The whistle blew and the big gray engine rumbled. A few people stood at the platform in Anderson, Indiana on this July morning in 1929. Van Daly Arthur embraced his son and kissed him on the cheek. The boy had just turned 22 less than a month before, and had graduated at the top of his class from DePauw University. It was the very first time in his life that his father had ever kissed him. He could see sorrow reflected in eyes accustomed to long days in the Indiana summer sun. These were farmer’s eyes, etched at the corners with lines that extended for a full inch. The eyes misted over and the man turned his head away from his son as he pulled on the brim of a straw hat. He said little. Farmer families had rare opportunity in their austere lives for much sentimentality. They arose at dawn to feed livestock, milk cows, and open their small Silver Flash gas station on the state road in Forteville, Indiana. The man would miss his only son just as he had during those years Russell attended DePauw. He had never actually admitted to missing his son, but now he would speechlessly through gestures and troubled eyes.
It was the eve of the great depression and jobs were still available for the newly graduated class of 1929. The stock market crash would initiate severe financial hardship for many within three months. Although Russell had been recruited by New York Life to sell insurance, not many people in Anderson, Indiana could afford such a luxury. There was, of course the farm and the filling station to provide ample work for two men, however young Russell felt unwelcome in his old home since his father had remarried. Gertie Arthur, his beloved mother passed on in 1926 from pleurisy during her son’s sophomore year of college. A little over one year later his father had taken another bride. His new wife did not adjust to the idea of a ready made family. Mabel, the only daughter, and Russell’s younger sister, had just turned fourteen and moved out of her home - banished - to take up residence with an aunt. Russell came home during summer vacations to help his father with the farming. The new wife objected. "You just can’t live here anymore," his father had told him. It was for this reason he had moved to Anderson after graduation. He had also realized that there was no living to be made selling life insurance - at least not for him. Now he was leaving Indiana. "I’ll send you some sand from the beaches of San Juan". Russell choked back his tears. "Be sure to say good-bye to Uncle Harry for me. I’ll be calling the pigs in my dreams
Several days before, an old girlfriend had asked to join him on the train. She was going to New York too, and thought it would be "swell" to travel with her friend. The girl’s mother wouldn’t hear of it even though she was twenty one years old. And so he sat alone in this seat and looked out the window at the corn fields and silos. "I wonder how fast we are going. The farm must be somewhere over there." He looked toward the south west. "May I have your ticket, sir?" The conductor was collecting tickets. It was a hot day, and Russell leaned over to open a window that would allow for some fresh air. It was stuck at first, and once open, a hot, dry gust of dust blew in. He closed it a bit. The heat was unpleasant, but he did not want to soil a new shirt. His suit felt stiff and uncomfortable, and he perspired profusely. Hopefully it would cool off as they got farther north. He grabbed the newspaper from his satchel and fanned himself. The trip to New York would take just over a day and a half.
The woman and her child were sitting across from him. The mother was still weeping quietly as her daughter chattered on about the train and the speed. "I have to go to the bathroom, Mommy." All children seemed to wait for the most inopportune times to answer nature’s call. Her mother wiped her eyes and looked around for the conductor. She appeared embarrassed to have anyone see how red her eyes had become. "I believe the rest room is between this car and the next one." Russell volunteered the information and felt a sense of relief for this mundane distraction. His heart was heavy and he felt somehow immersed in melancholia. The woman appeared to finally recognize him. "Aren’t you the young fella who attends the gas station in Forteville? I remember you!" "Yes mam, you bet. That’s my father’s station. I remember you too." The woman nodded her approval and thanks and led her daughter down the aisle toward the bathroom. She returned shortly with her mission accomplished. Her daughter looked down at her gloves. "Uh…oh
... my gloves are dirty!" Sure enough, the once white gloves were black at the finger tips. "Oh dear, how did you manage to do that, child? We have a long trip ahead of us and I did so want you to look like a little lady." The mother scolded her child mildly. The girl looked down at her patent leather shoes and pouted.
The train rolled on and the click of rails sounded a perpetual rhythm. Russell dozed on and off. The heaviness in his chest lodged deep down and silenced any hunger pangs he would customarily experience. He had always been able to fix things in the life he had led, but for the death of his mother and his father’s remarriage to this new adversary. An engineer’s mind could resolve most difficulties on the external plane. This profound ache did not respond to any logic. He couldn’t fix his heart with equations or adjustments. The thought of turning back toward home crossed his mind. There were relatives in Bell Fountain, Ohio, and the train would make a brief stop there. Bell Fountain was much closer than San Juan. But what would he do about work? A teaching position awaited him in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico.
A fraternity brother had recently returned from a stint in Puerto Rico where he had gone to teach English and learn Spanish. The man had landed a job with Goodyear as a result of his newly acquired language skills. He suggested Russell write a letter to Roy West, Secretary of the Interior. Mr. West responded to this inquiry by informing him that teaching positions in Puerto Rico were now being assigned by Secretary of War, Baker. After going through all the proper channels, a notice arrived advising Russell that he had been approved to teach school on the island. A commitment had been made. His unresolved feelings would settle in time. If only the train could move faster! Corn fields and farm houses still colored the picture of a home he must now leave behind. This finality had been confirmed with a solitary kiss. He knew his father said good-bye in resignation. He could not go home again.
"Cleveland...all departing passengers destined for Cleveland
...announcing arrival..." The conductor called out to all departing passengers. The woman across from him had remained uncommunicative during her trip. She was obviously distraught and spent most of her time reading to her daughter and napping. A thin line ran along the right side of her cheek, a result of her resting her face against the seat. Her eyes were still red either from her tears or the dust. Mother and child gathered their belongings together and prepared to leave the train. "I see Grandpa...see, he’s over there!" The child jumped up on the edge of her seat. "Yes, he’s waiting for us." The mother looked over at Russell. "I hope you have a nice trip. We probably won’t see you again in Forteville." Russell didn’t ask why. He figured it would be too painful for her to discuss. The two passengers sat across from each other, each immersed in their own private sorrow. As they left the train, he waved good-bye. The child ran down the steps and into her grandfather’s arms.
