Before the Communists came to power in 1949, I was a sophomore at the Huangpu Military Academy, majoring in political education.
This is the only story of mine whose moral I know.
Hopping a freight out of Los Angeles at high noon one day in late September 1955 I got on a gondola and lay down with my duffel bag under my head and my knees crossed and contemplated the clouds as we rolled north to Santa Barbara.
As a kid I was the youngest member of my family, and the youngest child in any family is always a jokemaker, because a joke is the only way he can enter into an adult conversation.
"I’ve watched through his eyes, I’ve listened through his ears, and I tell you he’s the one."
I always get the shakes before a drop.
The unusual events described in this chronicle occurred in 194- at Oran. Everyone agreed that considering their somewhat extraordinary character, they were out of place there.
The stranger came early in February, one wintry day, through a biting wind and a driving snow, the last snowfall of the year, over the down, walking from the Bramblehurst railway station, and carrying a little black portmanteau in his thickly gloved hand.
On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was reclining at his ease on the great circular divan which at the period occupied the centre of the Salon Carré in the Museum of the Louvre.
The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon.
A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close the the hillside bank and runs deep and green.
The first thing I remember is being under something.
All children, except one, grow up.
It was love at first site.