They called me Billy.<\/p>\n
Willard Mayo was the name\u2014taken from my great grandfather. However, when the day approached for me to enroll in school for the first time, my parents wisely changed their minds. They decided on Byron as my first name\u2014the same as my dad. (A few years ago, I sent off to the State of Oregon for a fresh copy of my birth certificate. It arrived\u2014still showing Byron as a hand printed entry in front of the original name registration.)<\/p>\n
For me, Byron was a quick and easy change. I liked my dad\u2019s name. But my irrepressible Aunt Phoebe, God bless her, continued to call me Billy\u2014or Bill\u2014until the day she died. My grandfather, Jim Dewey, also had a problem getting used to the switch-over. He’d sometimes call me Billy one day and Byron the next. I just went along with the flow\u2014answering to either name.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
A few months after I was born, my dad landed a good job up in Idaho, working on the new veteran\u2019s hospital being constructed in Coeur d\u2019Alene. He took my mother and me along. My dad told me we lived in Coeur d\u2019Alene for a year and a half, until the hospital was completed.<\/p>\n
Returning to Oregon, the folks bought a small, white bungalow on a dirt road in the outskirts of Portland\u2014at the base of Mt. Tabor. It had a big, front lawn with no sidewalks, and a little garden in back\u2014one of my earliest memories.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
Memory does play tricks\u2014especially in recalling the earliest years. A blur of images comes to mind.. Hazy chronology. Yet, within that disorder, paradoxically, separate fragments remain sharp and clear.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n One of my earliest memories of Christmas was an especially magical time. It was the first year I can remember snow at Christmas\u2014a late December\u00a0rarity in Portland. Inside the house, my dad had strung the lights and fixed a shining star firmly on the top of a Douglas Fir tree that stretched to the ceiling. My dad and mother together hung what seemed to be box after box of beautiful ornaments. I hung a few, too\u2014breaking three, maybe four. The front room and kitchen were decorated for the holidays. We had some songs and some pranks. And all was ready\u2014for a visit from Santa Claus.<\/p>\n On Christmas Eve, it happened. Early in his rounds, he came to our house. Honest. Sometime after dinner. The moonlight was shining on the snow outside. My mother was quietly reading me a Christmas story. When suddenly, I heard the exciting clatter of reindeer hoofs on the roof, a muffled knock on the door, and a throaty \u201cho.. .ho.. .ho\u201d.. .trailing off into the wind. \u201cMerry Christmas,\u201d he chortled. My mother jumped up. \u201cIt\u2019s Santa. It\u2019s Santa. Let\u2019s go look.\u201d<\/p>\n I ran first to the window, then to the door. My mother swung the door wide open. There\u2014right there on our front stoop\u2014was a, shiny, new, red Flexible Flyer<\/em> sled, topped with three gaily-wrapped Christmas packages. A moment later, I heard my dad come up behind me, shouting “There he goes, Billy. Look. Quick. Up there. Up there.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked up, transfixed, up into the sky. And do you know, to this day, I still believe I saw on the distant horizon the fading vision of a sled in the night skies, pulled by eight tiny reindeer. (My folks happily got away with these wonderful Christmas theatrics for two, maybe three, more years.) Happy times.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Right from the start, my mother made it clear she did not want me to call her \u201cMommy\u2019 or \u201cMom.\u201d She said she wanted me to call her \u201cMother.\u201d And that I did, throughout her life.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There seemed to be a whole lot of singing going on around our house during\u00a0those earliest years. I can remember my dad out back working in the garden, belting out Bye, Bye, Blackbird<\/em>. Another one of his favorites, inside the house with drink in hand, was Show Me the Way to go Home<\/em>. That was a party-time favorite. I will remember the words forevermore.<\/p>\n Show me the way to go home I\u2019m tired and We had a big, hand-cranked Victrola<\/em>\u2014 a brand name\u00a0that became so popular in those days it was almost generic for phonographs. My dad would let me stand on a chair and crank up the Victrola<\/em>. But he wouldn\u2019t let me put any of his prize 78-rpm recordings on the turntable until I was a year or two older. I\u2019d simply stand up there and watch the music go \u2018round and \u2018round. The oldest record in his collection was a scratchy but still exciting performance oiPagliacci<\/em> by Caruso.<\/p>\n One of my own nutty favorites at that age was Yes, We Havva No Bananas, We Havva No Bananas Today<\/em>, sung by some ukulele player with a high squeaky voice. Or, how about that popular hold-over from WWI, entitled\u00a0Hello, Central, Give Me No-Man\u2019s-Land, My Daddy\u2019s Over There?<\/em> We even, had the sheet music for that one.<\/p>\n Mother owned an upright piano and a piano bench loaded<\/em> with sheet music. She loved to play the piano and I thought she was pretty good. Her sentimental favorite was Let the Rest of the World Go By<\/em>.<\/p>\n We\u2019ll, build a sweet little nest I would often sit beside her on the bench and watch while she played. In addition to chop sticks, she taught me how to play that funny little melody called Java<\/em>. And we\u2019d sing it together.