Grand Central Station spread out before him like a giant labyrinth with endless ceilings. He had seen pictures of the station, but the actual experience was an entirely different thing. The character of this city reflected itself in the many faces of ethnic variety. Even in the 1920’s New York City was more than an American City. The map of the world was imaged forth like a kaleidoscope of humanity. There was no relief from the Indiana heat here. It felt like a giant human stew simmering on the surface of a city. Everyone appeared to be in a hurry either coming or going somewhere. He felt sudden nostalgia for the familiarity and safety of the Anderson train station as more people bumped up against him. The busyness of Anderson had the flavor of homemade soup. A man cursed in some language when he collided with a porter. The same man shoved his way past Russell, cursed again. The odor of perspiration and garlic from the individual overwhelmed this newly arrived visitor and he felt a sudden wave of nausea. Farm smells could be overpowering at times, especially the out-house on a hot day. But those odors were familiar and strangely natural. The air in this station carried a mixture of fumes and human effusion.
A friend of Russell’s was supposed to meet him at the station. How could anyone find one person in this sea of humanity? He couldn’t focus on any face for more than an instant, let alone distinguish that of Bob Crouch whom he had not seen in several years. Crouch was from Forteville. He worked in New York for First National City Bank. "Hey, Russell, over here...I’m over here..." Russell looked about him and saw an arm waving above the mass of heads. It was Crouch. He was relieved. "Well, how was your trip? Welcome to New York. It’s good to see you. Where is your luggage?" Question followed question. Even this fellow from Indiana had caught the contagion of urgency. "I think my bag is somewhere over there". Russell pointed to an area where other passengers from his train were collecting their belongings. "Swell, let’s get the bag and head out of here. I can’t take this station. It’s so noisy!" The two men collected Russell’s luggage and hastened out to the street where taxi cabs honked and drove maniacally for short distances only to stop abruptly for new passengers. Crouch hailed a break-screeching cab. "Hurry and jump in before someone else gets this one! I can’t believe what this city does to people!" The two watched as a man pushed an old lady back while he grabbed another taxi. "You see this all the time here." The cab was hot too. It smelled of auto fumes and more perspiration. "Where to?" The driver spoke with a heavy foreign accent. Russell wasn’t sure of its origin. "First to the Plaza Hotel and then back here to the station. Boy, are you in for a treat! After we check you in at the hotel we’ll return for dinner here, at The Manhattan Oyster Bar", Crouch smiled broadly as he announced the route they would take before dinner. "I’m telling you, you’ve never had seafood like this before. The oysters are not in season now. You have to wait for the months with an ‘r’ in them. But we can have clams steamed and fresh fish and some shrimp. Their Manhattan clam chowder is legendary! Too bad you won’t be here in the fall because that’s when the oysters come in and you can eat them raw on the half shell with loads of cocktail sauce." Russell had only eaten canned oysters. He couldn’t imagine eating anything raw. He would soon taste all sorts of exotic concoctions and long for Indiana corn, mashed potatoes with cream gravy and fried chicken. He would especially miss chicken and dumplings - his own private ambrosia. His mouth watered at remembered feasts. No one had ever made chicken and dumplings like his mother.
The cab careened its way through the city streets honking at every other car and added its own flat honk to the cacophony of a city. "This is it, that will be fifty cents." The taxi driver turned around to his passengers. Crouch handed him a the change and a tip. "My God, that’s a fortune!" Russell was overwhelmed with this experience, but he still kept his shock to himself. The driver pulled his luggage from the trunk and dropped it onto the sidewalk. "Thanks," he said as he climbed back into his cab and tore off into the traffic. "Well, this is the Plaza - pretty expensive, but this is your first trip to New York and you might as well have the best!"
They checked Russell into the hotel and quickly grabbed another cab for a return to the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station. A repeat rush through traffic with the attending jolts, bumps, honks and an occasional obscenity spoken by the driver took them back to their destination. Russell was amazed at the grandeur of this place. Vaulted ceilings ascended high above them and created an impression like nothing he had ever seen. It was special and very "grand" like the name of its location.
A waitress with her hair pulled back into a knot and a hair net showing slightly on her forehead, approached their table with two menus. "I’ll be witchu when youse ready to ordah." She plopped two glasses of ice water on the table. Beads of water formed on the outside of the glasses, and trickled down as they made puddles on the table’s surface. Russell followed the edges of his glass with a finger in a circular motion. The cold water felt good. "I’m going to have the chowder, some steamed clams and a shrimp cocktail." Crouch already knew what he wanted. How could anyone eat hot chowder and steamed clams on such a hot day? Russell cocked his head to one side and frowned. "You’d be surprised to find that this food won’t make you any hotter than you already are. As a matter of fact, quite the contrary." Crouch guessed from the look on Russell’s face that he questioned the choice of hot food. When the waitress returned and Crouch gave his order Russell said "I’ll have the same thing, and could I have a cold coke?" "Why didn’t I think of the coke? Let’s have two cokes right away, please," Crouch added.
This meal would trigger an addiction for seafood, and particularly shellfish in this young Hoosier. It would plague him for the rest of his life until he ultimately suffered sufficiently from gout years later and would have to restrict his intake of purines. These included other pre-existing predilections such as chicken gizzards and livers.
"Boy, was that good. I could do it all over again!" Russell leaned back in this chair and pulled on his belt buckle. "I’d have to loosen this first." He had doubled his portion of clams and tried another flavor of chowder - New England clam chowder. "We’d best get you over to your hotel now - it’s getting late, I have to go to work tomorrow, and I’m sure you’d like a bath." Crouch picked up the check and motioned for the waitress. "I think you forgot to add on the extra chowder." The girl was amazed, "Uh...thank you...guess I musta made a mistake..." she walked off shaking her head and cursing herself. When she returned with the change she smiled demurely, "I don’t get many like youse. This city holds on to its money. Youse a rare one!" Russell wondered what kind of a world these people must live in to be so unaccustomed to honesty. He was glad that his stay in this city was to be so brief. There was an excitement here that both seduced and appalled him at the same time. How could there be such ambivalence? He looked over at a young couple who openly expressed affection for one another. The boy had just handed his girl a wilted rose. Back in Forteville people did not express their feelings. As he walked past the couple he heard them whispering to one another in endearing terms. It sounded like Italian, or perhaps Spanish. In a few months the Spanish language would be easily understood and he would know the difference.
Six O’clock in the morning and the sun had climbed somewhat but was still not in full view beyond tall buildings and skyscrapers. He had one day in New York before he boarded the San Jacinto for Puerto Rico. His room had an overhead fan that hummed. The hum drowned out the constant city sounds. He showered for a full ten minutes. Back in Forteville the shower was outside, and the water cold. There were no thick towels there nor tile on the bathroom floor. This was a sensory experience. Even the soap caressed his skin in smooth luxury. He stood in the stream of water for some time with eyes closed as the lather ran over his body in rivers of foam, across his feet and down the drain. He dressed in clean cotton shirt and the only linen slacks he had ever owned. The shoes were too new and too tight to wear again today. He pulled out the old saddle oxfords.
