The Kid and the Colt

26 JULY, 2016.     LONDON

In New Orleans, there are many interesting neighborhoods — each with its own unique character and charm. Before Katrina, these differences were even more noticeable. 

In the Seventh Ward, in an area that was once scrub and dairy farms, a very nice race track was built, opening back in 1873, when my great-grandfather was a child. 

By the mid-Sixties, nearly a century later, wooden houses and other structures had sprung up all around the track, to house and cater to those who worked there. My great-grandfather was a contractor, and during the 1920's, built a number of them. 

The neighborhood just off of Gentilly Road (now Gentilly Blvd.) was gradually populated with "race horse people" — as my grandmother often disparagingly remarked more than a few times as I grew up. 

It was true: my cousin, Billy, was a jockey - then later weighed the horses. The man across the street was a bookie, and my aunt's son was an official at the track. Miss Ethel sold racing tickets at the betting window. 

See what I mean?

Stables were nearby, and thoroughbred racehorses were housed, exercised, bred, and raced on that very oval track. Still, despite all this, I never managed to get up close and personal with a horse for my entire childhood. Today, however, that was about to change. 

One Saturday morning in about 1965, I guess, my grandfather, whom I called Paw Paw, asked me to get out my little Radio Super wagon that I had stored in the back shed. He had a project to do.

Always up for some adventure or other, I extricated my childhood toy, now languishing beneath quite a bit of junk, and we set out on the sidewalk, my little red wagon in tow, for what purpose, I knew not.

We didn't have far to go, though. Our destination was right around the corner, at the home of Mr. Edmund, an acquaintance of my grandfather, and a horse owner. 

This man was temporarily quartering a handsome young colt, bred to one day race on the circuit and earn a tidy sum for his owners. 

But all that was in the future. Right now, the young thing was trotting around the large, fenced side yard, and no doubt wishing he could, instead, tear off at breakneck speed over a vast grassland - as his ancestors had done for tens of thousands of years before. 

My grandfather's friend was in the yard, waiting for us and was watching the promising colt. He motioned for us to come on in. My grandpa didn't once hesitate, but my feet seemed to be glued to the sidewalk. I was scared to go in. 

"Come on!" my grandfather called out, beaconing me to follow. But I preferred to watch the spry cavallo from the far side of the tall chain- link fence. Animals always made me uncomfortable, and the bigger they were, the more uncomfortable I got. 

"I don't know what's got into that boy!" my grandpa told his friend. 

"Get a move on, Kenny! Edmund is waiting for us."

Cautiously I walked toward the gate and entered, I knew, at my own risk. I approached the two men,  pulling my little red wagon along as I now walked swiftly to the perceived safety of the adults. 

All this time I kept a wary eye on the horse, but he was more intent on frolicking and horsing around than paying any attention to a 13-year-old punk kid. 

I breathed easy, now. This wasn't bad at all!

The men were having a great discussion - about what I can no longer recall; It matters not. 

I took particular interest in whatever it was that they were talking about, and now and again they would include me in the conversation. It was a most pleasant day and the most fascinating of dialogues,  I must say. 

I will interject a fact here: by my own admission, I do not, nor have I ever excelled at situational awareness. My attention was focused intently on the conversation, so much so, in fact, that I failed to notice a large creature approaching me from the rear...

And, sadly, that is exactly what the horrid creature went for, and the bugger BIT me — HARD — right on the buttox!! I immediately hollered out - partly in pain, but I was also startled, taken quite unawares as I was. 

It was on, now! I immediately took off, fearing those incisors, which were never more than a few feet from my posterior. 

I ran as quickly as my legs could carry me, around the worn path that the spritely colt had taken many times before. What was oh-so-wrong with this picture was that this 13-year-old kid was trying to outrun the offspring of generations of thoroughbred racehorses!

The outcome of this bizarre corrido was never in doubt. The young buck allowed me to sprint on ahead and all too quickly closed the gap, and I jumped just in time to prevent his teeth from closing upon my rear once again.

"HELP!" I shouted, no doubt adding some mild expletives to emphasize the urgency of my appeal.   

Instead of corralling the colt, or at least trying to divert his attention away from me, the two men were killing themselves with the most jovial laughter. I was running quickly, that was certain, but my nemesis had barely kicked up his slow walk to a trot, so it became obvious, on the third go-around that I had to change my strategy. 

So I headed straight for the two men and took refuge between them. I was livid that this stupid animal had, for some reason, confused me with a bag of oats!

