A Toy Truck For A Marine

We hope you will read and enjoy
this small and early Christmas gift –
the “title chapter” of
Father Skip’s book by the same name.
If you’d like a copy of the book,
please fire him an email or give him a call.  

Over half a century and three-and-something generations, the family grew and spread from La Pequena Havana and Hialeah to Westchester, Kendal, Pinecrest and even Weston. 

As generations took root like an ever-spreading banyan tree, no one enjoyed it more 

than the family’s youngest member, whom some were considering nominating for to Ripley’s Believe-It-Or-Not as the kid with the most uncles in the world. There were doctor and dentist uncles, mechanic and lawyer uncles, teacher and business uncles, banker uncles and every possible kind of sales person uncle. And, if the family tree didn’t cover a profession or need, the adoption of aunts and uncles would fill the void. There’s an almost unlimited number of advantages to being part of a family with so many tios and tias, primos and primas - uncles and aunts and cousins, both boys and girls. You never have to worry about getting really sick - the doctors make house calls. Everybody’s car runs very, very smoothly. And whatever the sport, there’s an uncle or cousin who’s ready to join Papi in his role as a great coach or personal trainer. 

Of course, in the providence of God, there has to be some balance for all those benefits and that was the simple fact that Miguelito couldn’t get away with anything without Mami and Papi knowing in real time thanks to the Cuban Internet. 

There was, of course, in the totally incomprehensible universe that is called Miguelitolandia - Mikey Land to those who do not speak Spanglish - a certain unwritten, indeed unspoken, and to all the world except Mikey, incomprehensible logic for tio-razco - unclehood. First, female cousins, no matter what their age and unless they were married to a tio, were primas - cousins. Males, however, were primos only if they were Mikey- size. And, since he was the last of all the grandchildren - at least according to the unanimous chorus of his aunts, almost every male fell into the uncle category. If you were more than a head-and-a-half-taller and/or sported a beard that required shaving more than twice a month, you were definitely a tio. Which, in the world according to Mikey, meant that every male relative was officially an uncle. And, if you were a tio’s best friend, essentially grew up in or ate pots-full of arroz con pollo or frijoles negros in Mikey’s or the abuelos home, you were an officially unofficially adopted tio.

So it was that when Mikey’s - student at the University of Miami - Uncle Nick caused something of a seismic shock of earth quake magnitude by announcing that he was - horror-of-horrors - moving into the Sigma Chi Fraternity house on campus, the family processioned (is that a word?) to the house and established Nick - and by extension Mikey - in a wonderland of uncles. And Mikey never missed a beat; he memorized the route and, essentially, considered the house as his own domain. Pledges - Mikey didn’t quite understand that concept - were assigned as MDs - Mikey Drivers after dark. He was honorary coach to every intramural team and his homework was checked and rechecked by students who would eventually graduate with honors and highest honors and some whose parents would simply be happy to see them graduate. No wonder that, with sixty uncles overlooking every assignment, he shot to the head of his class. 

And, best of all, he always had at least sixty - sometimes as many as 80 and 90 tios because every graduating class was replaced by new and more amazing groups of pledges and brothers. 

In truth, it was difficult to tell who was more fond of whom - Mikey of his tios or the tios of Mikey. But one thing was certain: There was no tio like Tio Connor. “He’s really, really nice; he tells jokes, he’s wants to be a children’s doctor; he’s got a great - I mean a really great car that he bought for himself; he has blonde hair and he smiles more than anyone else in the whole world - the biggest smile you have ever seen,” he excitedly told Mami and Papi and los abuelos over dinner. “And he’s got all kinds of tattoos…” (At this news Abuela nearly choked on her own flan and Mami thought she might be needing to go to bed con un dolor de cabeza bien fuerte – a really bad headache). “They’re the names of some of his friends who died, and... And, and…He calls me Dude, and Duster, and Duderoo…. And, and….” His thoughts were racing so fast his tongue couldn’t catch-up.

“And he’s a MARINE.”

With one word, tumbling off Mikey’s tongue, Connor was transformed. “Pues,” announced Abuelo, “es familia – Well, he’s family.” The matter was settled. Tattoos, until that moment verboten (if I can mix languages,”) in la familia, were suddenly - well, not quite acceptable - acceptable on Connor because “si pues, es un Marine.”  

It seemed, to la familia, that the world - or at least Mikey’s world - had changed from heliocentric, moving around the sun, to Connor-centric. And, while Papi was once able to stop Mikey dead in his tracks con una mirada - with a look, now he was controlled with the simple promise (never threats, I don’t believe in threatening kids; but I’m great at promises) like “I’m going to tell Connor” or, even worse, “You won’t be able to go with Connor.” Such promises could affect nearly miraculous transformations. 