Once on the street in the morning rush he decided to walk along with everyone else as though he had somewhere to go. He could not imagine ever working in this city. Today he could pretend he was part of the melange. This was fun - an adventure. As he walked along the street he noticed a small coffee shop. A newspaper vendor stood in front of the shop. He grabbed a copy of The New York Times, paid for it and took a seat at a table. He ordered coffee and toast. The cost of a full breakfast would deplete his cash resources and he wasn’t that hungry anyway. "Want a shoe shine, mister? I shine ‘em real good!" A Negro boy of six or seven was carrying his wooden box of polishes and brushes which he put at Russell’s feet. The child had smudges of polish on his tattered shirt and a front tooth missing. Russell looked down at his old saddle oxfords. They did look worn and scuffed. "Well, I don’t think a polishing will do much good for these shoes...do you?" "Sho’ nuff, mista, I’s can fix ‘em jes’ fine! Even that white part. I has da’ polish for white shoes too." The man felt pity for this waif. "Okay, go ahead." He sat back for the first real professional shoe shine he had had in a long time. The boy went to work, and in ten minutes his old shoes came back to life. He paid the boy five cents and added another five cents tip. "Thank you, mista." He collected his tools and walked off to another table for more business.
Russell finished his breakfast and paid the check. After walking several blocks, he headed for a subway entrance. Although he did not know where he would go, he would pay close attention to signs and be able to re-trace his trip back to this place of departure. The subway station underground reeked of vomit in the heat and humidity. A drunk was leaning up against a wall, his clothes in disarray and eyes glazed over. "Can ya’ give a man some change for a cup of coffee and a shower?" The words were slurred. The man swayed back off the wall and took a few steps forward blocking Russell’s path. Russell reached into his pocket for some more loose change. He pulled out a dime and placed it in the man’s palm. A sour wave of bootleg gin breath reached his nostrils. A train pulled up and Russell ran to the nearest door. Once seated, the door closed and the train left this stop. He sighed in relief to have escaped further assault on his senses. But in his haste he had not noticed the sign for this particular train. Where would it take him?
After riding around in the subway system for a couple of hours, he found his way to an exit around 72nd St. and Central Park West. The Park was a short walk from the exit. Mothers walked their babies in carriages, pigeons fed on the grass and sidewalks, and children ran and played in this oasis. There was no evidence of bustling city here on a summer afternoon. He walked through the park for several hours and stopped for a hot dog and a drink of lemonade at a vendor’s stand. He would be very hungry tonight with so little food in his stomach. Crouch was to pick him up at 6:00 PM for dinner.
Jack Dempsey’s Restaurant was located on Times Square. This city had so many restaurants to choose from, and only one night to enjoy the variety. All Russell could think about was having a big steak. Apparently this restaurant was only named after Jack Dempsey, the heavy weight boxing champion. The name was just a front, although the celebrity did frequent the place on occasion. "I had tried to set up a blind date for you, but the other girl couldn’t make it at the last minute, so I told my girl I’d take you out alone." Crouch apologized. "Don’t worry about me, Bob, I don’t really like blind dates much. Besides, my boat leaves tomorrow and I should get to bed early." Russell didn’t want to spend any more cash than necessary. A date could prove to be expensive.
He slept well that night. The memories of Indiana and his painful parting from his father had lessened somewhat. The morning promised another new quest onto a ship bound for paradise!
THE VOYAGE
New York Harbor is located at the Hudson River on the West side of Manhattan. A taxi drove him to the docks. The San Jacinto was docked in a pier. Passengers had been boarding her as Russell joined a group moving up a gang plank. Once on board he was escorted to his state room where he unpacked a few things for the four day sail to San Juan. Back on deck he watched dock-workers prepare the boat for departure.
They set sail later in the morning. The ship moved through the mouth of the Hudson River, past the Statue of Liberty and out to sea. Russell looked out at the island and bade his final farewell to a mainland where he had lived since his birth on the farm back in Indiana June 28, 1907.
Carlos Torres, a lawyer from San Juan, was walking the deck on the third night at sea. Breezes had picked up in the Atlantic and most of the passengers were either dancing in the salon or had gone to their state rooms and retired for the night. Torres leaned against the ship’s railing and looked out into the darkness. Russell strolled along the deck. The moon shone down on the ship like a beacon light. Stars blinked back a signal of fair sailing to those at sea. These were the same stars ancient mariners followed in voyages past. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket and fumbled around in his pockets for a light. Smoke from Carlos Torres cigar floated past him carrying the distinctive aroma of an expensive Havana. Torres turned to face the young American, who he noticed was obviously frustrated at having lost his lighter. "Would you like a light?" Torres lit a match. "Thanks. I must have left my lighter in the lounge, but I thought I had some matches." He leaned toward Torres and puffed on the cigarette. "Thanks, you saved me a trip back to my cabin." Russell shook his head. "I’m Carlos Torres, ‘a sus ordenes’", the man added a phrase in Spanish which expressed the graciousness of Latin hospitality. Russell inhaled some smoke. "How do you do, the name is Arthur, Russell Arthur." The two shook hands. "It was too warm in the salon. I love the music and the dancing, but it got too stuffy in there for me."
Torres was average in height, with dark complection, and slightly balding. He was tastefully dressed in an expensive sport coat and apparently a man of means evidenced by his dress of tropical linen and the Havana he pinched between two fingers. "This is an unusual voyage for a main-lander to be making at this time of year. What takes you to Puerto Rico?" The question seemed logical to a Puerto Rican. Summer was not the tourist season. Russell drew on his cigarette. "I have been assigned a teaching position on the island. I’ll be teaching English to elementary school students." Torres chuckled. He reached over and patted the young man on the back. "Pardon me for being so presumptuous, but you have quite an interesting experience awaiting you. Are you quite certain you want to teach at a public school? I assume it is a public school teaching position, is it not? Most of our educated family’s children attend private schools. By the way, do you know yet to what area they have assigned you?" Torres amusement at his future teaching career became even more obvious. What did he mean by "interesting experience"? Russell inhaled deeply. "Well, I’m not absolutely certain yet, but I think it’s a place called Aguadilla?" The question’s purpose was to ascertain whether or not this place was considered desirable. Torres cleared his throat. "I think that you should consider some other options. I mean that there are other locations you might prefer. Tell you what. I know the secretary of education. Let me speak to him on your behalf. Just call on me back in San Juan. I’ll see what I can do." Russell looked at the man in the light of the full moon which cast shadows over the deck. "Oh, I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, yet I would appreciate anything you can do." "It’s no trouble, my young friend. By the way, why don’t you join me for a night cap at the bar. It is getting a bit windy out here. The winds die down only in May and October." The two men made their way back inside the ship to the lounge.
