Child In Paradise

By Thomas G. Baker

This is the story of an American boy in a foreign land; it chronicles his everyday trials and triumphs as he makes the convoluted journey from childhood into adolescence. A story that takes place predominately in the tiny tropical Central American Colony of British Honduras, now Belize. It is a collection of memories as told by the old man this boy became.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas G. Baker
• Release date: Nov 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370703760

Thomas G. Baker

After years of living on his sailboat in the small laid back village of Astor Fl.Tom has, as they say, has swallowed the anchor. He now resides in the tiny hamlet of Big Bone, Kentucky beside the creek bearing the same name. With an affable orange tomcat named Tom-Tom as companion he spends his days communing with nature, writing novels, and reminiscing with old and dear friends.

Book preview

Chapter One

The First Years

On the Second day of March Nineteen Hundred and Forty Five A.D. at nine twenty five Post Meridian in the Sate of Oklahoma, County of Comanche, City of Lawton a baby boy was born to Major and Mrs. T.S. Baker.

Fathers Occupation: Officer United States Army.

Mothers Occupation: House Wife

Name of child: Thomas Gaugh Baker.

Thus was I introduced to the world. My mother never tired of telling that I was a perfect baby until VJ Day when the big guns of the army artillery ceased practicing and fell silent. Having never known quiet I squalled every night for weeks.

My first recollections were of three Moyer Place in Cincinnati. I don't have any idea of exactly when I became aware just that I did. It was like one day I woke up and there I was aware of the world around me. One of the first cognizant memories is of our neighbor Sy Schwartz's 1949 Buick with the little portholes in the fenders. I loved that car so much that dad bought me a bright red Buick petal car just like it. I wouldn't have anything to do with it until he had taken it to the airport and had Smitty the mechanic paint it green to match Sy's. Saturday mornings Sy, his son Timmy, and I could be seen washing are cars together. I can't recall daddy ever washing old Betsy our 42 Ford coupe which is a story in itself.

Dad had bought a new 41 Ford sedan a few months before the U.S. became involved in World War II. When war was declared, Gordon Wolf a Cincinnati attorney, dad’s friend, and flying buddy was immediately called to active duty from the reserves to help form the Army Artillery Air Corp Observation and Liaison School at Fort Sill Oklahoma.

Gordon soon after contacted dad and asked if he would join the flight school there. Dad had learned to fly at Embry Riddle in 1926 fell in love with aviation, quit teaching high school, and made aviation his career. He went to work for Embry and with his master’s degree in mechanical engineering combined with his teaching experience helped build the school.

Dad declined to move when Embry left Cincinnati and together with a partner Elmer Smith started their own flight school and air taxi service Aero Training and Transport. They instructed in the same types of trainers, as did the army. At first my dad rejected Gordon's offer as he had his heart set on becoming a navy carrier pilot. Gordon was persistent pointing out dad’s age (Dad by then was forty) and citing the need for his experience and after several telegrams and letters he finally wooed dad into consenting.

Dad received orders to proceed to Ft Sill by his own means and flew out in one of his airplanes; He inspected the school at Fort Sill and found it was all but non-existent. He quickly returned to Lunken packed up the airplanes, gathered up all his instructors also recruiting a lot of his former students who were to be turned into instructors, and sent them to Oklahoma to form the nucleus of the new expanded school.

He and mom planned to drive out but when he tried to buy new tires for the trip there was already rationing in place and a freeze on tire sales. No matter where he tried couldn't buy any so he turned to the owner of a Ford dealership who he had taught to fly. He mentioned to dad that he had a new 42 coupe in the basement of the dealership he was saving for himself. They began negotiating and instead of a set of tires dad just traded cars. Dad would tell that story with relish saying, Never thought I'd see the day when you traded in a car just because the tires were bald.

We had a little black kitten Miss Webber I named her after the man who owned the Gulf station where daddy bought gas and had Betsy serviced. Our old black Cocker Spaniel Debbie and Miss Webber would sit looking out the front window in the living room watching and listening for old Betsy and becoming excited way before dad pulled into sight.

