A Bittersweet Homecoming

It's never easy to say goodbye. Whether it's a person or something that holds sentimental value, no one likes letting go. So when my parents told me a couple years ago they were thinking about selling the house I grew up in, it felt a bit like a punch in the gut at first. When it was built back in 1973, it was the perfect place to raise a young and still growing family. I wouldn't come along for another 6 years, and for the first 18 years of my life, and a brief stint after college, it was the only home I knew.

I think the realization that they needed to downsize into something more manageable came around the time my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It was a blow to all of us, but at the same time, I think it brought our family together. My siblings and I knew it was time for us to give our parents a helping hand, just as they had so many times for us growing up. What had been a hard pill to swallow at first blush, turned quickly into a call for action. And so we set about trying to get the old place standing tall, quite methodically I might add, readying it for sale and contemplating just what the next step would be.

It wasn't until this spring that we'd be ready to think about putting it up for sale. After much handwringing, when my parent's finally met with a realtor, they marveled at what they saw as a gem in a very sluggish market. After nearly 4 decades in this place, they ended up listing it with the same agency that had originally sold them the house, and in some ways it brought some comfort that we were coming full circle.

When they made the listing official and I looked at the description and the photos, and ultimately the asking price, it was more than a bit surreal. It all looked good, and I felt anyone who were to see it would certainly want to give the place a look. At the same time it felt odd to quantify the value and parameters of this place that held so many memories for me, and for all of us. It was more than a 4 bedroom colonial. It was the place where I learned to dribble a basketball, played hide and seek with the neighborhood kids and where I returned each night to crowd around our kitchen table with my parents and 6 other siblings for dinner. It was home. Our home. And to think of putting a price on that and allowing some stranger to bid on something that was a part of our history, why it was unthinkable. But then the rational adult mind takes over and with a smile, I said to myself, "someone is really going to love this place just as much as we did".

Just a week or so later that person came along and I believe she saw in it just what we had come to know over the last 30 plus years. Less than two weeks after it went on the market, it was sold, and much to our relief at a fair price.

My parents had been thinking about what would be next for them, as we all had for quite some time. In the end, they decided to build a much smaller and more modest home, just around the corner from their current residence in a rather new development, that for my entire childhood had been just a barren field. Just as when they moved into 105 Pamela Lane, they will be only the second house on a new street, aptly named Brentwood Lane, the same name their current street once had before it was renamed.



On a drizzly, grey morning last week, I met my parents, along with two of my sisters and some of their kids at the site of the new abode. With the old house sold it was time to break ground on the new one. They make quite a big deal of these things, making a party out of the event, which includes the usual breakfast fare of bagels, donuts, coffee, and of course, what celebration would be complete without a bit of champagne?

The backhoe made quick work of the basement as we walked about muddy layout that was only an outline in bright orange spray paint on the dirt. We surveyed the area, and I reflected on how much has changed since we had ridden on bikes through there some 20 years before.

As the crew broke for a minute, the foreman of the team beckoned to my parents and suggested a photo op with the heavy equipment to commemorate the moment. As my mom gingerly climbed onto the the large steel treads and into the cab of the backhoe, my dad struck a pose just beside her. As always, I was ready with my camera to snap a few shots.


As hard as it had been to think of saying goodbye to the place I'd called home for so many years, any sadness was immediately wiped away by the smiles on my dear parent's faces. I know for them, this was a relief. They didn't relish the thought of relinquishing those precious ties to the past any more than I did. But I suppose as we all grow older, and things become less and less certain, it's a good feeling to make a decision and see the progress that it produces. In this world, there is nothing that will last forever, whether it's made of flesh and blood, or rafters and beams. We must savor each precious moment in the present, and try never to look back with regret. As for my parents, I'm happy to have helped to make this process just a bit easier and I look forward to future family gatherings in their new home. To be honest, it's a bit of a relief for me too, just to know that as they grow older, they have one less worry, and a great many blessings to be thankful for.

Striking A Balance

It's difficult these days to disconnect oneself from the myriad of distractions that keep us from focusing on our own well being, and on the things that really matter in life. It used to be that if people needed to reach you, they could call your home, or gasp, they might actually just send correspondence through the mail. Ever watch an old movie and think, if they just had a cell phone, they could warn the protagonist of impending doom?

But that was in the stone ages. Nowadays, I can be reached at my home phone, cell phone, work phone, any number of my multiplying email accounts, facebook, twitter...you get the picture. And there are people who have even more distractions in life than I do. It gets to the point where these modern conveniences that are supposed to make life easier, just end up making it more complicated. In some cases, they are a downright nuissance. ("I have how many emails in my inbox?")

