THE FLOWER PARADE
By José Castañeda
PART TWO of THREE: A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

The name of the Peace Corps volunteer I had approached
in the streets of Ibagué decades earlier was Gary
Gonya. He was a lean, athletic man of cropped hair and
the power of a smile in conversation. And he had a unique
blessing: he approached life as if evil never existed. When
I addressed him for the first time he halted his brisk steps
and narrowed his eyes as if struggling to assess the gravity
of my plight. My words must have traveled directly to his
heart, for at that instant, in an act of spontaneous generosity,
Gary offered me a room in the house he shared
with another volunteer, Pat Cooney. That was for me Lesson
One on altruism. Lesson Two, giving the recipient the
dignity of choice, followed next: “But you must come and
see if you like our house first,” he said to me. When I took
full possession of my room later that evening, I felt I had
gone to a new galaxy. “Oh my God, oh my God,” I kept
repeating while jumping up and down, grabbing my head,
squinting my eyes in disbelief.

The next day I got up early, the anxiety still roaming
through my body. Barefoot, avoiding noises, with my
eyes adjusting to the darkness, I began a full exploration
of the house. I started with the kitchen, where I discovered
a medium-size refrigerator full of fruits and soda
pops. A great addition to my life, I told myself. As I
moved to next room, I was startled by the twisted remnants
of a giant, droopy root hanging on the wall. It was
a fitting decoration, for its naked wood matched the
grain of two long benches that still carried the scent of
fresh sawdust.

I then saw a turntable at the corner, and a shelf full of
records next to it. Despite the early hour I was tempted
to start playing some music. But that’s when I noticed
they had seen me. And that’s when I confirmed from
their silence that I was fully welcomed at their house.
Sunday mornings became legend. We woke up to the
sounds of the Tijuana Brass trumpets, while Gary filled
the air with the scent of honey-coated French toasts on
a hot skillet. I was then at the pinnacle of life. For the
next two years Gary paid for my tuition and expenses
out of his modest monthly stipend. It was an extraordinary
gift that he enriched even further with the mantle of
his friendship.

During that time our house was always full of conversation
from the scores of volunteers that visited continuously.
An exciting meeting of two cultures swirled in my
head, leading to an expansion of my world into new values,
new approaches, new ways of doing things. Those
were also the intense days of “Hair,” “The Graduate,”
“Sergeant Pepper,” and Woodstock. And from the mountains
of Tolima to the city of Ibagué, by way of the Peace
Corps, I grew by extension into an honorary member of
the flower generation.

When his two-year tour finally ended, Gary was replaced
by a newly arrived volunteer, Mike Kalista, a barrel-
chested wrestling coach from Erie, Pennsylvania. With
tight biceps protruding from his sleeves and a ton of muscles
that shifted as he moved, Mike looked the part of
an ancient Roman warrior. But behind that powerful
physiognomy was a man of gentle manners and ample
generosity, and I continued living in his house as his
friend and protégé. One day Mike cracked open his terra
cotta piggy bank to pay for dental surgery I needed.
From that day on I was convinced: in the realm of
human kindness, never was so much owed by one person
to so few. Yet those few would leave enormous imprints
in their wake, for the Peace Corps brought to
Colombia, and to the many regions where they serve,
young, talented people bent on sharing their skills and
their dreams to save the world. People like Robert Henderson, an economist who taught English to new teachers,
and who was the first person to play a bagpipe in
Ibagué; or Russell Schroeder, an architect who helped
build schools in rural areas.

In the year I finished high school I won a history contest
on Colombian television. With the prize money I
bought my father a modest produce stand in the local
market, and for myself an airline ticket to the U.S. By that
time Gary and Diana, his equally kindhearted wife from
Ibagué, were teaching at a boarding school north of New
York City. Once again, they received me with open arms,
and once again they cared about my future. Over the
years, that trip culminated with a graduate degree from
Columbia University and a law practice in New York.

The parade continued. Behind me, a group of loud
youngsters marched single-file like a long, twisting snake,
pushing their way through the pack of spectators. When
the tail section of the snake finally cleared, I found myself
looking at the base of a leafy acacia tree where an
elderly couple occupied a long bench. They seemed to
have preferred the protection of the acacia to the constant
jostling at the sidewalk. I nodded at them briefly
and turned my eyes back to the avenue, just in time to
see a banquet of azaleas and camellias passing by.

A lull in the parade allowed me to look back at the
couple under the acacia tree for a brief moment. The
woman’s lined face showed her age, but her slim, pliant
figure hinted at youth. Her ears were adorned with a pair
of golden pendants, and her small mouth looked smaller
when she focused her attention on the flowers. She wore
a wide dress that allowed her to flaunt her energy with
freedom. She twisted, stretched, danced. She laughed,
whistled, jumped up and down. She raised her arms,
clapped her hands, yelled at men blocking her view.

