{"id":52,"date":"2012-09-15T20:16:37","date_gmt":"2012-09-15T20:16:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/?p=52"},"modified":"2012-12-10T01:36:35","modified_gmt":"2012-12-10T01:36:35","slug":"a-new-deal","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/a-new-deal\/","title":{"rendered":"A New Deal"},"content":{"rendered":"

“Just around the corner,
\nThere’s a rainbow in the sky.
\nSo let’s have another cup of coffee.
\nAnd let’s have another piece of pie.”<\/strong><\/p>\n

Irving Berlin, 1932<\/em><\/p>\n

The year 1932 was a national election year. For millions of depression-weary Americans, Herbert Hoover’s Republican presidency was doomed and on its way out. The Democrats nominated the debonair governor of New York, Franklin D. Roosevelt, who pledged a “New Deal” for the American people. His confidence in the face of despair was infectious.<\/em><\/p>\n

Roosevelt won by a landslide.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Every summer during the depression years, my grandparents would join the migrant workers in the fields for two or three weeks, picking fruits and vegetables. They made a little extra money doing this. Very little. However, as pickers they found ways to bring home boxes of seconds for home canning, at little or no cost.<\/p>\n

I can remember my mother and my grandmother sweating in the kitchen for hours as they put up dozens of Mason<\/em> jars full of preserves, jellies, pickles, beets, peaches and pears.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Living in a 1 1\/2<\/sup>-bath flat with three single women had its unique problems. Yet I think of that brief period in my life as an exhilarating time.<\/p>\n

Despite the darkness of the depression, menial jobs and a constant concern about money, our flat seemed to reverberate with unexplained gayety and friendly banter,\u00a0especially between Agnes Peterson and my mother. They were great pals.<\/p>\n

Both of them watched over their wistful new roommate, Emma Lindquist, as if she was a younger sister. And all three of the women watched over me.<\/p>\n

I was doing lousy in school at the time. All three of them pounced on me. They saw to it that I started completing my homework. Period.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Emma had a broad face, luminous hazel eyes, a big nose, and an absolutely spectacular body. Most of the time she wore her long ash-blonde hair pulled softly back into a bun, spiked with an ornate gold pin that she said once belonged to her mother.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A thin, pale, ugly scar slanted downward into her left eyebrow. It gave her a disdainful, raised-eyebrow look that made some people uneasy. However, from the viewpoint of a ten-or-eleven-year-old boy, I thought she had a cool, quizzical\u00a0expression that was nifty.<\/p>\n

It was not until much later I learned the sordid story behind the facial scar and two ugly scars on her shoulder. Her jealous, overbearing husband, during one final, furniture-smashing, bottle-shattering, insane rampage, had brutally attacked her.<\/p>\n

It brought\u00a0their ill-fated marriage to an end.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Emma and I hit it off well from the start. Shortly after I moved into the new flat, my mother and Agnes went out on a double date. Emma volunteered to hang around and keep me out of trouble. What did she do? She took me to a movie.<\/p>\n

We discovered that both of us were eager to see a scary new film that was the talk of the town, “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” It was showing on the east side, at the nearby Orpheum Theater. Or was it the Bagdad? I don’t remember. I think it was the Orpheum.<\/p>\n

She caught me by surprise.<\/p>\n

Only minutes after Agnes and my mother walked out the door, she turned to me and said, “Well, Byron…how would you like to go see Jekyll and Hyde?”<\/p>\n

“No kidding? Hey…terrific!”<\/p>\n

Off we went.<\/p>\n

Frederic March’s performance in that 1932 version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic horror story was incredible. He won an Oscar for his berserk portrayal of the gruesome Mr. Hyde. And I ate it up. Every minute.<\/p>\n

(In Hollywood today, it’s still debated exactly how they achieved the Jekyll-Hyde transformation scenes. It had a chilling effect. And the secret has never been revealed.)<\/p>\n

Emma was less enthusiastic. But she did enjoy Miriam Hopkins’ sensitive portrayal of the tantalizing trollop.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

On a gloomy, rainy Saturday in March 1933, Franklin D. Roosevelt was sworn in as president, taking over under terrible circumstances. He addressed a worried and weary nation in a short, twenty-minute address that marked the start of the long, long road back.<\/em><\/p>\n

‘My friends,” he said, “…Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself\u2014nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”<\/em><\/p>\n

He faced a monumental task.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Another world leader took over in early 1933, too. Adolf Hitler was named Chancellor of Germany. In out\u00adclasses at Buckman Grammar School, we paid little attention to the event.\u00a0The terror of Hitler and his Nazis came home to us a little later on.<\/p>\n

