My only sibling, Eva, is three years younger than I. Eva had far more athletic ability that I. She could do backbends, cartwheels, was a superb natural horsewoman, the fastest kid in her class and won swimming competitions. However, she suffered from severe attacks of asthma and would have to be confined in an oxygen tent. In 1941, my father asked our doctor if he would recommend a change of climate, and he said it was worth a try. My father described the climate in Cuba and Doc said "could be."

My great-aunt Lula was from Liberty County, Georgia on the coast half-way between Savannah and Brunswick. She had married a Spaniard and they had migrated to Cuba while it was still a Spanish possession. Her daughter, Stella, had married Harry Cordoza who had helped build the airport at Camaguey toward the eastern end of the island. As a traveling salesman, my father had also made selling trips to Havana, and was favorably impressed with the country. So, in the fall of 1941, my mother, sister and I sailed from Miami for Havana.

I was eight years old and don't remember much about the trip over but I have vivid recollections of my stay in Camaguey and stopovers in Havana and Varadero Beach on our return trip. Eva and I called our cousins "Uncle" Harry and "Aunt" Stella. Their home was on the outskirts of town, surrounded by truck gardens, small farms and ranches.

Except when we had additional visitors, I had my own small room which I believe was designed to be the servant's quarters. The windows did not have screens and the beds were rigged with mosquito netting. The absence of window screens not only permitted the entrance of mosquitoes, but also an exotic species of lightning bugs which had two separate lights. Eva and I would often get up after the adults were asleep and catch these fascinating creatures and either imprison them in any available glass receptacle, or decorate clocks and other items with their magical luminescent fluids.

We would also feed the family chickens and surreptitiously climb the neighbor's windmill. The neighbors would come over to watch Eva shinny up the tallest coconut trees. When we got bored, we could always round up Rubio, the family cat, for fun and games. Our favorite was to tie a piece of liver on a string, let Rubio swallow it, then retrieve it to be enjoyed all over again. I attended a school in Camaguey where some classes were in English, and I also had a teacher come to the house in the afternoons to give me Spanish lessors. I am sorry to say that I don't speak fluent Spanish even though I began my lessors over fifty-four years ago.

I will now keep my promise and tell my family secret. My great-aunt Lula was born Villula Joanna Daniel in 1858, and was six years old, living in Liberty County when General Sherman was completing his march to the sea. I have heard the story many times from my grandfather and great uncles and aunts, how when the Yankee marauders would approach the home place, Lula's younger sister would be perched on the box where the remnants of the family valuables were hidden, and it was Aunt Lula's duty to pinch her hard. Even the cold-blooded blue bellies didn't have the heart to bother the wailing child, and thus the Daniel possessions were saved.

Anyhow, while we were in Camaguey, Aunt Lula came to visit; and as our beds were in short supply, I was designated to be the sleeping companion of our distinguished guest. She slept so soundly that Eva and I could continue our lightning bug hunts without disturbing her. I doubt if there are too many of us left who can honestly say that they have slept with a lady who had survived Sherman's March through Georgia.

My memories of foods I ate Cuba are vivid. Superb exotic fruits like guava, mango and papaya. My favorite dish was arroz con pollo (rice with chicken). I also acquired a lifelong love for watercress because the Chinaman who owned a truck garden behind the Cordoza property would regularly bring by big bunches of the crisp, tangy greens. I don't recall unpleasant encounters with any of the natives of the island. Eva and I both found very unusual the custom of the farm children to always wear shoes and shirts, but no pants. It was explained that shoes were always worn because of some worm that would enter the body through lesions in bare feet, and no pants because this saved on the expense of diapers.

We were in Camaguey on December 7, 1941, when waves of Japanese torpedo planes, bombers, fighters and midget submarines attacked the United States Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbor. On the following day, we all sat around the radio and listened to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt make his declaration of war speech. Fifty-five years later, I can remember the emotions I felt. Never will I forget his phrases "dastardly act" and "a day that will live in infamy." After F.D.R. finished, my Uncle Harry, a tough outdoors type, looked at me with moist eyes and said if he ever heard criticism of the president, he would start from the floor (placing his fist on the rug) and go direct to the jaw of the slanderer.

On our way back to the States, we stopped off several days in Havana. We stayed in the Royal Palm Hotel near the heart of town. The days were interesting and fun, but Havana in the forties became alive at night, and we were very lucky to have parents that introduced us to the Latin tempo. We strolled the Malecon (seawall) and the Paseo deI Prado which were crowded with colorful vendors and entertainers filling the air with exotic sounds and smells. We also went with our parents right into the restaurants, bars (e.g.. Dirty Dick's and The Greasy Spoon), nightclubs and gambling casinos. It is possible that this excursion spoiled me for Las Vegas which I find boring and mundane.

We also spent several days at Varadero Beach, a couple of hours east of Havana. This was, and still is, Cuba's best tourist beach, and I have seen few that equal it anywhere else in my travels. My father, many times, told that we would go for our daily swims in the surf, and when the bartender at the hotel would see us returning, with my agile sister doing her cartwheels in the sand, he would have our fresh fruit cocktails ready by the time we reached the lounge.

By the time we boarded ship to return to Miami, German U-Boats had been spotted in the Caribbean and there could be no lights visible from outside at night. When we finished supper, we had to feel our way in the dark to our outside cabin.

Another story my father loved to tell was the saga of his Havana cigars and aged Bacardi Rum. He had bought an ample supply of both and kept it in boxes which he hand carried as an added precaution. We had boarded the train from Miami to Columbus, Georgia and were well underway when he remembered that he had forgotten his precious packages in the depot waiting room in Miami. When the conductor came by punching tickets, he asked my Dad why the long face. He got the full story plus our address in Columbus. The next day when our taxi drove us home from the station in Columbus, the first thing my father noticed was his two packages sitting on the front porch. I think this story was told and retold each time a glass of Bacardi was poured or a hand-rolled Corona Corona was lit up.

My first taste of Latin America was addictive. I guess that has a lot to do with why I am where I am now.