Laughing like two hyenas , my grandfather and Edmund both took the errant dobbin by the neck, and calmed him down immediately. 

They calmed HIM down, I say, but I was still very much both frightened and hurting. This little jaunt turned out to be, for me, quite a pain in the butt!!

With the colt's attentions elsewhere, I slyly and quietly eased over to the gate through which I entered, thus putting some mighty strong chain-link wire between the beast and myself. 

Once his source of diversion (me!) had made good his escape, the young equine entertained himself as best he could within the confines of the side yard. 

Safe and sound and out reach, I caught my breath, rubbed my poor, throbbing bum, and collected my thoughts. 

What I did not know then, is that the colt was doing all this - just for sport! In retrospect it is obvious that the colt was indeed playing, and if there had not been so many teeth in his silly grin, I would have readily joined in the game. 

As it is, hindsight is 20/20. This was, unfortunately not the case in this instance, because I certainly could have used some rear-vision when I was attacked from behind! 

The dust settled, and my grandfather then proceeded to pick up a shovel which was near at hand, and, to my surprise, began collecting the manure that was decorating the yard at frequent intervals, and loading it into the wagon.

Unbelievably, our whole purpose for going to Mr. Edmund's house was to load up on horse poo, but I for one had already had an elegant sufficiency of horse crap for that day, of that I am quite certain!! And I had a sore rear end as well.

What gets me is that PawPaw always told me that he wouldn't take any crap from anyone, but that day, he DID... and went out of his way to do so!

NO RETURN

24 July, 2016    Houston

Tuesday, January 3, 1961.

That Tuesday, my grandfather had taken shore leave from his ship, the Almeria Lykes (out of New Orleans). He had been cautioned not to go ashore, or if he did, to keep it close to the ship. But "Sparks" the Chief Electrician had a hard head. He had been to Havana a number of times before during previous years, and he knew how to act and what to do to keep himself out of harm's way. So he said "See you later" to the man on watch, and trundled down the metal gangplank that descended to the dock.

THE SS ALMERIA LYKES AS IT APPEARED AFTER A COLLISION
 NEAR KOBE, JAPAN IN NOVEMBER, 1961.

The weather was the same as it always is. In the sky, a few large, white clouds rose skyward in the distance, and a few seagulls were wheeling high overhead. The sun shone brightly and hot, and the sultry sea air blew inland from off the Gulf of Mexico. It did so just like every other day. 

But things were different today. There was tension in the air in the city, as there had been for nearly two years since Fidel Castro and his revolutionaries took over in 1959. Although far from bloodless, he made a triumphant entrance into Havana after deposing the dictator Fulgencia Batista, and promised his enthusiastic supporters that the revolution would be "as green as the palm trees." 

He vehemently and repeatedly denied that there were Communists among his olive-clad rebel band, and many a household in Havana and elsewhere soon had a portrait of the new leader. Underneath the likeness were the words:"This is your house, Fidel!"

But it was not very long after taking power that the supposedly "green" revolution began to take on a crimson hue, as the press, the banks, and American businesses were confiscated, clergy were rounded up and imprisoned, and the anti-American rhetoric began.

At first, kangaroo courts convicted and then summarily executed cronies of the old regime, and crowds, angered at the corruption that had bled them dry cried out in unison: "¡PAREDÓN! ¡PAREDÓN! ¡PAREDÓN!" — a word meaning literally "big wall" — not caring whether the person being accused was really innocent or guilty. 

Within minutes, sentence read, the newly-"convicted" we're lead to a nearby big wall, and shot to death by a firing squad. The crowd once again was satisfied. This occurred frequently, almost daily, and fear swept throughout the general population, as more and more people were being rounded up and detained, questioned, then executed.

The euphoria of the Triumph of the Revolution had worn off, and had become a witch hunt, as bands of armed marauders were cruising the streets drunk with rum and newly-found power, and now they were out for revenge against those who had fought so hard against them when they were holed up in the Sierra Maestra mountain range.

But, as I said, "Sparks" had a hard head. He was bound and determined to go walking - his usual activity whenever his ship docked anywhere, and maybe get a lunch at a neighborhood eatery. And, by God, today would be no exception. He walked down to the waterfront by the Pilot's Bar, which already had several of his shipmates as customers. He did not stop for a drink today, but continued walking briskly until he had gone a couple of miles into the city.

