“Where do you get all your ideas?” readers of Work of Art ask me occasionally. The main thing is having a good memory, although all my siblings insist that accounts I relate about our childhood favor me.

Except for obvious, grotesque exaggerations, I go by what I remember. And no, the many nuns I’ve Christened in my almost 600 columns might not have had exactly those names, but that’s part of legitimate editorial puffery.

A classmate at Immaculate Conception School, Martin Suazo, shared some memories with me, although by necessity we see events from our particular perspective.

Let me explain:

On Friday there will appear our monthly Senior Profile, by writer Lupita Gonzales. We chose Martin Suazo because, as a life-long resident, he knows Las Vegas well. As a three-sport first-team player for the I.C. Colts, Martin helped us remain competitive.

A few months back, Martin mentioned having observed a young athlete, Don Archuleta, who lived a block away from me in the Railroad barrio. We were in our teens in those days. I’ve mentioned that in our youth, baseball equipment was hard to obtain. As a newspaper seller, I bought a baseball, bat and glove. The whole collection of gear probably didn’t exceed seven dollars.

Somehow, that purchase made me more popular with our neighbors. “Mannie, can we borrow your bat and ball?” I would answer, “Not unless I get to play too.”

Paul, Waldron, Leroy, two Freds, Junior, David, Leroy, Tony, Franklin, Abran, Rafael, Johnny and Don would gather in the empty lot near the tracks, where Columbia Avenue ends. We needed the rule that “over the tracks is out,” to prevent having to search through weeds to retrieve a wayward baseball.

It was Don Archuleta, an amazing athlete, in my view, who turned my Louisville Slugger into a two-piece outfit. When he connected with the ball, the meatier end of the bat flew over second base, the ball went — somewhere, and the game ended.

From the extreme east edge of Railroad Avenue, which defined our baseball field, to the tracks, seemed more than a mile in those days. Don was one of the few who could clobber the ball enough to send it over the tracks.

Miles of masking tape helped us get by for a while, but by saving up two more dollars, I was able to replace that bat before my dad found out. Dad hadn’t had any investment in my baseball gear, but he was good at pontificating on our  need to take care of equipment.

Don passed away years ago, causing many to wonder what kind of career he would otherwise have had. My money would have been on Don as a baseball player. Suazo, obviously, thought Don’s future would be on the basketball court.

It came as no surprise that Don made the Las Vegas High School Cardinals starting lineup as an eighth-grader.

Suazo’s perspective, along with details of his “Missing Link” odyssey, will appear in Friday’s Optic.

• • •

Mayor Nanita was more than a made-up amateur stage character — to me. She passed away just recently, and even if the “Over the Edge” productions Carole appeared in decide to restore her role, things will still be different.

I miss Nanita. I’m referring to Carole Silon, a woman who made her way to Las Vegas, liked it and decided to stay. Now I can’t by any stretch claim more than a casual kinship with her. In fact, I met her perhaps no more than two years ago — something having to do with the Nat Gold Players.

Around that time, a man named Eddie Flores, from Tennessee, showed up in town after having spent eight days lost in the mountains of the Trementina area. His marriage had failed, and he was making his way west to live with a brother. Needing time to clear his head, he took an exit near Santa Rosa, got out of his car, got lost and never found the car again.

Fearing frostbite, drinking stale water and eating bits of cactus, he later broke into a house miles from Las Vegas, phoned police and was rescued. A day in the hospital and he was OK to leave, except for considerable foot pain.

Personnel at the Peace and Justice Center helped him by providing food and shelter. A week or so later, he was ready to resume his trip west. I drove him to the bus in Albuquerque.

As we were leaving, Carole, a.k.a. “Nanita” sent him off with a strong hug. Then as I got ready to leave, Carole hugged me as well.

Why me? I’m not the one who spent days lost in the wilderness, freezing. I’m not the one depending on the generosity of Jo Rita Jordan, Rosalie Lopez, Percyne Gardner or Pat Leahan to give me room and board. Why me?

“You seem so concerned about Eddie, I think you need a hug,” Nanita said, without my having asked. And that was a hug that had all the curative powers I ever imagined.

Here’s an elderly lady (well, about my age), saying I needed a hug. Apparently Carole had noticed my  preoccupation over my passenger. I was upset because I believed I’d done very little to help his cause. I wanted to drive him personally to San Diego, where Eddie would live with his brother long enough to pick up the pieces of his fragmented life.

Nanita was perceptive. How did she know I needed a hug?

Thinking back, I remember the therapeutic benefits of hugging. Seeing my students returning to Highlands after summer break cheered me. Often they (men and women) would initiate the hug; sometimes I would.

Isn’t it a shame that such a simple gesture is now discouraged or even disallowed on many campuses?

As for Nanita’s very strong — and heartfelt — hug, I welcomed it. And though I barely got to know her, I miss her.

• • •

Tio Frio heard this on radio ­— twice: “Pronounciation. There is a noun in pronounce and a nun in pronunciation. So if we can spell the words, we can also pronounce pronunciation correctly.