When it became clear that Connor was going to stay at the fraternity house during the week-long Thanksgiving break, it was equally clear that Mikey’s sun would be given no choice: He would join his huge Cuban-American-Miami family for Thanksgiving dinner. 

The quintessential American holiday was organized bedlam. With so many coming and going and eating and three languages filling the air - hey, we’re in Miami, of course three languages: English, Spanish and Spanglish - Connor thought that actual battle was more organized. As the sun set and Papi began nodding off on the sofa, Connor gave Mikey a subtle but familiar jerk of the head that Miguelito had come to recognize as a silent expression of “Let’s blow this firetrap” - a classic Connor-ism. “Hey, Dudester,” he said, “There’s no school tomorrow. How’d you like to hit up Toys-R-Us? I’ve got more than a thousand bucks burning a hole in my pocket for Toys-For-Tots; it’s a Marine project.” 

A project for THE MARINES!  Even if they had wanted to, Mami and Papi and los abuelos could not say No to THE MARINES. But, insisted Abuela, Connor could not leave without something approximating twenty pounds of arroz, frijoles negros, pavo, platanos maduro – rice, black beans, turkey, fried bananas, and enough of Abuela’s flan to stop the hearts of an entire Marine battalion - “Por si acaso – in case you are hungry later.” 

For the next few weeks, Connor and the Dudester and the rest of the Sigma Chis - brothers and pledges - and sorority girls galore - became an extension of Toys-For-Tots and THE MARINES. Car washes, toy collections, car hold-ups for cash on US1. Connor wasn’t just any Marine - he was Secretaries of the Navy and Defense all rolled into one. And when not in school or sleeping, Tio and the Dudester were shopping, selecting, wrapping, name-tagging, and planning deliveries.  

On the last Friday afternoon of the semester, Tios Nick and Connor managed to con, cajole and just generally overwhelm Mami and Papi with an idea: Mikey would spend the weekend at the fraternity house. He’d go to bed early, study and help wrap gifts and attend Saturday’s fraternity’s Christmas party. And, they promised that he’d be home safe and sound on Sunday. The look on Mami’s and Papi’s faces was as if it had been proposed that they move to Alaska. But then came the clincher: All Connor’s Marine friends were going to be the guests of honor. THE MARINES. What parent - in fact, what Cuban-American parent - could say no to that?

It was a kid’s Dream of a Life Time. A Sigma Chi Party. So many beautiful young women all dressed-up and they all kissed him. On the dance floor he did his Cuban heritage proud. Connor’s Marine friends saluted and brother’s high-fived him. And, Mikey smiled so much that, when he finally unrolled his sleeping bag on Tio Connor’s floor, he actually complained that his jaw hurt. 

“What a night, Dudester,” Connor sighed, falling - I mean falling - onto his bed. “So great to see those guys laughin’ and smilin’. For some of them, this was probably the first time they’ve had so much fun in years. They’ve seen so much war and pain and some of them are still so afraid that they actually sleep with their guns right next to them in bed. The closest they come to being kids is this toys thing - and then they’re actually letting other kids be kids.” And with that, Connor drifted off. 

But Miguelito fell asleep and dreamed and woke to those words: “They’ve seen so much war and pain and they’re still so afraid….”

As promised, Connor delivered Miguelito home right on time for Sunday afternoon Mass, parting, as always con un abrazo fuerte - with a big hug. For Miguelito, however, those words - “They’ve seen so much war and pain and they’re still afraid…” - continued to run through his head like an evil ghost of Christmas past. At home, Papi could stand - would stand - his silence no longer. “Miguel, don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ I know something’s wrong. What’s happened?”

“Papi,” said Miguelito, “My truck collection. Is it really mine?”

“Chico, how many times have you heard the story. When Abuelo first arrived in America, before he even knew Abuela, he worked in a gas station - his first job - and bought three toy trucks at Christmas for the sons and grandsons he planned someday would be his. Every year since then, he’s bought three trucks - one for me, one for you to play with and one for the collection, never opened, always saved. Abuelo always says they’re a down payment on your college tuition.”

“But, Papi. Is it MY collection or Abuelo’s?” 

“Of course, Hijo. It’s yours. Porque?”

In seconds Mikey told the entire story - Toys-For-Tots, Tio’s Marine friends, but most importantly that he couldn’t forget Tio’s words "They’ve seen so much war and pain and they’re still so afraid….” “Papi,” said Miguelito, “I want to give my collection to Marines…. “

It was done, settled, se acabo la cosa. Mikey had made up his mind and Papi had given his word - the collection was his.

