AMELIA
...old freighters never die, they just rust away...
by Joe Hafford

The Amelia belonged to the Bull Steamship Co. The official record has the name of the ship spelled Emelia, but even though my memory is admittedly poor, I can only recall the spelling Amelia and I will so refer to it that way here. It was only eight days between my signing off the Grout and signing on the Amelia. I didn't spend a lot of time in New York this trip. In fact, it was only a day or two before we took off for Philadelphia to take on a load of coal for Brasil.

The Amelia was an old ship, World War I vintage I think. As many of the deckhands commented, they had to be careful about chipping rust as it was the rust holding the ship together. This may have been one time my propensity for taking the first ship I was offered was questionable. It all turned out reasonably well for me, however, so I don't have any real complaints. After all, I did survive the war unscathed.

The ship was so old that all the crew's quarters were aft and there was precious little privacy with several men to a cabin. The messroom was aft also. The messboy had to bring the food back from the galley, which was amidships, in a stacked set of pots. Of course the ship's movements were exaggerated at the stern and the steering engine made a good nights sleep difficult at times. Just when the quartermaster would take a notion to correct or change his course was unpredictable. This was especially the case as we did a lot of zig-zagging at sea and every movement of the wheel on the bridge generated a corresponding clatter and rumble from the old steering engine just below the living quarters. The engine was necessary because the rudder on a ship probably weighed in at several tons, considerably more than a man could handle.

I am not sure why, but the title 'wiper' seemed singularly demeaning to me. I always felt a more dignified job description could have been found. A wiper in the engine room has the entry level job and admittedly, cleaning up after spills was a necessary job best done by someone not concerned with the ships operation. In peace time a wiper could apply for the position of fireman after a year of experience, then in two more years he could try for oiler and watertender. The acute shortage of trained personnel during the war forced the considerable shortening of the experience needed for advancement.

The Amelia carried two wipers. The other one was a Puerto-Rican of about thirty-five. Lets call him Juan. Juan had been shipping on Bull Line ships for years in different entry level capacities but wasn't interested in any job that carried ANY responsibilities. I might add that the Bull Line had a regular run to Puerto Rico before the war, and to say the least, I hoped we were headed back there. It was not to be.

The duties of a wiper were very simple - do what you are told! I worked directly under the supervision of the First Assisstant Engineer. The 1st was on the 4-8 watch and would stay down in the engine room for a few minutes after 8:00 AM to give orders for the day. He would make frequent appearances to check up on us and occasionally had some job he was engaged in that required direct assistance. Our 1st was a short, fat, balding man with an irascible temperament. A long time Bull Line employee, having come up through the ranks, as most men did before the war.

The engine room was a very strange world for me the first time I went down. It was a blur of pipes, valves, gages, a bunch of pumps and motors, and the monster of a main engine dominating everything. It seemed that there was barely enough room to move around, it was so crowded. And hot! Wow! Even in port in December with the main engine idle, the heat was oppressive. Fortunatly I had grown up in New Orleans so I adjusted to the heat probably better than most.

The centerpiece of the engine room was the main engine. It had to be seen to be fully appreciated. It stood about 12 feet high and 20 feet long. There were three vertically oriented cylinders ranging from about 30 to 80 inches in diameter - a typical triple expansion steam engine of about 3600 horsepower. For each cylinder, a piston, connected to a piston rod, oscillated in the cylinder. Steam from the boilers was admitted alternatly to each side of the piston, and exhausted from the other side; i.e. standard double action engine. There was an array of small reciprocating steam engines scattered throughout the engine room, driving the auxilliaries. These all had only one cylinder which exhausted to the main condenser. In every case a slide valve oscillated in time with the piston to alternatly admit and exhaust the steam. The exhaust steam was of course much lower in temperature and pressure.

Most of the engines converted the reciprocating action of the cylinder to the rotary action of a shaft as for the main engine. The piston is connected to a rod that has its other end connected to a 'crosshead' that guided the piston and prevented it from deviating from a simple reciprocating action. The crosshead was the transition point for changing the reciprocating motion of the cylinder to the rotary motion of the propellor. Each cylinder of the main engine was connected to the propellor shaft through a section called a 'crankshaft'. There were three sections to the crankshaft, each one consisted of a pair of heavy steel 'webs' that were about three feet by eighteen inches by about eight inches thick. The webs were connected at one end by a short section of highly polished steel rod of about ten inches in diameter. The other end was connected to the propellor shaft. A 'connecting rod' joined the crosshead to the crankshaft.