I remember Daddy chopping up the pinball machine with an ax and feeding it to the big coal furnace in the basement after my play mate Tim Schwartz and I broke the glass with a hammer to get the shiny silver balls out, and the day we played in the coal bin and the scrubbing that followed.

Dad built a big cage under the back porch with chicken wire. We took a day trip to Uncle Gordon's farm and came home with a trunk full of baby chicks in cardboard crates and after they got big enough how upset I was when dad wrung their necks and the mess the feathers made when he plucked them. He explained that was the way that we got fried chicken and Mom did cook great fried chicken (I rest my case). On the other hand our bunny Snow Ball soon after met a similar fate. I had by now came to terms with the chicken thing but could not bring myself to eat something that I had named.

One day a stray rabid cat staggered in and threw a fit on the back porch growling snarling and foaming at the mouth. It tried to get in the house tearing at the screen door. Mom called daddy and he came right home and shot it. After I watched him bury it we went back into the house. He sat down with me and let me hold the gun and he showed me how it worked and the difference between my cap pistol and the real ones. To never handle a gun or let any other kid because a gun was always loaded even when it appeared not to be and that me or one of my friends would be dead just like the cat and never come back life again.

I always knew where the guns were kept in the house as little kids have the innate ability to hide it is therefore natural for them to find such places. If I were ever tempted I would remember the way the cat looked before we buried it and years went by before I touched the real thing again.

Later in life I had a buddy I farmed with in Kentucky, who no matter how hard he tried couldn't keep his kids from getting into his guns.

He said, The little suckers even know how to pick locks. Coming home one day and finding them playing cowboys with two of his loaded pistols he gathered them up marched them out in the yard called the family dog (the kids loved that dog) and shot it point blank in the head, right in front of them. He said, After that you couldn't get them near a gun.

I asked him, How could you do that, that's cruel?

He said, You know Tom I thought as much of that dog as they did, but I loved my kids more and I had to show them what could happen to one of them, and the way they were going to feel afterward. He added, You know I think just telling little kids what to do and not to do doesn't always work, you sometimes have to drive a point home.

Which reminds me; Mom would tell when I was a toddler I kept trying to reach the pots on the stove after repeated scoldings and a couple of swats on the rear which seemed to have little effect I nearly pulled a boiling pot of spaghetti down on me. She lifted me up to the stove and said, OK buster there it is if you want it that bad then grab it. She said I reached out and touched the hot handle jerked my hand away and started crying, no serious burn but a lesson learned.

We had another dog which we had raised from a puppy, Bonnie. She was my dog half collie half husky gentle, protective, and tolerant of us kids. She would let us ride her, pull her tail, hook her to our wagon and pull us around and never complain. Once while we were away she treed the house painter for half a day. When we got home there he was perched half way up the ladder with Bonnie sitting at the foot. He swore he hadn't done anything to provoke her but dad said how come she’s got a white brush mark across her face.

Bonnie was probably as close to Lassie as real life can be. Mom would tell of Bonnie not allowing strangers in the yard while the neighbor kids or I were playing. Shortly after the neighbors saw a man throw something out of a car to her. She died of poisoning and we believe it had some connection to the painter. Bonnie was unlike our old Cocker Debbie who predated me and I suspect always saw me as an interloper and disruptor of her quiet domain. Bonnie loved us kids and visa versa. She has always had a larger than life place in my heart a boy, and his first dog.

I remember walking home from kindergarten though the woods. One day I found an arrow that I was sure belonged to the Indians and from then on kept a sharp lookout so I wouldn't get captured and scalped. Even thought mom said it was a practice arrow and there weren't any Indians, at times I felt sure I could see shadowy figures hiding behind the trees waiting in ambush to take revenge for their stolen arrow. The hair on the back of my neck would stand up at the snap of a twig or the flutter of a bird. My heart raced and I ran like the wind not stopping until I reached the safety of the back yard. Sometimes I would call and Bonnie would rush into the woods to greet me and on those occasions under her protection and my confidence bolstered we would linger and look for more arrows or possibly the bow.