So to truly get away from it all is a challenge, to say the least. Ever since I completed the arduous task of putting together a thesis for my Masters program, I'm still getting used to having my life back after a 3 year hiatus from normalcy. I have to try to remember what exactly normal feels like again. And I'm finding that, like the Thomas Wolfe novel, I can't go home again. The simplicity that once existed in my life, before graduate school and a career, marriage and a mortgage, and all of the things that seem to come with adult life, that is something I will never get back.

The best I can hope for is a week of vacation here and there, maybe juanting off to my tropical paradise in Puerto Rico, or the long overdue visit to my high school friend in Hawaii. And each time I find myself in these idyllic surroundings, I think, why don't I just stay? Do I really need to go back to that other life in that cold, grey place, where actual responsibilities await me? And yet as tempting as it is to never return, return I do. But you know what? As nice as it is to get away, I'm sure someday down the road, I'd find myself swinging in a hammock beneath the palm trees and think, I'm bored. Wonder what the folks back home are up to? Call me crazy, but work is in my blood and I think in some ways it keeps me sane, or at the very least, grounded.

We all have a calling in life and I guess for me, that calling is to be here, at least for now. And while life will inevitably continue to be anything but simple, I know that I have to keep moving forward. I still have much more work to do, as much as I'd like to kick back and take it easy. I'm afraid that once a place is no longer just a temporary escape from our everyday life, it can cease to be paradise. To have a place that I can call home, where I am surrounded by family, friends and all the things that are dear to me in life, this is what puts things in perspective and makes me realize just how blessed I am.

The Importance of Family

It's funny how so often we fail to appreciate something until it's gone. For the last few weeks, my wife Norma's family has been holding a vigil by her grandmother's bedside as she fades in and out of consciousness. At 91 years old, Mami Andrea, as she's affectionately called, has lived a full life, but the day we have all dreaded may be coming soon, when we finally have to say goodbye to her. And so we wait, and we watch over her. We hold her frail hand, we kiss her furrowed brow, caress her long silver hair and care for her as she cared for so many of those who now surround her.

I was fairly young when each of my grandmothers passed away, and I never really had an opportunity to know my grandfathers, so it has been an unusual experience for me. I've never watched someone as they lay dying. It's heart wrenching to see them so helpless, and to watch those left behind who are trying to come to terms with this loss. I hate to see anyone in pain.

It has made me think of my own family. In particular, it has forced me to look at my parents, and face this reality that they will not always be here. Two years ago, my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and to say it was a bit of a shock to the system is an understatement. It's not that we didn't know already that something was going on. The symptoms were clear long before the diagnoses. But to give a name to that suspicion was quite devastating. It made that inevitability of death feel that much more real.

In the time that has passed since, each of us have learned to accept these facts, and tried our best to support both my mother and father. In some ways, it is harder for those who live with this person that has been given such a diagnosis, than for the person themselves. I think Dad has accepted it finally, and begun to learn to live with it. His spirits seem high when I see him, though I know this is not always the case.

Having grown up the youngest of seven kids, I was always used to being surrounded by my family growing up, for better or worse. There were certainly times when I wanted them all to leave me alone. But now that we have all grown up and moved on to have families of our own, it's harder and harder to find that togetherness we once had. It's difficult to think about, but I sometimes have considered, how many more times will I have to spend with my mother and father, brothers or sisters before they're gone? When I consider that I see some of them only once a month, a few times a year, or less, it makes me want to drop what I'm doing and organize a family reunion. But realistically, we have to live our lives, wherever that may take us.

I had an opportunity to give my parents their first digital camera this Christmas, with the hope that they might take more photos to preserve the memories that these days are becoming increasingly precious. Whenever I look back at all the old photos, I think of how this record of our past still seems so real to me, like few things in life. It pains me to think of things that have gotten in the way of being together as a family. Distance, career, kids, the responsibilities of daily life and sometimes these little rifts that pop up in every family.

When you look at the frailty of life, and consider how it can be taken from us in a split second, at any time, any place, it forces us to take stock and reconsider our priorities. Now that the holiday season has come and gone, I hope that each of you had an opportunity to get away from the distractions of daily life, even for a few hours, to be with those family and friends that are dear to you. As our lives become busier and there are more of those distractions, hopefully it won't take a holiday or an illness to remind us throughout the year just how precious these people in our lives truly are.