The slide valves that directed the steam were actuated by an offset disc attached to the crankshaft. As the steam dropped in pressure in the cylinder, it also expanded in volume, therefore to get the full benefit from the energy in the steam, the next cylinder needed to be larger. The exhaust steam from the low pressure (largest) cylinder, about six feet in diameter, was directed to a condenser. The condenser was a huge cylindrical vessel about ten feet in diameter and fifteen feet long.

A pump drove the sea water through copper, or brass, tubes inside the condenser and dumped the slightly heated water back to the ocean. The water condensate was returned to the boilers by means of a high pressure feed pump. Recycling water was necessary since sea water would quickly destroy the boilers and it was not possible to carry enough fresh water to supply the needs of the engines for single pass usage. To maximize the efficiency of the engine the steam exiting from the low pressure cylinder was at a vacuum of about 28 inches of mercury.

Steam was supplied from three oil fired boilers. Each boiler was a large cylindrical pressure vessel of about ten feet in diameter and eight or ten feet long. They were located side by side just before the engine. The firemen also tended the water levels in the boilers as well as control the flow of fuel oil to the furnaces to maintain the steam pressure to the desired level. Each boiler had three oil burners, each in its individual furnace. The burners were at the front of the boiler getting forced air from a large blower to enhance the amount of oil the burner could use. The flame and hot gases passed to the rear of the furnace, or firebox as it was generally referred to, then up a series of tubes parallel to the firebox, then back up to the exhaust passage to the stack, after passing through a superheater that extracted the last bit of energy possible from the hot gases.

These were commonly known as 'Scotch' boilers. I think probably because Scottish ship builders originated them. Initially, they used coal as fuel and they were so rugged that in an emergency, sea water could be used for short periods without seriously damaging the boilers. However, in spite of all the effort to improve their efficiency, they couldn't compete with alternative types of boilers and were not used in state of the art ships except when coal was mandated as fuel.

There was an additional factor, the Scotch boiler carried many times the volume of water that the more modern water-tube boilers. Because of the extra water it was very devastating if a scotch boiler exploded, a definite hazard in wartime. A ruptured Scotch boiler could blow a ship in half and any engine room personnel on duty had little chance of escaping alive.

Each watch consisted of an oiler, a fireman/watertender and an assistant engineer. The fireman's duties were rather simple. He had to see to the proper flow of fuel to the burners by an occasional adjustment to the flow controller, likewise for the flow of feed water to the boiler. That was essentially it except to clean a couple of burners each watch. Of course, if the ship was navigating in a harbor to go alongside a dock, the fireman was kept pretty busy, otherwise he had a rather easy time of it.

On the other hand the oiler stayed busy throughout the watch. All the myriad pieces of equipment fell to him to watch and tend to as needed. The most impressive duty of the oiler, to the novice, was to oil and check the main engine bearings. In fact the task of checking the bearings was almost spectacular. While under way, the main engine would be operating at a speed of near 100 revolutions per minute. Keep in mind that there was no protective cover around the engine. The crosshead was flashing up and down more than once a second and the crankshaft was, of course, keeping in time with the crossheads, rotating at the full speed of the engine. The oiler had to stick his hand in the crankshaft pit to touch the bearing about every thirty minutes to be sure the bearing was cool. My first impression was that there was no way anyone was going to persuade me that any sane man would place himself in such jeapordy. The crank was so massive it could instantly crush a man to a pulp, leaving little to be buried at sea.

The crossheads also had to be touched as did all the lesser bearings. The usual round was done on 30 minute intervals, which included squirting oil into all of the bearings. Most of the oil points were rather tame, but the only way to oil the crossheads and cranks was to aim a squirt of oil into a rapidly moving cup attached to the crosshead. The oiler positioned himself under the cylinder and timed his movements with the engine. As the crosshead rose, he would aim for the cup and shoot a stream of oil with unerring aim. He had to time the movement to pull his hand out because there wasn't enough room for his hand and the oil can between the bottom of the cylinder and the crosshead at the top of the stroke. I have talked to many oilers that confess to having an oil can knocked across the engine room due to a moment of inattention or carelessness. This was not considered good form and usually earned a reprimand, after any damaged hand was repaired.

Each oiler had his own personal oil can that he carefully conditioned for his own touch. No oiler would use another's can. It just wasn't done. The oiler had the burden of being sure there was enough oil on the bearings to keep them cool, but for economic reasons he had to limit his use of oil or the chief engineer would become contentious. Each oiler was supplied with a fixed amount of oil for his watch, but he would keep a private supply of oil to use to flood a bearing that might have gotten warm; acquired by economizing a little each watch and saving the overage. This parsimony with the oil was a peacetime exercise that fell by the wayside after the war started, as it was imperative to keep the engine running at all costs and the cost of lubricating oil became insignificant. Needless to say it could be a disaster for a bearing to burn out and idle the ship in the middle of the ocean while undergoing repairs. Any convoy would have had to leave you there unprotected.

The engineer on watch had little to do other to see to it that the oiler and fireman were doing their job. The third engineer also had responsibility for seeing to it that the generators were functioning at all times. The second engineer had the responsibility for the boilers, mainly to see to it that the boiler water was kept within analytic standards of hardness and acidity and that the fire side didn't get too clogged up with soot and scale. Everything else in the engine room was under the general supervision of the first engineer. Of course the Chief Engineer was in overall charge, sort of the Captain of the engine room and usually considered second in command of the ship. The watch engineer always filled out a log each watch and signed it to provide an authentic record of every event in the engine room. During maneuvering, this went so far as to record every change in speed or direction command that came down from the bridge.

The wiper's duties were mainly to keep the place clean and lend a hand wherever needed. The oilers and firemen were almost invariably helpful in teaching the wipers their respective duties in the assumption that the wiper was interested in moving up to fireman or oiler. One of the oilers was a short, fat, balding sort that proved to be very helpful in teaching me the ropes. He eventually persuaded me to learn how to 'feel' the main engine, in spite of being convinced I was about to have every bone in my body broken. After overcoming my fear that the thing was going to come after me, I became quite skillful at the task. I don't remember his name, but I must have gotten under his skin because one time in port he had gotten quite a skinful and came back to the ship under full sail. He proceeded to bless me out in very uncomplimentary terms. I didn't know what to do and was highly intimidated. I didn't retaliate in any way, but an AB got tired of the diatribe and grabbed him and threatened to 'remove his onion head' if he didn't shut up. Adding that he was lucky I was too good natured to do the job myself. I realized later that it would have been child's play for me to have handled him, but I was too young and ignorant to know that.

Another oiler was a red-headed ex-truckdriver. He had shipped out before the war long enough to get his oilers ticket then got married and his wife made him quit the sea and stay home. He was a moderatly big man with the beginnings of a beer gut. I learned a lot about the trials and tribulations of truck driving in the days of strict regulation. I hadn't realized how controlled the industry was. Nowadays there are no controls, but at that time a license to haul was granted sparingly and I sort of got the idea that it could cost a lot to get a choice permit. I would say that Red was in his late twenties and quite robust. One day he related to me a time that he got his wife very angry with him.

"We were tussling in bed when I said I was going to spit straight up. She ducked under the covers then I farted." He laughed and when I picked up my jaw, I laughed also. I asked what she did and he said, "She got out of bed and started to pack her bag and leave me. I sure had to work hard to change her mind."

Red and I would get out on the poop deck and put on the gloves and spar a while. He wasn't very good though and I could easily get the best of him. One day we were sparring and I hadn't taken my wrist watch off. Somehow his glove got caught in the watch band and it came flying off and over the side. Ever since, I have insisted on having an expansion band that I was less likely to lose.

My best sparring partner was the Second Asst. Engineer, a black man, the only one I had ever met that had managed to break into the pristine white seaman's culture. I never questioned him about it, but I am sure it would be an interesting story. He was small but had been in the ring professionally and was able to give me a lot of pointers. He took pity on me and never worked me over as he readily could have.

The convoy dropped us off at a small Brasilian seaport right on the hump of South America; Para, if my memory hasn't failed me. We were there for only a matter of hours, but I managed to get ashore just to look around. I made a serious mistake. I had a glass of beer in a pleasant open air restaurant overlooking the town square. It was good to get off the ship if even for a short walk. However, we soon picked up our next convoy and were at sea where I became violently sick with dysentery. By the time I had recovered, we were in Rio de Janeiro.

