Antonio earns American dream

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

He arrives at the door on a perfect spring day wearing a helmet, riding shorts and a grin that is his signature. With some people, you notice their hats, ties, scarves. With Antonio, you notice his smile.

It's after 5, after work, and he has pedaled from Brockton to Canton, a distance that takes 20 minutes to drive, without traffic. ``It's a beautiful day,'' he says. ``So warm. So nice.'' And I look at him and think, he's right. It is.

Antonio shows off his bike. ``It has 22 speeds,'' he says and he is so happy, you'd think the bike was custom built and buffed just for him. Or that it came with a new Corvette. Antonio is that rare man who loves life, every bit of it _ the sun and the cold, the wind and the rain, daytime and night time. He thanks God for it all, not in a big, flashy way, but with that smile of his. And with his attitude.

Children are like this, young children in love with the world. They are in awe of everything _ dogs and flowers and tall buildings and open fields and people, young and old. But then they grow up _ sooner rather than later, these days _ and they start comparing and stop appreciating all that is theirs for the taking, all that they have.

And they start focusing on what they don't have. And soon discontent replaces joy, and envy replaces love. And life, little by little, loses its luster.

Antonio was born in Brazil. His wife and daughter come from Brazil, too. They came to America for a better life, not an easier one. They work hard. They don't take vacations or even long weekends. They work because they can, because in America there are jobs and opportunity, and Antonio, who grew up where there are few jobs and less opportunity, is awed by this.

Last summer, they bought a house. Antonio continues to take English classes. He can speak it well, but he wants to speak it better. ``Don't you ever get tired?'' I asked him after one of his 18-hour days. And he said, ``No, thank God.'' He loves to work. He loves his life. ``Don't you ever get homesick?'' And he shook his head and said, ``I miss my mother, but I love America.''

I wish I could bottle Antonio's joy. Few adults take joy in the small things, though we get very unhappy over minute things. I go to Shaw's and come out fuming because my Shaw's card fell off my key chain and the boy at the checkout won't let the woman in line behind me lend me hers, which means I don't get my Shaw's discount, which makes me furious. Antonio goes to Shaw's and sees a land of plenty. So much to choose from, he says. America is so blessed.

He is not Pollyanna. He is not cut off from the world. He knows its dangers. He's lived them. He reads the newspapers and watches TV and he sees and hears everything we all see and hear. He realizes that life is not fair and that the good don't always finish first. He's been fooled and cheated and overworked and underpaid and overburdened and I'm sure he's felt unappreciated because don't we all?

Still, there's his smile. Every day he says, ``God is good.'' Every day he wakes up grateful for his health, his freedom, his opportunity. Grateful for things I don't even see.

He gave me a glass etching when my granddaughter, Lucy, was born. ``All things are possible through prayer.'' Prayer is his highlighter. ``Thank you, God,'' Antonio says for every thing. In a world of insatiable wants, he is satisfied _ not to stay where he is but to be where he is. To be in a garden working, or in a car driving, or on a field playing soccer with his daughter.

Or on a bike, smiling because has a bike and legs to pedal with and friends to visit. And a wife and a child waiting for him at home.