Out on the streets, however, we were paying attention to news about another German: Max Schmeling, the arrogant heavyweight boxing champion of the world. There were cheers around the neighborhood that summer when Jack Sharkey defeated Schmeling in 15 rounds, bringing the world’s heavyweight title back to the US.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The Chinese gambling joint on Couch Street quietly reopened. I don’t know how they got away with it. But they did. And one crowded night, my mother and Agnes were there in the middle of the action, when something\u00a0extraordinary happened that my mother would talk aboutfor the rest of her life.<\/p>\n

She made eleven straight passes on the craps table!<\/em> That means she threw an opening seven or eleven or made her point, eleven successive times. She held the dice for almost 45 minutes. Everybody in the place started crowding around, watching her play out her hand. It was an incredible run.<\/p>\n

Agnes said that as the atmosphere grew more and more tense, the crowd loudly cheered her on with every roll of the dice. It was probably the noisiest shift since the police broke the doors down.<\/p>\n

Fortunes have been made with the kind of lucky roll my mother had going that night. It’s the kind of run that every craps player dreams about. With smart, heavy betting, a string of eleven straight passes can wipe out a small gambling house. Literally break the bank.<\/p>\n

A few high rollers around the table that night did make a pile of money on my mother’s hot hand. Yet all my mother won was $300, because of her small bets and conservative betting style. She didn’t let any of her winnings ride. She picked up the money after every pass. And she seldom took the available odds on her front line bets. She admitted this to me when she described the night again, years later.<\/p>\n

She said that after the third or fourth pass, she became scared. She was shaking. She expected again and again to lose on the next roll. And she didn’t have the nerve to beef up her bets\u2014to push her luck.<\/p>\n

However, she told of one small, lean, neatly-dressed man who did have the nerve to increase the size of his bets\u2014on her luck, He walked away from the table with winnings of more than $4,000. That would amount to ten times that much in today’s money. Maybe more.<\/p>\n

In true\u00a0gentlemanly fashion, he politely introduced himself to my mother. He thanked her for her significant contribution to his successful night at the table. And he graciously asked her to permit him to double her winnings. He then. presented her with $300.<\/p>\n

That’s how my mother met Henry Sperling, a well- known Portland businessman, who later on became her lover and “fairy godfather.”<\/p>\n

Late that night, when my mother and Agnes arrived home, they were chattering and giggling like a couple of Buckman school girls.<\/p>\n

With her $300 doubled into a $600 bonanza, my mother paid-off past-due grocery bills for my grandparents. She bought herself an old, third-hand Chevrolet jalopy that seemed to be in pretty good shape after 96,000 miles. And she bought me a shiny, new Schwinn<\/em> bicycle.<\/p>\n

She said she still had $40 left over, which she popped into the bank.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

What a bike. I remember the day we brought it home. It was bright red with white and gold racing stripes. Wide, steer-horn handle bars. Fat balloon tires. Single\u00adspeed. Firm, no-nonsense,foot-pedal brakes. Stylized chain-guard and extra jeweled mud-guards. Cushioned, harness-leather seat. And a gleaming, chrome front headlight. I tell you, it was a real hog.<\/p>\n

Boy, was I proud of that bike. It was the first new bicycle I had ever owned. My grandfather attached a fancy metal owner’s tag to the frame, with my name on it.<\/p>\n

Three days later, when somebody stole the bike, I was heart-broken. Absolutely miserable.<\/p>\n

It was my own fault. I swallowed hard, blinked back the tears and admitted full responsibility to my mother. I’d left the bike unlocked, leaning against a post in front of the grocery store for five, maybe ten minutes. It was a painful lesson for me.<\/p>\n

However, I was a lucky kid. Far luckier than I deserved. A few days later, the Portland Police Department’s stolen bike detail (one uniformed cop in a pickup truck) found the bike abandoned in a Ladd Park driveway, less than a mile away. It had suffered one long, deep gouge in the paint job.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

During the early days of his new administration, FDR’s contagious optimism seemed to hit everybody. Even the kids. I can remember sitting on the floor in front of our Atwater Kent<\/em> radio, listening along with my grandparents to his intimate fireside chats.\u00a0Using the new medium of radio like a master, FDR took his ideas directly to the people. These were “radical” unheard-of new ideas\u2014like unemployment benefits, social security pensions, federally insured bank deposits, and a federal jobs program called the Work Progress Administration (WPA).<\/p>\n

FDR, also demanded the repeal of prohibition.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

One day Emma insisted that I had to learn how to dance. I insisted that I didn’t.<\/p>\n

