World Enough for Me

By Robert E. Englekirk

Do we really invent ourselves? Can’t we just blame others? Or luck? Or fate? Does it really matter how we got here? Probably not. Nevertheless, the question intrigues. Others produce biographies of most famous people, often centuries after they have passed on. What a shame, for the subject misses the opportunity to examine the many “whys.” This personal assessment is the challenge I have accepted.
My passions were, if anything, too many. Creating a better existence for those that follow is an easily understood objective. Reducing the “majestic” to the reasonably attainable requires focus, or specialization should you prefer. This of course is the first and usually most frustrating task. You will or have struggled with it much as I did. My story describes a natural process that was long and did not reach its goal; a reconciliation process that is also natural, for life is not a zero sums game.
I was a product of a rebellious generation, one that did not accept the past as an imposed condition. This attitude took some time for me to recognize, but tolerance has always been accepted as a demand: that we conform. I could not. My battle with conformity would never end. Curiosity and the denial of that which lacked a rational base caused me to be a sought after mentor or perceived to be the devil, for it seemed that I always took a contrary position.
My standard for making a self-evaluation is internal, a yardstick I religiously use and endorse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483557694

Robert E. Englekirk

Dr. Robert Englekirk applies his creative engineering capabilities (Getty Brentwood, Horton Plaza) to an assessment of the history of the Byzantine Empire. His goal was to discover how these people were able to advance civilization in an otherwise ‘Dark Age.’

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Game

Chapter 1: The Beginnings

Life is about creating yourself.

- George Bernard Shaw

I exited the womb on August 21, 1936. Free at last! In reality, it was but a short-lived gratification, for it was immediately followed by a slap on the ass and the confinement imposed by a crib. That freedom was attitude-dependent became immediately apparent and a belief that would be repeatedly confirmed throughout the rest of my life. My mother must have experienced a similar elation, for Albuquerque was not the most pleasant of places before the advent of air-conditioning. She was undoubtedly glad to be free of me; she too was a dreamer.

My earliest recollections are derived from stories that I have been told, so much of what I relate cannot be verified, but then this is also true of most of my recollections.

The place of my birthing was Albuquerque, New Mexico. In the East I was perceived to be a Mexican when I divulged my place of birth, but then not many are students of geography. Actually, this delusive belief was reasonably based, for the New Mexico territory was not ceded to the US until 1848. It was not to become a state until 1912, the year of my mother’s birth.

I feel compelled to briefly describe the source of my genes so that you may ascribe fault where it truly lies. My mother’s family had German or Dutch roots. They had migrated through Canada to the Midwest. Deighton and Carolyn Houp immigrated to the territory of New Mexico and it was there that my mother was born. Deighton was the conductor on the Super Chief, Santa Fe Railroad’s most luxurious and fastest train. It connected Chicago with Los Angeles. His service route would take him from his base, which when I knew him was Albuquerque, to Oklahoma and back. My mother’s place of birth was, at least according to her, Albuquerque, but this was a sore subject with her and a sure way to irritate her. Deighton had originally been stationed in Gallup, New Mexico, and to say that she was born in Gallup somehow implied, at least to her, that she was not of pure American stock. To reinforce her claim she always avoided the sun.

My father’s family migrated from Germany in the 1890s. My grandfather was from Engelskirchen, a small town east of Bonn. Like many of these migrating peasants the name of his hometown became his surname. It was later shortened to Engelkirk and then Anglicized by my father to Englekirk. Thank goodness, but why not Engel or Engle or Eng? They all hint at angels. Lena his wife was of Austrian decent. They were married in New York.

Born of migrants my parents had a head start on becoming gypsies. My father, born in Brooklyn in 1905, attended what was then Saint Stephens College, a good Catholic school near the Livingston estate on the Hudson where my grandfather was then the caretaker. The school is now known as Bard College. He took his Master’s at Northwestern and then moved to the University of New Mexico to teach. On Valentine’s Day in 1931 he married Fern Carolyn Houp, then only 18 and a student of his. That summer they went to New York City where my father began the pursuit of a Ph.D. at Colombia University. In the summer of 1932 my father went to Madrid to study. Spain had been politically unstable for some time. During the summer of 1932 a military coup was thwarted primarily because General Franco refused to participate. My dad undoubtedly suspected that access to Spain would soon be limited.

In 1934 my father received his Ph.D. and published his very well received dissertation on the influence of Edgar Allan Poe on Latin American literature. It would have a major impact on his career.

From New York my parents returned to New Mexico where they settled down for a relatively long four years. My dad’s yearning to travel could not be suppressed and they soon took a tramp steamer to Chile. In Santiago, my dad would teach and do research for forthcoming publications. In 1939 he accepted a tenured faculty position at Tulane University and became department chair the following year. It all sounds idyllic but for two things: my mother was a Methodist--this meant that dad had to renounce Catholicism and my mother, in spite of a three year effort in New York, never received a college diploma. My father relinquished his faith stoically. My mother carried her cross to her grave.

I have been driven by our first apartment house in New Orleans and told of my many stroller rides through adjacent Audubon Park. How handsome I was, especially in contrast to my homely sister, a theme repeated many times. My sister bore it well and the pictures of the curly haired boy with dimples and a big smile are now lost amongst those of our children and grandchildren.

Bob – Early Years

In 1941 my father accepted a visiting professorship at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. Memories began to crystalize. It was colder then and the snow buildup allowed me and my sister, who is better characterized as my slave, to construct an igloo—my first recorded foray into structural engineering. Yes, I have seen pictures of the marvel but it is also locked in my memory, so thrilling was the experience.

