The Okapi Society

By R.M. Lee

A fond remembrance of growing up in Miami, Florida during the 1950s. A boys life and the values taught to him by family and friends and the adventures he encountered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490859965

R.M. Lee

R M Lee lives in Georgia.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Growing up in the 1950’s was a wonderful experience for me. The country had survived two decades which contained the Great Depression and World War II. As a child born into the generation known as the Baby Boomers. I was fortunate to grow up in a time when our country was not at war and our economy was reasonably strong. Television was the medium of the day and people looked forward to what it would bring into our living rooms. It was a magic era.

My hometown is Miami, Florida. In my youth, Miami was a city of unending beauty where subtropical breezes wafted easterly from the Atlantic Ocean passing over Biscayne Bay into the metropolitan expanses. My neighborhood was part of a former hammock which contained live oak trees their branches draped with Spanish moss where a healthy population of squirrels and birds resided. In the midst of this growing urban city, a boy could lose himself in a peaceful and tranquil two block area where the singing of birds was commonplace. A paradise for a boy who dreamed he was an explorer in a land no one else had ever visited.

Accompanying all these visceral elements was the most dynamic of all its gifts. The neighbors. People who came from all over the country and the world to live in a climate very different from the kind they had left. This element, I found, was the catalyst for generations of people to settle in what had been largely marsh lands surrounded by the waters of the Everglades. A place equally welcoming and exotic which attracted a colorful storytelling populace. Conversations which enlightened and nurtured the imaginations of young and old alike. A most unique environment.

As a young boy with an inquisitive mind, I was drawn to talk with older people as they were the most interesting tellers of stories about heavy snow-laden winters, impassable streets and frozen ponds. One of the great pleasures accompanying these visits was looking at photographs of your host twenty or thirty years prior and seeing a young person who vaguely resembled them. It was a fascinating experience. These moments were entertaining always leaving me wanting to hear more about their lives. Stories became the treasure of my life. Stories that would remain in my heart and soul forever. Everyone has a story and I felt thankful they shared them with me.

CHAPTER ONE

Of all the storytellers I encountered, one has always stood out in my mind. A gentle lady who planted a seed in my mind that blossomed in my soul. Her beauty and grace live in my memory. Our meeting forever shaped what my life would become. She directed me down the most important path of life. The spiritual path that leads to faith and miracles. The path that guides you to an awareness that helping others less fortunate is a rewarding enterprise.

Her name was Rebecca Fuller and she inspired me to follow the straight and narrow path in life that is both elusive and rewarding. I am forever in her debt. These lessons were learned by listening to tales of a life lived in a world far, far away from that cozy neighborhood in Miami.

Miami can be an unbearably hot city. Humidity levels hover near the hundred percent point which intensifies the heat. Many of the homes were not air conditioned and electric fans were the main appliance used to battle the heat. Most homes seemed to intensify the heat but Becky’s house was not traditional in style. Patterned after homes built in the Bahamas, it featured a large living room with a twelve foot high ceiling, cool tiled floors. Spacious rattan furniture covered in tropical patterns that featured flora and fauna of the tropics You entered the house and were transported to another world. A comfortable, relaxed world where conversation thrived.

Rebecca or Becky, as we called her was the quintessential host. There were always refreshments available to visitors which always made you feel welcome. Making certain that everybody felt comfortable was of great concern. It made each visit a wonderful experience. The most important moment one remembered when entering the home was her warm greeting. One never felt like a stranger.

To what do I owe the honor of this visit?, she smilingly said to me. I can only assume it is your love for my cookies and soft drinks. They have never failed to attract visitors. Her voice filled the large, airy room in a most comforting tone.

Well, I like coming over here, I said. And I like cookies. My childish replies were honest if not eloquent but that was to be expected from a ten year old. I like Cokes, too. My taste in foods was basic and not at all refined. A typical boy being honest about his appetite and not able to reveal the true purpose of the visit. Without reservation I was never at a loss for a reason to visit Becky. She meant more to me than I could fathom at that age. To put it mildly, I was enchanted with her and her stories.

The bungalow that she lived in was a treasure filled abode. Carved oriental cabinetry showcased various objects that were acquired in various countries. Paintings depicting various cultures, peoples, and wildlife were displayed throughout the living room. Their images filled the room with a bright array of colors and emotion. One could sit back in the cushions of the rattan sofa and be surrounded by this spectacle as it created another world that did not exist in other homes. A wonderfully magic world. Stories are best told in rooms such as this. More than theatrical, the room was an ethereal, spiritual, almost prayerful cove where tales and adventures were meant to be spun.

Meaningful lessons were taught me in that home. Lessons that have served me well throughout my life. Rebecca Fuller was more than a teacher. She planted a seed in my young soul that remains evergreen. The lesson of giving to those less fortunate. A quality I attribute to lessons learned from her. Lessons she learned growing up in the Belgian Congo with her missionary parents and a playmate named Akili.

Random acts of kindness are always very rewarding, Becky said one sunny afternoon. When someone receives a gift and does not know who gave it, it really has great meaning. I learned the value of such gift-giving as a child growing up in the Congo. If somebody was in need of food or clothing or a cooking utensil, a secret gift took on great meaning. We often said that it came from the hand of God. What joy those moments created.

I thought about this practice and had to ask, Why not give the gift to the person yourself and let them know who gave it? Surprises were not a favorite thing for me as a child. I had to know right away how a gift came to me. Do they like the gift more when it is given and they don’t know who gave it? My childish mind was perplexed.

"Sometimes yes,