In 1987 or 1988 I was in Cochabamba, Bolivia to improve my Spanish skills. One morning I arrived at the Maryknoll-sponsored language institute and discovered a great deal of consternation. A problem had arisen. A student from the United States had been denied entrance to a local restaurant.

Karol Wojtyla was elected pope on October 16, 1978. Less than a year later Pope John Paul II was in Des Moines, Iowa. I traveled a thousand miles to see him. I was excited.

In August 1993 he was in Denver, Colorado. I traveled a little more than one hundred miles to see him. I could have cared less.

In February 1996 he came to Caracas, Venezuela. He was just a few miles from where I was living. I stayed home.

Twenty-five years ago on this day, March 24, Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador was assassinated while he was celebrating Mass.

A few weeks ago I was in an automobile with two young Venezuelan male professionals when one made a call on his cellular telephone.  The conversation went something like this:

“Hello, My Love.  I was just looking at the fantastically blue sky with its gentle white clouds.  The sun is shining brightly and the fields are filled with an array of colors.  The birds are playing in the trees and singing a variety of songs.  We’ve just come from the ocean and the waters were calm and gentle.

“Surrounded by so much beauty, I automatically thought of you.  How are you?”

From there the conversation turned to some papers that he had left on his desk -- what she should do with them -- and to some other business matters.

When he finished talking, I asked him if he was speaking to his sweetheart.

“No way,” he replied.  “That was the boss’s secretary.”

I have just listened to a spokesman of the so-called “Coordinadora Democratica” complain because he had to wait in line for nine hours to vote.  What he didn’t mention is that in December 2002 and January 2003, his organization made Venezuelans wait in line for days to buy a few gallons of gasoline for their automobiles or canisters of gas for their cooking-stoves. Their two-month-long lockout/strike caused people to lose days of joy with their families during the end-of-the-year holiday celebrations. As they waited and waited the opposition filled the airwaves with their personal joy about the pain they were causing in the country.

“Charlie, can I speak with you?”  It was Natalia Viana.

“Sure,” I replied.

“In private.”

“In private?”  I wondered what it could be.  Was it possible that she wanted to confess her sins since she knew that I was formerly a Catholic priest?

Standing in front of a large painting of Jesus, Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez began his Thursday night address to the nation by invoking the name of "Christ Redeemer" and adding some personal religious thoughts. By the end of his introductory remarks, had there been a live audience present with some Christians in attendance, one possibly would have heard "Amens" and "Alleluias."

Chavez was about to share his reflections on the announcement by the National Electoral Commission that sufficient signatures had been gathered to have a referendum regarding his presidency.  He wanted make his comments in the presence of his most important heroes.

After standing in front of Jesus, he moved to paintings of Simon Bolivar and Antonio Jose de Sucre.  Finally he ended his remarks next to a bust of Ezequiel Zamora.

It was with Zamora in mind that he projected himself into the future and announced the new battle of Santa Ines.  In 1859 Zamora gave the federal army the impression that his troops were retreating.  They succeeded in their movement, turned around and conquered their enemy...

CARACAS, VENEZUELA, MARCH 6, 2004: There are three very short words in Venezuela that often provoke smiles when they are spoken: "No fui yo!" (It wasn't I).  They are heard when someone releases gases from their stomach and doesn't want to own up to it.

The March 1 edition of the Caracas daily, Ultimas Noticias, has a photo of the ambassador of the United States to Haiti, Brian Foley, with his hands open and an interesting look on his face.  I cannot see the words that are coming out of his mouth but "no fui yo" would seem very suitable for the moment.  And he would be speaking the truth.  He is only a part of the machine that crushed Jean-Bertrand Aristide.

The night before I received an email from a reporter friend whom I respect very much.  He is a young hard-working journalist and graduate of the first Narco News School of Authentic Journalism, Reed Lindsay...

Shit was a word that was prohibited in my childhood home.  We tried alternatives:

"Oh, crap!"

"You're not going to use that word in this household!"

"Oh, crud!"

"That means the same thing!"

Thus three four-letter words were eliminated from my useful vocabulary at a very early age.  I grew up not liking them.  I advanced in wisdom and age not using them.

Now it wasn't that there was no strong language used around our house. One of my sisters mentioned that my father spoke five or six languages.  My mother only three:  English, German and Profanity.  English was the language used with the natives and the kids; German with the few Austrians and Germans in Cheyenne, Wyoming who weren't ashamed to continue speaking it while World War II raged on; and, Profanity which was reserved to use on my father on special occasions when my mother had a need to verbally dump on him.  There is an explanation as to how my mother learned each of these three languages but I will share that another day.  I would also like to add that I think my mother was a very holy person.

The point that I would like to establish at the very beginning of my blogging life is that I grew up hating the word "shit."

Hitler invaded Austria in March 1938.  I was born the next year of Austrian parents who had migrated to Cheyenne, Wyoming in the early '20s.

I had a happy childhood with the help of family and friends.  I spent a few moments of my early years under the kitchen table.  During the day, I was there to gather the peas that I had hidden on a ledge the day before.  I hated peas.  Other children might see magic as pulling a rabbit out of a hat.  For me it was getting the peas from my plate to the ledge under the table without my mother noticing the slight of hand.  After collecting them the next day I would bury them in the back yard.  To the best of my knowledge, they were never discovered.

At night I sometimes spent longer periods under the table because the air raid sirens had sounded.  On such occasions my father would wrap a Civil Defense band around his arm, turn off all the lights in the house and leave us alone to be sure that all the neighbors had their lights turned off also.  Under the table was considered a safe spot for children in case of a bombing.