Colon, Queretaro, Mexico -- It had been a long time since the world had given Mario a reason to smile. The spindly, mentally retarded teenager had been beaten, starved and finally left by his parents to die on the streets of Jalpan, a hardscrabble Mexican village. He would have died had a women passing by not noticed him lying in the gutter, too weak from malnourishment to lift himself from the filth in which he was lying. She hefted Mario into her car and drove him here, to an orphanage run by an American Catholic priest with a boundless compassion for unwanted children. So on the Saturday night before Easter, Mario, months past his crisis but still weak and withdrawn, found himself in the orphanage's sun-bathed courtyard, astride the shoulders of Larry Shriver, a burly 44-year-old potato farmer from Monte Vista in Colorado's San Luis Valley. As 75 other orphan boys whooped and jumped about, someone handed Mario a blue rubber basketball. Shriver eased his way under the backboard he had just mounted on the orphanage's looming concrete wall. Mario, his face twisted by effort, lifted his toothpick-thin arms over his head and dropped the ball through the hoop. The boys cheered and chanted, "Mario! Mario!" Then a wondrous thing happened. Mario's characteristic perplexed expression began to ease, and he broke into a smile, small but unmistakable.
For 15 years now, the Rev Clifford Norman, 60, has been working miracles of this sort with discarded Mexican children. He came to Colon in 1976 to inherit an orphanage housed in the ruins of the 19th century Santa Maria del Mexicano monastery, in the hills 5 miles from this unspoiled colonial town. He's built the orphanage into an institution that houses close to 200 boys and girls, some as young as 2, others in their late teens. Norman's orphanage now occupies three buildings- the old Santa Maria monastery, impressively refurbished, and two houses he has bought in town. Much of the money to buy these houses came from Colorado. Norman, known here as Padre Antonio, came to Colon after 12 years in the diocese of Pueblo. His last three years in Colorado, in the early 1970's, were spent in Capulin, a town in the San Luis Valley. There, his straightforward manner and can-do attitude got the town a new church, and won Norman a band of friends and admirers. Over the years, a handful of valley people regularly have sent Norman donations to help keep his children clothed and fed. "I sent out a letter every two months to my friends around the states," said Norman, a stocky man with thick eyebrows and broad features. His speech is rapid-fire and often blunt, but a reservoir of gentleness lies beneath. "I'm not in the habit of asking for money. I just say what we're doing and enclose an envelope. And the children pray over those envelopes, they pray that people will be touched when they receive them. The prayers have worked. Money has poured in steadily enough to allow Norman to take in an ever-increasing number of children. Then, two years ago, the efforts of Coloradans intensified, to the point where Norman finds himself on the verge of becoming a Colorado celebrity. Sometime this fall, people who have visited Colon plan to hold a $100-per-plate fund-raiser for Norman. The likes of Gov. Roy Romer and Denver Mayor Wellington Webb have agreed to host the event.
The heightened attention started two and a half years ago when Leroy Salazar, a water engineer and former parishioner of Norman's in Capulin, visited Colon to help the priest design an irrigation system for the orphanage's vegetable gardens. Moved by what he saw there, Salazar, who shares Norman's almost mechanical work ethic, returned a few months later, bringing Shriver with him. "Leroy just said to me, 'If you'd like to go, there's a bunch of other guys around here who've always said the same thing. So let's get it done,'"Shriver recalled. Together the two men drew up a lengthy list of projects. Over the past 18 months, they've brought several dozen Coloradans to Colon to help make these projects happen. Among their accomplishments to date are installation of a water chlorination system that allows the children to drink purified water from the tap; design and construction of an elaborate irrigation system at the monastery orphanage, using water from a previously neglected 150-year-old stone dam; hookup of a solar hot-water system; installation and repair of a satellite TV system; and construction of 15 new classrooms. For the most part, members of this seat-of-the-pants "peace corps" delegations have been San Luis Valley farmers, people who have lifetimes of experience devising solutions to practical problems. But lawyers, accountants, and teachers have joined in as well.