I was terrified of the large City of Cincinnati gas works on Kellogg Avenue as there was always the smell gas whenever we would pass it. I think there was a gas explosion somewhere around that time and daddy made the comment if that gas works ever went up there wouldn't be anything left of that part of Cincinnati. I would hide on the back floorboard of old Betsy under the car blanket until someone gave me the all clear.

Aunt Joyce, my cousins Carol and Rachel, and I took an afternoon walk to Alt Park. It wasn't far from the house and overlooked Lunken Airport. The airport seemed so close that you could almost reach out and touch it. The first chance that came along I climbed on my little red scooter and headed out to visit Dad not realizing how far it was in reality. It was mostly all down hill and I was over half way there when the search party found me.

I don't remember much about kindergarten at Linwood Elementary School just the field trip to look at trees. We used to sit in a circle and sing. There were all these great big building blocks and we would make a bridge and take turns being the troll hiding and jumping out to scare whoever was crossing above and yes the finger painting.

My Mother was the decorator in the family she always had a project going. There was a large field stone fireplace in the corner of the dinning room next to the kitchen door. Mom was worried that I would come careening around the corner and hit my head she kept after dad to take it out. Finally mom who didn't have much patience went to the basement and came back with a sledgehammer and started wrecking it. Dad had no choice but to take the whole thing out in a wheelbarrow that night.

She painted the living room this purple color half way through changed her mind mixing two cans together came up with a color Dad named durpel. I remember mom hung a picture of Blue Boy in my bedroom I hated that picture and even at my age thought he looked like a sissy and would shoot at it with my suction cup dart gun. Every time Mom came into my room she would find it turned face to the wall.

About once a week we would go around the corner to Uncle Gordon’s house. Looking back I thought everyone was my uncle or cousin it was always uncle this or cousin that was coming for dinner. I always liked to go to Uncle Gorgon's he had a woodworking shop in his basement and would make me neat stuff like wooden airplanes. His new wife Evelyn made great egg custard. My Mom was an excellent cook but for some unexplained reason never mastered the art of making egg custard. I still haven't had my fill of egg custard.

Dad would often take me along with him to the airport. I loved Lunken Airport the smell of the hanger, the sounds of aircraft engines, and the wind from the propellers blowing dust and paper about. It was neat bumming a nickel for the office Coke machine that sounded just like Miss Webber purring or strolling through the hanger watching the mechanic Smitty work recovering a wing, stitching fabric with the precision a seamstress.

I would sit on the green bench outside the office and watch the takeoffs and landings. Once while sitting I watched an army AT-6 make an emergency gear up landing sliding in the grass on its belly. Whenever he could dad would take me flying and most times he would let me take the stick. I loved to look down at all the tiny cars, houses, and people and at night the airport and the tetrahedron all lit up.

The only traumas of those first few years were finding that staplers worked on fingers as well as paper, getting a Pussy Willow bud stuck in my nose and daddy taking me to the airport so one of his doctor students could extract it with a paper clip. Playing with the can of Drano and being rushed to the hospital and finding that I had only gotten it on my lips and tongue. Gordon Wolf's son Joe and I playing king of the hill, being pushed off a coffee table hitting the edge, and running my teeth through my lower lip. Mother said that while waiting for the doctor to sew it up all I wanted was a Coke and as I was drinking it was running out through the hole in my chin.

I was halfway through Kindergarten when we moved to 25 East South Gate Avenue in Fort Thomas a small affluent community in Northern Kentucky perched along the ridges above the Ohio River over looking Eastern Cincinnati and Lunken airport. It was one of those idyllic tight knit American communities that Norman Rockwell illustrated so well. Tree lined streets led to the town center with its row of small shops and theater. It was the kind of place where groups still drifted thru the neighborhoods caroling on Christmas Eve.

