Memories of Hipólito Galo

When I picture the Caridad of my youth, he walks across the plaza with his cane. He used to stop and admire my sketches; he found them humorous. Not that he laughed at them, but there was something in them that made him chuckle in a way that encouraged me.

By Guillermo Yuscarán
His name was Hipólito Galo, and he looked enough like the old man from San Miguel to have been his brother. Hipólito was in his late seventies at the time of Toño's journey to San Miguel. Not only was Galo a close friend of Toño's family, he was a favorite of the entire village. Kind, good-natured and seemingly tireless, he had become, for Toño, another symbol of permanence and indestructibility. Hipólito had never married, but he had lived most of his life with the same woman, Doña Flor, and she had borne him several sons, all of whom farmed the land. Their home, located on the outskirts of Caridad, Honduras, near the road to Lauterique, was often a resting place for Toño on his way up the mountain.

Toño's memories of Hipólito were strongly associated with those of his grandmother since the time separating their deaths was only a matter of months, and because the combined impact of their passing left an indelible mark on his psyche. "Hipólito was like my grandmother in certain respects," said Toño. "He was always visible, always active. When I picture the Caridad of my youth, he walks across the plaza with his cane. He used to stop and admire my sketches; he found them humorous. Not that he laughed at them, but there was something in them that made him chuckle in a way that encouraged me."

"I'll never forget the night he died -- less than a week after I returned with Fausto and my father from San Miguel. A friend and I were walking along the river when we met a neighbor who had come from Hipólito's house. He said the old man was close to death. It was late, maybe seven o'clock, and I knew I should go home, but I went first to see Hipólito. One of his grandchildren let me in and took me into a room where his family was gathered around him. He was asleep, his white whiskers gleaming in the light of the lamp, his face twitching as though he were dreaming. I stayed for a short time, then went home. I told my father that Hipólito was ill and that I wanted to return to his house.

"By the time I got back, only Doña Flor and two of his sons were with him. The oldest son had gone for the priest. I watched the viejo. I didn't want him to die. I kept thinking of my grandmother. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened and his legs and arms started moving. 'I have to climb,' he muttered. 'I have to climb the stairs.' His wife asked him, 'What stairs?' but he paid no attention. His legs and arms kept moving. 'It's far,' he continued. Está bien lejos. I have to climb faster.' At that point, Doña Flor started crying and one of her sons comforted her. But Hipólito just kept thrashing until he had kicked all the blankets off the bed. 'I have to hurry,' he gasped, 'they're waiting for me.' And when his son asked who was waiting, Hipólito said nothing; he merely lapsed into a trance, his limbs at rest, his eyes still open. He stayed that way for a few minutes, then he died."

Later that night, when the eldest grandson was sent to the cathedral, Toño went with him. The moon was full and the village was illuminated by its light. "I kept recalling Hipólito's words. I knew that he had seen someone waiting for him; that he was anxious to reach them. I wondered if maybe he had see my grandmother, if perhaps she wasn't there along with the others.

Within an hour after Hipólito's death, the cathedral bells sounded. Toño walked home alone. When he got there, his father came into the kitchen and his mother started a fire in the fogón and cooked a plate of beans and tortillas for her son. Toño told them about Hipólito climbing and that there were people waiting for him. He told his mother, "Maybe abuelita is there too." (1/8/12) (painting by José Antonio Velásquez courtesy Internet)

Note: The author is a North American writer and artist in Honduras, living part of the time in the town of Tela and the other in Santa Lucia. He is originally from California. His books include "Beyond Honduras: Tales of Tela, Trujillo, and Other Places", "Blue Pariah: Inside Honduras", "Canto al Mar: Canto to the Sea", "Conociendo a la Gente Garifuna", "El Dia de la Cruz", "Gringos in Honduras: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", "Juan Felix Sanchez: Journey to the Andes", "Northcoast Honduras: Tropical Karma, and Other Stories", "Points of Light: Honduran Short Stories", and "Velasquez, the Man and His Art". His latest book is "Dream Journey". Purchase inquiries can be e-mailed to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .