Hawaii. February, 1956. Mom, Dad and I traveled to Manila by ourselves, leaving my brother Mike and newly-minted stepsister Carolyn behind to finish their respective school years. We rode Lockheed Constellation aircraft most of the way. During one leg of the trip, we flew into enough turbulence to empty out all the overhead storage compartments. We were over the ocean, a long way from land. It scared everyone onboard.
In San Francisco, we toured a cannery where I consumed fresh-caught tuna on a saltine cracker. It was a taste sensation, burning the moment into a memory I can access even to this day. In Hawaii. Mom and I posed for a photo with our local guide, who I didn’t recognize until recalling how sweet she was.
That was sixty-six years ago. I was six years old. The memories are spotty. Thank goodness for photographs.
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John Dyer Writes 
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