Around the latter part of 1984, I was well immersed in the Nicaraguan farming cooperative “La Quinta”.  I had passed most of the tests that had come my way:  bathing in a cold river; gratefully eating a never changing diet of tortilla, bean and/or rice dishes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, served with cup after cup of overly sweet coffee; hauling hundred pound sacks of potatoes out of the fields and generally working side by side with the cooperative members in whatever task was at hand.  I had learned enough Spanish to fend off the majority of jokes about my mispronunciation of fairly common words.  I had even been congratulated for how easily and quickly the words hijo de puta! (‘son of a whore’) rolled off my tongue at any injury or minor mishap.  I was known by all as “Guillermo” – the more easily remembered Spanish translation of William. I had been accepted, in all my quirky gringo ways, as a member of the cooperative. 

One evening, in the darkening space of an old cattle shelter that had been turned into makeshift living quarters while new houses were built, Martin wandered over to where I was sitting and asked me the names of my parents.  I told him and curiously watched as he returned to a small wooden table where, under the flickering light of a tin kerosene candle, he continued his painstaking writing on some pages torn from an old school notebook.  Martin was the secretary of the cooperative and my closest friend.  He had learned to read and write during the rural literacy campaign carried out by Sandinista youth following the 1979 revolution.

The following day Martin came to me and, slightly embarrassed, handed me a crumpled piece of paper that was handwritten on both sides.  He asked me to give it to my parents when I returned home.  What he knew of my parents was drawn from casual late-night conversations about life and family and the fact that on a couple of occasions, I had taken advantage of their Florida flea market addictions to get them to find and send to me dozens of cheap one-dollar wristwatches and assorted tools that were put to use around the cooperative.

I translated the letter and gave a copy to my parents  when I returned to the U.S.   I still have the original, covered in plastic and set aside in a box with other pieces of lifetime memorabilia.  I don’t at this moment have it in front of me, but I remember most of what it said:

“Greetings from a revolutionary Nicaragua.  This is for the parents of Guillermo Weaver, because he has told me your names which are Stanley Weaver and Doris Weaver.  I want to say that even though we have never met, I feel a great friendship with you through your son, because he has been a member deep inside of our families. I also want to thank you for the beautiful gifts you have sent, which have also been very useful, because we know that it is only those with a conscience who would send these things to someone you don’t even know, things that are so needed here in our suffering and beloved Nicaragua.  For that I call you my friend.  Adios and Gracias.

Even though I have said goodbye, I want to tell you one more thing.  There are over 50 children here in the cooperative and they all love your son very much and will all miss him when he leaves us.

Please excuse my bad writing and some bad expression.  Until we meet. Martin Melgara Ruiz.”