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Early Monday morning, 13th July
1942, the grey SS
Brazil
slipped ghost-like into the fog
enshrouded New York Harbor; quietly without any fanfare. After the encounter with the submarine
yesterday, nerves were so taut, sleep was utterly impossible. As their ship passed Liberty Island, through
haggard, bloodshot eyes, my parents were surprised by the abrupt appearance of
the Statue of Liberty popping out of a fog bank; standing tall and stately.
At the sight of her both my
parents hugged each other and wept; still unable to believe they had actually
survived the crossing intact.
Welcome home to the good old U.S. of A., dear reader.
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By August of 1942, my folks had settled into a dingy, cramped apartment
over a garage in Long Beach, California.
The previous renters had been Japanese and, had they not been shipped off
to a War Relocation Camp, my parents wouldn’t even have had this place. Housing was that tight during the
war.
Dad tried to enlist in all three branches of the armed forces. They rejected him, because his blood was all
screwed up from bouts with malaria and dengue fever, plus he was in the oil
business (a war-priority industry). Ironically though, he couldn’t find
employment in the oilfields, and had to take a job at a shipyard instead; which
he hated.
Pinkie stayed in touch with “her gun crew” by writing them
regularly. But as the war dragged on,
and they were reassigned to USN warships in the Pacific, most of these young
boys perished in sea battles with the Japanese. It broke Pinkie’s Heart.
Mom was seven months pregnant; cleaning, cooking and doing the laundry
mostly by herself, while experiencing a severe case of culture shock. How she longed for her bungalow in India -
with Tony the cook and Kah-mint the houseboy waiting on her hand and foot – one
never appreciates what they’ve got until it’s gone. And of course, whenever she went out alone -
especially at night - how she missed Tulah-Rhum shadowing her protectively with
his massive knife.
Welcome home to the good old U.S. of A., dear
reader.
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October 1942 arrived and, two weeks
before I was born, Dad pulled up to a traffic light in his new, ’41 Hudson, he
had previously purchased in New York.
Remember, dear reader, this was prior to seat belts and air
bags. So in truth my parents were really
bounced around inside that Hudson; similar to a pair of marbles in a tin
can.
Among other bruises and contusions, Dad broke his nose again and Mother
was rushed to a hospital, where they determined she had two broken ribs. For a while it was touch and go, as to
whether she was going to keep me.
Stubbornly, I won out, dear reader.
After the car wreck - one week preceding my birth - my mother’s doctor,
George Paap, MD, (pronounced “Pop”) was thrown from a horse and broke his leg in
two places. Mom didn’t learn of this,
until she checked into the Harriman Jones Clinic, on Cherry Avenue, to have me;
she hit the roof!
You see, dear reader, it had taken her a
couple of months to build up trust in Dr. Paap.
Now, down to the wire, she learns he won’t be there for the main event
since he’s upstairs - in a private room - in traction. It was just too much for her; she told my dad
to pack up; they were going home. In her
words: “I’m calling off this whole FUBAR deal!”
Poor ole Doc Paap in traction.
Word of the commotion downstairs filtered up to poor ole Doc Paap; he
ordered the nurses to cut him out of traction and place him on a gurney. They rolled him into the delivery room with
my mom, and he had the nurses hold him up, as he stood in a hip cast to deliver
me.
These were the good old days, dear
reader. When doctors took pride in their
profession, made house calls, and went the extra mile for their patients –
regardless of whether or not they were insured.
You can thank the AMA, lawyers and insurance companies for making all
this go away.
I was two weeks overdue, but Mother
never blamed me for that – she blamed herself.
Mom should have lost me in the Burmese jungle when she ran from the
Japanese Army; or at sea when she ran from the German Navy; or when that drunk
driver rolled her over and busted her ribs.
In her words: “Petie evidently realized this world was an extremely
dangerous place. That’s why he didn’t
want come out and join it.”
I can honestly say, dear reader, that
right up to this very moment, I haven’t changed my mind one little
bit.
In spite of these rotten odds, amazingly, life always seems to find a
way. And so, I came squalling into this
world on Friday, 16th of October, at 9:20 P.M. Arriving under a waxing crescent moon, by the
sign of Libra and in the year of the horse; sharing my birthday with King James
II of Scotland and Oscar Wilde.
King
James II of Scotland.
Oscar Wilde.
God...what
an oddly screwed-up couple, dear reader.
I was under weight and Mother had amoebic dysentery.
Plus, like
Dad, her blood was all fouled up from previous bouts with malaria and dengue
fever...as was mine.
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