I've Been Meaning to

tell you, Reader Dear, about an international guest I once knew.
His name was (and perhaps still is) Johnny Pinto, and he lived with me and my family of origin when I was a young teenager.  One day Johnny was walking along a highway, heading out from the docks where the large ships came and went, and trying to thumb a ride.  My father, ever the one to give a stranger a lift (or a hand up) pulled over and invited Johnny to climb into the car.

I don't know the conversation that took place, but the outcome was that my dad brought Johnny home to stay with us.  He was from Lisbon, Portugal, and he'd "jumped ship" (come from his home country aboard a ship, disembarked illegally upon arrival.)

It was a coup of sorts for my dad.  Already, because of the large influx of Cuban immigrants into our area, and the fact that he had found employment for many of them, Daddy had been teaching himself Spanish (somewhat similar to Portuguese).

"Isquirida, derecha, isquirida, derecha," he would intone as he strode down the  rather lengthy hallway of our house. He'd stack the Berlitz records on the record player (you know, the turntable) and settle in to repeat the phrases from Unidad Uno, Leccion Primera:
"Como esta usted?"
"Muy bien, gracias!"
"Cuantos anos tiene?"
"Viente-uno"
Dear Reader, I was about trece anos at the time, and I was studying high school Spanish.  It was a bit of a coup for me, too, to have Johnny there.

I've forgotten so much of Johnny's stay at our house.  My father put him to work in a cabinet shop he had helped to establish (gave him a paying job) and he stayed in our guest room.  Johnny helped me start up a correspondence with his niece, Maria (de Con-she-zhank) de Gracia Rebello.  (Believe me, Reader Dear, I can still pronounce the name with ease; but, spelling it all these years hence is quite impossible). 

Much as we enjoyed getting to know Johnny (he stayed with us perhaps three to six months), there were folks outside our family who had unwelcome ideas about harboring an illegal alien.   One Saturday morning the immigration authorities showed up at the door.  It was an abrupt end to my family's time together with Johnny!

Johnny cried, and so did we; he was led away in handcuffs. 

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 In a very unsatisfactory ending to my tale of Johnny, he was deported back to his country of origin and incarcerated.*

*However,  down through all the years I've often thought of Johnny Pinto.
You see, after his deportation my father traveled to Portugal to visit him in prison. When my father returned, he brought this intricately-crafted, personalized (with my initial) string bag that Johnny had made for me  It hangs on my closet door to this very day and reminds  me of another time, another place, and what I think of as an alien view of hospitality*

*Deportation.
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