A year ago, Salazar's sister Margaret Muniz, 30, an Albuquerque computer executive, and her husband Marvin, an artist, packed their three daughters and moved to Colon to live at the orphanage and help Norman run his ever-expanding programs. The Munizes, San Luis Valley natives, are still in Colon, though they reluctantly have decided to return to Colorado when school lets out in June. "I came to this place in 1981 to visit Father Norman, and I couldn't believe the changes when I got here last year," said Margaret, a small woman with a will of steel. "There was no electricity back then, so when I came this time, I didn't even bring my iron." The Munizes spent the first several months in Colon living off their savings. "We used up everything, so now we eat with the kids," Margaret said. "Families from the valley have raised enough money so we can stay here through June." They've offered to raise more if the family decides to stay longer. Marvin, 31, a Chicano, grew up in the predominantly Hispanic town of Capulin, but never knew much Spanish. He's now fluent in the language. "This place felt really foreign at first, but after that initial reaction, I began to feel very comfortable," said Marvin, squatting against a wall in the courtyard as several boys climb over him. The three Muniz girls-Deanna, 7, Michaela, 5, and Lucia, 3 -spoke no Spanish a year ago but now are bilingual. "They were real reluctant to interact with the other kids at first, " Marvin said. "I think the language barrier intimidated them. But they got a lot of attention, and within a month they just cut loose. Lucia especially. I can't get her back into our room. And for the past two weeks, she has refused to speak English."
The biggest delegation to visit Colon so far -- 22 people from the San Luis Valley and Denver -- spent a week in Colon last Novenber installing the water purification system and finishing up the irrigation project at Santa Maria. In all, about four dozen Coloradans have spent time in Colon since early 1990, and little of that time has been passed idly. Most recently, nine Americans -- seven Coloradans and two New Mexicans -- spent part of Holy Week at the orphanage. The pace of commerce slows to a crawl during Holy Week, but the group, of which I was a member, managed to get a few things done. Others in our group included Elliot and June Salazar, triplet brother and sister of Margaret Muñiz; Emma Salazar, Margaret's mother and a San Luis Valley resident; her sister Cipriana's daughter Geraldine of Albuquerque; and Stacey Shriver, Larry Shriver's 21-yearold daughter. While the others stayed in the facilities in Colon, Larry Shriver, photographer Shaun Stanley and I bunked at Santa Maria, deep in the country where absolute silence reigns at night. We awoke the Thursday before Easter in what until recently had been the nun's quarters, an ample room off a walkway above Santa Maria's enormous stone walled kitchen. Outside, the sun was just peeking over a bone-dry hill. Birds sang a deafening chorus and the sickly sweet smell of burning trash filled the air. After a breathtaking cold showers, the tree of us headed out to explore the grounds. The monastery is set in the middle of an oasis of towering, 200-year-old eucalyptus and cedars of Lebanon. The country around the monsastery is dry and barren, but the grounds with abundant shade and a sense of eternal spring. In front of the looming, two story stone monastery sits a marble cupola that holds the tomb of the Rev. Florencio Rosas, who built the monastery and sheltered children and invalids. He died in 1917. Huge bougainvillea vines drape explosions of crimson and pink flowers over the cupola. A jacaranda tree drop a carpet of pale purple blossoms on the ground around the tomb.