Dad had many reasons for moving. He had grown up in Fort Thomas and had graduated from Highlands High. He attended the University of Kentucky returned to Highlands and taught Industrial Arts for a couple of years while he worked on his Masters at UC. When he and mom married they bought a tidy little field stone house on Taylor Avenue and lived there until the war. Two of my three aunts also resided in Fort Thomas. Aunt Betty and her husband Charles Thompson on Ohio Avenue, and My aunt Williametta (Billy) at 30 Woodland Place. She was an old maid schoolteacher who taught math at Highlands and took care of my grandfather.

Our house was a two story white frame situated halfway down a quiet cul-de-sac, with a big back yard full of red and black raspberry bushes covered with thorns. There were plenty of woods that seemed to go all the way to the Ohio River. Next door lived the twins Bill and Al they were my age and we soon became friends. They were so identical that their mother could hardly tell them apart. Both had a penchant for making mischief and when caught each would the lay blame on the other. This would frustrate their mother to the point that rather than trying to sort it out would always punish them both.

Dad had bought a bunch of war surplus intercoms to use in the airplanes. He had them stored in the basement. The twins and I found them and in the process of attempting to make them work had taken them apart mostly with a hammer. We really got in trouble for that, one of my only spankings

Across the street lived the Fulweilers Harry and Muriel and their daughter Lynn who was a year older than me. We became good friends and Lynn and I would play with my plastic building blocks and airplanes or with her doll house and dolls.

On the corner in the new brick ranch lived the Van Veens. I had a crush on Bonnie who was my age. She had an older brother Dickey who was to us the big kid on the street.

There were a lot of woods between the streets and in places it ran all the way down to the Ohio River though we never dared to venture that far. Most of summer was spent tramping around the woods playing Davy Crockett or Cowboys and Indians. We found a large patch of poison sumac at the end of the street. It turned out to make great spears and arrows and could be split in two hollowed out and fashioned into little boats. It wasn't long before every kid in the neighborhood was covered in Calamine lotion. We all looked like we belonged to the same tribe.

The twins and I found Dickey's Daisy air rifle in the woods. We filled it with the little red berries that grew on the hedge along the sidewalk and I broke my finger trying to cock it. We got in trouble for that too.

Major reasons for our move were the two elementary schools both in walking distance. Old Johnson was just three blocks away and the almost finished new Johnson just around the corner. I spent the last part of kinder garden at the old school and the next year started the first grade at new Johnson. The only memories that remain are of being dressed in a white smock and singing carols in the school choir at Christmas. Lynn and I being yelled at for taking the short cut home through the yard of the old grouch who lived behind her house.

We got our first TV and my favorite shows were Howdy Duty and Captain Video and the Video Ranger. Christmas in Fort Thomas is the first I can remember with any detail. We had deep white snow that year and the tree was too tall to put on the star. I loved decorating and spent hours watching the bubble lights. I got my first Lionel train set. Dad put it together on a sheet of plywood and it was circling the tree on Christmas morning. I was fascinated with the Slinky which went down the steps all by its self as if it were alive. I remember dad trying to explain the principals of potential and kinetic energy to me. It was the mechanical engineer in Dad that showered me with Lincoln Logs, plastic blocks, Tinker Toys, and Erector Sets. We would sit on the living room floor building Grand Central Station or French cranes complete with sliding counterweights he would patiently show me the proper building techniques. My dad was good with little kids, he never showed the disappointment he must have felt when in one clumsy move I destroyed an almost finished balsa model of a Lockheed Constellation he had spent many evenings assembling.

Daddy would often fly over the house and gun the engine, it was the signal to let mom know he was with his last student and would be coming home shortly. She would have supper ready or we would be dressed waiting at the door when he got home ready to go out to eat.

There was a little restaurant on the Ohio River by Lunken airport where daddy and I would eat all the frog legs fried in butter we could hold. Dad loved to tell the tale of his favorite Steakhouse and the waitress that asked me what I wanted. He said I told her, "A great big T bone medium rear. She looked at my dad and said, You’re really not going to feed this kid a whole steak he'll just waste it. I'll just bring him a hamburger."

