The Aging Thing

The Aging Thing

                                                                            2019

Last month I celebrated my 70th birthday.  I don't really feel my age.  

Oh, yes - some aches, pains, body parts wearing out and the overwhelming need to nap. 

Who am kidding? I've always been a napper but now I have an excuse.  I seem to be able to tolerate life in a way my parents could not. They aged hard and fast. Maybe that's the difference. At about 25 my life changed and I moved ahead and loved whatever I was up to. My folks worked all the time . Finally , near the end for both of them, they enjoyed life. What a shame to wait that long -
 To postpone living happily.

My grandmother, dear heart, became  elderly  early in life. Maybe the cause was farm living before moving to the city.
She always moved slowly. Did everything with care. She read so much, every day. The mail, the Morning Sun and The Evening Sun and kept a stack of library books in the living room. No rush or urgency to get to the editorial page or the patterns and recipes in the “Society pages”.
Each page patiently perused.
Slow and deliberate ,even in the garden. Removing faded blossoms delicately. Searching the underside of plants, carefully, for signs of invasions by bugs, mold or some mysterious botanical mayhem. Slowly standing and straightening her body, tools in her apron pocket she walked back to the cellar door and stepped out of her outside shoes.
I see her so clearly. 

My family seems to think that my husband, aka Tarzan, is as spritely and active as all 30 somethings .
He serves as their champion and cheerleader in all things active.
He rides a stationary bike, does yoga, plays tennis and golf and is, annoyingly, fit.
He follows the example set by his father who was active and strong until his late 80’s.

My mother was a walker. That’s because she didn’t drive. She walked to catch a bus or the subway.
Took on the hills of Staten Island with ease and strolled the beaches in Cape May for  hours.
She would roller skate with me when she was in her forties.
When we moved from NYC to Cape May, New Jersey and the transportation system was minimal, she got herself a three wheeler. But because she was a walker and she stayed active, lugging groceries or traipsing back and forth to the local fire house for bingo ,she had strong legs and was peppy until her 70’s when all sorts of things started to go wrong. She certainly felt her age then. Old age hit her hard.

My dad had so many ailments, I couldn’t keep up with them. A hard drinker for many years his body, by his 50’s ,had given out, his liver rebelled .
 In my mind I still see him as a slim, strong ,handsome sailor.

So next month,2020, I will be 71.  I am looking forward to it. Not kidding. 

                                                                    Job Queen




My best friend, Carol , and I joke about being Job Queens. And it’s the truth -- I’ve had so many jobs. Not until my thirties did I find the job that turned into a career. I had jobs that were dull. Some jobs that required uniforms or special gear. Jobs that were mastered after the first hour and others that I never did get the hang of.

And with those jobs came my dance partners - the bosses, managers assistants, payroll clerks, personnel directors and regional managers and their secretaries -- lackeys and stooges waltzing around this dance floor, a floor littered with insurance forms, company policy papers, invoices, supply requests , shortages, voting stats and productivity figures that had to be noted, recorded, filed , signed and mailed.

My parents thought college wasn’t for me and a good move would be waitressing. I could “make real money” said my mother.

I do remember my first job with fondness. I folded pizza boxes at Nunzio’s on Hyland Boulevard in Midland Beach on Staten Island.

Google it. It’s still there. My boss was the owner, Nunzio, a rotund man with a wooden peg leg. I was eleven. He just gave me cash from his pocket and I sat in the back of the dining area and folded dozens and dozens of those boxes. He used to wear a white apron . The cord was stretched to the limit and he could only make a small knot in the front to fasten it. He sucked in and tied the knot and released his breath -- his girth pushed forward and the apron stayed in place. I didn’t ask Nunzio for the job. He just asked me to do it. He fed me hot, thin slices. He put extra oil on the top of the slice so that I would , he claimed, have nice shiny hair.

At this time in my life my parents were fighting all the time. Terrible arguments. Now, as an only child, I thought every family except mine was happy. Everybody had mothers like Harriet Nelson. She was a mom who went to a club, played cards and wore lovely, tidy clothing. The Nelson family had dinner together. They poked fun, played board games and even went to dances together. In my world my mother drowned herself in vodka. She was so lonely.