The ship remained at anchor while unloading the coal. The dust from the coal wasn't too bothersome to me as I had experienced bauxite on a previous ship and this was tame by comparison. Barges with cranes were tied up alongside and scooped up the coal to drop it into other barges next to them. Happily we saw that the unloading operation would take several days.

I had been to Rio on two separate occasions before the war and was looking forward to the relaxed and open society I remembered. Sadly, things had changed. The various bars and night spots were still there, but the ladies of the evening had to be very careful. The local government had decided to clean up the town. There had been two areas where male biological urges were accomodated. The most notorious was an area named the 'Brok', as I recall from my phonetic interpretation. This was an area totally devoted to satisfying the most depraved desires of a customer. It was an area roughly square, about six blocks on a side. The streets were well lighted. I went with a couple of shipmates before, but I was too nervous about the place to get out of the cab (I was only 16 at the time.) The cab simply drove slowly through the area allowing us to get its flavor.

Most of the streets were bordered by what amounted to stalls. Each stall had a dutch door, top and bottom opened separatly. Most of them had the top open and you could see into the stall where there was simply a bed, a light, a small table with a pitcher and basin on it. In most ot these rooms a woman was standing looking out hoping for a customer. There was every conceivable type of woman, all shades, sizes and races. Take your pick. In every block there was at least one establishment with a man with a strong spanish accent outside hawking for an 'exibition'. I never attended one of these exhibitions, but I was informed that they included all forms of sexual activity; anal, oral, hetero or homo and animal, or any other request the audience wished; at a modest price.

I can understand cleaning out the Brok, but they also cleaned out another area that was totally different. This was a section of town that catered to a much higher class of clientele. It was where a group of brothels operated. They were very high class. The fanciest one had a rather extravagent name that I can't recall exactly, but for the lack of memory lets call it the Embassy House.

The Embassy House had been a rather large mansion that surrounded a large beautiful garden. There were candlelit tables scattered around and the women walked around in evening dress. One could go in and just have a drink and talk without being approached. Only when a man was interested did a woman present herself. The costs were surprisingly low. At the Brok, a quickie was 10 to 25 cents. At the Embassy House, the company of a very attractive woman could be had for about two dollars an hour. This pretty much covered the entire range. It was different now. The women were still soliciting, but now they had spread out into the entire city.

In fact this led to one of the more idiotic things I did on the entire trip; perhaps the entire war. Not having the usual safe and secure outlets, one had to roam around and seek comfort wherever it could be found. I went bar hopping one evening and couldn't find what I was looking for and ended up getting a bit more to drink than I needed. In this condition I decided to head back to the ship. I then ran into a shipmate who asked me to hold his money while he made out. I said "Sure" and pocketed the money. Almost immediatly after, I got picked up by a very attractive woman who took me, in my somewhat impaired condition, to a private residence where we sacked out.

The next morning, after sleeping on an incredibly hard bed, all my money was gone! Including, of course, that which had been entrusted to me. My choices were simple, either raise hell and risk unknown consequences or quietly take my medicine and leave. I left. I had been rolled! It was made more obvious since my companion hadn't made any monetary demand - highly uncharacteristic. I had enough cash on the ship to reimburse my shipmate, but it left me woefully short of funds for any further adventures. This was the last time I ever did anything so foolish. In my naivete, it didn't occur to me until much later that my 'shipmate' might have been in on a scam!

Not having funds for any 'adventures' I teamed up with an OS that had received his training at a Coast Guard school on Long Island, Sheepshead Bay, that is. He had been trained for about six weeks and the Amelia was his first ship. I don't remember his name so I'll call him Jim. Jim was about my age and very clean cut, whatever that means. Certainly an atypical merchant seaman. He drank very sparingly and didn't patronize bars. With Jim I got to visit several of the attractions Rio has to offer. The first place we went was Copacabana Beach. The beach stretched for miles. It was the most beautiful beach I had ever seen. It was lined with expensive homes but mainly hotels of all types. Considering the population of the area and the attractiveness of the beach, I thought it was somewhat thinly populated. We just strolled around and when we got hungry, we visited the dining room of one of the better hotels. We had an excellent steak dinner with all the trimmings for about $1.50 each. I eschewed the salad, remembering the experience of Para.

