Memorial Day

"A heroe is someone who has given his or her life for something bigger than oneself"

-Joseph Cambell

Once

Eleven years ago today Pepina and I exchanged vows. Padre Sayers said we'd love each other less that day than we would the rest of our lives. Although we raised an eyebrow at the celebate monk, his words ring true. In fact, tonight we've agreed to have a go at it another eleven years.

Eleven is heaven.

Un esposo contentisimo,

P. Suave de Pepina

Semana Soleada

• Li'l Pepinita got a double. Yesterday, she stepped up to the plate and sent a ball into the outfield. As a veteran in the coach-pitch softball league, the girl is hitting her stride. Last year she watched alot of balls, and struck out tons, too. We're not sure she even had fun. This year, she is running out to position, running into the bench, and laughing all the time. Swatting the ball like she is paid to. It helps that her team mates are enjoying the game and learning, as well.
• Bompa, Grandma, Pepina, Li'l Pepinita and Yo spent yesterday afternoon playing in the sun at family friend Ardy's house. We tore up part of her yard, planted stuff, and fetched a stuck Pepinita out of a tree. In the evening, Ardy treated us to pizza, ice cream, and a Skippo game or two at Opa's house.
• Li'l Pepinita and her Li'l Pal sang a duet, "Jesus Take the Wheel", in her school's talent show last week. They're Idol bound one day.
• I got the blade off the lawn mower, finally.
• How 'bout them gas prices.
• Can't beat the weather.

I think I've run out of points to bullet. Enjoy your week. I will.

Atentamente,

P. Suave

Dia de las Madres

I am Mama Suave's son. Three other fortunate souls on this earth can stake that claim. Periodista, Casi Italiano, young Monja, and myself have had our lives nurtured by the sweet lady from Coram avenue. She raised us as the child bride of a Detroit Policeman in a two bedroom bungalow across the street from her childhood home. By the time she had reached my current level of "maturity", her youngest was college-age. Today she is the swashbuckling investment broker for the Suave Family Fortune and the matriarch of a cross-country legacy, most of whose members still leave the seat up.
We raise our glasses of 2% milk and toast you, Mom, the author of our days...

Tu hijo orgulloso,

Peppy

Hermano Crispy

Our neighborhood had alleys. An alley wasn't just for garbage. A whole underground of activities transpired on the double track that split the backyards from one side of the block to the other. Bird catching, tag games, rock throwing, and, to my brother's chagrin, match-lighting. I was the resident pyro, and Casi Italiano was a semi-innocent bystander. I had just learned the skill of setting a whole book of matches on fire and called over to CI, "Hey come look!" My myopic brother did just that, his head bent down toward my hands, squinting at me as I fumbled with the matches. My mini-inferno flamed up and set CI's hair on fire. I started slapping at him like Curly on Mo. CI had no idea why I was accosting him until his scalp starting burning, then he started auto-slapping. We must have been a picture. Once extinguished, CI started picking at his singed hair. Finally, he flashed a look at me that I had become accustomed to; a mixture of contempt, dismay, astonishment, with a sprinkle of anger.
There you have it, THE DAY I SET CASI ITALIANO'S HEAD ON FIRE

No soy ningun bombero,

Pepster

Cabeza Quemada

Did I tell you about the time I set Casi Italiano's head afire?
America decides: if you want to hear about my brother's burning coco, comment below. Don't want to wast your time. If atleast five americans, or ten of foreign origin, comment requesting the narrative, I will oblige. No comments? More cut and past articles about American education issues. So there.

Esperando su respuesta,

P. "Fosforo" Suave