USES I HAVE LIVED IN -
1940 - 1941 Born on Nobel Ave. in Richmond, Va.
1941 - 1947 - 1410 Augusta Ave., Richmond, Va.
*Early childhood. 1st friend was Alfred Broadhous whose father was a dentist & HOwho lived across the street. We were absolutely best buddies. I visited him in 1976 with Mike & Greg coming back from Europe. He was bald and running the Federal Reserve. Our arch enemy was Gordon, a sandy blond boy that lived behind Alfred. He was always telling on us. There was a house in a field nearby that caught fire. It looked like the one in Wyeth's Christina. Alfred and I used to play in my garage, adjoined to the alley. We would take off our pants and play with each other. Mother was furious. Blamed it all on me. Actually, I think it was mutual.
My first playmate was a boy who lived across the street from us on Augusta Avenue. His name was Alfred and his father was a dentist who I took to calling "Doc". Alfred was exactly my age and was much shyer than I was; therefore I liked him a lot because I could always get him to do what I wanted to do. In the long run, this was not a good thing to happen however, because eventually my parents discovered this and I was blamed for everything that happened.
Mama liked a clean house so I was never allowed to play inside. I would go over to Alfred's and climb the four steps to his front stoop and ring the doorbell. Alfred's mother was afraid of what would happen if he came out to play with me because he always got into some sort of trouble or got his clothes dirty. My mother didn't care about my clothes because we had a "live in girl" who washed and ironed everything.
Norma, Alfred's mother, who I called Mrs. Broadhus to her face and Norma behind her back, would open the door and call to Alfred who was forever in his room. The door would then swing open with a loud thud and Alfred would come running down the stairs, two steps at a time, wearing a great smile. He loved for me to visit him because I cheered him up. Playing with me in the "sheet house" that we built over Norma's card table was much more fun that moving his toy soldiers about all alone in his room.
The two of us had an entire fantasy world in our sheet house. Sometimes we would play King and Queen with me being the King, as I wanted to rule. Norma's fly swatter was used as a scepter and I would give Alfred a small smack on the rear if he didn't follow my orders to the letter. Then, when he started to cry and say that I was being unfair, I would let him be the King, in fear that he would tattle to his mother on me. This action always helped to quiet Alfred down and boost his confidence.
I remember one particular time when Alfred and I really got into trouble. In those days most houses had alleys behind them. The garbage would be taken out and put into the large rubbish barrel that was located behind the houses in the alley. Also the vendors that were selling their wares or sharpening knives or scissors would come down the alleys calling out their slogans, "Get your knives sharpened today - very cheap". Alleys were used a lot.
At night time alleys were scary because they were the home of ghosts and goblins. I used to make up stories about the awful things that happened to scare Alfred. He was terrified of going into an alley at night and truthfully, so was I.
We had an old wooden garage behind our house, in the alley, that had a dirt floor. There was a door on the side, with some dirty glass panes in it, that led to our fenced-in back yard. I knew that our "girl" would not come out to see what we were doing because the garage was dungy and dark. There were no lights out there and she too was afraid of the unknown.
Alfred and I were about four years old when this particular event happened. I had my tonsils out when I was three and had to go to this huge hospital (Stuart Circle, where I was born) for the operation. In those days the operating room was a very scary place because all of the machines were huge and intimidating looking and I was very small.
The doctors and nurses had rushed me into the operating room while I was tied down on a bed with wheels on it. I don't mind saying that I was scared to death. Of course, Daddy was by my side, all dressed up in a white outfit like the surgeons wore in those days, and his presence made me feel better. Still, I was very sick and very scared.
This operation left me with some pretty bad memories. The only good side was that I got plenty of Vanilla ice cream when it was over and all of my family (uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, etc.) gave me "story book dolls" which I adored and which I collected. These are small dolls, between eight and twelve inches high, with beautiful costumes and dresses. They were really beautiful and I really prized my collection. When that operation was over I'll bet I had fifteen dolls.
Of course, I didn't tell Alfred how much the operation had terrified me. I told him just the opposite -- that the hospital was beautiful and lovely and that you could have anything you wanted to eat, especially ice cream. Besides that, you got so very many presents when you were sick. I could see Alfred counting all of his new toy soldiers and tanks in his head. When I had finished telling him about my tonsils, he wanted to have his out too, just as I knew he would.
Anyway, I got this bright idea that Alfred and I would play hospital in our garage. It was a really rainy day, which made our already dark garage really spooky. It was a perfect set-up. Both mothers thought that we were at the other person's house.