We also visited Sugarloaf Mountain. It is a huge rock protruding about 1000 feet above sea level. For all the world it looks like a giant whale leaping out of the water. There was also the Corcovado, 'hunchback', that had a massive statue of Christ at the top. Corcovado was somewhat larger and from a certain angle looked for all the world like a hunchback man. We managed these excursions on the week-end we were there, as during the week we had to put in a full day's work. I suppose it wasn't a total loss that I lost my money. This way I got to build some memories that stayed with me for life. Money in my pocket would almost surely have led me astray.

Our cargo of coal was unloaded in due course. Our next destination was the port of Santos where we were to pick up a load of coffee. Santos is just a hop skip and jump south of Rio. I don't even recall now if we had an escort, but probably so as the South Atlantic was a happy hunting ground for German Subs and Raiders.

Santos was almost exclusivly a seaport, catering to ships was almost its sole reason for existance. Santos is a hot muggy place. A short train ride up to the plateau above Santos was a major city, Sao Paulo with a much nicer climate. The Sao was pronounced San. Unfortunatly you had to know somebody to get around a city as big as Sao Paulo so I confined myself to the seaport of Santos where I had visited a couple of times before the war. Santos was fully equipped to cater to the desires and inclinations of seamen with plenty of bars and brothels.

We stayed in Santos several days while the ship was loaded with coffee. It was pretty much the same routine as it was in Ponce. That is, coffee bags of about 200 pounds loaded onto pallets or conveyor belts, transferred to the hold where two men would lift an individual bag and place it on the back of a third who trotted off to a distant part of the hold to drop it. The men again were quite small weighing in at about half the poundage of a bag of coffee; obviously quite strong, nothing but muscle.

The stay was uneventful, only a couple of trips into town to sample the offerings. Santos normally had several ships in town at one time, but the war was keeping the port activity at low ebb, therefore prices were at rock bottom as competition was fierce. The depressed state of the economy there enabled me to somewhat enjoy myself in spite of my limited financial status.

The only untoward event on the return trip was due to the coffee, not in the hold, but in the messroom. We had an incorrigibly lazy messboy; a puerto Rican. Short, skinny, and about 40 years old - old enough to know better. The coffee urn in the messroom was always kept full of coffee. Unfortunatly, the messboy had a bad habit of not keeping the urn clean. He would simply throw more coffee in the bag and add water. Like an idiot, I drank a cup of particularly vile brew one day and got quite sick. I literally spent a couple of days in bed. After that I couldn't stand the smell of coffee and I didn't have another cup for about seven years. I enjoy coffee today, but in moderation.

Otherwise our return trip was a bit humdrum. We worked our way back to New York with several convoys, and finally arrived in the middle of March, 1943. This may have been when I discovered the Music Box Canteen. Merchant seamen were not welcome at the well known Stage Door Canteen, so we generally had to fend for ourselves. Some service organization had opened a place exclusivly for seamen right off Times Square. It was a rather dull place and I went there only a few times. On the other hand, the Music Box was a delightful place. All service men were welcome. There was a bar just as you entered that served only non-alcholic drinks and sandwiches. It was a godsend when funds began to run low to be able to get fed at no cost, which I might add was a chronic condition with seamen in general and me in particular.

The Music Box had a dance floor and a juke box that didn't require money. Upstairs there was a reading room and a ping-pong table. Every evening there was somebody to entertain, mostly drawn from the extensive New York night club circuit. Sometimes a big name appeared. Once I was there when Richard Rogers was there. Best of all there were plenty of girls that volunteered to help entertain the men. I got to know several very nice girls and dated them intermittantly during the war. I think this trip was the time I met Dorothy Goldberg. She was a secretary and turned out to be a good friend. She showed me a number of rather pleasant places to go in New York that didn't cost an arm and a leg.

It had been over six months since I had been home, so I decided to head South again. While heading for the train. I accompanied a shipmate on a trip to a jewelry store where he wanted to buy an engagement ring for his intended. While looking over the items, I saw an interesting bloodstone ring, my birthstone, and decided to get it as it was modestly priced. I also had to make the usual trip to a clothing store to buy at least a couple of shirts. I was somewhat addicted to adding to my wardrobe in those days as I rarely had anything worth wearing without embarressment during my growing up years.