"What would you like to drink? If you don’t mind, I would suggest a Cuba Libre, or a rum and coke, as you would call it. It is a favorite in the Caribbean Islands." Torres motioned for the waiter. Even though it was prohibition on the mainland, there was no such restriction at sea. "Salud y pesetas - tiempo y con quien gastarlos!" Carlos raised his glass in a toast. "You would translate that as: "health, money, time and with whom to spend them". "Here is to all of the above!" Russell took a large gulp of his drink. It was sweet and very refreshing. He felt a rush from the rum almost immediately. It had been a long time since he had tasted any alcoholic beverage. He’d best restrict his intake to one. "I understand you have a fine golf course on the island." Russell was beginning to loosen up. "Golf course? Oh yes, we do have an excellent course. I have never played myself, however. It’s a funny thing, I have always thought it would be fun to learn. Do you play?" Now they were getting on familiar ground for this Hoosier. "Yes, I do like the game very much. I’ve played a few times." Russell was modest about his skill with a club. He had a three handicap. "I’d be happy to give you a free lesson." Torres patted him on the back again. "That is a fine idea. Berwind Country Club is somewhat of a distance from my home but we can arrange to meet there sometime after you get settled." Torres looked down at his watch. "It’s getting late." He yawned and covered his mouth. "Excuse me. I have been up since five o’clock this morning. My wife’s family lives in Brookline, Massachusetts. I was there visiting them for a few weeks and had to get up very early in order to make the boat." Torres left a generous amount of money on the table. "I’ll ‘buenas noches’ or goodnight for now. We arrive in San Juan tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see you in the morning." Russell sat back in his chair and watched the man leave for his cabin. The events of this past week had raced by with incredible velocity. Indiana was distant not only geographically, but experientially. Those fields of corn and waves of the sea existed simultaneously in a collage of images as one merged with the other. He was tired and contented and sad, all at the same time. He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and pulled out the five dollar bill his father had given him a few days before. He thanked him silently.
Russell missed Torres at breakfast. The man was no where to be seen amongst the other passengers. He returned to his state room to pack up. The boat was due to dock in about two hours. The fact was that Torres had overslept. It was probably the Cuba Libres.
At about four o’clock in the afternoon the boat approached the port of San Juan. El Morro stood in burnished luminescence as a perennial guard at the entrance of the harbor. The structure had been built by the Spaniards in 1540 as a fortress from whence great cannons could aim and shoot upon intruders who were mostly pirates. There were three other such fortresses created for the same purpose. It had also served more recently as a military outpost for the commanding forces of the United States Army. Russell stood in awe of these sights as the ship bore its course through the city’s harbor to the pier.
History stood on every street and all corners of this second oldest European settlement in the New World. It remained protected and preserved by the first colonists after the discovery of Columbus in 1493. The flavor of its culture reflected in a mixture of Taino Indian, Spanish colonist and African slave.
The newcomer took his turn at the gang plank and walked down from the boat to the pier. It was his first step onto "terra firma" in four days. The sense of constant motion would remain with him for a day or two as a result of the ship’s motion. This earth did not move! "Senor, I can take you to your hotel." A scrawny man with stubble on his face approached him. "I get your bags, Senor. My name is Mario. Welcome to San Juan." His bags were in the man’s cab before Russell could protest. "Okay", was all he could say. The cab was held together with invisible forces. It groaned as Mario stepped on the accelerator and lurched forward in a series of staccato starts until they gained some momentum. The engine chugged and sputtered as it moved along the narrow streets. The cab had no windows. Once more he was assaulted by smells, and some of these were most pleasant. Jasmine bloomed everywhere. He did not know that it was jasmine at the time. And then there were the cooking aromas of barbacoa and saffron, plantains and olive oil. Street vendors peddled their wares on every corner. "Huevos, llevo huevos
The taxi pulled up to the Hotel Central. "Aqui esta, Senor, this is your destination." The brakes strained as they labored to hold the cab on a steep hill. "I get your bags for you." The driver threw open his door and ran to the back of the cab where Russell’s luggage sat exposed to the elements. Fortunately it was not raining. He doubted that his suitcase would withstand a severe downpour, and this was the rainy season. "That will be twenty-five cents, Senor." He gave Mario a five cent tip. The man had been an entertaining driver, however unstable his vehicle, and reckless his driving might have been. This little trip was worth any slight inconvenience for its sheer picturesque quality. Russell walked through arched doors into a lobby of Spanish tile. A man with a drooping mustache and slicked-back hair stood behind a heavy, mahogany desk. "Can I help you, Senor?" The man’s left eye twitched periodically. "Yes, you can. The name is Arthur - Russell Arthur. I should have a reservation for tonight." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his forehead. A large plantation fan whirred overhead and stirred humid air. Another fan oscillated back and forth on the desk. "Yes, Senor, we have your accommodations. The ‘portero’ will show you to your room. It is a single, yes?" The man handed him a large key on a big ring. "I hope that you will find everything to your liking. The maids just cleaned your room. There should be fresh towels. Please let the ‘portero’ know if you need anything. The bar and restaurant are just over there. Dinner is served from seven thirty to midnight." Russell followed the ‘portero’, who he surmised must be a bellhop down a long hallway past a garden of exotic foliage to the right, with a fountain in its midst. The garden extended all the way down one side of the hallway. A large parrot was perched on an iron rod in what appeared to be some form of large cage. "Que tal, que pasa..." The bird repeated the phrase over and over. "What is he saying?" Russell spoke only rudimentary Spanish. "Oh, he is asking you how you are, Senor," replied the bellhop. "Well, you can tell him that I’m just fine. Better yet, how do ‘I’ tell him that I am just fine?" Russell decided that he would start practicing Spanish on the bird. At least it wouldn’t laugh at him! "You would say ‘bien, estoy muy bien, gracias’", the bellhop coached him. The phrase was easy enough, so Russell walked up to within a few feet of the bird and repeated the phrase. The parrot just looked at him, cocked its head to one side and let out an ear-shattering screech followed by a series of squawks. The bellhop laughed. "The bird thinks you are funny, Senor, he is laughing." Russell realized that his Spanish must sound pretty bad if a bird would laugh at him. "Well, I don't like the way you talk either, damn bird!" The bellhop chuckled again. "Don’t worry, Senor, that bird is very bad-mannered anyway. He insults everyone. We call him ‘sin verguenza’, which means ‘shameless’ in English. Actually his real name is ‘Cacique’, which is the word for chief in Portuguese. That, Senor, is a Brazilian parrot. He was a gift to the owner of this hotel by a man from Brazil. A most rude gift, don’t you agree?" Russell agreed. "Why then doesn’t the bird speak Portuguese?" The man just shrugged, "no se, Senor. I guess that he is not bilingual." It seemed like a reasonable answer.