From Madison the family moved to Washington DC where my dad would work for the State Department. His focus would be US relationships with Argentina, Brazil and Chile, which all have large German and Italian constituencies. Hitler and Mussolini were vigorously courting them.

We lived in a new house in a developing tract that was surrounded by woods. Bethesda, Maryland was a small village then and life was becoming an adventure, at least for me. We walked to a new school about a mile from our house. Yes, you guessed it—through the deep snow. One day I convinced the group that walked with me to play hooky; I was a budding leader. Boy did I catch hell for that!

We spent many an afternoon playing war games in the woods; after all this was 1943. During one of these games I climbed a tree and dislodged a nest of yellow jackets that immediately retaliated. Over 20 stings on my face and neck memorialized their revenge. I set a land speed record for home and do not remember my mother’s ineffectual cure, only the seemingly endless pain.

Unfortunately this was but one of many painful experiences. The house we lived in was of the two-story variety. Stairs ascended from two directions, meeting at a small landing and then proceeding up to the second floor. My little sister, June, 14 months younger than me, persisted in teasing me. She would take something of mine and promote my pursuit, a pastime my mother discouraged. On the occasion I report, she ran up these stairs and I followed as fast as I could, but I tripped on the step below the landing and exploded down the other side, sending my front teeth through my lower lip. You cannot imagine the blood that was spilled. Some 50 stitches and many liquid meals later, I emerged with a weakened lower lip that for a decade I was constantly reminded to exercise. The bond between pleasure and pain became unequivocal.

I will always remember my dad’s entrance one day in the spring of 1944, announcing that he had been drafted. We all fell for the ruse in spite of the fact that he was the frailest 38 year-old on the planet. His serious demeanor was quickly replaced by his usual broad smile, as he told us that he would be stationed in Brazil and that we would all accompany him. By this point you should understand how happy the gypsy in him must have been.

Fitting these dates into world affairs sheds some light into our migrations. As a nation, we seemed to move with alarming regularity from one conflict to another. This was the 2nd World War and, though we did not know it then, we would invade Europe on June 6, 1944. In March of 1943 Patton took command of the African campaign and by early 1944 he had reached Rome. South America remained a concern because Hitler continued to court their German and Italian contingencies. My father’s participation was entirely appropriate, as was his relocation to Rio. He spoke and taught both Portuguese and Spanish. My father departed for Rio almost immediately; we awaited summer and the end of the school year.

In June my mother, sister and I returned to New Orleans to pack and await passage on a boat to Rio. The ship proceeded down the Mississippi River, across the Gulf of Mexico, and then along the Atlantic coast of South America. The U-Boat threat, though significantly reduced, still haunted the Atlantic trade routes. We had U-Boat drills every day. I will not forget the ceremony on the day we crossed the equator. Those of us who were first timers had to pay our respect to Neptune. My sister and I were unceremoniously thrown into the ship’s pool, to the delight of all. The voyage was a real treat.

How could any 8-year old not enjoy Rio? Our apartment was on the 6th floor of a building situated near the east end of Copacabana beach. It was almost in the shadow of Sugar Loaf. I learned to handle what I then believed to be monster waves and spent many an afternoon enjoying them. Body surfing the waves was not only a treat but removed any fear I might have had of water. Surfboards were yet to be invented. One day the bodies of two fishermen washed up on the shore and my curiosity demanded a peek. I didn’t like what I saw, but the tranquility of the corpses was at least in part responsible for a developing attitude that I would have towards death: I would not fear the certainty of the event, only the pain imposed in its delivery. This notwithstanding, my experiences were pleasurable. I had learned to take advantage of what was offered and not lament that which was no longer available.

Sugar Loaf, Botafogo Bay, Rio

My mom and dad were thrilled with life in this most exciting city. Mom was beautiful and exuded a special charm and all the ladies chased my handsome, debonair dad. My parents treated the experience as a second honeymoon. I remember how they celebrated my dad’s 40th birthday. Forty watt bulbs were hidden everywhere, accompanied by signs proclaiming—Life Begins at 40, and they had every reason to believe that it did. For me, life was truly great. To add to my fun, my dad was provided with a canvas-topped jeep. That was a real treat for an 8-year old boy. The contagion of happiness became apparent, a lesson I would never forget.

It was in Rio that I fell in love with flying, so much so that a friend of mine and I started to build an airplane. We pounded tin cans until they were flat and then joined them by inserting malleable rivets into punched holes. Surely everyone must have thought we were crazy. The ambassador’s son and I often played on the estate where they lived. Once, I fell off an old brick wall when the bricks crumbled. Pieces of brick followed me down and I had another blood bath. Is it any wonder that I grew to dislike the sight of blood?

My sister and I attended the American school in Rio, a mistake that my father would not repeat. My exposure to Portuguese was, in essence, limited to the coaching I received from the family piano teacher, Egidio de Castro y Silva. He failed to interest me in the piano, but he did through my mother introduce me to classical music. Debussy’s La Plus que Lente will always get my undivided attention. Many seeds were planted.

I have often tried to relate these early seeds to the development of my evolving personality. The most dominant example is the nature of the personal relationships I have developed. To understand how the process of constant relocation impacted my personality, try to contrast it to what might be identified with the norm. I became always quick to develop friends and soon equally accustomed to the anticipated parting and in particular to the permanency of this parting. It is, I’m sure, hard for the youth of today to imagine a world almost devoid of communication, but today’s communication systems are a recent development. Consider the way I might have communicated with a friend in Washington from Rio. A letter would first have to find a boat then travel some 4,000 miles to find me: a month at least, far too long, especially for an impetuous young boy. I can’t remember ever trying to communicate. This constant relocation program was to continue for at least another 15 years.