This was a family decision and demanded family action. Then. Not tomorrow or the next day. Tios and tias, primos and primas, and los abuelos were summoned. Just in case: Bring wrapping paper and newspaper to wrap with; Scotch tape - we’re sure to run out; ribbons; writing paper and pens for notes. We’ll have a lot to wrap - and it has to be done before Connor starts exams on Tuesday. “Oh, and Miguelito. You’re not going to school tomorrow. We’ve got to take care of this.”

Cuban coffee - enough to jump start several small countries in Europe - was brewed; Abuela started pulling out coffee cans of flan - yup, she did it the old-fashioned way. This factory was going to operate on a sugar high and a caffeine rush. 

When, within half an hour, the clan was gathered, Mikey stated his case.

Everyone knew and loved Connor. He’s familia now. And last night, after everyone had left, Connor talked about the pain of his Marine friends… that so many of them had forgotten what it is to be a kid… they’ve seen so much war and live with such fear… How Abuelo has always taught all of them that Christmas is for the child, the kid in each of us and these guys had lost their Kid-Inside. That the Collection was Mikey’s and Papi had told him that he could do whatever he wanted with it. You can’t give a Marine a Teddy Bear - what would people think if they saw a Marine with his own Teddy Bear. But we can give them trucks and make them personal from la familia.

“God, can that kid talk,” thought Abuelo, who stood, even before Mikey had finished. Case closed. “Vengan. Come.” And with one word he was headed to the garage, bringing out and opening the ladder and climbing to the attic to pull down forty-nine years of pristinely kept boxes of Hess trucks - unopened, of almost inestimable value - a perfect collection destined for as many Marines.

The dining room table and floors became a multilingual wrapping factory: “Da me el Scotch tape,” “Mire, corta lo here,” “Do you want un cafecito.”

In the end, there remained one truck. Smaller than any other. The oldest. The first he had bought for his future family. Abuelo held it gently, calmly, proudly, and with a determination that silenced the entire assembly. He grabbed Miguelito and le dio un abrazo tan fuerte - gave him a hug so tight - it sent warm shivers through every family member. “Miguelito, you wrap this one for Tio Connor.” 

“Hijo, ven,” he directed Papi. And, moving to the kitchen, he grabbed paper and a pen and directed Papi, “My English is not so good. Write….”

Estimado Connor.

Please pardon me. I do not speak or write English well. 

Through Miguelito we have learned how much so many of you Marines don’t like or want to be thanked “for your service.” We have begun to understand that we can never understand what your service has meant to you and those you love. 

We’ve also learned how many of you live with pain and fear and even sleep with your guns close at hand. That many of you have lost the all-important child-inside. 

Truly you are family now. And there are some things you should know about our family - your family. We believe that kids should always be kids - deep in their hearts and for as long as they live.

We have taught our children and grandchildren that the greatest way to love another person is to pray for him. 

Even though we believe that everyone should have at least one Teddy Bear in their life and a toy at Christmas, Miguellito has insisted that we cannot give a Marine a Teddy Bear. 

So, Abuela and I hope you will please accept this simple gift - bought in my first weeks in the United States, even before I knew Abuela. 

It is not a Teddy Bear but it is a toy and, we hope more than a toy. Please put it next to your bed or where you will see it every night as you turn out light. Please let it be a constant reminder that we do and will forever pray for you. You are family and because you are loved you are prayed for and because you are prayed for you are loved. 

If the time ever comes when your Kid-Inside is strong and happy and free and you do not need this gift, please give it to another Marine or someone who is in pain and explain that he, too, is prayed for and loved. And, if he ever wants or needs a great Cuban meal, he only needs to knock on the door and show his truck.

With a strong hug from all of your family, we wish you a most Merry Christmas.
Abuelo

Wherever there was room enough to sit and write, family members began their own versions of Abuelo’s letter and carefully taped them to 48 other boxes.

“Pues,” ordered Papi. “Call Tios Nick and Connor and tell them we are coming.”

“Papi! It’s Sunday night! They have their meeting.”

“Pues! No importa! We are going! Now!”

And so it happened that Miguelito’s and Tios Nick’s and Connor’s entire family arrived at the Sigma Chi House - Wise Men bearing not Toys-For-Tots but Trucks-For-Marines. The rest is unimportant. Tio Connor - Secretary of Defense and Secretary of the Navy - would ensure that every gift was carefully guarded and personally and proudly delivered.

And we pray that the Kid-Inside will sleep tonight without fear, without pain and with a smile on his face. 

Merry Christmas.