My dad looked at her and said, "Lady this kid knows the difference between a steak and a hamburger and he knows what he wants. Bring him a great big T bone medium rear."

When she left daddy leaned over and whispered, Son I went to bat for you so make sure you clean it up so that old battle ax doesn't have the satisfaction of thinking I told you so.

Pompellos the Italian restaurant in Newport that had been the prewar hangout of my parents and the airport crowd always seemed to be filled with activity. I can remember Mr. Pomp running around arguing and with Mrs. Pomp or visa versa. They had a big fat restaurant cat that would scurry in and out of the kitchen between everybody's legs. Pompellos is where I learned to love ravioli and sometimes they would sneak me a little tiny glass of what they called Dago Red.

The annual air show at Lunken was always great fun. Daddy would dress up like an old lady and appear to be picked at random from the crowd to receive a free plane ride. He would be helped into the airplane and strapped in. The pilot would climb in and attempt to start the engine which would turnover slowly indicating a weak battery. The pilot would get out and instruct dad on what to do with the throttle and brakes, while the announcer told the crowd that airplanes didn't need batteries to run and everything was OK.

The pilot would nod, daddy would holler in his best old lady voice, Brakes and contact. The pilot would hand prop the plane the engine would come to life but with the throttle wide open. The pilot would fall sideways clearing the propeller as the plane lunged forward out of control with the pilot running in pursuit waving and yelling as the little Aroncia picked up speed. It began careening back and forth the wing tips almost touching the grass bouncing several times before drunkenly staggering into the air weaving and bobbing toward the levy at the far end of the field. It would barely clear, then disappear from sight an explosion and a plum of smoke followed. The crowd would gasp, women screamed, then a low murmur as the emergency vehicles rushed forward and the announcer called for calm. In a couple of minutes daddy would pop up over the levy, land, taxi up to the crowd climb out and take off the wig and bow. Probably get lynched or go to jail if you did that to a crowd today.

We all arrived at the airport early before the crowds started to trickle in. Our base of operations was the Greater Cincinnati Airman's club on the second floor of the terminal. Our mothers were already busy getting lunch ready so Joe Wolf and I left with daddy and spent the morning wandering among the airplanes. (We were both airport brats and pretty much knew the do's, don'ts and all of the nevers of an airport ramp) we returned wore out and hungry from watching the air show and crawling trough a B-29 bomber fuselage on a flatbed.

We entered the terminal and were surprised to find a soldier with a rifle on guard at the foot of the stairway. We told him our mothers were upstairs but he wouldn't let us by and refused to send someone up to check. He kept telling us to beat it. We tried to holler up from the lobby but the club was at the back of a hallway and the door was closed.

Finally in desperation I tried running interference while Joe made a dash up the steps. It didn't work and the next thing we knew we had been captured by three national guardsmen who were hanging onto our shirts. By this time we had lost all our decorum and reverted to a kid’s last and ultimate defense squalling and blubbering. Just then (uncle) Louie the airport weatherman and family friend who had served with Daddy and Gordon during the war and would on occasion let me help him launch the big weather balloons from the roof of the terminal came by. He attempted a rescue but the guards told him we kids were trying to get up to the control tower. Louie told him something like these kids are both sons of colonel's and their mothers are upstairs.

One guard responded, I don't give a damn if there Ike's kids and the Virgin Mary's waitin for um they ain't going up there without a pass. (I didn't know who the Virgin Marry was at the time but I sure knew who Ike was.) While they were arguing someone had by this time alerted mother and Evelyn as they approached and heard our cries they literally came flying down the stairs. It was there and then for the first time with awe I witnessed the wrath mothers can wield when they believe their offspring are in danger. Joe and I stood watching the women their eyes flashing, fingers wagging, lips, and mouths contorted. I can't remember what was said only that it wasn't lady like. The guardsmen wilted, crumbled, and retreated under the barrage.