How did it impact my behavior? I learned to make friends fast and enjoy their company, always realizing the understood short-lived nature of the relationship. It never ceases to amaze me when my friends communicate with people they have known for more than 50 years. Do I advocate my behavior pattern? Certainly not, I only mention it to demonstrate how experiences impact behavior.

More germane is my exposure to new things and a break from established routines. Igloos could not be built in Rio, so other escapes had to be developed expeditiously. The changes came rapidly and just as quickly had to be replaced. It may sound a bit like Pavlovian conditioning, but the training allowed me to adapt rapidly to new environments and situations. I now realize that the development of an insatiable curiosity and acute observational skills were by-products of my bizarre evolution.

That a person’s experiences impact the development of the mind now seems obvious. Must not observations enter into the black box of the mind and be synthesized with other experiences? Behavior patterns must surely be reinforced by pleasurable experiences and altered by the unpleasant ones. To allow a child to exclusively pursue those acts that that they perceive to offer pleasure must limit their development. As in everything, balance is of the utmost importance. Success in any maturation process is not likely to be immediately apparent; it certainly was not in my case.

The value of family bonding was an important outgrowth of this period. It would become a lifetime goal. That we moved as a family promoted the process. My parents loved bridge in spite of the fact that their skill sets did not complement their game. In Rio they needed opponents and my sister and I filled that role. The game was much simpler then, for the exotic systems of today were not a part of the game—we just had fun. That these elements of my development were being ingrained in me now seems obvious.

I did not have to wait long to realize my love affair with flying. I was first exposed to flying early in 1946. It was summer in Brazil and dad wanted to visit Sao Paolo, then and even now the industrial and population center of the country. Today its population approaches 7 million. Since it was 250 miles south of Rio, driving was then virtually impossible. With the end of the war in 1945, many airplanes were released for commercial service; thus it became possible to fly to Sao Paulo and this we did. I can’t describe my excitement and still remember most of the details. The Rio airport was situated on a small peninsula that projected into Botafogo Bay. It still exists but has long since been replaced by a much larger, modern airport. My mother had never flown and her apprehension was exposed when she opined that the airport was named after a saint: Santos Dumont. Dad later correctly identified Dumont as a pioneer of the industry. The airplane we boarded was a DC-2. The seats were metal frame and canvas, but I hardly noticed because my excitement was at an all-time high. Mom could not tolerate these seats, at least until she had other things to worry about and for this she did not have long to wait.

The DC-2 was powered by two propeller engines and it seemed like forever until we reached the speed required to rise from the tarmac, in spite of the fact that the required speed was only about 60 miles an hour. We had barely lifted off the ground before we passed over the rocks that protected the peninsula from the sea. That was exciting enough, but a few hundred yards further we hit what my dad called an air pocket and the plane dropped towards the waters of the bay—accompanied by a chorus of screams, my sister’s being the loudest.

Sao Paolo is 2,500 feet above sea level and the DC-2 took a low route through the mountains that lay in its path. Proceeding up a valley we encountered the usual thunderstorm and bounced along from air pocket to air pocket, continuously illuminated by flashes of lightening. The stewardess assured us that the pilot was not concerned. I presumed that he had seen much worse during the war. Didn’t the 50-mission crush in his hat, the product of his earphones, attest to this? I had seen many newsreels and war movies not to recognize this badge of courage.

It was indeed exciting, an excitement that would surely turn into the realization of a dream. Once we reached smooth air, the pilot invited me join him in the cockpit. The copilot yielded his seat and I was allowed to steer the plane, a treat many times repeated that year. At 9 years of age you cannot imagine the thrill and the dedication to aviation that was to follow. From that day forward, I knew that I must become a pilot.

My dad was fascinated by the ancient Inca civilization. His goal was to visit Machu Picchu, which is located in Peru. He plotted the most indirect path to New Orleans. It included the usual excursions. Our first stop was Iguazu Falls. These spectacular falls occur on the Parana River at the point where Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay meet. The falls are both distinct and beautiful for they descend 240 feet; Niagara’s only 165. The face of the falls is broken into many segments, a feature that adds to its charm but discredits its power. We saw the falls from the Brazilian side. Their power and extent were impressive. Mist boats were not available, at least not of the type that would invite a sane person.

From Foz do Iguazu we flew to San Salvador de Jujuy in Northern Argentina. As I recall Pan Am was the carrier. Our next leg took us over the Andes to La Paz, Bolivia. This was a flight I will never forget. It started early in the morning when the Panagra crew came to our hotel to pick us up. We boarded our deluxe DC-3 and began an interminable ascent, for the mountains that separate Argentina and Bolivia are 18 to 20 thousand feet high.

Panagra was an airline founded by Pan Am and the W.R. Grace Company. The W.R. Grace Company produced chemicals and fertilizers and this required a constant presence in the western part of South America. Their staff needed air support while Pan Am needed help to build the airports required to support these long routes. They formed the venture in 1928. San Salvador de Jujuy was probably one of those fields, for its location provided an essential link between Buenos Aires and Panama City. As to the mountains, you must keep in mind the capabilities of the DC-3. The plane was not pressurized and its ceiling or maximum height was about 20,000 feet, the last 5,000 feet of which were not easily attained. Can you imagine sucking on a plastic tube to get oxygen? The plane circled for what must have been an hour as it climbed to get over the mountains. With every circle it seemed like I saw the same rocks. Well, we obviously made it and as I recall we stopped in Potosi for fuel before proceeding on to La Paz.

La Paz was special. The city is situated on the slope of a mountain with some of the city located at an elevation of 13,000 feet. We weren’t that high, but high enough to bother my sister and dad. The city has a colonial charm, but at least on this trip the Panagra crew provided the thrill. They picked us up every morning and I almost always got to steer the plane.