They had arrived at the room. The bellhop took his luggage and placed it on a leather rack. Russell handed him a tip. "Muchas gracias, Senor. I hope that you will enjoy this room. A sus ordenes." Alone in the room, Russell removed his tie and shirt. He was covered in perspiration. It was so humid that even the sheet on his bed felt damp. Another big fan spun overhead. All it seemed to do was to circulate warm, moist air. He finished undressing and stepped into the shower. Cold water splashed forth from a shower head and cascaded down over his skin in refreshing relief. He turned his face directly into the stream and stood there for a few moments. He reached for a bar of yellow soap, and rubbed it all over his body. Just as he had finished lathering himself, the water flow stopped, but for a thin trickle. "drip... drip... drip..." the trickle lessened. "What the devil?" He turned the faucet all the way open. No water. "It has to come back on, I’m all soapy!" The slight dribble continued. Several moments passed and the flow did not increase. He reached for a towel and began to wipe the soapy residue from his arms and legs. Finally, when he had finished the process and stepped out of the shower, the water came back on full force, splashing all over the bathroom floor. He had forgotten to close the shower curtain, or turn the faucet off. "Welcome to San Juan, dammit!" At least he had finally experienced indoor plumbing. In New York it had been at its best. On the ship showers were often of salt water. They left you sticky with a residue of saline. This was worse than the first, but at least played second to a New York shower. He stepped back into the flow of water.
His watch told him that it was almost eight o’clock. Back on the farm he would be getting ready for bed at this time. He wasn’t tired, but his stomach growled and dinner was just a few steps away. Now what kind of culinary expedition would he encounter? If any of the tantalizing aromas so foreign to his senses were testimonials to what he might experience, this would be a Epicurean adventure.
Dinner was no disappointment. He had been served something called "arroz con pollo". The name in English "rice with chicken" was deceptively simplistic. He wasn’t certain of the nature of most of the ingredients, but the flavor surpassed any other version of this combination. He never ate rice, and was the standard ‘meat and potatoes’ variety of American man. Nothing on the planet would ever surpass chicken and dumplings. But there was something to be said for the combination of fried plantains with ‘arroz con pollo’. He found some peculiar, dark little pellet-like things in the dish. They looked like what he called dingle berries! He was too embarrassed to ask what they were and just ate them. He figured they were supposed to be in the dish, because there were quite a few of them, and their taste was pleasant, although somewhat bitter. Finally he mustered up enough courage to ask his waiter indirectly what the round things were. "I find a special ingredient in this dish that makes it taste unusual." He pointed to one solitary object on his plate. "The ‘alcaparras’, Senor. It’s the ‘alcaparras’ that you speak of." Russell wondered what "alcaparras" might be. He supposed that the waiter believed he should know what "alcaparras" were. A salad had also been served with a combination of avocado and funny looking tubular white things that had been sliced in quarter inch slices. "What are these white things?" The waiter appeared amused. "Those are hearts of palm, Senor." "Hearts of palm, how do they get the hearts out of the palm?" He envisioned some bizarre ritual whereby hearts were carved out of living, breathing palm trees on a sacrificial shrine or altar. "They have to cut the tree down to get the heart out of the center of the trunk, Senor." That explanation was not a whole lot less grizzly than what he had imagined. Although barbaric, the delicacy did taste good. He was certain that he would find other things in this culture that verged on savagery to him, like bullfights. Although there were no such events on this island, he had seen pictures of fights in Spain. Of course, back in Indiana he had witnessed slaughter of cattle and pigs. He had his father had done quite a bit of rabbit hunting during his lifetime too.
His memory returned to those time with nostalgia. TheIndianawinters seemed so remote, as he sat in this lush garden surrounded by exotic plants and flowers. One could hardly imagine cold winds and the crunch of snow under hunting boots. He and his father would go out early in the morning after a snow fall. Rabbits fed at night, and left prints in the new snow. As they made a full circle from original point of departure, the hunters would await the rabbit’s return, take aim and shoot. One particularly cold morning, Russell and Van Daly Arthur hunted for a couple of hours. Finding no visible tracks, the older man tired. "It’s too damn cold out here. I’m going back home." He shivered and rubbed his hands together. His breath came out in clouds of vapor. As he turned to walk back toward the house, he called over his shoulder, "hope your luck improves, son, it shore don’t much look like good huntin’ today. Even the ‘crick’ is frozen over. It’s colder than a well digger’s ass out here!" Russell was not about to give up too as he watched his father depart. He just knew there were rabbits to be found this day. "We’ll just see how good it is - cold or not." He could remember in vivid detail the next few hours. Not only were there many tracks, but almost all of these resulted in another kill. He walked back home with his belt looped through the hind quarters of six rabbits. He had strung each one through a heavy leather belt which pulled at his waist. By the end of the day his trousers were soaked with blood which had frozen stiff. He could feel them scratch against his long johns, but despite the discomfort, he glowed within at a primal mastery. There would be plenty of rabbit to eat over the next few weeks. "It looks as though I missed some real huntin’. You got a heap a rabbit there, son." The animals were skinned, cleaned and strung up on a windmill back of the house where they’d remain virtually frozen in the Indiana winter. Russell could still see those rabbits - trophies of his lone and triumphant hunt - now confined to memory. As he looked out at San Juan’s streets from a window of the hotel now aglow in the last rays of a setting sun, he could close his eyes and see beyond distance and season to the windmill at dusk. There could be no paradise on earth to surpass the radiance of winter’s snow cover, a windmill’s shadows, and the taste of fried rabbit on a cold Indiana night.