Working Through the Holidays

I've been trying to get in the Christmas spirit this year. I really have. I've done many of the usual things one does: decorating the tree and the house with lights, shopping for gifts for family and friends, baking and of course eating the festive treats and listening to Vince Guaraldi doing "A Charlie Brown Christmas", among other holiday tunes, as much as possible. But I can't shake it. It doesn't feel like Christmas. It feels like any other day. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I am spending yet another year working through Christmas, and not just any shift, but the dreaded overnight shift. It's the nature of working at a 24 hour news station. The news never, ever stops, and so neither must we. So as Santa is flying over Rochester, I'm listening to the scanner to make certain that some crackhead doesn't shoot down his sleigh and make off with your gifts.

It was actually a fairly quiet night this year, which is not always the case. My shift started early with a woman running her car into a house out in Perinton. I'm told no one was home at the time, because that would've certainly messed with your head on a night when sugarplums should be the focus of mental activity. Finishing up there, I scrambled off to Sacred Heart Cathedral to catch the tail end of midnight mass. Normally, I kind of dread this, only because it's expected that I'm going to get some sort of soundbite, and of course it's the same thing every year. No one has the time or the desire to talk to me about the meaning of Christmas, and what is there to say that hasn't been said a thousand times? But this year, for some reason I was looking forward to it. Maybe it was this inkling in the back of my mind that it could potentially be my last year doing this. I actually missed it last year, being stuck at a standoff half the night (that's news speak for a guy in a house with a gun, and they usually go on a while). I thought that might be the case again this year, but I squealed into my illegal parking spot right in front of the church just before 1AM.

Fortunately, they were running late, so I had plenty of time to get video, and since there would be no opportunity for an interview, I was off the hook with that. A little nat sound of the choir, some shots of the manger scene and people praying, and I'm golden. So I stuck around, not having darkened the door of a church all year, and silently recited to myself the ritual responses to the bishop's prompts. It felt good to be there, like it was the first bit of Christmas I had felt all season, albeit for just a few short minutes. I'm not by any means a staunch Catholic, but I grew up in the church, and though I haven't been a regular mass goer in a while, there is something about midnight mass that is appealing to me.

I live right around the corner, so I took a drive by the house to make sure all was quiet there, as I sometimes do in the wee hours when I'm working. Then I took a leisurely route back to the station, accompanied by Vince and his rendition of "O' Tannenbaum". It's almost eerie how everything shuts down on Christmas. Even Lyell Ave. seems to genuflect just a tad. No parka clad ladies of the night were visible strolling down the sidewalks, no dealers on the corners, and even Louie's Cordial had dimmed the lights for one night.

I guess it's hard to get in the Christmas spirit when you haven't had one off in going on a decade now. No pity party for me though. I know I'm certainly not the only one. Some have done it far longer than I. But does that make me feel any less ambivalent? Not in the least.

I have such fond memories of Yuletides past. The traditions of decorating and baking or the anticipation of what treasures awaited me under the tree. Running downstairs at the crack of dawn to tear into presents with a fury reserved for childhood zeal. And most importantly, spending time with family, which these days is scattered about the map. Now I spend my Christmas morn with cops and firefighters.

The magic is gone. And I guess that is part of growing older. The reality of life gets in the way of dreams and wonder. But I still long to have those traditions back and to share them with my wife and someday my own kids. But instead, I must muddle through, as so many others are, my wife included, by working this Christmas. And I can only hope that perhaps in 2010, I can look forward to having a chance to celebrate Christmas at home, with family, the way things used to be, and raise a glass of eggnog to some other poor slob whose only wish is to be at home with his family.

So on this Christmas, wherever you are, whatever burdens you may carry, much greater than mine no doubt, may you and your family find some of that joy of the holiday season and spread it to others who need a bit of cheer.

In Search of Roots

Do you ever get the feeling that when you're searching for something, sometimes you have to go the long way around to reach your destination? I just finished this documentary about keeping culture alive across the generations. I looked at the family I married into and how they have managed to keep their traditions alive, despite being separated from the place where their roots lie, which are mainly in Puerto Rico. It's called Arroz Con Habichuelas, and some of you may have seen it. It's a metaphor about culture and how we take all these traditions and blend them together, and somehow each part can still be distinct while enhancing the experience of the whole. This stood in stark contrast to my own family. Though we had our traditions, they weren't strongly connected to any particular cultural history. And as the American story goes, I think that mine was probably the more common one.