From La Paz we went to Cuzco, Peru and the Inca ruins. Cuzco should not be left off of any bucket list. It was the capital of the ancient Inca world and is one the most charming colonial cities of the old world. From Cuzco one descends the Urubamba River Valley to a small town below the crag that provides a resting place for Machu Picchu, once a palace of the Inca Kings, at least according to most. The sight had yet to be opened to the public, but this seldom stopped my dad. We probably met Hiram Bingham who is credited with having rediscovered the ruins in 1911. He published his famous book The Lost City of the Inca in 1948. Bingham is believed to be the role model for Indiana Jones.

Next we stopped at a number of places on our way north: Quito, Panama City and Managua, winding up in Merida, Mexico. We had to pay our respects to the Mayans. The Mayan ruins were interesting but nowhere near as exciting as the flight from Merida to New Orleans. We had traveled about 4,000 miles in DC-3s, but this leg would be over 600 miles long and all of it over the Gulf of Mexico. Our Pan Am plane was a DC-4 and it was huge. The 4 engines were a welcome sight, at least for the first hour. Then many of the passengers became aware of oil leaking from one of the engines. We headed back to Merida and my sister convinced the flight attendant to help her into a life jacket. I had become a fixture in the cockpit of Pan Am flights, for there were not many 9-year olds traveling those routes in 1946. I proudly wore their wings.

Chapter 2: New Orleans, Round 2 (1946-1950)

The beginning is the most important part of the work.

- Plato

Our next 3 years were spent in New Orleans. A reflective evaluation suggests how significant an impact both my experiences and choices were to have on my evolution. The juxtaposition of the philosophies of my parents must have had a significant impact on the culling process. To my father, pleasure was the sensual actualization of his faculties. My mother’s gratification followed a more hedonistic path.

Faculty housing at Tulane was provided in two-story wood frame buildings that were located on campus, only a block from my dad’s office. Our apartment, three bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen/eating area, was roomy enough and I thought quite comfortable. All things being relative, this apartment did not begin to compare with the residences we had previously occupied in Rio, Bethesda or Madison. Jackie, tell them that we deserve a nicer place, is an admonishment that I still recall. Jack is what she usually called him. Jackie was reserved for mild, more pleading admonishments, while John suggested that I leave the room. John could seek the seclusion of his office and I, that of the streets. My sister was usually trapped.

The Rio honeymoon was over and, towards the last days of my mother’s pregnancy, my dad was almost always called John. My brother Allan was born on February 22, 1947. A gift of the golden years and though thought of as such, he was a lot for my 35-year old mother to handle.

My mother’s father, Deighton Houp, died on January 18, 1947. In spite of my mother’s pregnancy, we took the train to Albuquerque and drove back in my grandfather’s 1933 Terraplane. Cars were very hard to come by after the war and I can only presume that my dad’s bank account had been depleted by our recent travels. We had lived high on the hog and my mother kept reminding John that he was not being paid what he was worth.

My dad had an out of character car fetish. Pictures of him waving from the front seat of a Ford coupe adorned bookcases. The Hudson Motor Company had built the Terraplane. It was quite the rage during its brief existence. The last year it was made was 1938—long enough for John Dillinger, a notorious bank robber and folk hero, to acquire one. My dad loved the car. It was a big step up from the family Ford he parted with in DC. In the fall of 1948 he bought one of those new Studebakers, the one with the glass rear window that curved around the back seat. It was the splash of the post-war years. In those days cars came with a lot of options, all of which he declined. Who needs a heater in New Orleans?

We visited my father’s family quite often both in the summer and at Christmas. We did need that car heater and, as my mother tried to scrape a hole in the ice that accumulated on the inside of the front window, I could scarcely hear her admonitions, so deeply was I buried in blankets. These trips were arduous, but travel by air would remain prohibitively expensive for more than two decades. By car, it was a two-or three-day trip, for Eisenhower had yet to build any freeways. The most traveled highways were only two lanes wide and this included Route 1, which connected Washington and New York. I can still remember the hour and a half it usually took us to get through Baltimore.

We entertained ourselves. A car radio was not a required option, either. We played any number of word and recognition games. On trips to Albuquerque we had contests in which we tried to guess the distance to a distant hill or curve in the road. These trips were a period of bonding. The pleasure of the destination was our reward. In New Paltz, New York, my grandfather managed a large estate in the foothills of the Catskills. The grounds were open to us and this included a boathouse and its rowboats. In Albuquerque there was the sandy backyard where I built highways for my toy cars between trips to the train station to watch the Super Chief come in. My grandfather had been a conductor on this spectacular train. In 1946 he gave me a tour of the engine. The conductor ran the show.

I read a lot. Books that dealt with adventurous travel, like The Royal Road to Romance, by Richard Halliburton, were my favorites. His adventures became my dreams. Halliburton met his end trying to sail alone across the Pacific in a Chinese Junk, a wooden craft powered by a single sail. Mark Twain was another favored author. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court would become the model for an historical novel I would write more than a half-century later. Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott must have birthed my love of history, though this too required a long gestation period.

During this period I traveled extensively with my father, for my younger brother demanded my mother’s attention and she would not allow my father to travel alone. He was not only fragile but absentminded, as many academicians tend to be. He was always collecting material for his Anthology of Spanish-American Literature, which he would publish in several editions. You can still buy the 2nd edition from vendors today.