It was still early evening by Puerto Rico standards. Nine thirty came, and people were beginning to wander into the dining room and outdoor patio restaurant. He noticed all were elegantly dressed even for this tropical heat. Ladies seemed to float by, draped in diaphanous gowns. Men spoke softly, mostly in Spanish. Russell yawned. The dinner had left him full and drowsy. His feet were swollen from the heat, and the new shoes he had on pinched uncomfortably. Muted sounds of the city blended into the hum of fans, notes from a piano, and the chorus of night frogs as they sang a hymn to the evening. His waiter brought a check for the dinner which he signed. "Just your room number, Senor." He thanked him, signed the check, and walked back down the hallway, past the garden where his parrot friend was sleeping. Cacique had tucked his head under one wing. Russell approached the bird and stood there looking its brilliant plumage. Cacique opened his eyes, cocked his head to one side and mumbled in a hoarse tone.."Que pasa...que tal." Russell was certain he saw the bird wink. "Sin verguenza - I think that’s the right word." But he just couldn’t bring himself to refer to this creature as "sin verguenza". He was far too majestic. "Adios, Mr. Feathers - Mr. Cacique…see you in the morning". Russell shuffled half way back to his room, kicked off his shoes and entered his room in stocking feet. He threw his clothes on a chair, stripped down and slipped in between the sheets. The fan, the frogs and whiffs of jasmine lulled him to sleep.
"Squawk, squawk....Que tal...que pasa..." The bird was at it again. "What time is it?" Russell rolled over on his bed and reached for his watch. He hadn’t even unpacked his travel clock the night before. He felt groggy and drugged. Humidity hung over him like a shroud. It was seven thirty. How could he have overslept? He slid out of bed and groped his way into the bathroom. This day he would go to the Secretary of Education’s office to verify his teaching assignment. Carlos Torres sounded apprehensive at the idea of Aguadilla. But he hadn’t seen the man when the San Jacinto docked the day before. He didn’t even know how to look him up. Oh well, it couldn’t be that bad.
The Secretary of Education was no where to be found at his office that morning. Russell waited for over two hours. "Senor, I think he may have been detained at one of our schools today. He had to visit several different locations. Why don’t you return tomorrow. He has to be here for several other appointments in the morning and has a luncheon engagement in the early afternoon. I’ll make an appointment for you at ten o’clock tomorrow. Is this all right?" The Secretary’s assistant was an attractive woman in her early thirties, he guessed. She had olive skin, very curly hair, and an aquiline nose. "My name is Rosario, Senor, I am the Secretary of Education’s private secretary." "Sure, that’ll be swell, thank you." He was disappointed to have lost a day. At least he could count on tomorrow in "manana land". He thought about that. Imagine, tomorrow in "tomorrow" land. He did know the word for tomorrow doubled as an excuse for that which was overdue - more greetings from Puerto Rico!
The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent browsing streets and various shops within the city of San Juan. He did not want to take adequate time to tour the city in a detailed sense, but chose to wander the city avenues, with an occasional stop at a shop or corner that was particularly interesting. "Piraguas, piraguas, vendo piraguas..." a man with no teeth hobbled along in tattered clothes, apparently oblivious to his plight, cheerfully sold his wares. He was blind in one eye, yet seemed to remain in a dimension of his own, impervious to any drudgery this task represented, as he pushed the rectangular cart that bore his beneficence. He was, indeed, an ambassador of simplicity. People came up to him, handed him change, and were given a cup that contained colored ice. Each time a customer received a portion, he would grin a toothless grin and continue his mantra. He used a tool to shave ice from the surface of a large chunk, emptied a portion into paper and served it to the next patron. "Piraguas...piraguas," his chant continued until he disappeared around a building. Russell was fascinated and intrigued and tempted, all at the same time. Somehow he could not bring himself to try a sample of the icy substance. "I will need to save my appetite for lunch." He said aloud.
The Hotel Central was apparently a hub for businessmen at lunch time, and buzzed with activity. "So that’s why the taxi driver told me the hotel was a place that ‘men of commerce’ stayed." He uttered privately. The dining room was almost full when he arrived at 1:30 in the afternoon. He had never eaten this late. "This late" was fashionable in Latin America. "Senor, I can seat you over there in the corner." A table set for two was about twenty feet away from him. He had not seen it in his visual search of the area. The waiter escorted him to the spot. "I’ll send your ‘mesero’ to you in just a few moments. Thank you for your patience." Russell was very hungry, and was not so certain that he was, in fact, so patient. Several minutes went by, and no sign of his waiter. He started to get restless when he heard a familiar voice, "Russell Arthur, that IS you. I saw you enter a few moments ago and thought I recognized the blond hair. Won’t you please join me at my table. We have not ordered yet." It was Carlos Torres. What a strike of luck to find him at the very hotel where he was staying! He did recall telling the man that he would be staying at the Central, but he never really expected to hear from Torres at all, especially so soon! "I had planned to look you up before the ship docked in San Juan. By the time I was ready to leave the San Jacinto, you had already taken off. Bienvenido, my friend." Torres shook his hand. "The table is over here. Coincidentally, the Secretary of Education is having lunch with me. It is a most fortuitous time, don’t you agree?" Russell could hardly fathom the events of this day. "Secretario, this is Mr. Russell Arthur. He is one of your appointees to a teaching position in Aguadilla, I believe." The Secretary stood and reached out to shake Russell’s hand. "Oh yes, I have been expecting your arrival. Welcome to Puerto Rico." The three men sat. "Are you ready to order, Senores?" A waiter had arrived. "Danos un poco mas tiempo. No hemos escojido." Torres turned to Russell. "I’ve just told the waiter that we have not chosen from the menu yet. Go ahead and make your selection. Might I recommend the fresh snapper cooked in ‘sofrito’ with rice and Spanish olives? This restaurant is known for its fresh fish. By the way, sofrito is made with a mixture of tomatoes, garlic, onions, olive oil and some seasonings. It is an excellent combination." "Does it have ‘alcaparras’?" Russell beamed with pride at his newly acquired knowledge of local cuisine. "By the way, what are alcaparras anyway?" Torres chuckled, "Alcaparras are what you call capers. They are pickled nasturtium seeds. What did you have for dinner last night? Was it arroz con pollo?" The man had guessed. "You bet, that’s what I had, but how did you know? It was delicious."
"Mr. Secretary, I went to your office this morning and your secretary told me that you were out in the field, and would not return today. She made an appointment for me for tomorrow morning." Russell directed his question with some urgency. "Yes, that is what she always tells everyone when she doesn’t know my whereabouts. It’s simple that way. We eliminate the opportunity for error. It’s like remembering your own birthday date." The three men laughed in unison. How easy Latin Americans took to some aspects of life! It would take some adjusting on Russell’s part to understand and accept these explanations which took life down to a common denominator of clarity.
Torres returned the subject to local comestibles. " I know numerous Puerto Rican specialties that contain capers. Somehow I guessed arroz con pollo would have to be your first dinner on this island. It is almost a legend here, and is synonymous with the culture." All three men made their menu selections without much consideration. Russell ordered the fish.
