Happy 78th !!! or....PJ Comes To The New World-1949

On 29 June, 2018 I will be 78 years old. For those who can count backward or didn't read my bio that means I was born in 1940 in Cape Town, South Africa, It was during the early stages of WWII and Cape Town, Kapstaad to me, was one of the most favoured victualling points in the world. After a long, hot slog down either the East of West Coast of Africa, sparkling Cape Town, the Table Cloth falling from Table Mountain, the pleasant breeze, the access to two oceans was....,a miracle. Indeed some who found it too miraculous had to be rounded up (AWOL) and 'assisted' back to the vessels on which they arrived. 

Yes, the harbour, the Marine Parade, the place where my 'Mom' made her living as a well paid, well known whore. So much for all those who know me who assume a lot of things, none of them correct; A great deal of money does not change your DNA and from whom you got it. 'Dad' ? I'm sure he was charming and I can imagine this as thirty three years later I was presented to 'Mom' on the occasion of my graduation from Groote Schuur school of Medicine, a newly annointed surgeon of the Neurological variety. Memories of her? The few moments we had together were...pleasant. She looked like every other well dressed, well jeweled (this was South Africa where our cash crops were Diamonds and Gold) matron, lived in Stellenbosch, ran a flower shop was interestesd to meet me-I did wonder how many other 'meetings' with other children might have happened but the answer was probably not many. Bastardy was not considered a social asset which is why, when I was 9, I was 'sold'/ adopted to a very wealthy American family. 

After more than 9 days on various airlines and planes-one of which, I swear, was a Ford Trimotor, I was deposited at La Guardia Airport to be met by my new 'Dad' who'd got himself half bagged at the Ambassador Club run, for very exclusive personages, by TWA. In those times customs and immigration was more of a thought than a reality and, as I had a diplomatic passport issued by Pretoria, all that was left to do was claim my luggage, by now rather torn over, then head for New York. Oh, I failed to mention, this was in November, coming up on American Winter whereas I'd left Cape Town during their eternal Spring/Summer. (Really cold was 50) 

He may have tried conversation, in the limousine that collected us, courtesy the St. Regis Hotel, I kept falling asleep and, as there were fewer bridges and speedy routes to town, I got a fair nap. The St. R. was then as it is now, a luxury hotel filled with hot and cold running everything you might want. We kept an apartment there so, apart from being shown, so they'd remember me, at reception we went on up, opened my cases where, to his dismay, he found I had no long pants. My routine costume was snake proof  boots-very hot on long,long plane flights, heavy knee socks, shorts that barely clipped the bottom of my ball sack-I was 9 so this wasn't too much of an issue(I used to think when your nuts showed-Med: Testes Descended-you got longer shorts-a white shirt and vest. My dressy clothes, Going almost stark naked-or naked at the beach-I was extremely tan (If anyone had heard of melanoma, it wasn't mentioned) so in NYC at that time of the year my colour was worthy of comment. Knowing my country of origin, some thought my very proper, very wealthy family might have...great intake of breath....adopted a coloured person; As required by the law at the time in S.A., I had papers proving my race, something else never seen in the USA. 

Room Service sent up some sort of food and, I was told, there was a special treat, the old sot had tickets to 'the Garden'. For a hockey match. Pause and imagine just how much hockey was played then or is played now in South Africa. Moreover, this had been a 'hard ticket' (?) as it was the Bruins versus the Rangers. Just so you have a grip....at that time if you received an ice cube in a drink in S.A. this was considered a sign of great hospitality. As with many who grew up in British Colonial countries, I still prefer every thing, including beer, luke warm. (Medically this is better for you and, if you're really hung over, a bottle, at the max 2, of warm beer on the morning after helps, doesn't cure, helps.)

Faced with the decision of taking 'his kid' to a hockey match in shorts or not going, we went. The game meant nothing but...I spent some time trying to calculate what all that ice might have sold for on the Cape. The only thing that happened that directly effected me was that they sold (cold) beer at the arena and 'Dad' got further annihilated. Outside, afterward, he also picked a fight with a Bruin 'fan' (no idea what that was, at the Rugby matches I barracked for Sandton.) which got him, and the Bruin tossed in the paddy wagon leaving me-in my shorts and really cold-with an Irish cop, straight from Central casting. 

"Laddy, I need to take ye to yer people."

My response of showing him the South African Passport set him back but he assumed that, locally, there had to be someone. In what was to be one of the few pat frisks I've ever had (and too young to appreciate it...), he found a paper that identified me as a hostage of the St. Regis. Oh. He also asked if I had any money for a 'taxi'. He got an answer he didn't quite expect; Now tired, well, exhausted, sad, not having a clue as to what, where etc. I reaching into an inner pocket where had been sewn some 'pocket money'. Maybe he was expecting dimes, quarters, perhaps a dollar bill not the gold Rand coins I produced. (Gold was then set at a price so what I handed him was probably worth...several thousand dollars, now it would be substantially more and in Kruger Rand, more than that.)

"Jaisus, Holy Mary mother a God!! thems be gold. Laddy, gold."

He sounded sort of like the two children who, playing in the estuary of the Tugela river found these strange looking stones-afterward called alluvial diamonds. Or the guy at Sutter's Mill in California-at about the same time.

Well, we agreed, yes they were gold and since he seemed concerned about whether I could afford my next bite of food, I tried to give them to him. His response was to put me behind him, look both ways and ease us down to a green police box where, somewhat over stating the situation, he called in that he had a young lad who had pockets full of gold. (It was only one pocket. See how stories get out of hand?) What his call produced was a squad car which ran us back to the hotel. And then it got worse.