At the base of the cupola that morning sat Antonio, a severely retarded man in his early 20's who has lived at the orphanage for about 10 years. Antonio is unable to talk or dress himself. One might expect the children of Santa Maria -- most of them junior high and high-school ages -- to taunt and ridicule him. But they dote on Antonio, helping dress him and giving food from their plates when he grunts and sticks out his hand. "Antonio was abandoned by his mother and father when he was a young kid," Norman said. "A lady from the village where they dumped him took him in, but he was living like an animal -- manacled and handcuffed in a hut. When he got old enough to be a real problem, the lady brought him to me and asked if I would take him in. My first reaction was no -- we didn't have the kind of facilities or expert care he really needed. "Well, then the lady started to cry. So that kind of got to me, and I said OK, leave him. Boy, I tell you, I turned my back for half a second and that lady ran out of there. She was worried I might change my mind." At the monastery, Antonio, freed at last of his manalcles, became violent. "I can't count the number of windshields he broke throwing rocks at people who wouldn't give him a ride," Norman said: "But over time, he got better, until he's the way you see him today. The love of children offers more and better therapy than any professional could give."
In a series of ground-floor rooms at the end of the monastery building, Gabriel Patiño, the young live-in caretaker, beckoned us over to join him for breakfast. A soft-spoken man in his late 20's, Gabriel described himself as a charismatic Catholic. He has lived at Santa Maria with his wife Lourdes, and daughters, Anna, 3, and Lourdes, 2, for a year. Over breakfast of scrambled eggs, refried beans, tortillas and coffee, Gabriel spoke in enthusiastic tones about the upcoming Holy Week services. His tiny apartment was crammed with musical instruments and loudspeakers to be used in the masses. All were either donated by Coloradans or bought with donated money. This Easter weekend would be special, Gabriel explained, because Padre Antonio had been away in the United States for four weeks and was just returning to Santa Maria that evening. The children had missed his gentle nature and his willing ear. Until two years ago, when he suffered a series of nearly fatal heart attacks, Norman lived at Santa Maria. After a triple coronary bypass operation in San Antonio, Texas, however, he decided to move to an apartment in the old people's home he also runs in Colon. But Norman still spends most of his time with the children. He tries to devide his days among the three facilities: the newly purchased Casa de Niñas (girl's home) for the younger girls and the 8-year-old Casa de Niños for yound boys -- both in the town of Colon -- and the Santa Maria monastery orphanage where the older boys and girls live.
Late that afternoon, we saw firsthand how much Norman means to the children he shelters. Bus loads from the Casa de Niños and Casa de Niñas had already arrived at Santa Maria for the evening Maundy Thursday mass when Norman drove up in his late-model American sedan. Before he even climbed out from behind the wheel, children mobbed him. Cupping their faces in his large, square hands and calling them by name, Norman greeted each child. Some he hugged, others he kissed. This greeting ritual went on until every child had a turn. The dozens adults who witnessed the scene had tears in their eyes and lumps in their throats. As Norman prepared hmself for the mass, a girl of perhaps 11 approached me holding a rubber ball. She held it up to me, I nodded and we started a game of catch. It soon grew to include 10 or 15 boys, who got their church clothes dirty wrestling the the dust.
For the rest of my visit every time I saw Gloria she was holding that ball. She'd catch my eye, smile and toss it to me. Her smile was so warm and open that I wanted to know more about her circumstances. "Oh, that's a terible story, really" Norman said when I asked him about Gloria. "She was raped a year or so ago. I don't know who did it -- a relative or a stranger. After that, her parents couldn't do anything with her. When they brought her in here ..oh God, oh God" I mentioned that she seamed preety well adjusted now. "Oh she's come along remarkably." he said. " we couldn't get her to talk or do anything for awhile. But again, that's what I was saying about the power of children's love. You'd never know now that anything had happended to her."