At the same time, a dark-eyed handsome man who had been dispatched from Washington came to visit the U.S. Embassy in Havana. A meeting was called of the few remaining embassy personnel. They numbered about a dozen. All became quiet as the staff was notified that the embassy was to be closed immediately, and that all American Citizens there were to be transported to the airport to evacuate the country.

As for the dark-eyed man from Washington, D.C.. he was my Uncle Johnny. Having worked previously with Tropical Radio in New Orleans, then served manning the control tower of the Panamá City, Panamá airport, he was lately traveling throughout Africa and Latin America to visit U.S. Embassies. He was a communications expert. His job here was to dismantle and to remove all radio antennae from the roof and exterior of the embassy building, and depart Cuba on an American ship waiting in Havana harbor. 

This he did post-haste. He had neither time nor desire to interact with any locals, nor to do any sightseeing. This was not the time, and certainly not the place. There was work to be done, so up to the rooftop John McCallum went. In the distance, he could hear occasional gunshots, and there were several Cuban military vehicles standing guard just outside the embassy compound.

About a hundred or so Cuban citizens seeking asylum were standing in line, hoping to get a visa to get out of Cuba. These people had a desperate look on their faces. This was their last chance.

Some distance away, "Sparks" had finished up a light lunch, and was headed back to his ship when a pickup truck stopped nearby. A man at the wheel, a local who recognized my grandfather from previous visits, called to him and asked him where he was going, and did he need a lift. My grandfather smiled, shook his hand, and thanked him, saying politely that he enjoyed his walks, and he had planned to go back to his ship by foot.

"But you don't understand," insisted the man, "Things are not safe here now — even for us locals! Let me at least take you part of the way..." 

Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by the noise of gunfire, as several men in a military vehicle a short distance away were firing indiscriminately as their pickup truck careened through the narrow streets of the old city. The noise was getting louder. They were less than a block away! There was a screeching of tires as the truck fortunately turned the corner into a side street.

"Come on, let's go!! ¡VAMOS!" cried the man in the pickup.

As quick as thought, "Sparks" jumped into the pickup, and the truck sped off toward the dock. He thanked the man as he got off just past the now-deserted "Pilot's Bar", and quickly climbed the gangplank into the black and red cargo ship that was tied up at the dock. It was not too very long after that that — in just a couple of hours, in fact. that the Almeria Lykes set sail for the last time from Havana for the States.

In the next dock over, there still remained one U.S. Flag vessel, and it, too, was painted black and red, and the words "LYKES LINES" proudly proclaimed the company for which she sailed. They, too, were ready to depart, and had all their papers in order. The captain was getting impatient. But there was one more person who needed to come aboard, and that was the dark-eyed man from Washington, John McCallum. 

Soon enough, a car pulled up under escort by Cuban military jeeps, and a truck of equipment was part of the convoy. Stevedores were dispatched to load boxes of equipment onto the deck of the ship. 

Then, the ship's horn blew loudly and low, mooring lines were removed from the capstans, splashed into the pristine gulf waters, and hauled aboard the ship.

 The ship's propellers began to turn, and the giant craft began to move through the water.

Thus is was that the very last American ship had sailed out of Havana harbor, nevermore to return.

EPILOGUE

Some five years later, in 1966, as a way to earn spending money, I used to walk around the neighborhood picking up empty soda bottles and redeeming them for their 2¢ deposit. It was one way a 14-year-old could earn some spending money. One day, I looked under my grandfather's house just in case there might be any discarded old bottles to be found there, and, happily, I found a nearly-new Coca-Cola bottle.

It was not unusual to find a bottle — rather the surprise came when I discovered that the writings on the outside of it were in Spanish. I turned the bottle upside-down, and, on the bottom was the word "CUBA" in raised letters.                                

Asking my grandfather, now retired and living at home, about my find, he told me that he had gotten it on his last visit to Cuba, and related to me some of the story I have just written. It was not too very long after that, on a visit to my Uncle Johnny McCallum — now also recently retired, I  heard his account of the last American Ships to leave Havana harbor. Both my grandfather and my uncle had been on the very last two ships to sail from Cuba, on the very same day. That day was January 3, 1961.

I picked up the bottle initially for the 2¢ deposit —  instead, I decided to keep it. Fifty-five years later, that very bottle still sits on my bookshelf.  It is a returnable bottle —exiled forever from a land it will never, and can never return to. 

It is, like me, an exile in time and place.