My father was gone most of the time. And when he came home everything spun out of control and one ugly word would lead to a violent fight. Our apartment was the upstairs of a small house. What did our neighbors think? They felt so sorry for me. I could tell because they were always so kind and lovely to me. One thing you learn as an only child -- how to read adults and how to converse with them. I was a master. So charming. So “mature for my age”. My conversational skills hid all the upset and ugliness in my life - or so I thought.

Nunzio would speak in Italian to my mother. My mom never spoke Italian because she was first generation and she didn’t want it out that she was Italian. Excuse me - have you seen a photo of my mom? Poster child for Naples. Immigrant shame I guess. Anyway, he saw her loaded plenty of times and he would sneer at her. Lecture her. Feed me. Glare at her. I sat with my back to the front and my mother would smoke while I ate. I could hear his peg leg thump as he approached the table. He petted my head while he spoke to her. He asked me to fold the boxes. And so I did. I walked home from school with a latch key friend and she peeled off in one direction and I strolled thru the back door of Nunzio’s and hauled a mound of boxes to the back table and went to work. That first week I earned $10.00.

Years go by … … …

In high school all of us had jobs. Girls and boys, all had jobs. This is no exaggeration. It was unheard of to go to camp, unless it was a bible school or maybe sailing school. Some kids worked with their dads clamming or fishing. Girls were waitresses, chamber maids or baby sitters. Some guys were life guards or a version of a soda jerk.

I was a waitress.

Fourteen and holding my Workers Permit, I interviewed, aced it and landed my first waitress job as a counter girl at the Atlas Diner in Wildwood, New Jersey. On the first day I was bombarded with directions, requests and got yelled at by the grill man. They supplied the uniform and apron. I learned how to place an order, when to refill the cook’s can with ice and gin, and how to dodge fresh customers. All the cooks drank the same thing. Go figure.

I couldn’t take the cook‘s barking. I quit.

At 16 my second waitress job was at the Guernsey Restaurant in Rio Grande, NJ. I was a Guernsey Girl. I worked with my best friend Roxy and her Aunt Dot was the hostess. In the 1960’s there were many reasonably priced options in which to dine. You could eat at a hoagie shop, roadhouse, tavern, a hot dog /custard stand , diner or a family style restaurant.

Family style meant cheap good eats and loads of it. Whole families lined up for the early bird specials. Grandparents to infants. Everybody smacking their lips. We brought out massive amounts of food on large trays -- platters of chicken with a giant bowl or two of veggies next to it. Back and forth we went . Rhythm and timing with two swinging doors swishing all evening. The table got dangerously crowded.

We wore countrified uniforms and had to keep our hair pulled back. The owner was the chef. He got mad when I cut my hair and couldn’t pull it back. I got fired.

Onward and upward! By now some of my friends were trying to convince me that being a chambermaid was the way to go. Sure you had to get up early but you were finished by one or so and you could go to the beach after that. I thought about it but chose those large tips on the dinner shift and those gorgeous uniforms.

My next job was really great. I was the youngest waitress at a very large hotel in Wildwood, The Manor Hotel. An art deco gem. Since I was the baby and newbie I was given station 10. Which was a hellish walk from the kitchen all the way to the other side of the restaurant.

And it was a lulu of a walk. Dodging patrons, bus boys and guests while carrying trays.

I was trained in carrying large trays of platters. Within a week I could handle ten platters and a few stacked monkey dishes. The oldest waitress, Jewel, showed me how to dip down, slide the tray on to my shoulder and lift from my knees, straight up. One hand under and one hand on the front rim. Leaving the kitchen involved a well placed kick of the door and a small ramp gave me some speed. I had to pay the older girls to serve my liquor, beer and wine because I was under age. I had to pay the bus boys to clear, fill water glasses and clean up any mess. And get a load of this -- I made 53 cents an hour plus tips.

This was the first professional crew I worked with that did the East Coast circuit. They moved up and down from Florida to the Catskills. They were tough, knew the ropes and I was happy to learn. Jewel also showed me how to wear my paper cap and pin a hanky to my bosom. The first “flair” pin. I learned fast and added some tricks to the trade like taping up the hem of my skirt, strapping a watch to my thigh -- go ahead and ask me for the time. A guaranteed good tip from a table of ten conventioneers.

Going out with those girls after work was my introduction to some really bad behavior. They were professionals at that, too.

The Manor Hotel had a floor show. The place was hopping. We offered two meal plans - The American and the European. I must have explained those options 10 times a night. It was difficult to explain the fruit cup option and the difference between New England clam chowder and Manhattan clam chowder during the Ink Spots rendition of Stormy Weather or Vince Edwards singing Some Enchanted Evening. Yep, those were some of the headliners.