<\/p>\n Java… Java… <\/p>\n Once in awhile, she\u2019d take me with her when she went shopping in downtown Portland. Woolworth\u2019s, Kress\u2019 and Newberry\u2019s were the big-three five-and-ten-cent-stores in town. These were big<\/em>stores. Woolworth and Newberry\u2019s featured a lavish music section in their basements with live piano\u00a0players rendering each week\u2019s sheet music hits, on and off all day long. Very impressive. As I remember it, Woolworth\u2019s had a pretty woman at the piano. Newberry\u2019s featured a young man. My mother thought the guy at Newberry\u2019s had the best voice. We\u2019d usually go there shopping for more sheet music. On the wall back of the music section, they posted blowups of each week\u2019s colorful sheet music covers. It was a highly popular and highly competitive scene. Somewhere along the line, my mother talked me into taking piano lessons. It made her feel good, I think. Anyway, I did it for almost two years. Every Saturday morning, a fat, ugly woman with bad breath would come teach me a lesson. In between, I would have to practice almost every afternoon. It all ended shortly after I played in a recital whichstarred the woman\u2019s \u201cbest\u201d students. I don\u2019t think I was very good.<\/p>\n The first full-length movie I can remember seeing scared the daylights out of me. It was a silent horror picture\u2014built on the Dracula story. It might have been Nosferatu<\/em>. (This was before talkies.) My folks probably should not have taken me along that night. But they did. And the ugly, terrifying vampire and eerie shadows and menacing action all had me thoroughly frightened\u2014and totally fascinated.<\/p>\n The evil atmosphere of the night was thickened by our problems getting home. A threatening, ground-level fog had come in, taking over in every direction. It was impenetrable\u2014so bad that my dad stood outside the car on the running board and peered at the road ahead, guiding my mother, while she drove us home, inch by inch. We made it home.. And lying safely in bed later, I considered it a terrific night of terror and adventure.<\/p>\n The atmosphere was much more festive a few months later when Hollywood premiered the first full-length talking picture ever made: Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer<\/em>, The folks took me with them to see that one, too. And I was overwhelmed. The idea of people actually talking and singing up there on the screen just blew me away. I thought it was fantastic.<\/p>\n My dad and mother also viewed the movie with keen interest. However, in discussing it afterwards among themselves, my folks predicted that talking pictures would be only a novelty. You see, Jolson\u00a0more or less remained in one position, facing the mike, during every scene in that initial film. \u201cTalkies just aren\u2019t gonna work for any kind of action movie. Believe me, the good silent films are here to stay.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n My mother was always a fastidious house-keeper. Everything was neat, clean and in its place. She worked hard to keep it that way. As soon as I was old enough to help without breaking something, she assigned me the job of dusting the furniture.<\/p>\n When my dad bought her a new Hoover<\/em>vacuum cleaner, she gave up her clackity old carpet sweeper. But then I had to dust furniture to the roar of that loud and raucous Hoover. And I hated it.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n At 7:52 a.m., May 20, 1927, Charles A. Lindbergh took off from Roosevelt Field, Long Island, in a small, single engine airplane called The Spirit of St. Louis<\/em>\u2014in an attempt to be the first man in history to fly solo, nonstop, from New York to Paris\u20143,600 miles across the Atlantic.<\/p>\n In the days ahead, Lindy became the ultimate American hero, admired around the world. Today it’s difficult to even comprehend the total dominance of his fame at that time and for some years to come. We’ve neither seen nor felt anything to equal such idolization in our current era. The shy, unassuming “Lindy\u201d totally captivated the nation. Along with most people across the country on May 20th, we stayed glued to our Atwater- Kent<\/em>radio as much as we could. We listened to sparse radio reports of sightings that first day, that long night, the next day, on into the afternoon. Finally, he made it. And with his landing in Paris came an explosive celebration. Like almost every little kid in America, I was thrilled beyond belief.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Our Overland<\/em>touring car was a black beauty. It seated five or six people. Top up or top down. Side curtains on or off. Gleaming over-size headlights.\u00a0Heavy front bumper. Full-length running boards. Mounted rear tire. A newly-designed six-cylinder engine. And a horn I thought was a kick. \u201cAh-oooga.. .Ah-oooga\u201d<\/p>\n It was called a sporty touring car. And tour we did. Some Sundays we\u2019d drive to Vancouver for a visit with Uncle Fred and Aunt Edna Martell. Other times we\u2019d go off on our own\u2014up the Columbia River gorge on what is still one of the world\u2019s most beautiful drives Or, down to Cannon Beach. My dad loved the Oregon coast. So did I. Or, once in awhile, we\u2019d go all the way to Mt. Hood on a spectacular, two-lane road\u2014pride of the 1920s. Other times, we\u2019d just tour around town, enjoying the sights in the City of Roses.<\/p>\n My grandparents were picking hops and working the apple harvest in the Willamette Valley about that time.<\/p>\n We visited them, too. I\u2019d take a nap in an apple basket while the folks were talking it up.<\/p>\n We even made it up into the mountains for a visit with Aunt Phoebe and Uncle George, who were cooking at a Cascade logging camp. We almost got stuck in the muddy ruts going up. But we didn\u2019t. And what I remember best about that trip were Aunt Phoebe\u2019s incredible, fresh- baked, wild blackberry pies, topped with home-made ice cream. Remember the good times.