"Senor Arthur, you mentioned to me that you had been assigned to Aguadilla for your teaching assignment. I’m certain that the Secretary here could make some changes Torres was quite confident in the tone of this assumption. "Certainly this is possible. How about Carolina, Carlos, what do you think about Carolina?" The Secretary had not hesitated in granting a request for change of venue. "Carolina would be preferable over Aguadilla, most certainly. This can be arranged." Torres nodded his approval. "Well, now that is resolved!" He smiled at Russell triumphantly. The latter just sat there stupefied and speechlessly overwhelmed with all the tidings. "And, my friend, where are you staying now?" He had told Torres on the boat that the Central would be his temporary residence. Nothing had changed. "Ah...well...I’m staying here...here, at the Hotel Central. It is very nice." Russell wondered why Torres did not remember. The man must have yet another agenda for him. "No you will be staying with me, at my home. I will send my chauffeur and limousine to pick you up later this afternoon, before dinner. You will be invited to dine with my wife and myself beginning at 9:00 PM and will continue to be our guest until you find appropriate living quarters." Torres was emphatic in a way typical to hospitable Latin Americans when they wish to bestow gifts. Russell realized the futility of an objection. Besides, how could he refuse such an invitation, however commanding! He was both overwhelmed and gratified.
Lunch proved to be more like dinner, especially with the heat. Torres and the Secretary excused themselves in customary formality. "It was a pleasure to be able to assist you in your new career here on the island. Puerto Rico needs good English teachers. I’ll make certain that all the arrangements for a change to Carolina are made immediately. You’ll be receiving confirmation at Mr. Torres’ home later on in the week. School does not begin until August. You have some time to become acclimated to our climate and our culture." Russell reached out his hand to the man who clasped it with enthusiasm and shook it vigorously. "I don’t know what to say. You’ve been so helpful. I never expected to receive such a welcome here." Russell blushed. Maybe the men would think that he had just eaten too much and was flushed with the heat. "We are glad to help you. This is not an issue. Have your things ready for around four o’clock today. My driver will be by to pick you up." Toreros and the Secretary excused themselves and left several dollars on the table. Russell was once again dazzled.
Today was even hotter than the day of his arrival. He had been dressed in a twill suit with white shirt and a tie his sister had given him the Christmas before. He thought about Mabel and how much she must miss him since her exile from their father’s home. He would like so much to help her now, and all he could do was to make a silent promise that he would bring her to the island when he could afford to do so. In the meantime, he would send her money occasionally.
As he walked down the hall, past the garden with its resident parrot, he undid the tie and threw his jacket over his shoulder. Cacique didn’t notice. The parrot was distracted by a little girl who had ventured much too close to the cage. Parrots were known to bite, and could take a chunk out of a finger. The child was no more than about four years of age. She was taunting the bird. "Que tal..squawk..." Cacique rolled his head from side to side and then lunged quickly as the girl invaded his territory. The child stood transfixed. Russell called out, "get back. He might bite you." He ran toward the cage, yelling at the bird, "Sin verguenza..." The bird flapped his wings in a flurry of plumage. Feathers flew about like a shower of confetti. The child screamed, the bird squawked, and Russell got there just in time. He picked her up under the arms and pulled away from Cacique’s huge beak which snapped at thin air. "What are you doing with my daughter?" The child’s mother appeared suddenly and rebuked her daughter’s deliverer. By now the little girl was sobbing. "I want the pretty bird to eat my cookie..." She held a cookie in her hand. "Sorry, mam. I was just trying to keep your daughter away from the bird’s cage. Parrots can deliver a nasty bite when provoked." The woman had been ungrateful. "Excuse me, Madame, I’ll remember not to interfere in the future. You might want to test the bird on yourself..." Russell retreated and grumbled to himself. "He’ll take your cookie, for sure, and some of your finger too!"
A limousine pulled up to the Hotel Central at four o’clock that afternoon, as promised. Russell was waiting in the hotel lobby. He had just checked out and his luggage sat next to him. "Are you Senor Arthur?" The chauffeur walked up to him as though he knew that he must be the man he had been instructed to collect. "Senor Torres described you to me. You weren’t hard to find. I’ll take your bags. The car is out front." It was the only limousine in sight. Russell felt as though he were in someone else’s dream scene. The sensation heightened as the limousine drove down tree-edged avenues to Ashford Boulevard and pulled up in front of a mansion. The residence was concealed by huge Jacaranda trees. Flaming flamboyant, royal palms and a variety of flowering foliage meandered across a front yard which was neatly landscaped and maintained by several gardeners who worked in the late afternoon clipping and cutting at the grass and plantings. "Welcome to our home." Senora Torres stood at the entrance to a courtyard in the front of her home. She was an elegant woman with a soft lilt to her voice. "Carlos has told me all about you and your meeting on the San Jacinto. He informed me today that he had invited you to stay with us. I am delighted to welcome you to our home." Mrs. Torres spoke eloquent English with no traceable Spanish accent. "Please do come in. Carlos will not be home for quite a while. I hope that you will not be bored with my company." Her modesty spoke of gentility and good breeding. She escorted him through two solid mahogany doors into a foyer of blue and white tile. They walked down arched hallways into a formal living room. The ceilings were at least fifteen feet high, and the walls featured huge windows framed by wide panels of mahogany. The furniture had been hand carved and was massive with intricate patterns adorning side surfaces. Rich upholstery covered chairs and sofas. Oriental rugs lay over tile floors, and light danced off crystal and silver everywhere. Russell had never seen such opulence. His hostess was gracious, soft spoken and very relaxed. A painting hung on one wall, and at close view he discerned what appeared to be a fine house in New England. "Oh, that is my parent’s home in Brookline, Massachusetts. I often visit there." Mrs. Torres sat on a high backed chair as she invited him to sit also. "Please be seated. We’ll have some sherry now. By the way, do you like sherry? We call it ‘Jerez’. This bottle comes from Madeira, Spain." She poured a small amount of an amber toned liquid from a decanter into a small crystal glass and smiled as she extended the glass to him. "I have never had sherry. Thank you." Russell tilted the glass from side to side. "My husband managed to bring this back to us from Spain on his last trip." She poured herself a sampling amount. "I usually don’t drink at all, but I do like a taste of sherry now and then. Having a guest offers me the excuse to indulge." She raised her glass in a toast. "Here is to your new life in Puerto Rico. May its grace and hospitality enchant you always." Russell raised his glass and the ring of fine crystal sang to herald this moment of acceptance.