The hostess, a surly, deep voiced blonde, told me to always greet the wife first. Get her order first. Make sure the bar man knew to give me a clean, unchipped glass for her. She determined my tip. I listened , learned and seemed to do all right.

Canadians did not tip. But they always got on stage before a show and sat at the piano and the group would sing. It was fun working there.

Fun until the kitchen crew had a knife fight or the cook was too drunk to do much. I remember one fight -- the cook threw the dishwasher into the dishwashing unit itself. Cookie rolled him along the conveyer and shoved him through and pushed the start switch. I was at the salad station picking up an order. Back in the day, a salad was an iceberg wedge. Anyway, I couldn’t stay to watch the end of the cycle. Cookie was not a mean man. Just tired, I think. He drank from a No. 10 can. All night long. It was filled with gin and water. Half and half. A No. 10 holds a hell of a lot of ounces. He would say, “Baby, get Daddy some mo ”. It was amazing! He was still standing at the end of service.

We had a very famous Wednesday option . It was the Smorgasbord. People were floored at the presentation. A long buffet piled high with stunning , ornamental food. One women was in charge of it. She was the mother of most, or so it seemed, of the kitchen staff. Petite and unflappable she was. Fish stared at the customers, eyes oiled so it looked really fresh. Shrimp galore, corn heaped high. More types of bread and crackers to go with herring and smelts. Most everything was cold or room temperature. Rumor had it that’s the way they eat in Sweden. We were never allowed food from the Smorgasbord. We had our dinner before service, memorized the menu changes, smoked one last cigarette and straightened our caps and aprons.

I loved hitting that swinging door and shooting down the ramp to my party who were happy and smiling because I also learned to pay the bar man extra to make all my drinks doubles.

I was now a professional. I was seventeen.

                     Radio Days, Records and Record Players

I love that Woody Allen movie, Radio Days. He recalls his youth, family life, the times and everyday routines of his household . Great music in the movie - radio music and radio shows.

I suffer from radio addiction. My mother got me hooked. I was very little when I was introduced to the magical air waves. We turned on the radio and waited for it to warm up. Our mornings began with the Breakfast Club .
Our home radio was a large ,brown Bakelite number. It sat on the kitchen counter. Several dials on the front. One for tuning, one for some kind of sound adjustment and finally the station tuner. It was a beauty. The dial had a soft yellow light. The body of the radio, the size of a large bread box would get dangerously hot. The tubes, visible from the open back of the radio would radiate red. The tubes looked delicate but could take serious abuse like the thumping of protest when the program was lost during an important broadcast like the World Series. And my father aided my listening skills and musical knowledge with all our car trips. I could play with the radio!

I can recall turning the dial ever so slowly to find a station with a better , stronger signal. What satisfaction when I heard a clear voice come thru the speaker and how far I could sink ,disappointed, into the bench seat of that 47 Chevy when the signal was lost and the station turned to static as we drove into a hollow or rounded a bend. Shucks!

Some of the morning shows that we heard were recorded the day before but sometimes we had live broadcasts. We were stationed here and there and didn’t always have good reception or we had interference from the receivers on the Coast Guard base. We didn’t care - as long as that radio was on , it meant that we were connected to the rest of the world. My mother could hear music from nightclubs and big cities and my father could hear Life of Riley or Amos and Andy or before it was called Country - we listened to his Hillbilly stations.

Older broadcasts were a hit too. Even though the productions of some of programs no longer starred the original cast - they were good enough for me. I heard the Lone Ranger, The Shadow and a few quiz shows. I liked the Breakfast Club the best. And the Arthur Godfrey Show. “ Hawhy Ya Hawhy Ya Hawhy Ya” he would say at the start of each broadcast. Plus he wore Hawaiian shirts. He played the ukulele , told jokes and had a side kick , Derwood Kirby, who introduced the singers. It was so corny.

The Breakfast Club discussed this and that. A host and hostess. A live audience applauding here and there. Small topics. A few jokes. Harmless chats about right and wrong ways to entertain people at a luncheon etc. How wonderful I thought! You can invite people to your house and have LUNCH? Who knew? There seemed to be loads of House and Garden kind of shows. And also The Bickersons. A husband and wife who cracked wise all the time. They were so mean. I didn’t get it - but my mom and her girlfriends drank coffee and laughed .

