Actually, Osmín was not an immigrant, he was a political refugee with a price on his head back home. He had been a sergeant in Batista's army and had barely escaped from Cuba after a year on the run with the secret police hot on his trail. The story was that when Castro took power, he offered amnesty and a post in the Revolutionary forces to his former opponents; but when Osmín's cousin, a lieutenant in the army, reported to take advantage of the offer, he was promptly arrested and executed. Osmín chose not to rely on Fidel and Guevara's mercy and went underground, eventually smuggled out on a military transport in a crate with diplomatic tags from the Mexican embassy. Upon arrival in Mexico, his benefactors gave him a train ticket to the border and forty-eight hours to get out of the country. He turned himself in to the US authorities after swimming across the Rio Grande, who promptly took him back to the Mexicans, who refused him. "He's your problem, now". After six months in a concentration camp in McAllen, Texas (the only part of his adventure he would never talk about), he was allowed to go to Florida where there were programs in place to help Cuban exiles. He learned the trade of auto body painting and repair and, in spite of his grade school education and total lack of English, became a contributing member of our family. In spite of, or perhaps because of, his experiences, Osmín was a kind and gentle man with a terrific sense of humor and he treated my brother and myself as he would have treated his own sons. He even managed to tolerate my mother's increasingly hysterical temperament without losing a sense of perspective about the ultimate joy, and absurdity, of life. We loved him dearly and miss him terribly. Osmín died in his late seventies, of cancer, late in 2000.