I heard from so many who told me that they related to the narrative in one way or another, but mainly the loss and the longing, that hope that we all have to reunite with our past. I think that it almost takes going through that experience of looking at a family that is not your own, to gain perspective on the one that you were born into. And so I have found in the last month that I suddenly have this itch for the first time in my life to really know something about my past and where my people came from.

The extent of my knowledge about my family's ancestral roots stems mainly from a school project I did in third grade, which consisted of finding clippings from old magazines that somehow symbolized our ethnic ties and pasting them on poster board. I still remember asking my parents where we came from, having utterly no clue, and getting this vague explanation about being a little Scottish, a tad Irish, with a bit of German and Polish thrown into the mix. At that age, I was satisfied with this answer, but I suppose there is a reason why that one small assignment has stuck with me all these years. It wasn't until I grew older that I realized how appalling it is that we knew next to nothing about the generations that have come before us.

As time has passed, I have bumped into those roots from time to time. When my brother John went into the Marine Corps after high school and ended up in Scotland, I was quite mesmerized by the memorabilia that he returned with, but not on the level of a personal connection. The crest with our family name emblazoned on it, and the attached history of warring clans seemed exciting to an 8 year old, but it never went much beyond that. I recall discovering pierogies in the frozen foods section at the grocery store, but I didn't begin to connect that with my grandmother or any tradition that I knew of. I may be the only person on Earth that doesn't treat St. Patrick's Day as a personal excuse to engage in debauchery (though I've been known to raise a pint of Guinness or two), like so many of the non-Irish folks, all clad in green, that litter the streets mid-March of each year. And then there's the German Air Force jacket that I picked up at a surplus store in Boston years ago that I still wear from time to time, and my affinity for wheat beers and schnitzel, not to mention a fascination with long, conglomerated German terms, like gersamtkunstwert (a complete work of art).

These ties are quite tenuous to say the least, but my recent accomplishment of completing my thesis has left me with a fervor to learn more. And so I set out on this journey, which so many of my generation that I have spoken with seem ensconced in at this moment. It is a task of piecing together a history that in many cases was unraveled without much thought. I think this was for the most part unintentional on the part of my progenitors. I think that if I had the opportunity to ask my ancestors about their story, where they came from and how they got here, their response likely would be, "who me?" So often people have resisted talking about these things because they have felt, "my story isn't important. I'm nobody". But as one of my advisers pointed out during the process of making my thesis, it is often the person that persists in saying that their story is not important, that in fact has the most interesting stories to tell.

It's hard to say where this process will take me, and whether or not there is another documentary in it, but there is a sense of wonder about the prospect or digging up this past that you never even knew was there. Like my friend and colleague Chad Roberts commented at one of my screenings, referencing his own quest to find out more about his ancestry, "we're chasing ghosts". I knew that there would be those questions when I made this film about why I didn't look at my own family. I guess the only answer is, sometimes it's harder to look at yourself so directly until you have some of that perspective. And so with that in hand, its time for me to start listening to the ghosts from my own past.

The Constraints of Time

Without the obligations of an academic program to which I must daily and weekly pay my dues (in the form of creative output), I am able to move on to other endeavors. So I have found myself spending equal parts of time pursuing new avenues in terms of a career path, catching up on long overdue projects placed on hold, from updating my home's electrical capacity to scanning and restoring old family photos as part of a new genealogy project my brother John and I are embarking on, to just enjoying the freedom of being able to sit and watch a good film, or old episodes of The Wire. Of course, with one box checked off life's to do list, that doesn't bring about total freedom. On the contrary. It just opens my eyes to the myriad of other obligations and nagging chores that I haven't gotten to yet.

It got me thinking about the constraints we place on ourselves to get things done. I must ask myself this question from time to time: has life become too complicated? For all of the modern "conveniences" that we have now at our fingertips, I sometimes long for the days when I really could relax and not have in the back of my mind the flurry of activity, knowing what awaits me on the other side of this idle time. As Thomas Wolfe so aptly put it, you can't go home again, and this phrase rings true in the decades that have passed since he first committed the notion to print, more now than ever.

How many times a day will I lament the fact that there are not enough hours in any given day to get done all of the things that I would like? Of course, time is a flexible commodity, and we spend it as we see fit. Our measurements and calculations of it are arbitrary in the grand scheme of things. At times when I find myself tearing my hair out for lack of time to complete my obligations, I try to weigh those things in the scope of the bigger picture. Which of these things that gives me such worry at this moment will be on my mind one year from now, or five years from now, or 10 or 20? Which will hold even a minute place of importance? It helps to have the perspective that often the things that we fret about most are very temporary.