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n I was about five-and-a-half years old when my mother enrolled me into the first grade. No kindergarten. I was registered as Byron W. Mayo.<\/p>\n All I remember about that first year in school is that we walked through a woods to get to the old wooden school building\u2014my mother made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for my lunch\u2014the kids were friendly\u2014I got to be in a school play\u2014starting to learn the alphabet seemed like a good game\u2014and I was glad when summer vacation came at the end of the school year.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Whenever my grandparents or any relatives came over for a visit, I recall that we\u2019d always have an early dinner and lots of talk. Then, the grownups would invariably end up in an uproarious pinochle game accompanied by bootleg beer and lots of arguing. This could go on for hours. In the next room, I didn\u2019t get much sleep.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Every now and then, however, my folks would throw a party with their younger friends. Then it became an evening of loud music,\u00a0dancing and bootleg gin. They\u2019d cut the bad gin with gingerale and maybe a little lime. I think they called it a Gin Buck. They let me drink straight gingerale. The dancing was fun watching. I thought that my mother doing the Charleston in her funny straight dress without a waistline was hilarious. I\u2019d usually watch what was happening for awhile and then go to bed. In the next room, I didn\u2019t get much sleep.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Ted Ewing was the name of the kid who lived next door. During that last summer, we had some good times together. We played in the woods. We built forts in the dirt back of his house.. We played with a dog that lived up the road. We played marbles. We hooted and hollered around. And sometimes, on my front lawn, we\u2019d just he on our backs with our hands behind our heads and gaze up at the sky. We\u2019d try to create faces and shapes out of the cumulus clouds\u2014or sometimes talk about the future.<\/p>\n “Hey, Byron, whadda ya wanna be when you grow up?\u201d Ted Ewing\u2019s family moved back east during the depression. We traded comical postcards and notes occasionally over the years. He grew up to become a soldier\u2014a second-lieutenant with the US Army\u2019s 106th Infantry Division during WWII. He was killed in Europe, December 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n When my mother walked out, she took only her clothes, a little money and me, (The piano came later.)<\/p>\n The end came fast. Unexpected. I was totally blind\u00adsided. They say that kids usually sense the troubles. Well, I didn\u2019t. I had no idea my dad and my mother weren\u2019t getting along. They hid it amazingly well. In the final week, my mother talked with me about her filing for divorce. I was bewildered. Confused. She wasn\u2019t coming through. It\u2019s difficult for me now to remember the conversation. She said something about \u201clongtime troubles\u201d and \u201ccertain problems,\u201d\u00a0unexplained. She talked about a \u201cnew life…Mr. Neff…his daughter, Gladys… good times ahead… a happier future together it turned into a painful jumble in my mind.All I knew was that I was facing a future I didn\u2019t know or want, or cause.On that last\u00a0day, when it was time to go, my dad picked me up to say good-bye. He kissed me and gave me a long, hard hug. I held on. He finally put me down. I held back the tears, turned, grasped my mother\u2019s hand and we walked down the front path to Neffs waiting car, sitting in the dirt road with its engine running.<\/p>\n
\nBringing my mother a small bouquet of flowers that turned out to be weeds\u2014my dad and my mother singing around the house\u2014holding hands while we walked in the woods\u2014the day my dad proudly drove up the driveway in a brand new Overland<\/em>touring car\u2014the smell of freshly – baked cookies in the kitchen\u2014family trips to Cannon Beach\u2014watching my dad lather up and shave with a mean-looking, straight razor\u2014sitting by my mother at the piano while she played\u2014digging in a dirt pile along with the kid next door\u2014a surprise birthday party\u2014skipping rocks into the Zig Zag River while my grandparents tried to fish\u2014and the firstsnow covering our front yard and all of Mt. Tabor: These are among the joyous memories I treasure from those brief few years at the little house in Portland, Oregon.<\/p>\n
\nI want to go to bed.
\nHad a little drink about an\u00a0hour ago and it
\nwent right to my head.
\nWherever I may roam
\non land or sea or foam
\nYou will always hear me singing this song
\nShow me the way to go home…. How dry I am!<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n
\nAlone in the West…
\nAnd. let the rest of the world go by.<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nJava, Java, Jing Jing Jing.<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nI found a million dollar baby
\nAt the five-and-ten-cent store<\/strong><\/p>\n
He took along five sandwiches, one quart of water, no parachute and no radio (to conserve fuel). At 10:22 p.m. Paris time, exactly 33 1\/2<\/sup> \u00a0hours later, he glided down out of the night for a safe landing at Le Bourget airport. Both France and America went wild.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI dunno. Maybe an artist. Or a flyer. How ’bout you?\u201d
\n\u201cThink I\u2019d like to be a doctor. Or maybe a fireman.\u201d<\/p>\n