1952 Bottle Baby

When my sister Lydia was a baby, I didn't like her at all.  I didn't like anything about her.  

My friend Annie Lovell (who was a bad influence on me in many ways), and I decided to steal her bottles.  We would wait until my mother gave her the bottle and then left.  We would sneak over and take the bottle away, unscrew the lid (we never could get the hang of sucking the nipple), and share all the milk.  It was horribly sweet.  In later years, the first time I ever tasted condensed milk, I realized it tasted a lot like that formula.  We would finish the milk, screw the lid back on, and give her back the empty bottle.  Of course, by then she was usually screaming bloody murder.

Sometimes we would throw the bottle on the floor as though she had done it.  My mother would come running and scold Lydia for crying or throwing the bottle.  We were all innocence, had just come in to see what she was crying about.  We did this for quite a long time.  Of course, we were caught.  

Oddly enough, the missing formula never seemed to keep Lydia from growing quickly and becoming more and more of a nuisance.

1952 The Grand Arrival

Before my sister was born, my mother and I painted a screen to go around her crib.  I remember it was a painting Mother did, green hills, blue sky, lots of trees and flowers, and white fluffy sheep.  My job was to paint the sheep.  It came out terrific.

My sister was born at the Catholic hospital in Le Havre.  The day she and my mother were coming home, my dad took me to the hospital and sat me on a bench in a hallway.  A nice French nun came and sat with me and told me about the baby.  I already knew, of course, and I was not impressed.  I really didn’t want a baby around.  Finally, my dad came back out with my mother and my new sister.  I was still not impressed.  She was ugly and had a red scrunched up face, and she was screaming her lungs out.  We got in the car (the little Hillman) and my mother sat in front with the baby.  I sat in the back behind my dad, trying to get as far into the seat as I could, trying to disappear.  

I never really did like her.  She made a lot of noise and people paid way too much attention to her.  Apparently she was a very pretty baby; I wouldn't know.  I remember very well at Christmas when she was about 2 months old, they put a pretty bright-colored blanket on our beautiful antique wood dining room table and laid her on it, with her presents around her.  What a silly thing to do.  

A few months later, when she was sitting up, I remember my dad taking a picture of us.  She was sitting on that dining room table again, and there was a glass vase of tulips beside her.  She was reaching for the flowers and I was on the other side just looking at her, wearing an embroidered pale blue satin bathrobe I had gotten for Christmas.  I hated that picture, because the attention was always on her reaching for that red tulip.  

The best thing about her being there, though, was that they stopped worrying about what I was doing.  We left France when she was about 8 months old.

1952 Annie's Caddy

In Normandy, my parents’ friends, the Lovells, and their daughter Annie lived about 2 houses away from us.  I remember their Cadillac, it was so pretty.  It was black with chrome.  I kept telling my dad how much I loved Annie’s Cadillac and he would get mad and growl, “It’s not a Cadillac, it’s a Buick”.  

I found out later that he and his dad had had lifelong battles about Buicks versus Fords.  My dad was a Ford man.  Actually, we owned a Hillman Minx, which was pretty small.  My mother absolutely hated it.  She never drove it; she and I went everywhere with Annie and her mother in their Cadillac.   

1952 Hillman Minx

1952 Buick

Annie was mean and she was always getting me in trouble.  My mother couldn’t stand her and neither could I.  Unfortunately, because our dads worked together, we couldn’t get away from each other.   

One day Annie and I had a fight and I beat the hell out of her.  It felt really good.  After that, we didn't play together much.  I think my dad was pretty proud of me, even though I was only about 5 years old.

1952 The Flying Red Horse

When we lived in Gravenchon, my dad worked at Port Jerome, the refinery.  His company, Foster-Wheeler, had been subcontracted by Esso,  The refinery was a joint venture between Esso and Mobil (not surprise that it became Exxon-Mobil years later).  From my parents' bedroom window, Mobil's iconic flying red horse was clearly visible.

Every night before I went to bed, my dad would take me to their bedroom, open the window, pull down my pajama pants, and hold me ass first out the window so I could say goodnight to the horse.

It's true.  Every night my rear end was in full view from their window.  When I went to America's Car Museum in 2014 and saw their neon Mobil horse it almost brought me to my knees, the memory was so vivid.

Mobil's Flying Red Horse at America's Car Museum in Tacoma

1952 Scarlet Fever

Right around my birthday in September, I got scarlet fever.  I remember being in my room in the dark all the time.  I couldn’t look at my books or anything, so my mother would sit and read to me.  My eyes watered so badly I couldn't have any light on at all.  Fortunately, I wasn't in school yet.  

My poor mother.  She had a sick kid and was only a couple of months away from her due date.  It's a good thing it wasn't measles or something that would have been harmful to the baby.  It lasted forever, about six weeks I think.  

I know my parents were worried about me being sick when my sister was born, but I was well recovered by then.

1952 Normandy Version 1.0

We moved to Notre Dame de Gravenchon in early 1952 when I was about 4-1/2 years old.  My memories are pretty vague.  For probably one of the only times in my life, I don’t remember us having a dog.  I know I would not have forgotten if we had.  

Dot was our house

 On the other hand, we were only there around 2 years, maybe less.  My dad was working for the engineering company at the Port Jerome oil refinery.  At the time it was one of the biggest in Europe.  It was the first time my mother had lived out of the country, and I think she loved it.

The refinery at Port Jerome

We left Normandy in June 1953.  We traveled on the SS Liberte, the flagship of la Compagnie Generale Transatlantique (i.e., the French Line).  We had come from New York on the Ile de France, her sister ship.   I don’t remember that trip though.

When we got back to the US, we stayed with my aunt Audrey and uncle Abbey until we left for Colombia.