Our first trip together took us to Havana, Puerto Rico, and Caracas, Venezuela. And then by plane we continued on to Cartahena and Bogota in Colombia. This was in the summer of 1947. We traveled by boat. Our vessel was a freighter. They were popularly referred to as fruit or banana boats, for their primary source of revenue was the transport of bananas from Central America to the United States. Most of these ships had guest rooms; our ship had 6 as I recall. Our meals were with the captain and a bond developed immediately. As a boy of almost 11 I became acquainted with all parts of the ship. The trip down the Mississippi was especially interesting, for I spent most of my time on the bridge with the captain and pilot. Mark Twain’s influence was obvious.

Americans could visit Cuba then. Gangs, most notably the Mafia, ruled the island nation. The democratic government in place at that time was not strong enough to control them, so the US supported the infamous Batista. Elected by popular vote Batista served as president between1940 and 1944. He was replaced by popular vote. Batista’s methods were so unpopular that he was deported. The Mafia corrupted the presidents that followed Batista, for Cuba had become their refuge. Most maintain that Batista was reinstated in the early 1950s by the US. The Castro-led revolution started in 1953 and lasted 6 years. Our visit occurred between Batista’s reigns. Havana was, during this period, the proverbial sin city—and an exciting place to visit. During the few days it took to unload and reload the ship, I wandered the waterfront while my dad visited colleagues and went to the library. Age limits were yet to be invoked, so you can imagine the excitement of wandering through the casinos. My mom would have died had she known. Fortunately, I was too young and the attractions too many. I survived.

In Caracas and Bogota I spent many long hours walking the streets while my father worked. These cities were interesting and I was forced to use my Spanish. I was also exposed to a changing world. In Caracas my dad took me to a meeting with Romolo Gallegos who was that December elected President of Venezuela, a man whose history I found fascinating. He was a famous author and liberal. He wrote Dona Barbara, a novel that criticized the dictator then in power. As a consequence, he was forced to flee to a then very liberal Spain, where my dad had met him in 1932. Their conversation was interesting though not entirely understood by me for it was in Spanish. Through my dad I followed Dr. Gallegos’ career. He was elected by an unheard of majority of 75%, but this liberal turn was reversed in less than two years.

In Bogota I met some students who were studying geology. While my dad was working at the university I was allowed to accompany them to the Salt Mines of Zipaquira some 30 miles north of Bogota. They were studying the feasibility of building a Cathedral in the caverns created by the extraction of the salt. An underground chapel had been in existence for 15 years. They ultimately built a Cathedral underground in the years that followed. It was located 700 feet below the surface and can hold 8,000 people. This Old Cathedral was opened in 1954 and since then they have built a New Cathedral. It is 200 feet lower. I believe it opened in 1995. Plenty to see in this world.

From Bogota we headed north to the coast and Cartagena, a fascinating city that would draw me back several times, though not for its climate. The region was first populated in 4,000 BC, presumably because of its mild climate, for the lowest recorded temperature is 64 degrees. The abundance of wildlife must have made the area into a veritable Garden of Eden. The Spanish arrived in 1533 and Cartagena became a staging point on the route to the riches of Peru. Sir Frances Drake was but one of many of Cartagena’s plunderers. Spain finally fortified the city in the 17th century at a cost that Charles III thought should make it visible from Madrid. The money was apparently well spent, for a British/American assault was repulsed in 1741.

The old part of Cartagena is located on what was once almost an island, for it was only connected to the mainland by a little strip of land along the coast. This island separated the ocean from a large navigable bay that has since been incorporated into the mainland by a large landfill. Fortunately, this does not destroy the charm of the old city. You can probably imagine the excitement that touring the 7 miles of walls induced—they were full of secret passages and rooms. Fortunately, the library was well stocked, for the beaches were also delightful. I always found plenty to do. This trip was at least a month long, but it would be joined by many more.

The following year, 1948, my dad and I were off to Mexico in that 1933 Terraplane. Things started off well enough in spite of the hot weather in Texas. I will never forget diving into the surf in Corpus Christi only to be attacked by what seemed like a million jellyfish—I got out faster than I had gotten in.

Traveling the Pan American highway was an experience. The road was as yet unpaved and the rocks that formed the surface were a menace. The most exciting part of the trip south came after Monterrey, for now the Sierra Madre Oriental stood in our path. The road climbed over a pass and then down to the city of Saltillo. The climb was so steep and the weather so hot that trucks only attempted the ascent at night. The cooling system in the 15-year-old Terraplane had the habit of overheating, so my dad decided to join the truckers. What a trip that was! No sooner had we started up the pass then we were engulfed in a dense fog. To make matters worse the truckers chose to conserve energy by turning off their lights; they were hardly moving so their need for light was minimal. At any speed the edge of the road was indistinguishable, so I kept my head out of the window to keep track of the edge of the road. This was long before protective barriers were considered necessary in Mexico. The trip, though only 40 miles, took forever and we were viewed with amazement when we stopped for a rest along the route. Apparently no one else made the ascent in a car at night. Saltillo was a welcomed town, especially since it was pleasantly cool. We were both glad to reach the highlands.

Mexico City was then a colonial delight, but this was long before half of Mexico moved there. I was accustomed to entertaining myself and I didn’t miss sitting in the car. The colonial buildings reminded me of the Spanish influence in both New Orleans and New Mexico. The Aztec pyramids and ruins fascinated me, as did the waterways of Xochimilco. I guess I was beginning to wake up. There was plenty to do and, besides, I had no alternative.

