tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65587922009-10-27T13:53:47.775-04:00Welcome to Joel C. Font's short story blog. Related to the Cuban and Cuban-American experience, the stories posted here are representative of the more than 20 short stories Joel Font is preparing to publish in book format soon. Each story is between 4500 and 8000 words and are inspired by auto-biographical events in Cuba and the USA. To find out when new stories are posted join the Cuban Stories Yahoo Group or RSS feed.Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1165593303771870942006-12-08T10:51:00.000-05:002006-12-08T10:55:07.796-05:00

Dear Readers,I have been fine tuning five new stories since the last posting (The Obnoxious Cuban), and will be uploading them to the blog soon. (c) Copyright by Joel FontAll Rights ReservedFor Usage Rights Contact the Author---------------------------------------------

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1090792688222549062004-07-17T16:43:00.000-04:002004-08-08T13:50:40.393-04:00

During the time when I was on vacation from being Cuban, I visited Miami several times, to see friends and relatives. These short visits, usually a week long, provided me with “exposure” to Cuban exiled culture, in its “natural habitat.” But, as an "outsider" my perspective of Cuban things was slightly wider than when I was officially Cuban all the time. My critical eye was carefully tuned! On

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1089343637668851132004-07-08T23:18:00.000-04:002004-07-09T09:05:21.013-04:00

Some years ago I visited friends in Miami, and was taken by them to see some “paisanos” from Puerto Padre. While visiting these nice people, I witnessed a most interesting exchange. "Caridad, this looks like a letter from Paris, France, and its addressed to you." Exited, eighteen year old Caridad nervously opened the envelope suspecting that this letter was the letter her friend Tomas had

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1089218826380857032004-07-07T12:36:00.000-04:002004-07-08T00:09:33.900-04:00

As the tiny little plane climbed though the clouds, I could see the Altimeter inch its way closer and closer to 5,000 feet; that’s almost a mile high. From the Co-Pilots chair, I was filled with tension as I looked at both sides of the plane to finally see the coastline of Long Island on our left extending out into the horizon in front of us. The chalky beach line could barely be seen. We

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1087841933213506412004-06-21T14:17:00.000-04:002004-07-05T11:43:44.146-04:00

Hormel makes a foul smelling Corned Beef Hash, which in the 1970’s sold for about $0.28 a can. Mixed with chopped onions, a little garlic and green peppers all worth about $0.15, this mixture when stir-fried leads you to think you are eating something akin to a Cuban “Vaca Frita.” With one and a half cups of white rice worth $0.14 and a fresh tomato worth $0.08, four persons ate a comfortable

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1086293954134561202004-06-03T16:18:00.000-04:002004-06-12T10:23:11.736-04:00

After my Saturday morning duties as a “Shabbats Boy” for the Ocean Parkway Moroccan Synagogue, I often biked over to Manuel’s house in Brighton Beach where his mother waited for me with a snack. Like in Cuba, condensed milk, crackers and “café con leche” were a great way to treat a child to a temporary heaven. Manuel, his sister Elena, his older brother Ricardo, and their parents where for a

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1085424122923337952004-05-24T14:40:00.000-04:002004-05-29T22:05:34.820-04:00

Watching my father clean Mrs. Shapiros’ windows with ammonia water I wondered how he felt doing this for a woman that screamed obscenities at her husband in order to get him to take the garbage to the incinerator, while he watched a football game. “Yes, Mrs. Shapiro, I will clean the other window with extra care.” And, “Yes, Mrs. Shapiro I will also clean the toilet after we’re done with the

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1084378517248253622004-05-12T12:10:00.001-04:002009-09-11T08:48:25.509-04:00

Like most stories about the Quakers, this is a story full of minutia, dates, and people not normally discussed around the dinner table or during a baseball game. When I told my fifteen-year-old daughter to read it, she rebelled and told me that it was boring. But, if you want a better understanding of the society and environment in which my father’s family lived in Cuba, up until the mid