And with that thought, it is time to get about my day, and begin checking off some items from that endless to do list.

Social Media Explosion

Having been unfettered from the obligations associated with an MFA program, I've been trying to get my mind around this newfound freedom that I suddenly have. Of course, I still have plenty of obligations to keep me occupied. But now that a large chunk of that has been rectified, a proverbial monkey has been plucked neatly from my back, and I can pursue some of the cultural developments that have passed me by over the last 3 years or so.

One such experience is the plethora social networking tools available online these days. I have purposely avoided them up to this point, mainly because I didn't want to delve into them and not have the time to maintain this online alter ego, leaving a void of virtual detritus trailing in my wake. I hate the idea of some identity that is attached to me floating around in the vast expanse of cyberspace unchecked. And Lord knows I didn't need a single other distraction in my life.

So, upon completing my thesis just before thanksgiving, I set about catching up to where I left the world circa 2006. The first stop was LinkedIn, which was a simple enough choice, since it is a way to connect with other professionals, can lead directly down a new career path, and because I was invited by someone to join. So I logged in and began the process of building my professional narrative piece by piece. It was painless enough and so I trudged on.

Next stop was Facebook, which at different points, I told myself I would never have anything to do with. I softened a bit as I saw more friends catching up online, but held off until I could take the time to see just what I was getting into. I must admit, there is some trepidation in allowing any kind of personal info or thoughts to go out into this online labyrinth, chocked full of predators just waiting for any opening to seize on some vulnerability and do permanent damage to one's reputation and well-being. I've been the victim of identity theft on more than one occasion, fotunately with few lasting consequences, but nonetheless, I set my mind about treading quite lightly.

Once on Facebook, the floodgates seemed to open, compelling me delve into other areas, like Twitter, Flickr, Del.icio.us, and NY Times People to name a few. I suddenly found myself transfixed. So this is what I was missing all this time? I told myself that this was just a way to connect with family and friends who were out of town, since I'm so bad about calling and emailing. But I strangely found myself connecting, as much if not more, with people who live right in this area. It became quite effortless to interract with people that I might not otherwise see on a regular, or even semi-regular basis.

And now with that gap having been bridged, I find myself all in, testing the various methods of collecting and organizing thoughts, events, people, and this world of information that I encounter in my everyday life, as well as finding ways to share it. I never would have guessed it, but it seems to suit me. My mind is almost constantly buzzing with activity, bouncing from one thought to the next, and like the internet, referencing and cross-referencing, linking from one idea to the another, filling my life with endless information. I think this is why I am driven to make art, so that I have an outlet to encapsulate my meandering mental activity, harness it and quiet the cycle long enough to rest.

I used to scoff at the notion of social networking through these online tools, dismissing them as another distraction, an interface that serves to divide us and largely replace direct face to face interaction. While it certainly has these sort of pitfalls if we use it in that way, it has a much greater capacity to facilitate a more active dialogue, not just through the rather passive act of scanning and clicking on links, but through allowing us to reach people we might not otherwise run into and perhaps forge new bonds, while reconnecting with friends from years past. I see it as a sort of experiment, as we all evolve in our social or work lives, surrounded by technology and all that comes with it. How do we make sense of this sprawling landscape that is constantly unfolding and evolving? I can't answer that, but it's been good to get my life back and begin this process of catching up with what I've been missing.

The spring has brought a bit more sun, a bit more warmth, and most significantly for me, a bit more time to resume work on my thesis. With my teaching duties winding down in my first semester at Nazareth, I have begun to get back to the work that has been at the center of my creative energies for over a year now. 

It's hard to believe that it was last spring that I began this journey, taking me to new territory that has moved and captivated me. I often obsess over the details of shooting, at times working myself into a frenzy, worrying about all that could go wrong, as things often do. But as one artist once so aptly put it, the dog that never leaves the porch gets no bones. How true that is. So, I must press on, without fear of failure.

One of the joys beyond being in the thick of documenting some things that many people never witness, is the process of looking at what my camera has captured. When I'm out there, I'm in a different zone, acting on instincts, and at times adrenaline. I'm not always taking it in fully. The lens and the viewfinder, and all the electronics and optics that lie in between, act as a buffer to fully experiencing what I am witnessing. In this case of course, I am an active participant at times. My voice, and my perspective are very much a part of this project. So I am anything but a fly on the wall. But I truly revel in seeing the magical moments that are now suspended in time, moving forward and back at my control across the monitor. There is beauty in being able to preserve these details in the lives and history of a family that has become so dear to me.