“Who needs it?” I sneered. (Ballroom dancing was not a 6th grade measure of success in the rough and tumble school yard at Buckman.)<\/p>\n

She kept after me and kept after me and finally cajoled me into trying. She cleared out some chairs in the front room. Then she put a recording of Hoagy Carmichael’s new hit song, “Stardust,” on the Victrola<\/em>. The name of the band on that old recording escapes me.<\/p>\n

She had me stand and listen to the feel of the music. She showed me how to hold the girl without crushing her. She demonstrated the basic box step. And that was the start of it. Her reluctant student was ready for his first awkward lesson.<\/p>\n

“Okay, here we go.”<\/p>\n

“Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely night… dreaming of a song…” Hey, this isn’t so bad. “The Nightingale…sings its merry tale…and I am once again with you.”<\/em><\/p>\n

“Very good. Very good. Now let’s try it again.”<\/p>\n

With Emma’s patience, wry humor and professional touch, it finally started coming through to me\u2014after several’ sessions. The rhythm, the steps, the feel for leading. The basics, at least. And this was none of that Arthur Murray, Lambeth Walk kind of stuff, or The Big Apple, or the Jitterbug. This was Honest-to-God, hold ’em in your arms kind of dancing.<\/p>\n

(I’ve always thought calling it the Fox Trot was a misnomer for anything so smooth and mellow.)<\/p>\n

Eventually, I forgot almost everything Emma taught me. But some of it came back a few years later when I was swept up into the high school maelstrom.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

At the flat on Taylor Street, Agnes and Emma put together a simple celebration dinner the night my mother came home with the news she’d landed a job as an elevator operator at Meier & Frank’s department store. She had quit her job slinging hash at the all-night diner.<\/p>\n

As I remember it, there were candles on the table, fried steaks, cold bottles of\u00a0home brew from out of the ice box and not much else.<\/p>\n

After a few months at Meier & Frank’s, my mother moved on to a job as an elevator operator at one of Portland’s major downtown office buildings. The pay wasn’t any better. But in her new job, she didn’t have to call out each floor, which she detested.<\/p>\n

“Second floor, ladies lingerie and sportswear…Third floor, ladies coats and designer dresses…Fourth floor, sporting goods and toys…etcetera, etcetera, etcetera”<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Books have had a joyous and important influence in my life, Yet, admittedly, I had trouble reading early. I was a spotty reader until I was about ten or eleven. Then, something kicked-in. I got into high gear. And I became a voracious reader.<\/p>\n

Books excited me. I read\u2014not simply to pursue knowledge. That intense desire came later. As a kid, I read to quench a thirst for adventure.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

For Christmas that year, I received three prized gifts that became the beginnings of my childhood collection of good books\u2014a collection that grew and grew.<\/p>\n

My mother gave me a twin set of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn<\/em>. Reading the escapades of Tom Sawyer was fun. But it was the Huckleberry Finn book that really hooked me. Huck got himself into scrapes and experiences that made my mouth water. And how about the Duke and the Dauphin? In all of literature, has there ever been a more delicious pair of rascals?<\/p>\n

Emma gave me a beautiful edition of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island<\/em>. I related to Jim Hawkins immediately, as he observed the human nature of those exuberant characters who surrounded him. But it was that lovable rogue, Long John Silver, who fired up my imagination. “Fifteen men on a dead man’schest.” Remember? “Yo\u2014ho\u2014ho\u2014and a bottle of rum.”<\/p>\n

Agnes gave me an early edition of Jack London’s Call of the Wild<\/em>. Critics called the book an expression of London’s credo: survival of the fittest. “The ruthless struggle for existence.” As a boy, however, I found the gripping story of the great dog Buck to be a thoughtful lesson in courage and loyalty. It’s a compelling book, worth reading again.<\/p>\n

From that Christmas on, I would sit up almost every night reading a\u00a0book in bed.<\/p>\n

Reading in bed is something I consider to be one of mankind’s most endearing and fulfilling activities. It’s an addiction I continue to pursue to this very day\u2014or night.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

I quit my play-time job selling magazines when I finally earned enough points to get myself a slick-looking Daisy<\/em> pump-action BB gun. I’d had my eyes on it from the beginning. The gun arrived with three rolls of BBs, a thick pad of twelve-inch paper targets and a manual crammed with instructions on target shooting.<\/p>\n

My grandfather looked it all over and then added a stern safety warning of his own.<\/p>\n

“Now you listen to me, Byron. This BB gun’s no toy, you hear me? Never point it at anybody. And keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”<\/p>\n

I stored the gun in a closet at my grandparents’ flat. When I stayed there overnight or on occasional weekends, I practiced target shooting in the vacant lot next door.<\/p>\n