Sometimes a gal , given the authoritative title of a home economist, would make, step by step , a dish. You had to listen to the prior broadcast to get your ingredients ready. Listeners had to have everything at hand. The hostess would start. “Ladies, one cup scalded milk…” Well, of course there goes half the audience. Scalded milk! Yikes! All the while my mom is running around the kitchen trying to find the matches to light the burner and dashing around to get a pan to put the cold milk into…the voice keeps , very calmly, giving instructions … “two tablespoons molasses, one cup packed brown sugar…” Still NO DAMN MATCHES! The corner of the my mom’s apron was frayed and gets caught on the pantry door and she is now stuck, with milk, matches and pan in hands when the calm voice slips from the radio …“and bake until it springs back to the touch”.

So we determined that music stations were a better choice after some very unsettling mornings with The Morning Show Home Economist.





I still listen to the radio all the time. I start the day with the radio. I have an XM radio in my car. Pandora comes through Squeezebox sets I own. Can’t get enough of the radio. When I travel to other countries I take a small radio with me - just so I can hear the local music. Have you ever heard Italian Rappers?
They actually say Yo. I will never forget my first trip to Italy .I missed American music so much , that during a brief stay in Naples, I bought a small transistor radio just to  hear the BBC and Voice of America broadcasts. The BBC had a great show called, Desert Island Discs. Celebrities came to the studio and discussed their favorite recordings. I loved it. The first time I heard that program the guest was Keith Richards! No kidding! I pictured him smoking, slouched over and difficult - but he was charming and lovely.

Anyway, I was in Amalfi, in Southern Italy, it was fall and still quite warm there. I spent the evenings with my little radio on a balcony that faced Capri. The radio waves were bouncing around - I could hear music from North Africa. Most were haunting and seemed tied to ancient times. I heard a vocalist that was so interesting. Her name was Om Kalsoum . I still listen to her recordings.



Which brings me to records and record players.

Part 2 soon. . .

The Boyfriend

My high school, in the rural beach town of Cape May, New Jersey, was small and rumors could fly fast.  So if you liked a boy or a girl and glanced in their direction just about everyone knew you had a crush .

I was slow to have a serious boyfriend. I liked a few boys in my neighborhood of North Cape May , a sort of Levittown cluster of cottages, sandwiched between the Cape May Canal and the Delaware Bay.  I liked boys who could make me laugh. I liked boys who could dance. Friendships developed because we were all sort of stuck there. Unless, of course, you had older friends and they had a car. And lucky me, I knew the McKenna brothers.

Ah, The McKenna Brothers. Very tall. Very handsome. Very funny. Very everything as far as I was concerned. Three brothers and two or three sisters. I didn’t know the sisters. The boys were bad. Not in a rough or ugly way . More prankster than gangster. We used to have an expression in South Jersey - they were boss.

Willy , the oldest, owned a car that was a rolling make out hot spot. He kept his rubbers hidden from his father in the gas cap. Danny, who was in my class, was my friend. If he walked behind me in the halls of our high school he would sing, under his breath, You Made Me Love You. During Sunday Mass - yes, I went - just to see the McKennas walk down the aisle. As they walked they hummed, I Love a Parade. If their father heard them he smacked them and when they reached the alter to receive communion the priest gave them a crack, too. If you went to Mass at St Raymond’s, in the Villas, you know this form of guidance was accepted by the entire community.

They called their father Bill.  Bill was one tough guy. He was a bridge builder, a welder. I think of him every time I cross the Delaware Memorial bridge. One night Danny wanted to go to a CYO dance. He asked Bill for a dollar, which would buy him entry and a coke. Bill said, “ A dollar? Christ, you can go in your room and dance all night for free.” He shoved Dan down the hall into his room and closed the door. Ah, The McKenna Brothers.

I could hitch a ride here and there and always be sure to get a ride home with the McKenna’s. So one evening I was hanging out at a local hoagie shop, The 4 G’s, and spotted the McKenna mobile pulling into the back parking lot. It was a cold night, I couldn’t eat one more french fry and was sick of all the tunes on the juke box - so I put on my coat and asked Willy, for a ride. “ Sure, jail bait.”

I circled the black and white ‘56 Chevy to the passenger side because I liked to sit in the middle front so I could fiddle with the radio dial . I yanked on the door handle and pulled the door open. A crumpled body fell out. It seems that the boys were busy entertaining themselves at a Wildwood Catholic dance , where a fight broke out. Clearly, this guy lost.