Alfred had been given a Doctor's Kit for Christmas with doctoring things in it. World War II was going on (this was in 1944 when Alfred and I were only four years old) and toys were very scarce. Alfred's father, Doc, had taken one of Norma's old purses and filled it with dentist supplies that he no longer needed.
On Christmas morning, after Alfred had opened his present and discovered the Doctor's Bag, Doc gave a long lecture to us both about how these doctoring tools should never be used on people, only on our stuffed animals and dolls. Of course, we promised to be good and follow his instructions and naturally, because we were both very smart, even at four, he believed us.
Obviously, Alfred had to have his tonsils removed. He was going to be the patient and I was going to be the doctor. This is not only because I had the stronger personality but also because I had no tonsils. He did. I also had the most knowledge in this particular area. After all, I had been to a hospital. I had gone through an operation in an Operating Room. I knew the procedures for these things. I knew all about Doctors and Nurses and Patients.
I covered Alfred in my mother's apron. I had taken it from the folded clothes before they went back into their proper drawers and knew that Mama's apron would be the perfect hospital gown for Alfred. I also took a pan from the kitchen, a washcloth, soap and towel from the bathroom and some scissors from my mother's sewing basket. Even Doc knew better than to put scissors in Alfred's doctor's kit.
After filling the pan with water from the garden hose, I washed Alfred from head to toe with the wash rag. I knew all about how his body was different from mine because we were caught "exploring" once before and our parents had to tell us why he had a "thing" and I didn't. I let Alfred put his under pants back on only because I knew that he would cry for being cold. He was always cold and the day was damp and rainy.
I tied the apron around his neck and made him lie down on the operating table, a board that I had stuck over two flowerpots. It was kind of shaky but then so was Alfred. I then gave Alfred a professional lecture about how I was going to remove his tonsils, which were two little balls at the back of his throat. I really wanted to see what tonsils looked like as my doctor did not show me mine after the operation.
I told Alfred that he would have to take "ether", which was the antiseptic of those days. This part was entirely "make believe" as even I did not know what "ether" really was. I had only heard the nurses talking about how it would make me still as I had tried to kick them when I was on the operating table.
I lined all of Doc's old dental equipment on the top of a bucket that I had found in the garage and turned upside down. We were all ready for the big event. I asked Alfred to open his mouth, very professionally, and to stick out his tongue. This he did and everything was all right until I picked up the scissors, opened them and tried to pry out the tonsils between the roof of his mouth and his tongue.
I must have really hurt him because Alfred let out a scream that would wake the dead. Not only that, he got up off the operating table and began hitting me with his fist. The board knocked the flowerpots over and they began to break. I was so startled by the entire event that I tottered backwards and knocked over a shelf that was filled with tin cans and other clanging items.
All in all, Alfred made a lot of noise. My mother came rushing from the house into the yard, screaming. When Norma heard Mom, she too came out from the house yelling Alfred's name.
As you can imagine, the results of my tonsil operation on Alfred were not good for my legs and behind. After a proper scolding, Mama slowly walked over to the nearest forsythia bush and pick off a big switch. She always did this when I did something that she thought was wrong. Slowly she pulled each leaf from the switch. That darned Alfred had settled down from his crying and actually had a smile upon his face.
Needless to say, I couldn't sit down for the rest of the day (and probably the next day too), but I never again ever, ever suggested to Alfred that we play Doctor.
I looked up Norma and Alfred in 1976 upon returning from Europe with Michael and Greg. Norma still lived in the same house, across from us on Augusta Avenue. She laughed when I recalled this adventure to her.
Alfred wasn't home. He married, had children and was now one of the top executives at the Federal Reserve. I wonder though, if he ever had his tonsils removed.
*I had two major operations (NDE) an emergency tonsillitis and a ruptured appendix. I remember the ether given to me in both and the hallucinogenic affect it had on me. I really tripped on it. The appendix attack was in a huge dust old bank. I was with Daddy. They had to call an ambulance and rushed me to the hospital.
*each time I was sick my mother would give me a storybook doll. They were lovely - about 8" tall with beautiful clothes, faces, hair & hats. Our housekeeper, Louise - a 7th day Adventist who was constantly telling me I was going to hell because I was so bad, always was taking my dolls away from me as a punishment. I hated her. Mother fired her when she heard her tell me I would burn in flames.