The Irish cop, still clinging to me like the bullion depository in Pretoria, says he's got me and he'll stay with me until someone shows up to take responsibility. Remember I'm tired? That's when I passed out in the lobby of the St. R. I'm told the cop swooped me into his arms which caused a minor gold flow of coins to fall from my pocket...Perhaps pulling his service revolver to protect the loot was a poor idea as several guests, not understanding the situation, fell to the floor. And just when one might think it couldn't get worse, it did. Some idiot called the woman who, had she been there, would have been next in line to be my mother. Her most penetrating question, over long distance starts out casually enough, "Where's my husband?" But crashes and burns when TMI is spilled and she's told he's been taken off to jail on a charge of drunkeness and fighting in public. Right here, if you've read this far, you need to remember the year we're discussing is 1949. Things like long distance calls aren't the norm they are today and, well, depending on what you tell someone can have an effect not wholly expected. 

Gold collected, the cop carries me up to our apartment and, not knowing what to do, sits on a couch while I cuddle up and continue to sleep. To this day I have a very clear picture of his wonderful blue wool, double breasted, full length top coat. I should have because for many years I've had it copied minus, of course, the flashes and bars for the NYPD. Some how he slips out of it  while covering me, waiting for whatever will happen next. 

Missing her husband and unsure about the fate of a child she's never met, she does what any hysteric does, she, first called the NYPD and close friends in New York, one of whom was a Federal Judge. He dips his wick in it and...lets pause here and remember who at that time was President of Columbia University. Doesn't mean much but...in not too many years he's going to be President of the United States. My new father had been on the General Staff for Eisenhower in England they were rabid golfers so....her next call was to him. 

Meanwhile several stories up, the cop has decided that unless you have some sort of ID you're not getting in the suite. I'm snuggled under his coat and, had I been more alert, probably could have cut through this forming Gordian Knot of people trying to be helpful but failing on a truly amazing scale. I guess the lobby is now filling up with representatives of a Federal Judge, the Consul General of the Republic of South Africa, two assorted cops, a Deputy Police Commissioner and for no reason, a rep from TWA. 

Keep in mind the year. The booking process for soon to be prisoners is all done by hand and until names are got on some sort of printed list, nobody really knows where anybody is which is how they lost one drunken daddy. For 24 Hours. 

Day the Second of PJ comes to New York. Morning. The cop has seen his duty and even if he saw it through a foggy crystal, he is responsible for me; He has a point, no one has showed up that will claim me or take responsibility so...he's the nominee. It's an early morning because,  one supposes, he was an early riser. I'm still asleep under his coat on a bed which he's sleeping in. Apparently he tried to get the coat from me but, like a scared child, that coat represented security and I was not to be seperated from it. Somehow food was got in and he began the day...having not a clue as to what to do. 

Federal Judge, H. Marbury Taylor arrives and, as a friend of the family plus the permission of his mother-in the form of a telegram-he will take me home with him. Good plan, bad execution. By now I'm not happy and, in my fright, am beginning to wander back and forth between my two primary languages one of which, Afrikaans, isn't spoken at all in New York. Well, maybe at the Consul. Plus, I don't know who this Judge is, never heard of him and I'm not moving. What I have is one cop and his coat and that's it. The telegram cut nothing as I don't know her and, given the usual South African suspicion of everything foreign, I don't trust or believe it.  

Remember the President of Columbia? He drops by to see his old companion in arms and to meet the new son. No dice. I don't know him although, thanks to the war, his name is somewhat familiar. The stand off continues. Finally some police commissioner who had not only some clout but presence of mind goes to where this person would have been taken, ultimately finds him-just after he'd been sprayed for lice or something and not only gets him clothed but out of jail-no charges. However....hehasn't planned on a renewal of fighting the Boer War on the 19th floor of the hotel. 

I must say, my Irish cop has been through a lot and not knowing what will happen or who will appear, he's taken aback, well, everyone is, because on the appearance of new father, I hide behind the cop and refuse to be touched. I don't acknowledge him, won't speak to him and after it gets really tense, he just turns and walks out. I have little doubt that just then I was inches from being returned which would have been fine with me. 

Oddly, the person who did break the log jam was...Ike. He figured out that I might see him as an ally IF he showed up in uniform. It worked. Although I would not let the cop go, I did give him back his coat and he went with us to the Eisenhower home where my new mother found me as soon as she could get to New York. I wasn't in a place where I heard the discussion between husband and wife but I know there was one and it is rather a shame that what they said to one another hasn't come down to us. \

First thing was a visit to de Pinna to get me some long pants and other more useful clothing. One last mistake. Adults try and present things as good, swell and wonderful to children when they're not sure of the reception. I was told we'd go on a lovely train trip. My question was...Is it like the Blue Train? Not buying the answer entirely but I'd been on trains so I agreed to that with one further demand. 

As the Twentieth Century Limited pulled our of Grand Central it had the usual compliment of passengers....and one Irish cop. I'd refused to board the train without him. And in Chicago, when we switched to the Santa Fe Chief, one Irish cop. 

I kept in touch with Brian Malachey for years, attended his retirement and, some years after that, his funeral. 

And so that's how I came to the United States, although occasionally went away, but will celebrate my 78th here on my ranch in the middle of Kansas. Which looks nothing like Cape Town....I suppose it's the lack of two oceans...