My father, always taking advantage of every opportunity, chose to tour the highlands north of Mexico City on our return trip. Amongst the colonial towns we visited was Guanajuato. It became well buried in my memories. We arrived quite late and the hotel manager suggested that dad park the car in the hotel garage. This my dad did and you can imagine the fright I experienced upon his return; he was a bloody mess. He lay down on the bed and I, not knowing what to do, began to clean the cuts on his knees. Gasping for breath he told me that his concern was with his chest and that the manager had sent for a doctor. The diagnosis was multiple broken ribs. The doctor did not even propose an x-ray.

Thusly began one of the worst weeks of both of our lives. My dad’s chest was bound with tape and he was confined to bed for over a week. Well that was just the beginning. The manager had our meals sent to the room—always the same—over cooked chicken coated with some kind of tasteless sauce. It took us only a few days to become sick as dogs; Montezuma’s revenge it truly was. Since then chicken has been on my blacklist.

The details of the accident began to immerge a few days later when my dad began to breathe a little more freely. The garage in which my dad parked the car was a service facility. It was dark and on his way out he fell into an open service pit. We were fortunate that he only fractured his ribs. I’m not sure when his problems with his lungs began, but I guess they had plagued him for some time. This episode clearly aggravated a condition that might have originated in any number of places. Perhaps that is what made him go to New Mexico.

I remember the telegram my dad sent to my mom. Skillfully written, it told her we would be late and cleverly suggested an accident of little import. It did suggest that she meet us when we reentered the US. Mom, my sister and year-old brother met us in Brownsville, Texas, almost two weeks later. Words do not adequately describe what mom saw when we met her. Neither my dad nor I had eaten much of anything for two weeks. My dad was slight of build; he might have weighed as much as 140 pounds. I weighed quite a bit less than100 pounds, though I would never admit it, at least not for another 20 years. At 5’-10", I was the laughing stock of my class. Add to this picture 7 weeks of uncut hair and you can imagine my mother’s dismay. Yet, we had made it in spite of the obstacles. A lesson learned.

Guanajuato, Mexico

My dad was often quite sick that year, plagued with kidney stones and an undefined intestinal disorder that not even Tulane’s emphasis on tropical medicine was capable of diagnosing. My mom would not let him leave the country in 1949. To compensate he agreed to teach a summer session at the University of New Mexico ostensibly to placate my mother—she could visit my grandmother. We would house-sit the home of a friend. Their estate was out on the yet-to-be developed mesa east of Albuquerque. The house was huge and to our joy contained a large swimming pool, which had to be cleaned every week by replacing its content with fresh well water. (Conservation had yet to be thought of.) It was my job to clean the pool. Three or four days of enjoyment would be available between the time when the water was way too cold to enter and too full of algae to enjoy—six days for me. It was on the straight roads of the mesa that my father introduced me to driving.

Once there, my father satisfied his academic thirst by visiting small villages west of the Rio Grande to study their folklore. The thrust, as I understood it, had to do with trying to determine the origin of their fables. Did migrant Mexicans bring these fables to the Southwest? Or did they come directly from Spain, brought over by the Conquistadores? (To my father, there was always a question worthy of being addressed.)

These trips to the pueblos were not easy. The roads were unpaved and summer was the rainy season. Showers from south of the border filled the arroyos frequently and turned the roads to glass. My father would never replace a tire until the cords became exposed. Needless to say the trip did not lack excitement. The accommodations and meals were local village gratuities. My father, the bard, loved to talk, as did the people he interviewed. I was at least learning to speak and understand Spanish. Finding food and lodging was easy, but I can’t imagine my mother tolerating the rooms and food offered. Traveling with my dad was always an adventure.

Later that summer we ventured north to evaluate the condition of a cottage my grandfather had built in the 1930s. The cottage was on Saginaw Bay, on the west side of Michigan’s Thumb. The place was a mess, as you can well imagine; it had been abandoned for more than 15 years. The subdivision was no more than an assemblage of lots. It was located on a spit of land the locals called Sand Point, which protruded about 3 miles into Saginaw Bay. When my grandfather and his neighbors built these cottages, some 2 miles from the base of the peninsula, their cottages had only been accessible by boat. By 1949 an access road had been completed and most of the older properties had been restored. Our cottage consisted of a large room, about 20 by 40 feet, and an attached garage. The facilities were satisfied by an out-house and water was plentifully supplied by a well. This, of course, would not do, so an open toilet was installed in the garage much to the chagrin of my money-conscious father. Out-houses were common in the mountain cottages of upstate New York but no longer acceptable in big cities like Albuquerque. The toilet in my grandma’s house in New Mexico was in the garage and that is where ours would be. Money was scarce in those days and septic tanks and leach fields were a part of the sanitation package in rural areas.

A 25-foot long boat occupied the garage. One of my adopted chores was to get it working. Fortunately, my granddad had kept the one cylinder inboard engine in perfect condition, so in spite of my ineptitude I was able to get it purring. A protected channel that extended into the bay served as our marina. Navigating this rather large boat down that narrow channel that twisted itself into the bay was a task entrusted only to me, for my dad had no mechanical inclinations nor did he take to the waters of Saginaw Bay. I was the Mark Twain of Sand Point, proudly and skillfully navigating the sand shoals of the shallow shores.

This summer I met my mother’s sister Helen. What a contrast! She was five years older than mom and not only very well educated but a kick to be around. Most of her life was involved with books, usually as a librarian. I still remember her admonition reserved for those too lazy to seek an answer: Go to Helen Hunt for it.

Her husband was also a character. He was an industrial real estate broker and I admired him. His car was always the most elegant, for he spent money freely—quite a contrast to my dad. At the time I knew him he was a recovering alcoholic. Unfortunately he took up bridge and soon became a bridgeaholic. He spent most of his time in the bridge clubs of Detroit. My aunt soon divorced him and married a rich industrialist who made customized boxes. He, too, was a very interesting guy and had a lot of money. The fact that my aunt was so personable made a difference; she lived a long life and always had a man on the string. She died in her 95th year, but to her boyfriend she admitted only 75 years.