*Christmases were always great when I was a kid. This was during WWII when toys, etc. were scarce. Mom always saw to it that I had something wonderful though. She saved satin and lace for 6 months to make me the most beautiful bride doll "Dolly". They had doll hospitals in those days where you could buy used dolls and redo them. Dolly was redone but she was beautiful. I had her until I moved to the Caribbean and Shannon threw away all of my possessions.
*I also got a wind up record player one-year and loved that. What a treat. I would listen to my 78 records for hours on end. Mamma kept it on the chest of drawers that now is at Kathy's house in N.Y. I had to pull over one of her black Towle chairs and climb on top of it to use it. All of that preparation made listening that much more of a treat.
*The events that I most cherish and remember in my childhood were my visits to Ashland, Va. Where I would visit Daddy's parents- Den Den & Grandma. They were old and wonderful and owned a large rooming house on the corner of one of the main streets near Randolph Macon. I took Mike & Greg to see it in '76 and they had torn it down to build a 7/11 store. I cried for hours. Anyway, one of her boarders was an older lady with red hair named Miss Page. Page, as Grandma called her, was a newspaper writer and I would spend hours in her room listening to her stories, both orally and the ones that she had written. I loved Page - she was the greatest - going off to work each day when Grandma stayed home and cooked. Of course, no one alive could cook like my grandmother. Sundays especially were really a treat. I would go with my Grandmother to her Congregationalist Church outside of Ashland. The windows were stained and the sun would stream in on my left. We always sat in the same pew, a tradition that continued with my parents and with me. I loved the mystery of that church and can remember that Rock of Ages was always my most favorite song. How we would sing. I suppose that my true love of gospel came from those early beginnings for although it was a white church, we were greatly influence by rural music which always had its roots in gospel as it was southern.
*Den Den loved to take me into town on the weekends. This trip consisted of a five block walk from their house to the one street town of Ashland, which was as all towns were in those days, divided by the railroad tracks. He would wear a fedora hat which he would gallantly tip to the ladies (who all looked like my grandmother - portly and wide with no waist at all and were dressed in dark crepe housedresses with hose held up by garters and laced black shoes coming almost to the ankle. He would also stop and talk with all of the men, colored ones included, and introduce me. They were always interested in what I was doing and I remember feeling important to be included. However, after a few minutes I would pull on Den Den's hand for our true purpose was a visit to the ice cream shop and I didn't want to tally anymore that absolutely necessary. We would then continue on our way, cross the railroad tracks, and purchase a double dipped cone. This caused me great frustration, as I could never decide exactly which flavor I wanted, enjoying them all. My favorites were banana and cherry vanilla so I would usually alternate having one on one Saturday and the other on the next. The third Saturday I usually had a dip of each and on the 4th Saturday I would dare to try something different. I always hated my choices and was disappointed that I hadn't stuck with my favorites so the next weekend I would start all over. This Saturday pastime continued for years. Obviously, Sat. with my grandfather and Sunday with my grandmother, were my most favorite times.
MODEL FOR STORY IN THE NEW YORKER
THE CURIO CABINET
In 1935 my parents decided that “depression or not” they were going to marry. My father had just obtained a much sought after position as a traveling pharmaceutical salesman and was bringing home the glorious sum of thirty seven dollars a week. “Bringing home” was just another way of saying that you supported your family. Being the second child of four and the younger of two boys, Emmett had to end his student years at William and Mary, some years sooner, before his junior year, to help support his mother and father and his two younger sisters.
This yielding of the money, to someone else’s home, upset my mother, who being the youngest child of seven had lived through her own mother and father’s death while still in her teens. Mother, whose name Nannie Belle reflected her Southern upbringing, did indeed want for the money to brought home; but she wanted for it to be delivered to her. In a house, as an apartment was called in those days when few could afford a down payment much less a mortgage, that was, to her, a home. And so it was decided that Emmett and Nan, as they were fondly called by family and friends, would marry, as soon as finances permitted.
It took some two years of frugal saving to afford a wedding. Emmett felt the responsibility of his parents keenly, but his father was selling more insurance now and they could live on the small cash that their garden brought in and the chores that the numerous boarders offered in exchange for a couple of dollars here and there on rent.
My grandparents, Ophelia and Early, lived in a large Victorian home that was located on an enormous lot, or so it seemed to me while still young, on the corner of the first cross street of the small sleepy town of Ashland, Virginia, home of the men’s division of Randolph Macon. They “took in” young college students to supplement Early’s income and to help in the numerous chores that are involved in the running and operation of a large boarding house.