I climbed over him and we propped him up on my shoulder. He looked familiar. He had beautiful hair. A nice toggle coat. He smelled good. His lips were so full. Hmmm. Who is this guy?

Well, the McKenna boys dropped me off at my house. The small cottage was dubbed, by the boys, as Pearl Harbor, because my father and mother decorated the outside of the house and lawn with canons, whelks, horse shoe crab shells, chains and anchor, canon balls and - the final touch - crossed rifle butts on the shutters. I went inside, closed my door, sat on the bed and thought about that lovely boy on my shoulder.

The next night, a few friends and I went to our local hoagie shop, Grassi’s. It was a small place and easy to walk to -- a little dangerous because parents could drive by and see what you were up to.  We rushed in.  There he was. My heart really did jump into my throat. He stood behind the counter. A white apron on and his hand resting on the counter , the other in his pocket. Casual yet cocky. He’s here. He spoke to me. He’s speaking to me. Oh, yes, I’d like to place an order…

I’ll have a - He interrupted, “buffalo ?” Oh no! He’s teasing me! He’s talking to me. I am a mess. I’m laughing. He is smiling. I’m his. Signed , sealed and de! We agree to go out the following weekend.

Word spreads from my high school, Lower Cape May Regional, to his, Wildwood Catholic. In a matter of hours everyone seems to know we have a date. A local hoodlum, who likes me, threatens to beat him up if I go out with that clown. “Does that make sense?” I say. That guy did not make me laugh. Lousy dancer, too.

My friend Roxy and I meet some W.C. girls in the smoke filled bathroom at a movie house , where we are supposed to be watching, as an all Cape May County cultural event, Richard Burton in Hamlet. They warn me about messing around with boys from their high school. But they end up liking me and let me borrow an album. Or maybe the combination of Roxy and Madonna was just too much for them!

Those were the days, huh? Before Bic lighters girls carried a small Ronson or Zippo. A leather case held your cigs. And I guess you walked around with an album or two.

Anyway, the evening arrives. He comes to my house and meets my dad. Oh no! Our fathers know one another from the Coast Guard. Later on he tells me that his father said, ‘What! You’re going out with Hitch’s daughter! Don’t lay a hand on her. I’ve seen her dad clear out the Chief’s Club.” Yes, my dad was a brawler. But it didn’t seem to phase my date. I had a wonderful time. He made me so happy.

So that was the beginning. We were sweethearts for a long time. Through high school. During his hitch in Viet Nam. He always made me laugh. He was smart. He told great stories. He was popular. He transferred to my school -- okay, he was asked to leave Wildwood Catholic. His eyes were shocking Irish blue. We danced well together. Certain songs take you places, we all know that. But for me some songs take me to the lovely swaying of those years dancing together. I really do remember his steps.

And the laughing. Oh my. He made me laugh until I cried.

Jennie

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Jennie Veronica Abitabile Hitchcock was born on

May 8,1919  Lexington Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts. She was not an easy person to get along with to say the least! But I do miss her and have loads of stories to tell about her.  I usually joke about all the bad years and give a spin to most of the stories to cover the sadness of my mother's adult life.
A friend once told me I do that because ," she still has power over you." - I think I staggered around the rest of day because my friend was spot on with that observation.

Jennie had four sisters, the youngest died at an early age - I believe she had lung trouble or some sort of TB that hit juveniles pretty hard. The sisters were all attractive. The family, up and down the entire block, were close. Summer trips to New Hampshire and shopping in Boston.
Marion, Mary and Lorraine - the Abitabile girls had fun with cousins, went to clubs and had boyfriends. My mother adored her father who had an Italian grocery store. At least that's what it appeared to be - He ran gambling games in the back and had a regular group of players, which included Honey Fitz, at the table each week. The sisters had fur coats that were stunning. Beautiful weddings. A good life.

