It was December of 1956. That fall Chevrolet had just unveiled what turned out to be its most popular model ever. Gas cost twenty-four cents a gallon and with a five dollar purchase, a driver would often receive dishware or a “crystal” glass as a bonus. One of the worst things a kid could be punished for in school was chewing gum in class. The Soviets had just launched the first “Sputnik”. Slinkys and Hula Hoops were popular and Pat Boone was one of the most listened to crooners on the radio. Sock hops were the rage and I was in lust over a dark eyed beauty named Bunny. I don’t think she even knew my name. I had just become a teenager and had celebrated my birthday with my mother at Villa Viscaya on Biscayne Bay.
It was Monday morning and I was standing post in front of Stadwicks Pharmacy on the Miami Springs Circle. I had been chosen as an auxiliary patrol boy by my classmates. I was the last person to be chosen to what was thought to be an elite group and although I served as only a buck private in the rear ranks, I became permanent when one of the boys mothers forbade him the dangers of service. I was extremely proud and took my duties very seriously. We had a special handclasp and a way to fold our white belt so that the badge was visible to all who passed. I was one of the few who stood with a police officer on one of the busiest intersections of our small town. That Monday morning I listened as Officer Sweeney chastised a mother for using a police officer to threaten her son. She had said something to the effect that if her son didn’t behave, she would have him arrested and put in jail. When she appealed to Officer Sweeney, he responded, “Lady, how can you expect young people to have any respect for the police when you use them as an excuse for your own inability to provide discipline.”
The light changed and several of my classmates were waiting to cross one of the last major intersections before entering the school grounds. I lowered my bamboo banner and walked into the crosswalk and ushered my charges safely across the street. It was eight o’clock and Officer Sweeney released me to head on to class. The Traffic Patrol was allowed to be 15 minutes late to class because of their important duties. I skipped across the street, removed the tattered birthday card from my pants pocket and read it again for what must have been the twentieth time.
“My Dearest Michael,” it began. “I know this card will come as a surprise to you. But I want you to know I have thought about you so many times over the years. I am your Aunt Billie–your father’s sister. Your mother has sent me pictures of you growing up and I am so proud to see what a handsome, alert young man you have become. I follow your accomplishments and am very proud of you. You look very much like your father did at the same age. I have wanted to visit and had actually planned a visit several times but until the last couple of years I have been living in Europe with little time or opportunity to travel South. I hope you will find the enclosed twenty dollars useful and ask that you buy yourself something you would not ordinarily purchase. I now live in Colorado and have asked your mother if she would permit you to visit me during your summer vacation.”
In early June, I boarded a bus one late humid afternoon with the destination “Atlanta” displayed prominently in a little window just above the driver on the front of a silver and gray behemoth described as a “Scenic Cruiser”. I settled into a seat just behind the stairway and above the restroom so I would be able to stretch out and put my feet on a package shelf beneath an opaque window. It turned out to be the best seat in the house. As the bus exited the depot, I saw my mother wipe her eyes as she turned and crossed the street leading toward the Greyhound customer parking lot. I changed buses in Atlanta, St. Louis and Kansas City, Missouri. After fifty two hours, I arrived in Denver late in the afternoon to a three person welcoming party. I said goodbye to a young Army couple who had shepherded me all the way from Atlanta. I had come down with a terrible case of strep throat somewhere between St. Louis and Kansas City and these two angels of mercy kept me covered with blankets and created mixed potions of salt water and Lord knows what that stung while gargling but lessened the pain considerably so I could ingest a bowl of weak soup and drink a Coca Cola at the several rest stops. They were special people whose names are long forgotten but whose affection and care I will never forget.
Although we had never met, I instantly recognized my aunt from photos and wondered as I disembarked, who the two females were that accompanied her and were standing with her behind a protective guard rail. They turned out to be her daughter-in-law and granddaughter, my second cousin. They were living in Denver temporarily for a few months while my aunts’ son, an Army Lt. Colonel, was getting settled into his new command after having spent a few years in Japan. They were all very welcoming and profusely thanked my bus companions for their thoughtfulness and the care they had shown me. We drove immediately to my aunts’ home and a doctor met us at the door. My aunt had called her personal physician from a pay phone and told him of her concern about my condition. Following his ministrations and about twenty four hours, I felt good as new.
The few weeks I spent in Colorado were wonderful. My aunt who was working at the time, took her vacation for the entire time and drove my cousin and I all over the state. We visited the Garden of the Gods, Estes Park, crossed the divide on the highest highway and attended a rodeo in Colorado Spring where the Lone Ranger and his horse Silver were in attendance. My cousin and I rode horses down the coulees and on the high plains just outside of Denver. I ate three meals a day which was rare for me. My cousin and I played Monopoly and rummy for hours while Aunt Billie was out of the house shopping or running errands and occasionally I would sneak a cigarette around the corner behind a school building.
My aunts’ name was Billie Paul Smith. If I were to guess, she was probably in her late forties, had auburn hair and a nice figure. Her given name was Wilma but she laughingly refused to allow anyone to call her by that name. Although my cousin whose name was Paula, having the most brilliantly red hair I had ever seen, was her only grandchild, she expected to be called Billie and not “Grandma, “Grandmother” or any of the other cutesy expressions used by grandchildren to identify their grandparent. “That made her seem much too old,” she said. It was not in her plans to get old and gray.
My aunts’ vacation ended and I had to return to Miami. She arranged for my route to be changed so I could stop briefly in Houston, Texas and meet a half sister who, like her, I did not know existed. She was the child of my fathers’ first wife and was about fifteen years older than me. I spent a few hours in Houston before continuing my journey and met Wylene, her husband Rush and their new baby, Mark. They treated me to a Mexican dinner which was an entirely new experience for me. She and her husband were both very warm and welcoming people. After just a few minutes, I felt as if I had known them both for a lifetime. It had been a remarkable couple of weeks and instilled in me very early that life is not only full of surprises, but there are many remarkable people and new experiences out there just waiting to touch upon our lives and change our world view in some small way.
The very next year I met another remarkable person who quite coincidentally also lived in Colorado. Once we became acquainted and he learned I had already traveled successfully from Miami to Denver alone, he invited me to visit Colorado again the following summer with the ostensible intent of my working on a 120 acre ranch of one of his life long friends. I have chronicled that next summer in my first book, “The Bridge Over Cedar Creek”. The book has been rated with FIVE STARS and sold to readers all over the United States and in several countries outside of America.
Thus began my love affair with travel, meeting new people, experiencing new and exciting parts of the country and the world and thinking big thoughts many people can only dream of or read about. I was introduced to people who were honest, interesting, caring and thoughtful. I am convinced that along with my mother and her family, this new experience instilled in me a set of values and sense of morality that prepared me for life and established goals and objectives to which to aspire analogous to the Buddhist Four Noble Truths and Eight Fold Path. I have tried to live up to the very high standards these people established and know in my heart it has been because of them and the pattern they set that led me to an extraordinary and fulfilled life. I have tried to mold my life after them and while I have no way of knowing whether or not they all would have approved of my every act, or action, I understand it is myself I must convince. I know they all would be proud of who I have become at their direction and with their encouragement. I carry in my heart so many stories and experiences knowing I must never deliberately let them down. I believe life is unfolding as it should. I think of you often Billie Paul Smith and thank God every day people like you and Frank Kunce along with many others entered my life.
Billie, don’t be mad if you find one day I have published my account of how the steering wheel in the “Ambler” found itself in the backseat. Every time I tell the story it brings a smile to my face and the faces of those who hear it for the first time. I love you. You were indeed a hoot.
michael w paul 
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