Ophelia cooked, with delight and culinary genius, each evening meal that graced the large dining room table around which twelve to twenty would be seated for dinner. Delicious platters of smoked Virginia ham and southern chicken fried in corn meal would be placed in the center of the table, to be passed. There was a certain order that presided at these meals as the bowls, filled to the brim with home grown beans, potatoes, tomatoes, ochre, limas, squash and other equally tasty, fresh and colorfully oriented vegetables, were passed from left to right.
Meals were the central core that made a communication possible between people with so little else in common. One was expected to participate by sharing stories of successes and failures, trials and tribulations, and other ordinary proceedings of the day. If participation was not voluntary, my grandmother would then begin her, too often routine of proper questioning, prompting a more unconstrained response.
A clean shirt or dress was expected at dinner, when the meal was presented in the evening. Supper was really lunch, which was just as large and well attended, but did not afford the change in dress as one could dine during the day in daytime clothes, unless, of course, you were a field hand.
Outside workers took their meals under the old oak in the side yard, a fact that I generally envied. How wonderful to sit on the cool green grass under the wide oak, it’s spreading limbs as comforting as grandmother’s lap, eating from a plate that could be close to my mouth or even perched on my knees. Chatter here was always much more interesting than in the big house. As there were only a few outside workers, stories were told and retold with a flavor that equally matched Ophelia’s chicken. Whenever I was “antsy” grandmother would suspect that I wanted to eat outdoors. She would fix me a plate heaping with enough food for an army knowing, full well, that I would share it with friends under my most favorite tree.
Ashland was a lovely town in those days, with it’s lazy streets lined with wide oaks offering shelter to homes built around the turn of the century. The town itself was located about sixteen miles out of Richmond on the largest road going north thus connecting it with Washington, D.C. I remember that my father would always tell newcomers that you should drive north, outside of town and turn left when you came to the sign that said Ashland, pop 550. This sign would be on the right side of the highway. You should then proceed two blocks down that street, always remaining nameless in all of our minds, until you came to the second crossroads. You then would turn right. His mother’s house was the first house on the right, the one behind the tall hedge that served as a fence to the many grandchildren playing there; the one with the tall oak suspending a black spare tire swing from its lowest branch with an old rope that was chaffing in several places. You couldn’t miss it, he would say, as there are only two houses on the block, and the block is large.
People lived slower then. Sources of wonder came from the ordinary. A railroad ran between the cities of Washington and Richmond thus dividing Ashland in half. On our side was the college and all of the old smaller houses, diminutive shops and specialty stores where one could measure out seeds for planting, etc. by the scoop full, watching carefully as the grain, seeds or whatever, fell slowly into the brown paper sack carefully held beneath it. Nothing was to spill.
On the other side of the railroad was the better part of the town for it held the train station and the ice cream store. Also located across the tracks was the massive plantation of Carter’s Grove, discretely hidden behind stately oaks and tall English boxwood hedges. My grandfather, Early, knowing that I loved both trains and ice cream equally, would capture my small hand, as a weekend treat, and lead me carefully down the sidewalk, past the hardware store and his insurance office, across the train track and onto the station platform. There we would read the schedule, although we both already knew, by heart, that only four trains a day passed this way, two going and two coming.
If it was near noon, and it usually was, then we would head over to the ice cream shop for a cone. I was allowed two scoops, costing a nickel each. Choosing between cherry vanilla and fresh banana became the mental fight of the week. One day Grandpa suggested that I get a scoop of each which I eagerly did; however, they melted into one another, giving each terrible flavors that didn’t match. I never ordered different scoops again; learning the hard way, I would change my choice to one flavor weekly, always regretting that I didn’t select the flavor that I had not chosen.
We would then walk over to the shaded bench that sat beside the station and wait for the train to come through. Den Den, as I affectionately called my grandfather, wore a fedora. as most men did in those times, even in the country, and he would tip his hat and bid “Good morning” to all of the ladies that happened to pass our way. Likewise, his cronies would tip their hats to me should we meet. I felt so grown up when they did this. There weren’t many young men in town, for this was during the early forties and a war was going on in Europe. I didn’t know about fighting in the Pacific because I didn’t even know where that was, as I was only four years old. It honored me that men would tip their hats in acknowledgement. It is a trait that I still dearly miss in our modern times.