We were dragged upstairs and mildly scolded, then after lunch and a couple of shuffleboard games were once more freed to roam. This time we felt invincible armed with bright yellow passes hanging from our necks with our names boldly printed on the back. We received no more interference from the military. In fact when we reached the bottom of the stair there was a new guard on duty who promptly came to attention and saluted us which I do remember we returned.

Dad and I had our hair cut at Turtles barber shop in Newport, unlike most kids I loved the hum and feel of the clippers, and afterward we would go next store to Federley's which was truly a kid Mecca. The little store was filled to the point of bursting with toys and every model airplane ever made. Mother on the other hand liked to shop at Mrs. Groves’s junk shop located at 6th and Saratoga. Mrs. Grove was a cheery gray headed lady who had connections to the fashion industry and twice a year made trips to New York City and would buy leftover designer dresses which she brought back and sold at drastically reduced prices. Whenever she got a new crop in she would call Mom so she could beat the herd of society ladies from Cincinnati. My mom was always dressed like a Yew York model.

One time while Mom was upstairs rooting through the latest arrivals I had wondered outside to stand on the corner and wait for one of the L&N freight trains which frequently passed so I could wave at the conductor in the caboose (they almost always waved back) when this lady attempted to beat the train to the crossing. The train was going real slow but I remember the noise and watching it crush the car like a tin can (it kinda rolled it up like an old fashioned sardine lid with the key) and it taking almost a block to stop. Later I heard the lady and her daughter had died. It instilled in me great respect for train crossings.

Dad had been offered a job flying for a lumber company in a place called Central America he went there to investigate leaving mom and I to ourselves that spring and part of the summer. My mother's brother Bill had taken his family and moved to California. Mom and I went to visit them. Mom said I got on the airplane wearing a cowboy outfit and carrying a baby doll wrapped in a blanket. I do remember the Buck Rogers ray gun that shot sparks.

We flew Eastern out to Tulsa and switched to an American DC-6. On the first attempt we were about a half hour out and one engine started to run rough. The captain feathered it and we returned to Tulsa. We waited a couple of hours and were told the problem had been fixed. We were in the air about the same amount of time as the first when we again had to return with another feathered engine because of fuel problems. The fire trucks for a second time lined the runway. After another four hour delay we made the third attempt this time only to have a main gear tire blow out on takeoff. For the third time fire trucks lined the runway and this time they laid down carpet of foam. We landed safely and had just come to a stop when the remaining tire blew. I had already learned to have respect for airplanes yet felt no fear just excitement as dad always said, Any landing you can walk away from is a good one. We had to overnight and the next morning we took off and made it safely to San Diego.

My uncle Bill was managing a tomato farm in San Ysidro on the Mexican border. I remember how vast the fields were and the endless row after row of red tomatoes as far as the eye could see. How small and insignificant the farmhouse appeared against this vast backdrop with no neighbors in sight. Having to drink, cook, and even wash with bottled water. The strange Mexican workers, the first people I had ever encountered that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. They fascinated me as they emerged in the morning as if rising out of a mist.

Uncle Bill said that they came from Mexico to work but I was convinced they lived in the mist and only appeared when the sun touched them. I remember thinking that Mexico must be a mythical place because in the evening they would just seem to slowly recede the way they had appeared, becoming smaller and smaller till they faded out of sight at the end of the field and disappeared into the mist.

I spent the next week or two helping pick tomatoes with the Mexican kids. Learning which were ripe enough to pick and how to place them in the crates. I loved riding on the sled being pulled by a caterpillar crawler driven by the son of Bill's partner who was only two years older than I and how it reinforced the kid power in me. The memory of standing out in that hot dusty field eating ripe tomatoes with the juice running down my chin onto my shirt (back then they picked tomatoes ripe instead of green as they do now) still lingers with me today.

The big muddy well at the end of the field with the water frothing and gurgling in a whirlpool and them telling me to hold on cause if I ever fell in I'd be sucked right into the pump. It was my first ride in the back of a Pickup truck to the busy packinghouse. I marveled at all the conveyors whirring and belts everywhere. The lines of people sorting tomatoes, wrapping them in tissue paper, and placing them in boxes and how my uncle was so at ease with them always grinning and joking.