I would mount targets on a stuffed cardboard box backed up to the fence and I’d mark off distances. Then I’d get in position, take a deep breath, let it out just like the book said, draw another breath, release half of it, line up my sights, and gently squeeze the trigger. Bang!<\/em><\/p>\n

Sometimes I’d shoot sitting. Sometimes standing. Sometimes on my belly. Within weeks, I could cluster seven out of ten shots in the bull’s-eye at 25 feet. Later on, I did a little better.<\/p>\n

A kid from up the street named Chuck Brown sometimes practiced with me. He had his own BB-gun. We’d setup targets side by side and we’d alternate, squeezing off three shots at a time.<\/p>\n

Then, there were the lazy days. Just hanging around my room, we’d take pot shots at tin cans from the open bedroom window.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Late one night, my grandfather received a jarring phone call from Chicago. It was his long-lost brother, Sam. On the phone, Sam abruptly announced that he was getting on a train immediately, bound for Portland. And he made it clear he expected my grandfather to meet him at the train station.<\/p>\n

What do they call that? Chutzpah?<\/em><\/p>\n

This marked the first word of any kind between the two brothers since a day some 30 years before, when the Deweys and the Martells had set out fromMichigan on their move to the West coast. . .<\/p>\n

Sam had drifted off to Chicago, where he\u00a0changed his name from Dewey to Constantino and disappeared\u2014 totally cutting himself off from the family. Over the ensuing years, my grandparents heard vague rumors. But nothing definite. And there had never been any contact whatsoever.<\/p>\n

I was staying with my grandparents when the call came through. However, they had me return to my mother’s flat before Sam’s arrival, two or three days later. I met him for the first and last time the following evening, when my mother and I were invited over to dinner.<\/p>\n

No question about it, the two men were brothers. They inherited a striking resemblance. In a classy dark blue suit, Sam looked leaner than my grandfather. But both of them had the same full head of thick white hair. And both of them had deep-set eyes under bristling black eyebrows.<\/p>\n

There was one meaningful difference, however. My mother and I sensed it right away. Sam’s deep-set gray eyes were cold and humorless. He looked at you with an icy, piercing stare. He had none of my grandfather’s robust sense of humor.<\/p>\n

It was an awkward, uncomfortable dinner. There was little of the warmth that usually prevailed around our dinner table. Sam was surprisingly close-mouthed from beginning to end. He asked my mother and my grandparents a few pointed questions about their lives and the depression. He listened intently to their replies and to any other bits of conversation. That was about it.<\/p>\n

He ignored me completely. That was no big deal to me. But later on, when it came time for my mother and me to say good night, I was definitely ready to go.<\/p>\n

Sam stayed two days. My grandparents offered to show him a few of the sights around Portland, but he turned them down. He stayed inside the flat both days. Then, the following morning, he boarded a train and left town. Back to Chicago?<\/p>\n

Later, my mother told me that he had left some money with my grandparents. How much? I don’t know.<\/p>\n

In fact, I know nothing more about my grandfather’s enigmatic brother. Nothing. To this day, the full story of Sam Constantino remains a mystery. We never heard from him again.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

In the 1920s, US airmail was flown across the country by private pilots under contract, in single-engine, open cockpit planes. By the early 1930s, small commercial airline companies started springing up\u2014-American, Delta, United. These infant carriers took a\u00a0few passengers along with the mail.<\/p>\n

Most of them flew the legendary “Tin Goose”\u2014the sturdy, corrugated-metal Ford Trimotor that held up to 15 passengers and hopped across the country in 31 grueling hours of airtime (at 90 mph).<\/p>\n

Admiral Byrd also flew a Ford Trimotor on his historic flight over the SouthPole, November 1929.<\/p>\n

When I was eleven years old, I got my first ride in an airplane. It, too, was a Ford Trimotor. The corrugated- metal sides looked like one of my grandmother’s old gray washboards.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Emma Lindquist was going out with two different guys about that time. The one who had the inside track was Dick Rankin. I was pulling for him. He was a flyer. And I was really impressed.<\/p>\n

Dick offered to take all of us up for a flight over Portland. Agnes, Emma, my mother and me. None of us had ever been up in an airplane.<\/p>\n

For several days, my mother thought long and hard about whether to go, while I nagged and pleaded and begged. She finally said “yes.” And we all accepted Dick’s invitation.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Dick Rankin was the soft-spoken, younger brother of “Tex” Rankin, a flamboyant ex-WWI flyer, stunt pilot and air racer of some minor fame. Both of the brothers had barnstormed from place to place during the twenties, flying in air shows and exhibitions, operating out of small grass fields, hustling to make a buck.<\/p>\n