The train would come roaring through, sounding it’s seemingly endless horn, throughout the town. People could set their watches by the 12:05; the conductor would always wave at me, making me feel very special. Den Den would smile, giving me a loving wink, and we would proceed to count the cars--- so many passenger cars and then so many hauling freight. People staring out of the windows would wave and smile and I would wonder where in the world they were going in such a hurry and what was the world like where they were going?
After the cones were consumed we would wash our hands in the only outdoor water fountain and begin our travels back towards grandmother’s house, but not before stopping at the gate to a plantation named Carter’s Grove. Much later in life I was to meet the heir to this estate. Named Carter, she was younger than I by a decade and lived a similar lifestyle on an old Alden sloop in Soper’s Hole, Tortola. We became great friends and often traded stories concerning the illusions of the past and the wonder of being able to be young in a place like Ashland.
Grandpa and I would then re-trace out steps back to our point of origin, only on the other side of the street. I would look forward to this routine all week, when living with my parents and younger brother, Jimmy, in Richmond; Den Den never disappointed me.
When my parent’s marriage was finally set, in October of ‘37, Nan wore, not the white of a young bride of today, although she often told me that of course she was a virgin, but a highly revered blue/gray suit she had purchased at Miller & Rhodes in Richmond. This story was retold to me throughout my childhood as her daughter and the fact that this beautifully tailored wedding garb was on sale was always mentioned, probably the reason that I have always, in later years, thought that a sale was the highest form of purchasing.
Their wedding was held in Greensboro, North Carolina, the home city of her other six siblings and their spouses. As she was the only unmarried child, and as they each shared a responsibility for her, Nan and Emmett were feted at a rather large chapel wedding for the times. Her oldest living brother, Kemp Clendenin Sr., walked her down the isle thus “giving her away” as was the custom in the south.
In 1939 Daddy had received a three dollar a week raise and could now begin a family. I was born early in 1940. We lived in Richmond, across the street from Thomas Jefferson (T.J.) High School and each weekend we would visit my grandparents at their Victorian home in Ashland.
Homes in those days followed a certain architectural floor plan very similar in design. The houses were usually two to three stories high with a large wrap around porch on the front and one side. In Grandma and Den Den’s house the porch began on the right hand corner side, when facing the house, and continued down the front of the house to the corner on the left.
There was a large wooden swing on the end farthest from the door with an old glider sofa up against the house and two wicker rocking chairs opposite. The porch had carved white railings that supported a banister large enough to sit on. It was a wonderful porch with it’s continual movement of swings and rockers. After dinner Den Den would descend upon his rocker, smoke his pipe and set out to work the daily crossword as Grandmother and my mother did the dishes.
Upon entering the front door, to the right of the porch, one would enter a large parlor. On the immediate left side was the stairway leading to the second floor. It had a landing about five steps up as was customary in homes of this type. Beneath the steps and to the right was the door to my grandmother’s bedroom. Den Den’s was beyond that only his had a bathroom that was adjacent. Facing front was a wall with a table and chairs, then a large curved double entrance into the living room and, on the right side, a bay window with a sofa in front of it. This constituted the parlor; it was in this room you decided your destination within the house. If you wanted to go to the kitchen or dining room you proceeded through the living room, so it was quite natural that this was where the greater area of traffic flow was.
I loved this arched entrance to the living quarters. As the side of the house was on the right, with another bay window, one would have to turn left to enter the dining room, through large double doors filled with glass panes, and then on through the dining room and into the kitchen. I usually never got that far because my attention always focused on the most delightful object of my entire childhood-- my grandmother’s curio cabinet.
Entering the living room and turning left, I would encounter this rather large four shelved cabinet with it’s precious semicircle of glass, including a large door that would open vertically. The glass objects within this transparent enclosure remained a source of constant curiosity for me as I was not allowed to open the door without my grandmother and the wonderful small key that she carried for such an occasion. With no one else in the room, I would stand for hours and gaze at the miniature glass animals that were housed within Olphelia’s curio cabinet.
Now, looking back, I have to strain to remember the particular animals represented there as they were clothed in an aura of vagueness. What I remember is a feeling, a sense of contentment, as it were, that nothing else in my life mattered, that I could stand forever, with my very small feet in Mary Jane shoes and thin white socks, folded, ever so gently at my ankles, in adoration of the transparent world of miniature glass animals encased within this cabinet.