Uncle Bill took us all to Tijuana and I remember having my picture taken on a donkey with my serape and broad brimmed Mexican hat. Mom bought me a silver belt buckle and real jumping beans. Yes Mexico was magical.

We also went to the beach. I had never seen the ocean nor for that fact ever been in water deeper than a bathtub. While everyone was busy spreading out the blankets and unpacking the baskets and with my cousins (who earlier had been put in charge of my welfare) fighting over a towel. I saw my chance, broke away, and rushed over the hot sand to embrace with reckless abandon this great tumultuous vista of liquid blues and greens capped with white swirling froth as far as the eye could see. Only to be dragged out more dead than alive a couple of minutes later. The rest of the day I watched Carol and Rachel frolic in the surf from the safety of the blanket which I refused to leave.

Someone in the morning lecture on the rules at the beach had obviously overlooked the part about not drowning. It took me a good while to make peace with water and beaches. We toured an old sailing ship which was just a rotten hulk with stumpy masts at the time but to me it was a pirate ship that had sailed all the seas, won countless battles, and still had holds filled with treasure.

Dad finally returned home in August. He and mom did much discussing before they sat me down and told me we were moving to a new country called British Honduras which had absolutely no meaning to me. I had become settled in Fort Thomas and reached the stage in life where a child begins to reach out and interact with people and the environment. I had plenty of kids I liked and we had already begun to make those shared experiences, which bond people together. It was a great environment safe quiet street on which to play and plenty of wooded areas to roam in. I went to a brand new school just a block away with a nice teacher. Dad said that British Honduras was next to Mexico so I figured we couldn't be far from uncle Bills and at least I could visit my cousins on the weekends and ride on the sled behind the tractor. I had no way of knowing that it would be over twenty years before I saw Uncle Bill or my cousins again.

There was a period of frantic activity, the house grew increasingly bare as possessions were packed and crated, given away or discarded. The last two night’s neighbors and friends came by and gathered in the barren living room to say goodbye and wish us a safe trip their voices echoing through the empty house.

We loaded up old Betsy said our last goodbyes and set off for New Orleans. Dad and Mom in the front, old Debbie, Miss Webber, and me all scrunched up in the backseat. I saw the USA mostly lying on the package shelf of old Betsy waving to the following cars. Singing the Shrimp boats are coming there’s dancing tonight and Mockingbird hill. I bugged dad all the way through Tennessee asking if we had passed Mockingbird hill yet. Staying in a motel that looked like an Indian village with teepees for rooms and restaurant.

I don't remember the whole trip in much detail except mom and dad arguing over where to stop or where we were. Miss Webber would ceaselessly pace back and forth in her cage and old Debbie who was always flatulent performed flawlessly for the entire trip so there was always a window down. We reached New Orleans and at my insistence stayed in the Sugar Bowl motel shaped like a giant pink sugar bowl. The next few days were taken up with shopping for furniture and other household items and clothes suited for the tropics. There was picture taking and passports, rides down Canal St. on the street car, walking though the French Quarter dining at the best New Orleans restaurants and a trip on a real steam boat.

Just when I was having fun came the shots and vaccinations. I was never fond of needles and to be stuck in both arms and buttocks multiple times in the same day was definitely deleterious to my normally sweet disposition. Miss Webber and Debbie both got shots they didn't like it any more than I did and we all set sullen on our sore bottoms in the back of old Betsy. The next night we went to the airport, Dad left old Betsy with a Frieburg Mahogany company guy to sell and we climbed on board a TACA DC -4 and left the land of my birth for the great unknown.

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Chapter Two

The First Day

After the hectic road trip and the whirlwind rounds of shopping and shots it felt good to snuggle deep into the seat with a pillow and blanket listening to the throb of the big radial engines their collector rings glowing orange through the open