They had started out with a war surplus SPAD, the tough little biplane fighter that played such a critical role for the Allies in WWI.<\/p>\n

(Germany’s Baron Manfred von Richthofen, in the highly-maneuverable Fokker triplane, was the scourge of the skies over France in 1917. The Red Baron and his Flying Circus dominated\u2014shooting down Allied flyers in frightening, ever-increasing numbers.<\/p>\n

That changed, however, with the introduction of the scrappy, French-designed SPAD. America’s top ace, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, flying a SPAD, shot down 26 German planes during eight months of furious combat along the Western Front. He commanded the Yanks’ famed “Hat-in-Ring” squadron.)<\/p>\n

When the depression hit, the Rankin brothers gave up barnstorming and hunkered down in Oregon. They operated a flying service out of a tin hanger on a small dirt field located in the lowlands of north Portland. They called it Rankin Field. By this time, along with the SPAD, they owned a\u00a0Nieuport 17 (another WWI surplus fighter), plus the 1929 Ford Trimotor.<\/p>\n

They scraped by\u2014doing some engine repair work, taking sightseers up for a spin, handling photography assignments, plus occasional out-of-town air racing, stunt flying and air show exhibitions. Anything to pay the rent, the fuel bills and stay alive.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

At take-off, the Ford Trimotor was probably the world’s noisiest aircraft. The buzz-saw rasp of three uncowled engines, the vibration, and the external control cables slapping against the grooved metal sides, all combined to scare the hell out of Agnes and my mother as the “Tin Goose” lumbered down the field, picking up air speed. For me it wasone, big, heart-stopping thrill. I sat there gripping the seat handles, with a silly grin on my face.<\/p>\n

Once in the air, the howling engines and continued vibration still made so much noise it was impossible to hear anybody talk. I hooted and hollered for the fun of it.<\/p>\n

Dick Rankin flew us over the hills and towers of Portland and then up the Columbia River gorge, all the way to Mt. Hood and back. Looking down at the top . of Mt. Hood up close, through the “Tin Goose’s” large windows, was awesome.<\/p>\n

Dick sat at the controls. Emma sat in the co-pilot seat next to him. My mother and Agnes sat in the cabin on each side of the narrow aisle. And I bounded from one side of the plane to the other with pure delight, checking out the fabulous views.<\/p>\n

By the time that old “Tin Goose” flapped in for a landing on Rankin Field’s dirt strip, I had once again changed my mind. I had decided that when I grew up, I wanted to be a pilot.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

A few weeks after that memorable flight, Dick Rankin took Emma along on a flight to Kansas City, where the two brothers were entered in an air exhibition. It must have been a captivating trip. Upon her return, Emma told us that romance was in the air and that she and Dick were moving in together. He had an apartment across the Columbia River in Vancouver, Washington.<\/p>\n

When the time came for her to move, we helped her pack. There were a lot of hugs. We all kissed her good\u00adbye. And that was it\u2014the end of a brief but intriguing interlude in my life, when I lived on the eastside in a Taylor Street flat with three women.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

At 32\u00bd minutes past three (MT) in the\u00a0<\/em>afternoon of December 5th, 1933, Utah became the required 36th State to ratify the 21st Amendment to the Constitution, repealing prohibition. A telegram went off to Washington confirming the vote. Within minutes, President Franklin\u00a0D. Roosevelt declared the end of prohibition for the nation, after a “dry spell” of nearly 14 years.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

At the start, Oregon became one of 15 states that made the selling of liquor a state monopoly. You bought your bottle of booze at a state liquor store. The serving of beer, however, became legal in licensed taverns everywhere in the state. Tavern owners were poised for the magic hour, ready to swing open their doors.<\/p>\n

On the night of the 5th of December, 1933, it was party time in Portland. The lid was off.<\/p>\n

My mother and Agnes went out on the town to celebrate,* along with thousands of others. That’s when big Otto Larsen and Eddie “Double Thumb” Daniels stepped into our lives.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter Seven : Fun and Games<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“Just around the corner, There’s a rainbow in the sky. So let’s have another cup of coffee. And let’s have another piece of pie.” Irving Berlin, 1932 The year 1932 was a national election year. For millions of depression-weary Americans, Herbert Hoover’s Republican presidency was doomed and on its way out. The Democrats nominated the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_disable_autopaging":false},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-52","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-a-new-deal"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/6"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=52"}],"version-history":[{"count":69,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":506,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52\/revisions\/506"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=52"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=52"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=52"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}