My parents didn’t argue---they never fought--I didn’t need a refuge upon recollection, but still I stood, for hours upon hours, closed within the glass world that filled my imagination. No one called me for chores in those moments. I ceased to exist for members of my family. Perhaps they understood my silence; maybe they had even forgotten my small presence. I was never scolded for stopping and staring at the contents. What could have been hours in my memory, might only have been moments then.
What I remember was the power. I didn’t recognize the kinds of animals within because I was not old enough to know their breeds and differences, much less their predications. I only remember that they gave me a great sense of relief. I would hurry to the kitchen only to stop, short and sudden, at the curio cabinet. To stare at the world beyond my reach, a new world that was transparent and out of reach to mere mortals, closed and locked behind a long and perfectly curved glass door. Not being allowed to open the door and touch what was within, I could only remain the ever wanting observer and as such I spent endless hours in fascination inventing lives and adventures for each.
Such a world! These motionless creatures were full of fantasy, grace and quests. Their forms were a Matisse curvature, swift in its definition of space filled with lines suggesting plots and subplots. I had only to glance at the legs of ice for stories to unfold, within my mind, of lives filled with far-away-ness, lands and experiences beyond mine, tales of loyalty and devotion; animals, not as humans always asking or demanding, but still, waiting, for the dedication of movement.
I returned to Richmond and my home each Sunday night but my heart and reason was never really there. Somehow I dwelled with those small figurines, that couldn’t move or talk or feel emotions. Somehow I, through them, remained outside, looking in.
This was a reaction that I was to have throughout most of my adult life, that of being outside, beyond, unconnected. Now that I reflect upon this great happiness of mine, some fifty years ago, I remember a sense of total serenity, nothing being required either actively on my part, or inactively within me. It was just simply the silent act of standing, of looking and of wondering about what these glass figures could possibly create if they could move. Maybe it wasn’t even that. Possibly, even in the forties, it was the appreciation of the power of silence. Conceivably it was the thought, even at four, that the curio cabinet would hold for me memories for a lifetime to come.
*I started to kindergarten in Richmond. I hated it and would climb a tree so I didn't have to participate. Later, in 1st grade, the only think I like or remember was reading and the May Pole Dance
1947 - 1949 - 28th Street, Washington D.C.
1949 - 1950 - Quesada Ave, Chevy Chase, Md.
1950 - 1951 - Hotel where Greer Garson lived in Dallas, Texas
Asbury Street, Dallas, Texas
1951 - 1954- Hanover Street, University Park, Dallas, Texas
1954 - 1959 - Newburgh Road, Evansville, Indiana
1957 - 1959 - DePauw University, Greencastle, Indiana
Lucy Rowland Hall - 1 year
Kappa Kappa Gamma - 2 years
1959 - summer Albert Pick Hotel, Evanston, Illinois
1959 - 1960 - Pleasant Lane, Glenview, Illinois
1960 - summer 3540 Washington Ave, Evansville, Indiana
1960 - 1961 - 3055 Meridian St., Indianapolis, Indiana
1961 - 1963 - 860 Broadway, SoHo, Manhattan, N.Y., N.Y.
1963 - 1964 - Wherry Housing, Keesler Air Force Base, Biloxi, Ms.
1964 - summer Arrowsmith House, Bethesda, Md.
1964 - 1967 - 509 Harrington Rd., Rockville, Md.
1967 - 1968 - 3 separate apartments in Iowa City, Iowa
1968 - 1976 - 405 Ruskin Ave. Ocean Springs, Ms.
1976 - 1986 - 316 Lovers Lane, Ocean Springs, Ms.
1975 - 1992 - Navarre Beach, Florida
1976 - 1986 - 1031 Chartres Street, French Quarter, New Orleans
1986 - 1987 - #7 North Street, St. Croix, USVI
1987 - 1988 - St. Croix By the Sea Condos, St. Croix
1988 - summer Bordeaux Mountain, St. John, USVI
1988 - 1989 - Coral Bay, St. John
1987 - 1990 - The Dakota, West 72nd & Central Park, N.Y., N.Y.
1990 - 1991 - S/V ANTARES
Sapphire Beach Condos, St. Thomas, U.S.V.I.
1991 - 1994 - Soper's Hole, West End, Tortola, BVI
1994 - 1996 - S/V ANTARES, Nanny Cay, Tortola
in the marina on F Dock, Peg Legs Dock & C dock
1996 - #9 Pieces of Eight, Sea Cows Bay, Tortola
TOTAL = 35 individual moves and houses not including ashrams, Hawaii stays, and long visits.
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