Mig’s Dream

A few days after Herb's death, Mig dreamt about her father. She was sitting on the beach in front of her home in St. Criox when she saw the old man walking towards her. He was surrounded by dogs. This was not all that unusual. Herb was always a man who preferred the company of dogs over most people. He was a man who carried dog treats in his pockets, just in case.

It was no surprise that he would gather a crowd of Carribean beach mutts as he walked. Even in a dream, dogs meant the world to Grandpa Herb.

         “Dad, Mom’s going to kill you when she sees all of these dogs”

Then Mig remembered, her father was gone. She looked closer at the dogs and began to recognize them.

         “Dad, what’s going on?”

         “They all came back to me. Each and everyone. Every dog I ever owned.” He paused, tossing a treat to the closest open mouth. Laughing he said to Mig,

         “I’m going to keep walking, I’ll see you later.” 

He walked away in the middle of the pack, cigar smoke trailing behind him.

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Grandpa and I never really understood each other. Not the way my other brothers knew the man. While he held court in his little sitting room, smoking cigars and watching golf with my brothers, I was in the kitchen listening to Grandma talk politics and learning how to drink strong coffee. 

But dogs…..he and I always had a way with dogs. We understood that part of each other, the part that could speak dog. It was our wordless bond. Some people have Bar Mitzvahs. My rite of passage into adulthood was when Gramps asked me to take care of Jo-Jo, an ornery mutt with the body of an over-fed Corgy and the face of a mustached Terrier. It was the highest compliment he ever gave me. 

The dream is likely an invention, but I’ll keep it. It is how I choose to remember Gramps.

Mr. Ponce’s Story

     Ponce arrived in New York City in 1954 speaking no English other than baseball jargon. To this day he can still name the Yankee’s line up from that year; baseball was his religion. In his mid-seventies, Ponce still looks like a ball player cut from the same cloth as Big Pappi. In the late 1950’s Ponce was playing on a traveling team based outside of Charlotte. The pitcher was a young man who had followed him from Cuba. The two of them roomed in the home of a retired schoolteacher. Ms. Finley was a force of nature. She was the daughter of sharecroppers and the only literate person in her family. She was on a mission to stamp out illiteracy one baseball player at a time. The price for living in her home, beyond a nominal rent, was that you had to learn to speak, read, and write English to her satisfaction. It’s amazing how quickly two young men can learn a language under the threat of eviction. This threat was even more poignant given their new found affection for Southern cuisine.  In Ponce’s own words, “Hmmmm, Corey. I tell you (dramatic pause), that woman could COOK!”.  Ponce learned English to Ms. Finley’s satisfaction.

         Understanding English in the deep South may have been a doubled edged sword. It was always clear that whites were insulting them, but taunts in an unfamiliar language are easy too ignore. As their English improved Ponce and the pitcher became increasingly aware of what the white men were saying. One day outside of Atlanta Ponce's fear turned to anger as he silenced a man who followed him into a bar spitting hate. It was just one punch. In less than twenty minutes the two ballplayers were running for their lives. The mob had formed, and as Ponce described it, it was a well-rehearsed play. This was not the first time young men had run for their lives in this part of the world. His memory of the chase is hazy. He remembers running. He remembers his friend pulling him into the woods. He remembers the long hot wait until nearly dawn. The pitcher had saved Ponce’s life. The next day, the pitcher left. “America”, he said, “is no place for a black man”.

         Ponce moved back to New York and later to Boston. He runs a community center and teaches kids to play baseball. On May 3, 1999, Mr. Ponce turned on the television to watch the Baltimore Orioles play the Cuban All-Stars in an exhibition game. Some time during the sixth inning one of the Cuban pitching coaches noticed the television camera on him. He held out a handmade sign that read “Lazaro Ponce is my friend”. The Baltimore Orioles lost the game 12-6

        

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Ponce, Thank you for all of your stories!!!!!!!