Her companion, by contrast, sat still. His gaze seemed
unfocused, his movements were slow. And judging from
the crevices that furrowed his brow, getting this far in life
had not been easy. He held the woman’s hand as she
stepped up onto the bench, and then nodded approvingly
as she gestured at the flowers she observed from
her post.

I turned to watch a new silleta of wild orchids that
seemed to have trapped the sun under their petals. Once
the flowers passed, I again looked at the bench. I saw the
woman reach into the man’s shiny carriel, the distinctive
leather satchel he carried across his chest. She took out a
hairbrush, puffed briefly into the bristles, and began to
smooth his rebel tufts of hair—two, three, four strokes—
but despite her efforts the wisps kept swirling in the air.
She then wet her fingers on her tongue and rubbed them
on his bushy eyebrows in a vain attempt to press them
flat. By then his eyes had turned into dim slits, and his lips
showed hints of a complaisant smile.

I thought of joining them to revel in their tender interactions.
I hesitated. Would I be intruding in their
space? Moments later, the man dropped his cane, making
no effort to retrieve it. I pushed my way through a
group of giggling girls and drew close enough that I could
hear his breathing. It was heavy, raspy, deep. His hands,
joined in prayer, moved up and down with each expansion
of his chest. He had a cherubic face with the round,
puffy cheeks of an accomplished trumpet player. A bit
closer, and I saw that his head showed the errors of a
homemade haircut: uneven snips across its surface and
traces of talcum clinging to his neck.

When I leaned the cane against his knee he halfopened
one eye and confirmed with a nod that I was
welcome. The woman also smiled.
“What do you think of the parade?” I asked her.
“The flowers are magnificent,” she said.
An odor of mothballs wafted my way from the man’s
jacket. I twitched my nose and concentrated on her
words. Speaking in the rapid cadence of the region, exuberant,
intense, she commented on the fuchsias and
chrysanthemums, and achilleas and azaleas, and the
dozens of arrangements that had passed by that day.

“When I die I want to rest on a cushion of those flowers,”
she said. “My ride to heaven will be happier.”

Now that I was closer, I could fully appreciate the gold
figures that dangled from her ears.

“Beautiful earrings you have.”

“They came from my grandmother,” she said, placing
a hand over her ear. “I got them for my quince.” Her fifteenth
birthday. A most special day for Latin girls.
I offered them water from my knapsack. As they finished
drinking, they mentioned the hardships of the day. The
crowds. The buses. The discomforts. And for the old
man, the grinding of his joints. They made him pay with
pain for every inch he moved.

“But it’s always worth the effort,” she said. “The freshness
of the flowers and the faces from the hills rejuvenate
our souls.”

I soon learned from them that in the realm of fading
memories, it was those gardens passing by that best connected
their present with their past.

“Your life is lived twice if you live it through your
memories,” the old man said to me.

Once again we heard applause. Swift and agile, like a
finch ascending branches, the woman climbed back onto
the bench.

“Poofff! Lavender mixed with camellias!” she shouted
down to us. “What a mismatched combination!”

I wasn’t sure I understood her. “To me, they look just
beautiful,” I said. Before I could say more, the man
pulled my arm to whisper in my ear.

“She doesn’t mean the colors!”

“She doesn’t?” I whispered in return.

“No,” he said. “She’s referring to their meaning.”

The woman stepped down from the bench and faced
us. With her back to the parade, her eyes fixed on his,
conveying the assurance of a venerable headmistress, she
explained with firm voice.

“Lavender: distrust. Camellias: for compassion—the
flower you give when you want to reconcile. Right, Pachito?”
she asked him.

“Right! Just as dandelions are for jealousy,” he said.
His complaisant grin had now vanished and his voice revealed
some anxiety.

“And almond buds always meant perfidy,” she replied,
raising her voice, flaring her nostrils. “And don’t say that
you forgot the yellow acacias you once carried,” she added.

“Yellow acacias?” I asked. “What’s their meaning?”

“They stand for secret love,” she explained to me, although
I knew the words were meant for him.

“Not so!” he replied, stumping his cane on the ground
several times. “From me, you had nothing but mounds of
alstroemeria.”

“Which are those?” I asked.

“Andean lilies,” he said. “They stand for pure devotion.”
She then flashed a wide smile. “And from me,” she
added, curling her body in coy suggestion, “it was always
ambrosias that you got—love returned.” Her last words
were almost muffled by a smooch she planted on his
cheek. After that, they exploded into laughter.
I thought this was the moment to flare my scant
knowledge of the language of the flowers. “You two deserve
a huge bouquet of bright, red roses!” I said.

“Ah! They’re always abundant in our garden,” she
replied.

END OF PART TWO

José Castañeda is a newly appointed judge in Port
Chester, New York. Contact him at jcjurist@aol.com.