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1084132604406311552004-05-09T15:56:00.000-04:002004-05-12T09:32:41.866-04:00

My fathers’ third job in the U.S.A. after our stint in Harlem, turned out to be back in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My uncle Fernando learned that a superintendent’s position had opened up a block away from his house, and was able to convince the landlord to give my father a chance at the job, even though he lacked some of the required qualifications. Fernando also arranged for several Cuban

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1083698391162405932004-05-04T15:19:00.000-04:002004-05-04T18:32:23.856-04:00

As we walked down the tarmac, I looked around for some sign of Winter. Perhaps some ice attached to the trees, like I had seen on post cards, or a policeman wearing a long coat and galoshes, but the air was actually warm. Looking back towards the plane, I noticed that my father, along with several other men, had dropped to his knees, and in a Pope like fashion had kissed the ground. My mother

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1083556626161547312004-05-02T23:57:00.000-04:002004-05-03T08:50:37.890-04:00

After making several stops at “tiendas del campo” (country stores), and exchanging small talk with the owners on new consumer products and radios, “El Flaco” arrived at the Pupo family farm where two young men who asked him if he had brought over the “portable records player” greeted him. Pulling a suitcase-like box from the trunk of the car, “El Flaco” says, “lets go inside and see if it works

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1081911292722664862004-04-13T22:52:00.000-04:002004-05-29T21:02:57.113-04:00

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and we were all very excited about our trip to El Jiqui. My father Joel P. Font, had spent several hours the previous day cleaning and waxing our 1953 two-tone Chevrolet. Now wearing our best weekend clothes, my mother, my baby brother, and I waited for him as he loaded the trunk of the car with several portable radios, and a large weekend valise. Each radio

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1081779327450772672004-04-12T10:14:00.000-04:002004-04-12T22:44:00.996-04:00

“Oh my god, there’s that car again”, said the peanut vendor. Slowly the green 1947 Buick moved forward covered with all types of placards, advertising posters, and pulling a long rope with half a dozen empty cans making a loud noise as they scraped the road. On the roof, two huge trumpet like loudspeakers blasted the rhythmic sounds of “Los Hermanos Ajo, y su Organo Oriental”. After a few

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078525037012788782004-03-05T17:16:00.000-05:002005-09-24T19:24:34.373-04:00

There was nothing special about that night. My family had gathered around our television set and we had watched an interesting episode of the “Vikings”, followed by a documentary on the “Internationalist Brigade’s Sacrifices for the Valiant People of Algeria”. These programs were followed by the news, which showed the usual footage from the United States, where German shepherd dogs handled by

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078416653043104822004-03-04T11:08:00.000-05:002004-03-04T11:13:53.390-05:00

As the six uncomfortable wooden chairs of “La Avispa” (The Wasp) bounced, we squeaked and rolled on the hot metal railroad tracks at more than 60 miles per hour, and it felt as if all five of us where going to crash and die at the next big turn. For a skinny boy of 10 in Oriente province, this was my Coney Island. The driver of this uncovered bus like railroad contraption was a jovial fat

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078246394589365302004-03-02T11:52:00.000-05:002004-03-03T08:17:33.700-05:00

“Mira, no te preocupes”, look don’t worry, said my mother. Every ten year old boy in Chaparra can’t be in love with the same girl. Looking at my mother as she combed my hair, I though, “yes, every boy I know in school is in love with Idania Aued. She is the most beautiful girl ever.” “Stand over there now. Let me look at you.” My mother instructed. “Tell me what you see in that mirror?” She

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078178533305259102004-03-01T16:53:00.000-05:002004-03-02T12:12:18.250-05:00

Short Stories from Cuba, and the Exile Experience in the US. The first group of stories are about experiencing the Cuban revolution as a young boy in Oriente province during the 1960's. The second group is about arrival in the US, and adjusting to American culture as a teen ager and young adult. The third group is about social and political observations of American culture from the

Joel C. Fonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980343277591114575mrjoelfont@yahoo.com0