A train ride during World War II was quite an experience. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go, not paying any attention to the ubiquitous admonition 'IS THIS TRIP NECESSARY?'. Getting a seat was almost impossible without going Pullman, and I wasn't about to squander any money that way. The trip to Mobile took a good 36 hours. For the first 12 hours or so, the train was so crowded that the only place to sit down was my suitcase, which was much the worse for wear when I got home. We were well past Washington D.C. before I finally found a seat. The dining car was always crowded and one had to wait in line before getting a place. Fortunatly there were usually hawkers at the numerous stops selling sandwiches and drinks so it was no problem to find something cheap to eat.

The train got to Mobile in the morning. I was grateful that I had finally gotten a seat and could doze off occasionally. I worked my way over to the Greyhound Bus Station and got a bus to Montrose. I lugged suitcase and seabag the half mile to the cabin where my parents lived. Dad still had the old Dodge that provided me with rather uncertain transportation as it was barely running. Gas was now severely rationed and use of the car was therefore strictly limited. It seemed now that everything was rationed; shoes, coffee, sugar etc. but not liquor which couldn't be found anyway practically at any price.

When I got home, my father gave me a letter from the Selective Service System (i.e. Draft Board) that had been sitting there for several months. It was a questionaire they wanted me to fill out - PROMPTLY. I filled it out and sent it in without further ado.

The town of Fairhope was essentially dead from the standpoint of social activity as just about all the young men were in the service somewhere and my female connections were nil. I went over to Mobile and checked with the Coast Guard and found out the required experience for a firemans endorsement had been dropped to three months - an obvious sign of the severe shortage of experienced men. I took the exam and to my pleasant surprise I was approved for watertender and oiler as well as fireman. I was on my way! Looking back, I realized that they allowed me to pass the physical when strictly according to the rules, I should not have been. I easily passed the eye exam with my glasses, but later I discovered they weren't supposed to accept corrected vision either for deck hands or engine room personnel. I have often wondered if they would have given me my AB ticket in Mobile. It was immaterial as I had by now decided that the engine room was my prefered milieu.

The endorsement was important as the pay of the wiper was $60.00 a month and the jobs of watertender and oiler payed about twice that at the time, which was doubled when the ship put out to sea; which wasn't too bad as a typical starting salary for a college graduate engineer wasn't much more. A seaman also received a bonus of $100 if his ship came under enemy attack. This became a source of resentment on the part of servicemen as their salary was only a fraction and there was no corresponding bonus for them. This was one of the reasons Merchant Seamen got no post-war benefits; although I suspect the main reason was that a lot of military brass came to power after the war and never forgot the disrespect they felt the merchant seamen accorded them. It was their way of paying us back!

Not having any connections in Fairhope, as most of the girls I knew were spoken for, I quickly opted to run over to New Orleans as I wasn't quite ready to ship out again. I put up at a middle class hotel just outside the Quarter and started looking for old friends. One of my first stops was one of the numerous neighborhood night spots scattered around the city that my old gang had frequented. It was on the corner of St. Charles Ave. and Napoleon St. I can't remember the name of the place but there was a waiter there, Johnny by name, so I'll refer to the club as Johnny's. Johnny knew all of us and acted as a sort of clearing house of information. None of the gang was in town at this time so in desperation I tried to contact an old classmate from high school whose sister I had quite a case on before the family left New Orleans. She had dumped me about the time we moved to Fairhope and married some other guy (that is story in itself, but I won't bore with the details) but I was on good terms with her brother and parents. As luck would have it, she was home alone and it transpired that she was having marital difficulties. It wasn't long before we took up where we had left off a couple of years earlier.

It didn't take long for financial reality to set in so I had to plan getting another ship. As it was, I always felt the draft board looking over my shoulder and was sure that too extended a vacation would end up with me in the army. I said good-bye to my girl and prepared to head back to sea. I finally contacted the McArthurs and got a very insistant demand to come for a visit before leaving. When I showed up, nothing would suffice except that I would stay for a couple of days. David was the only boy at home now. Charles and Sam were both in the Army Air Force and in training. Of course Elizabeth, Dorothy, Frances, and Miriam were all there. I was given the warmest of welcomes and notified in no uncertain terms that I was welcome any time and was expected to stay with them whenever I was in town. To this day my memories of the McArthurs are treasured, particularly those of Mom McArthur.

By now I had only enough cash left to get back to Montrose so I hopped a bus and returned to the homestead.

JONATHAN GROUT ...New York and San Juan are great places to visit, but I would never want to live in New York...

PAN CRESCENT ...there's always a first time...