Private schools were expensive then and the family fortune was better spent on other needs—travel, cars, and so on. On this my father and I agreed. I knew some of the kids who went to Newman, one of the most prestigious private schools, my mother’s choice. They were boring—study, study, study. Besides, a bus ride was required to reach school while Lusher Elementary was only four blocks away. Playing marbles, shooting out streetlights, chasing down frogs in the mud, playing baseball and any number of things beat studying and riding a bus. Any sense of elitism that my mother had tried to induce in me had failed to take and it never did.

Those years were tough, as I’m sure they are for all boys. I needed to establish myself or, if you prefer, become an entity. This was not an easy task for a skinny boy whose father was an academic. Bullies had been around long before my time. I could not invoke my father, as many did, for the school, though in a heterogeneous area, catered to the working class. I neither had the body nor will to fight, but few respected this. The only real fight that I had was with my best friend James Collier. He deviated my septum, but I fear that the pain was more psychological than physical. All that came to mind was the posters advocating body building classes; they included skinny boys who lost their girls to well-built challengers, their reward being a dose of beach sand in the face. Clearly I needed a new approach. My head was my only weapon. I adopted a barter program that served me well through high school.

I guess you could say that I joined the toughs yet distanced myself from them. I developed a bond with one of the toughest of the toughs: I traded help on his homework and tests for protection, but this would only be possible if I was not perceived to be a sissy. I found that I could appear to be tough and mischievous given the assured support of my acknowledged friend. That I developed this bond is reinforced by the fact that I still remember his name.

Joe Carambat was a few years behind his age group. The Louisiana school system did not advance a student until he or she passed muster. This policy applied until the student reached the age of 16, at which point they were allowed to leave school. I became friends with Joe in the fifth grade, 1947-1948. I was 11; he was 13. Things were beginning to get tough for me and Joe and I soon developed a bond. I believe that the teachers collaborated to a certain extent, for I did help Joe pass quite a few tests. At any rate Joe did complete the 8th grade, albeit a few years behind his class. Everyone was happy, except for my parents.

My chores did get done but seldom to my mother’s satisfaction, so my 25-cent weekly allowance was almost always withheld. The need for spending money came to a head in March of 1948. I had a girlfriend.

Joe introduced me to the distributer of one of the afternoon papers, The Item, and I was given a delivery job, in spite of the fact that the minimum age was 12. Things were loose then and the fact that I did not appear to be of the newsboy class gave me an inroad to one of the routes that serviced a wealthy neighborhood. At least I spoke well. When my father found out about my job, he was furious. You need to spend more time with your books. We both knew that my livelihood would never be derived from manual labor. When I refused to quit my job, he informed me in no uncertain terms that I would never receive any help from him.

This was probably the best thing that could have happened to me, for this experience was to serve as a cornerstone in my future endeavors. The job required that I perform a service, balance my books, collect my bills, and sell new subscriptions—all essential components of any entrepreneurial venture. My initial route, in the elite part of town, required me to deliver 100 papers. This territory was soon expanded to less prosperous areas and one year I delivered 450 papers a day. I could ride my bike hands free folding papers as I pedaled from door to door. This part of New Orleans had an unusual social blending. Gated communities were immersed in areas that housed people of all ethnicities and color. As a consequence I delivered papers to a wide variety of clients. This experience was to have a decidedly good impact on my future, both in school and in a working environment.

Asking my dad for any form of help was never even a considered option—I was too proud. Collecting bills made me develop the required skill set, a combination of humility and forcefulness that got the job done. I also learned to work with my fellow newsboys. I was well liked and always remained humble. Besides, the presence of my buddy Joe was understood.

My work kept me away from home much of the time and my mother was a neatnic. She had a simple plan: if a piece of my clothing was left on the floor it disappeared. I soon learned that everything had its place. I still had assigned chores, though I admit that they were minimal. Nevertheless this led to quite a few confrontations with my mom.

We lived on the 2nd floor of a 2-story apartment house built of wood. Our refrigerator was better described by the term ice box, for big blocks of ice placed in an upper compartment cooled its contents. The melt water was collected in a pan concealed beneath the unit. It was my job to empty this pan. Should I not, the water would flow through the floor into our neighbor’s kitchen below. I missed one day and when my mother found out she went to get my father’s belt (dad was not much of a disciplinarian). When she reentered my room, I stood up and started to remove my belt. I had grown a foot taller than her. The awkwardness of the moment was relieved as she left the room mumbling the usual threats.

Sundays were the best. The Sunday paper was huge and we delivered it early in the morning. After we finished, we would gather in a room which was part of a small family neighborhood store where we would tell all manner of off-color jokes, stopping only when a woman entered the store—a condition imposed on us by the owner. I think he enjoyed the jokes and we certainly consumed a lot of Royal Crown Colas. One morning we thought the game was up when the next-door neighbor stormed in, mad as the proverbial hatter. You see, his bathroom adjoined our joke parlor and the walls in this part of town were paper-thin. He demanded that we stop this practice immediately. His wife had apparently overheard a particularly gross joke and his loud demonstration was really only to satisfy her because in a whisper he asked us for the punch line.

