS about this page: In these last few years with the aid of my computer, I have written down bits and pieces of my life's experiences, vignettes in a sense. I travel often and I work among the poor in Mexico which gives me plenty of material. Here are some short stories that might prove of interest:

DEAD END ALLEY: (7/'97) Last night we were with Carlitos in the world he knew best, "Zona Norte" He knew the sleazy neighborhood like the back of his hand, and he knows the people. Likewise, adults and kids, they all knew Carlos. The sun had set, and it was getting dark. We walked down a narrow street. Carlos paused at an alley, spoke briefly with a kid about his same age, then motioned for us to follow as he turned and headed down a narrow, dead-end alley between ramshackled houses. As we passed, curious eyes followed us as we followed Carlos. We were the strangers here.

At the end of the alley Carlos disappeared through a half open door and emerged with an older woman. We spoke with her briefly and she invited us in to her one room home to meet her husband. We were warmly greeted by the older couple. Sitting on the bed we listened as the lady explained how she took care of Carlos when he was small. We spoke briefly and then walked together a short way back up the alley to meet another of Carlos' friends. By now, we had a trail of kids following us. We were invited into another house and soon were listening to the two ladies talk about Carlos. They noted that "Shorty" has changed. "He is a different boy, no longer the tough gang leader selling drugs. He is clean and quiet. He is a Christian now." One of the ladies pointed to a young boy peering through the doorway, "Look at him, he gives his mother nothing but grief!" The boy's mother gave her son a sharp glance! "This neighbor hood has nothing but problem kids, stealing and drugs. What we need is for Carlos to come back and straighten them out!" At that point, one of the kids standing at the doorway entered the conversation. "Yeah, I'll be part of his gang!" All the time, Carlos was sitting there looking passively at the wall. What was he thinking? I don't know. This is just one of the many dead-end alleys that make up "Zona Norte." These were just a handful of the hundreds of children caught in the downward spiral of drugs, immorality and violence. Carlos made a pretty discerning statement that night. As he looked at the area he said "All of these people are slaves of the Devil!" At that point Tim asked Carlos, "are you going to be a leader for God or a leader for the Devil?" "I'll be a leader for God" he replied.

SILENCE: (10/22/'97) Screams penetrated the wet night. Several men from the rehabilitation center nearby heard the screams and scrambled out into the dark wet night heading toward the calls for help. Slipping and sliding down the muddy hillside they came upon a little shack that was filling with mud. A mother and her children pinned inside. While several of the men tried to hold the main wall against the mud flow the others tried desperately to work the trapped woman and children free. It was hard, it was slow ... too slow! The men could hold the house wall no longer, they yelled and warned the others. The whole hillside it seemed had given way and the mud rushed down the hillside smothering the screams. The night returned to gentle rain and silence, deathly silence.

REAL MEN DON'T CRY: (5/6/'98) My van was full of excited kids returning from camp. I bounced down the dirt road into Barrio Trinche, stopped the van to let off Toño and most of his friends, then continued down the road with ten- year-old Miguel. Falling from his top bunk Friday night, he had hit his head and broken his arm. I wanted to explain the fall to his parents and give them his X-ray. Miguel seemed a little uneasy about taking us to his home. He led us on a path between some houses and down a little trail on the side of the canyon. It was a sad picture. His drunken father was leaning against the doorway of his small, dirty shack. When he saw me and the boy returning with a broken arm, he worked himself into a rage. Miguel disappeared through the doorway. Fortunately his mother arrived on the scene and told his father to shut up! She had a more urgent matter for us: Toño's and Daniel's father had hung himself that morning and we needed to go there. Reina is now a widow. Twelve-year-old Toño and ten-year-old Daniel and their little brother and three sisters have no father. I walked the distance up the road wondering what to say.

Again I was led down the dry canyon through several trash-filled yards and past small houses. We came to the house. I called for Reina and Toño. In a short time, they slowly came out and joined me. I looked down at the rope that was lying on the wooden floor next to my feet. Reina was in tears. The kids stood around very quietly, looking puzzled and afraid. Toño showed no emotion. In Trinche, real men don't cry. After expressing my sorrow, I asked Toño to walk with me up to my van. We sat inside. I was glad for my tinted windows. By now Toño was dabbing his eyes. There must have been something about this abusive, alcoholic father that he loved. What do you tell a boy who was so full of life and happiness this morning, returning from his first camp, when he's come back to the death of his father ... and by hanging? Real men in Trinche die by bullets, knives, drugs or car accidents, never by hanging! I again hugged him, told him he was now the man of the family and gave him $250.00 to help with the funeral. We drove together up the road near his house. I said goodbye and shook his hand. It's hard to grow up so fast. His father will be buried in the dry, trash-filled cemetery for the very poor right next to the dump. Today this man and this tragedy will be buried, only to resurface again some tomorrow as another tragedy. As sad as that is, that's life at Trincheraso.

JESUS DIED YESTERDAY: (7/7/'98) They say it was about 5 pm. Death isn't new to any of us; in fact, the ultimate statistic is one out of one dies. But Jesus was only ten years old. Last Thursday at our work day, Clementina his grandmother, approached us and meekly asked if we could help her grandson who was dying of cancer. The story was as hopeless as any I have heard. The boy's father had died several months ago. Now Jesus was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The hospitals and doctors had been stalling any help for eight months and by now her medical bill was more than two thousand U.S. dollars. Because of this, the hospital and doctors were reluctant to treat him further. He was now in pain and needed help. Could I possibly visit Jesus? When we finished our work in Pan America, I seated grandma and Hortensia in my van, then loaded it with four American teens and headed down the long road to Jesus' house. Grandma was giving the directions. After driving for about fifteen minutes, we stopped at a dead end. Grandma got out and crossed the trashy gully to the house to see if Jesus and Alejandra, his mother, were home. She quickly returned to the van and announced that they had taken the boy to the hospital; could we go see him there? We headed up and over the hill through an urban maze of criss-cross streets until we finally came to the hospital. Jesus was in a room on the third floor. I quietly entered the room. From his bed, he stared at the ceiling. His mother sat looking at him laying there with an IV in his are receiving morphine. I went over to the bed, smiled and asked him how he was doing. I can't forget his eyes as he looked at me and studied my face. I'm sure he was surprised to see an old gringo standing next to him. He managed a smile and said he was feeling a little better, his legs weren't hurting him now. His eyes never left me. His mother said the morphine would last until Monday. I talked a little more and his mother requested we talk outside in the hallway. That's where she told me that the doctor had just told her that her son had only days to live. Grandma was sitting on the bench on the hallway holding her head in her hands; she didn't move. The American teens wanted to see him and she graciously gave permission. I pressed some money in Alejandra's hands to help with his food and care. As we left, Grandma was patiently sitting on the sidewalk with Jesus' little five year old brother waiting for Jesus and his mother to come out and go home.

It was this morning, less than a week later, that I got the news. Little Jesus had died. I also heard that mother, grandmother and extended family couldn't raise enough money to bury the child. In Mexico, if you don't have enough money to pay for the funeral you don't get the deceased. Tomorrow Spectrum will pay the needed $500 to provide for Jesus' burial. Today, Jesus is just another statistic. His body lies beneath a little wooden cross, one of hundreds of little crosses in what's known only as Cemetary Three.

A little sparrow fell Tuesday; isn't it comforting that our Lord saw it fall.