My mother and father met on a semi blind date.  Dad was stationed in Boston and accompanied his friend , on a double date,to a dinner club and agreed to go out with my mother as a cover for the guy - who was married - so it wouldn't look so bad I guess . Or the guy was a cad. You decide. Anyway, my mother thought my father was such a hill billy. BUT, she was struck by my father's beautiful hands. He in turn, was knocked out by her legs. So she went out with him again. Her notions were confirmed - he was indeed, a real hill billy. He took her to see a Ritz Brothers movie. They were the poor man's version of the Marx Brothers.  My father was howling with laughter. My mother couldn't wait to get out of that theatre and shake this rube.
 But then again, there were those hands. Big, strong hands. Nice moons on the nails. Those hands.
 Those gams.
My father would show up at the house on Lexington Ave with every Liberty. He proposed .  He showed up one afternoon after being out to sea for a while and my grandfather met him on the porch.  My father had returned with a full beard. My dad was handed a tin bowl,straight razor and a mirror. No words were spoken. No lather, no water -  Papa stood there as my father scraped that beard off his face.
Now he could come in and be with the family.
They were married in February of 1947.

I'm a Service Brat

A neighbor asked me about being a "service brat" today. I said that it was fun being the new girl. I said it was fun moving around and getting to know a new place. I said it was fun to have adventure after adventure.

But the conversation played in my head for the next few hours and I realized I had more to say. It wasn't always fun. It was especially hard at times. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I was in three different first grades.Three. I traveled by car, with my mom and dad , with every new set of orders. I knew Coast Guard, Navy and Marine bases from coast to coast. Could read a map pretty well by the time I was six. My mother didn't drive so the driving would be up to my father and the navigation up to my mother and I. My father would receive his orders. That brown envelope never left his side. Without transfer orders we would be sunk when dealing with movers, landlords or utilities. It was an easy way to break a lease or start up new gas and electric accounts. The Coast Guard didn't always give us an allotment check to pay the movers - so you just showed them the orders and they knew they would get paid by Uncle Sam. When my fathered signed on to be transferred to Oahu during the Korean War he did it because he would receive " hazard pay" and lucky us - a bonus if your family transferred with you. It sounds nice, but remember this was a few years after the end of World War II.Who knew what evil was still out there in the Pacific! Families were transported from Long Beach California via old troop transport ships. There were make shift rooms that had the strangest hardware, hooks and screws sticking out here and there. Hatches that wouldn't budge and bunks that were welded to the walls.Every surface of that ship was painted grey. Since my father was an enlisted man , we had pretty awful accommodations. Three women and assorted tykes shoved into a very small cabin. All the children had to wear life preservers ( adult size) and keep off the main deck. My mother was very sea sick and all I could offer her were sips of water and make sure she had her cigarettes and lighter. I do remember one incident that was so breath taking. We were on deck having yet another safety drill when thousands of flying fish appeared.  I was stunned!  The were, indeed, flying through the air and back into the water. So spectacular.Sixty years later and I still remember it!  The sailors  hoisted kids on their shoulders so we could watch. It was thrilling to feel the sea air  and see those silver slivers soar in great arching leaps.

 We arrived on the island of Oahu and made our way to the military housing provided by the Navy for the Coast Guard families. Rows and rows of - surprise! - grey bungalows. We were two blocks from Waikiki Beach. Our saviors, the Fukuji family, were our neighbors. They were Japanese Americans. The dad was a chef. The kids were my playmates. The mother was a love.

The trip and the lonely life without friends and family was too much for my mother. She spiraled into alcoholism very rapidly. My father had signed on for an eighteen month hitch. He was on an ice cutter and also ran supplies from the Aleutians to Korea. No phone calls, a letter here and there - a package at Christmas ( a small toy seal) . We really missed him. My dad made sure we had a car and he shipped his '47 Chevy to us. But it just sat there because my mom never did learn to drive. The Fukujis' were lovely people. They took care of me. Dressed me for every Japanese holiday. I ate dinner with them every night. I still have photographs of me dressed in silk adorned with lovely hair ornaments.

My darling grandmother came to visit after about a year. It was wonderful. She powered up that Chevy and took me everywhere. We went to pineapple plantations, beaches with pink sand. Black sand. Green sand. We visited the grand hotels and their gorgeous gardens. We went to the base and saw movies. She took me to the beach every single day. I got so brown. And , finally , my father came home. And as usual, our Christmas tree was still up. We always kept it up until he came home. A tiny,needle less, little tree on a box with brick crepe paper surrounding it, acting as a base. It was such a happy time. My mom got dolled up. Our neighbors made wonderful dinners for us. My dad bought Hawaiian shirts. My mother wore a cocktail dress with giant banana leaves printed in red and orange. I still have his shirts and my mother's dress.