Obviously I had my share of problems. One that severely tested me occurred early one Sunday morning of my first year. My Uncle Harry who lived in Hancock, New York, where he owned a repair garage, gave my sister and me shiny new Schwinn bicycles for Christmas in 1947. This, of course, made my job possible, but exposed me to hazards. New Orleans was flat, but the large Oak trees that were everywhere caused the sidewalks to be quite irregular. I had installed the standard basket designed to hold newspapers over the front wheel of the bike. This Sunday morning the basket was fully loaded and, when I hit one of these bumps, I, along with the back wheel, was catapulted over the basket. The rear wheel assembly pinned my leg to the basket. I was in significant pain, but somehow managed to free myself and ultimately finish my route on foot, this in spite of a very sore leg. Pride would not allow me to ask for help and I have never been able to shed this malady.

That I was a capable carrier is attested to by the numerous absences that I was allowed. The area manager replaced me when I went to Mexico in the summer of 1948. When I returned, I applied for another route and he gave me back the route I had. It seems as though the manager had received many service-related complaints when I was gone. You know how the rich complain. From then on the route was mine and when I left town, a temp serviced it. I made a fairly good wage and in that sense established my desired independence.

School was never allowed to reduce my pleasurable activities. There was always time, though much of it was stolen from that which most teenagers allocate for sleep. I was able to maintain a reasonable balance between those pleasures that advanced my objectives and those that offered no realizable reward.

My friends and I lived on our bicycles. New Orleans was not blessed with hills, unless you include a hill made from tin cans or the levees. To compensate for this shortcoming, we would bike north to the Mississippi River Bridge, built by Huey Long. Pumping up the narrow two-lane road was tough, especially if the traffic was heavy. But it was the descent that made it worthwhile. When we reached the top of the bridge, we would start peddling as hard as we could. I suspect that we reached a speed that approached 35 miles per hour. On one occasion one of my pedals broke off and my foot hit the pavement. I didn’t have time for concern; I was too busy trying to stay on the bike. Try riding home 10 miles with only one pedal. Skinny as I was my body grew stronger and stronger.

Biking in the mud fields was also a lot of fun, for they were always wet; it rained almost every day and sliding down the back side of these low mounds turned us into mud balls, but nothing a good hosing could not cure. Getting wet was common, for the afternoon rains were often so heavy that the streets flooded. This added to our fun, for it allowed us to bike through two feet of water. The occasional passing hurricane caused my family to relocate from the wood apartments to brick dormitories. As the eye of the storm passed over, I delivered my papers. Rewarding activities were not wanting.

I had a girlfriend, one of many that my mother would disapprove of. Her family was poor, so I treated her to movies and ice cream. Jane Magee’s father had been killed during the war and her mother was very nice, so I spent quite a bit of time sitting on their porch. They both liked me. My mother once reported the admonition of my math teacher, Ms. Law, Bobby would excel in math if he weren’t so girl crazy. I guess we have to make our choices and girls and companionship offered more pleasure than solving equations. I always got an A in math, so what was her problem?

I also played the pinball machines excessively, usually with my good friend James Collier, the one who deviated my septum. We got along well after that incident. His father had also been killed during the war. He joined Jane on my mother’s disfavored list, I wish you would stop seeing that boy. Can’t you find some nice friends?

These pinball machines paid off in cash and James and I knew just how much bumping these machines would take before they disallowed your play. Punchboards were also popular with us; you punched out a piece of paper on which was written your reward—the big one was always still on the board. I soon learned not to be a sucker, for I hated to lose my hard earned money. By the time I was thirteen I had learned to smoke and drink beer with the boys. My mother smoked, so my sinning was not that obvious. She did, however, drive me crazy when she smoked in the car. But it was my sister that ratted on me! By the time I reached twelve I had achieved a degree of independence, one that made my sister very jealous. I was in effect living two lives and I liked them both.

On the way back to New Orleans in 1949 we stopped in Tarrytown to visit some friends of my folks. They had a son of my age and neither of us could understand why we were not going down to Times Square to welcome 1950. Enough complaining soon sent Duncan and me off on our merry way to Times Square. What a treat, both the experience and the sensation of independence. The people who crowded the square were all so excited and happy. Wasn’t that the way we should all be?

All remembrances, however, are not pleasurable. Pain was still viewed as a means of instruction. My mom collaborated with our dentist. They believed that a filling installed without the use of a painkiller would promote better dental hygiene practices at home. My teeth accommodated their plan, for I had too many teeth for the size of my jaw. After the removal of 4 of them, steel band braces were installed. Wires were used to apply the required amount of pressure to close the created gaps. I would wear braces of some kind, off and on, for 6 years. I feared every trip to the dentist and every muscle in my body still tenses when I open my mouth in the presence of a dentist.

Nineteen fifty would mark the dawning of a new era, but the trend had been established and my independence tacitly accepted. Many irreversible patterns had been created or reinforced during these early formative years. My acceptance of people would not to be tempered by their social status. I would, in the years that followed, enjoy those friendships that became part of my life, but always with an awareness that the relationship would end. I had developed a fondness for a variety of pleasures that was balanced by an acute understanding of what it took to attain the pleasure associated with accomplishment.

Chapter 3: Paris the First Time (1950-1951)

No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of a given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes it truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live as we dream—alone….

- Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)

In the summer of 1950 we moved to Paris. My dad had accepted a position with the Fulbright Foundation. The term was for one year. My mom was both excited and delighted—memories of Rio could not be suppressed. As I recall I was neither happy nor sad; it was simply accepted by me as being a part of the inevitable. Did they think that this move would pull me out of my other world?

In early July we vacated the lovely barracks that had been our home for 4 years, packed the Studebaker and headed for New Paltz, New York. That trip to New Paltz afforded me some insight into the evolution of our family. I knew that my Engelkirk grandparents had both migrated from Germany along with countless others. Lena, my grandmother, had told me the usual stories of how she met my granddad in New York, married him, and produced my father in Brooklyn. The original