As I begin this process of returning to that footage I shot just a few months ago, I am transported back there in a very real way. The feeling of that warm sun on my skin and salty ocean air are embedded in my sensory memory, leaving me longing for a swift return to that island paradise, away from these dreary Rochester doldrums we find ourselves in. But more than that, I find myself recalling the moments of recognition for my mother-in-law Lucy, her nephew Chegui, and for each of us in our own way, experiencing and sharing in something truly meaningful. It was not a vacation in the conventional sense. We were not seeking to get away from something as much as we were returning to something. For the older generation, a return to their roots and the places and people they remember from long ago. For the younger generation, a return to a different time and way of life so filled with an appreciation for family, and history, and the beauty of the natural world that is often lost in the pace of life in this country. And for me, a return to emotions that touched me to the core having been first welcomed into this family, and this culture nearly eight years ago.

As I seek to unfold this narrative of our trip and tabulate the words and pictures of that almost mystic place, these things rush over me. It's like a good book that you can't put down, and though I know the ending, I can't wait to get to the next chapter.

I have officially decided to postpone my thesis screening to the fall semester. I have completed shooting after a very fruitful trip to Puerto Rico that yielded a great deal of captivating moments and stories that I think will add to the rich texture that is developing in the film. I feel that with the responsibilities I have taken on teaching this class over at Nazareth, I don't want to overcommit myself, nor do I want to rush in trying to complete what has been such an important piece of work for me. So I think it will be beneficial to take the summer to devote the proper time and attention to finishing everything. Hopefully, I will be ready to go early in the semester and everyone can make it to one of the screenings. I will certainly be posting more about that as I make progress.

Call it a rude a awakening, but a week ago, I was standing up to my waist in crystal clear salt water, warm enough to bathe in, under 80 degree temps and sunny skies the likes of which we rarely see in Rochester, and then, it was as if I was so suddenly and so cruelly plucked from my idyllic dream and dumped waist deep (or nearly) into a frigid, dank, icy, tundra. It couldn't have been more ironic, stepping off the plane just after midnight, wearing a winter coat and a hat with "Culebra, Puerto Rico" emblazoned on it, and I was greeted by a slightly more bundled up airport employee on the jetway with the a sudden flash of recognition. "Culebra!" he uttered with gusto, referring to the tiny island off the eastern coast of the main island where I sunned myself and danced about in sparkling aquamarine water a day earlier. "I'm from there!" he said. I eyed his still dark complexion and bright smile, as I passed him, feeling too sleepy and depressed to give much of a response. I smiled back as I mustered a mental picture of this seemingly mythical place that only a few thousand people are fortunate enough to call home and could not help but think, and you left that to come here?

It's funny how getting away for a week to a place like Puerto Rico can leave even a land of milk and honey such as Rochester lacking luster upon returning. In all candor, I must say, though it is hard to come back, this place, despite its many flaws, has been the only home I've ever really known, and it is where my family, and my wife's family resides, which would make it hard to leave permanently. But one can't help but dream of a bit different life in a place so unlike anything we have here.

The trip, by all accounts, was an absolute godsend for all involved. I felt extremely privileged to be there, and to have a role in bringing my mother in law back home for the first time in more than two decades, not to mention, the fact that we made the trip as a family. And of course, to be able to document the whole thing, was magical for me. There were so many moments that moved me and just left me with an  enormous smile plastered across my face at times, and other times, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. 

It could not have been more poignant when we arrived at the house where Lucy had grown up, and she took one look at it, turned away and said, "I think I'm going to cry", to which her nephew Jose, or as we all call him Tio (uncle) Chegui, embraced her and said simply, "Welcome home." It was a homecoming for him as well, coming from Boston to meet us in the place where he spent some of his formative years as well, growing up in that same house. It provided the opportunity for him to reunite with his own father, who he had not seen in a number of years. 

From the recognition of old haunts, to the surprise at changes that have occurred in intervening years, it was a journey filled with revelations and a renewed sense of connection to something they had long forgotten about. We parted ways with the island vowing to return soon, and not allow another decade or two to pass until the next trip back. 

Now comes the difficult work of sifting through all of that material to carve the rest of the story from its rich narrative texture. More to come soon.