There is a wonderful and kind man I know in Dallas named Moises Alfaro. He works for Federal Express. He and his wife, Barbara, have been friends with my family for years and years, but it started way back, even before they were at the marrying age.

My younger brothers, Pat and Mike, were twins. They became friends with Moi in Jr. High School at L.V. Stockard and the three of them went everywhere together. A few years later, they all grew their hair long and threw frisbees constantly and it seemed we always had two or three of those discs stranded up on the roof. Once a week, one of the twins would climb up there and rake them off, then they’d start over. Indeed, Moi became a World Champion Frisbee dude, winning contest after contest with his skill and athleticism. So, there’s the back story.

Years and years later, in 2007, when my brother Pat was in Methodist Hospital, dying of lung cancer, Moi was there every day, holding Pat’s hand, praying beside his bed. One day, I said, “Moi, when did you come on the scene? I mean, I can’t actually remember a time you weren’t at our house. Do you remember?” He got a sweet look in his eyes. “Mine was the first Mexican family to move into your neighborhood,” he said, “and yours was the first family to be nice to us.”

“We were?” I asked, “We did? Huh. Well, good for us.”

And, I’m thinking that was Mother’s doing, really. She didn’t care what your background, skin color, or culture was as long as you treated her kids right. If you did that, if you were a good friend to her children, you were part of her brood, so don’t expect to get away because it wasn’t going to happen. I loved that about her. JS