Looking around him at the seeminly happy, carefree children climbing on the playground equipment, Norman said: "It's hard to believe, but what we have here are children who have been abused, violated, chronically malnourshed. Some have been involved in child prostitution, other in drugs, and the vast majority abandoned. "In Brazil, I've read, parents have taken to killing their unwanted children. In Mexico, they haven't gotten around to that point. They just take them to a little village and drop them off. A lot of those kids end up here. Darkness had fallen and it was time for the Maundy Thursday mass. "Watch he knows how to get everyone involved." Shriver said of Norman. Indeed he did. During the service, which commemorates the Last Supper, Norman summoned several visitors to the front of the chapel to participate in ten ritual foot washing ceremeny. It's traditional during Muandy Thursday services for a priest to wash the feet of members of the congregation, just as Jesus washed the apostles' feet at the Last Supper. To portray the Apostles, Norman chose me, a Jewish reporter, Stanly, a Quaker photographer, and Shriver, a Protestant potato farmer. "Father Norman got a good laugh out of that, I guarantee you." Shriver said later.
Good Friday dawned warm and clear at Santa Maria, like every other day of the year. By noon, the other children had all assembled again in front of the monastery to participate in the stations of the cross. Parishioners from the nearby town of Cadereyta had come to the old manastery in costume to act out the parts of Jesus, Pilate and Mary. Older boys from the orphanage got to dress as Roman soldiers, in aluminium-foil helments and cotton skirts. As the procession began winding its way through the oasis of mightly trees, Norman took care of the small details. "Do any of you children need to use the bathroom before we start?" he asked.
On Saturday, a few stores were open in the state capital of Queretaro, so finally it was time to get down to work. We headed into town to buy materials to install a drinking fountain at the Casa de Niños, finish hooking up the solar water heater, and put up a backboard and net so the children could play basketball. Everywhere we went, people knew Padre Antonio. The owner of a hardware store in the nearby town of Ezequiel Montes donated some of the material "in the name of the good work the padre is doing." By the end of the day the children had their basketball net and hot water for washing dishes. After working on the roof of the Casa de Niños for an hour installing a solar panel Saturday, Elliott Salazar wandered over and turned on a faucet. Steraming water spurted out burning his hand slightly. "Wow! This solar stuff really works!" A huge smile split his face.
Standing in the courtyard that evening, as the children shrieked and played basketball, Salazar, 30, and Internal Revenue Service auditor in Denver, said his few days in Colon had been among the most meaningful of his life. "Just look at these kids, I expected I'd feel sorry for them," he said, rubbings his hand over a week's growth of beard. "But now I see that even though they've been left alone they have each other. "You know, back in the states, Easter has never meant that much to me. But now, I'm seeing it in a whole new way. I'm definitely going to come back next Easter." That's the talk Norman likes to hear. He worries about who will be there for the children after he's gone. But more immediately, he's worried about who's going to help him while he's still here. When the Muñizes leave in June, Norman will have precious few people to help raise the children. Gabriel will still be at Santa Maria. Three nuns will run the Casa de Niñas. But at the Casa de Niños, there will be just one yound woman, Doña Manuela, and she has five yound son's of her own. Norman took in Manuela and her boys two years ago, after she fled and abusive husband. She helps out tremendously, but she can't raise 75 boys alone.
Norman openly hinted that he hoped that June Salazar, Margaret Muñiz's triplet sister and Geraldine Baca, her cousin, would move to Colon and take Marvin and Margaret's place. Both said they're seriously considering it. But even if that happens, he'll be short staffed. "We need another house for boys, " Norman said. "The Casa de Niños is overcrowded with 75 boys in it. You know, all these people they come, from Colorado and elsewhere, and they praise this place. They say, 'Oh father, this is terrific, you're wonderful, what a beautiful place.' You know what I tell them? 'I don't care about that. Why don't you stay here and help?'"
He'd also like help with his next big project -- opening a house in Colon for AIDS pastients. "AIDS is here, too. It's everywhere. People just don't like to talk about it in Mexico," he said. "I thrive on challenge. The more difficult things are, the more interesting they become." Norman's boundless energy astonds those who know him well, particularly in light of his recent health problems. Sitting around a table drinking cold Coronas one evening, Shriver leaned forward, stared into Norman's eyes and said, "I don't know how you keep up." Norman smiled and gave a small shrug. "Its just love, That's all there is to it."