Not long after we came to America, dad wanted to see Florida. So, we went during Easter break—I think it was before college students raised hell. The memories I stored have been reprocessed a few times, but the colourful gist remains. Dad loaded our things into the boot of his well used two-tone blue Chevy Bel Air and headed south. By the time we reached the Carolina’s, my memories stored images of people and events strengthened by my parent's commentary. A hard-working black man was with a mule in a field. Signs at a roadside stop read “Whites Only”. Somewhere in the South, people marvelled at how well we spoke English since we hadn’t been in the US very long. I must have slept a lot. Dad drove all night. We didn’t do hotels, which was a good thing I found out later when dad chose some hovels on future trips. When we crossed the border—Florida—dad stopped for samples of Florida orange juice. I’m guessing we arrived Saturday because I was red with a helluva sunburn at chu...
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