The next few weeks passed quickly and the time for school to begin had finally come. The town of Carolina could only be reached by bus, so Russell awaited the local transportation early on a Monday morning. The bus had seen better days. Women with bundles containing a variety of concealed products boarded at several stops. He was the only man on the bus who was dressed in a suit. It smelled like perspiration, dust and chickens. They rolled down the street as people boarded and left the bus accompanied by a variety of sounds and smells. He wondered if his shirt would remain clean. "Carolina. La parada de Carolina." The driver looked up in his rear view mirror that had a large piece missing. "I think this is your stop, Senor." He looked at Russell’s reflection in the partial mirror.
The Carolina elementary school was about two blocks from the bus stop. Russell carried a small briefcase with him. On the way to Carolina, the bus had passed Berwind Country Club. Torres had arranged to meet Russell at Berwind after school that afternoon. He wanted a golf lesson. Russell’s golf clubs would be delivered along with Torres at the club later in the afternoon. Russell’s heart lodged in his throat as he walked by run down shacks and dilapidated buildings on his way to the school. What awaited him here?
As he entered the Carolina school and was shown to the classroom where he was to teach, he braced himself. He stood at a desk in the front of a class of about thirty children. Some wore no shoes, some had no shirts, and all faces were black. Most of the children wore only one article of clothing. Little girls, for the most part, had on panties and no tops. The boys had on shirts and no bottoms. Russell was unaware of the lack of sufficient apparel, until one little boy stood up. He was bare from the waist down. No one seemed to mind, and only Russell had been embarrassed. But the most amusing aspect of this situation to him particularly was not just in the various states of nudity. He was the only white person in sight! He stood there for a few moments as his eyes passed over a sea of dark-skinned faces, put down his briefcase, cleared his throat and laughed. The students stared at their teacher as though they were equally shocked, looked about at each other, whispered to one another and burst out laughing themselves. This was the first day of school, the first day Russell had ever seen so many black faces, and obviously the first time this group of children had seen someone so blond! So this is what Torres meant by "interesting". He wondered what Aguadilla would have been like.
"Quando viene el ‘gua-gua’?" School was over at 3:00 PM and Russell realized the need for use of his basic Spanish. He had been told the story of the "gua-gua", and how the Puerto Ricans had adopted this version of ‘wagon’. ( In all of Latin America there were diverse words for a bus. He would later discover in Mexico that the word for bus was "camion".) "Pues... a las tres y quince, Senor." The woman who cleaned up after school informed him that the bus would leave in fifteen minutes. It was a good five minute walk to the stop, and he had yet to gather together all the papers from students and make it in time to meet Torres at Berwind Country Club. How absurd this life could be at times! Here he was on his way to play golf, and he wondered what squalor awaited these waifs in their homes. He almost felt guilty. Back in Indiana there had been lean times, but there was always plenty to eat, however, and his mother tirelessly kept their home clean. Again came the swell of nostalgia for the golden fields of harvest time, afternoons of Sunday fishing, and the rabbit hunts on a frosty winter morning. He could feel the stiffness of frozen blood on his trousers, a surge of victory, and once again the last sight of his father’s red handkerchief on the platform back in Anderson. He made haste for the bus stop and walked past a shack where a naked child stood at the doorway and held a puppy in its arms. The child smiled at him. In his heart he recognized that this creature had no measure of "have notness" in its perception. Would that the world could embrace such a sense of timeless and basic clarity!
The "gua-gua" was running late after all. When Russell boarded the bus, he noticed a few pigs had been tied to the roof of the vehicle along with one goat. An older woman sat at the back of the bus with a chicken in each arm. Her husband held a rooster with both hands. The animal was terrified and frustrated at not being able to get to the chickens. The rooster crowed twice during the ride to Berwind Country Club. What a paradox to be on his way to a golf game transported in a carriage of such seedy diversity! This was a land of vivid contrasts. He gazed out a cracked window. The rows of commercial buildings and small shops had thinned out. Now he looked at mostly foliage and an occasional pedestrian. The bus approached Berwind and made a local stop. Torres had told him to listen for an announcement that sounded like Berwind. "Berwin" the bus driver slammed on the brakes and everything that was not bolted down to the bus slid forward. He wondered about the pigs and goat. The bus stop was close enough to Berwind for him to walk. He took a deep breath of fresh air and brushed off a residue of dust and chicken feathers as he wondered how long it would take him to adjust to these rides. Perhaps, in time, he would acclimate to primitive circumstances. For now it was behind him on this day. He walked faster as he approached Berwind. His focus was now on a golf game.
Carlos Torres was waiting for him in the clubhouse. "Here I am, over here. We have been expecting you. I have reserved a tee time of four o’clock. We have just enough time to change. By the way, how was your day?" The man was amused as he cocked his head to one side and glanced at Russell. "It was very interesting, just as you said it would be." And that was that. There was no discussion. Their golf game awaited them.
Torres had arranged delivery of Russell’s golf clubs and his shoes. The two men changed in the locker room and prepared for their game. "I trust that you won’t spend too much time laughing at me, and I won’t hold you back on your golf game." Torres’ apologetic overture to the game was congruent to his over-all humility. "Hey...this is going to be fun. I haven’t played golf since I left Indiana over a month ago. My game is going to be rusty." Russell pull on his hat as the two men walked out to the driving range. "Just do more of what I say than what I may do..." Russell wasn’t so sure of his game.
He pulled a club from his bag and took a couple of practice swings. Although Torres knew little of this game, it was apparent that this young man had a graceful swing. "Crack" and a ball rocketed high and straight into the air as it soared out of sight. "That was a magnificent shot, my friend, and you say you are rusty?" A few more shots and several shorter chips with a sampling of putts and Russell was ready to play. Torres sat on a bench and watched. Seated next to him was another man, Pierce Collier of Singer International. The Singer Sewing Machine Company. The two men had a brief exchange of conversation, whereupon Torres stood, shook the man’s hand, nodded something to the affirmative and jointed Russell for this first golf game. It did take quite a bit longer than usual for a round with lessons given to Torres at each stage of the game, but Torres began to get some rhythm in the swing of a club, and he did enjoy himself. "I don’t think we should keep score for you today...you probably don’t want to know what it is anyway. Besides, we are not in competition here..." As they finished their game and were leaving the course for a quick shower, Pierce Collier approached them. "Hello there...I’m Pierce Collier...How do you do." Torres introduced Russell, and the two shook hands. "Torres tells me that you’re new to Puerto Rico, and that you are now teaching school in Carolina...How do you like that?" "Well..it’s a job, and I cannot really say how it’s going to be. Today was my first day teaching, and it was...well...I guess you could say it was an experience. "Tell you what, Russell...I can call you Russell...can’t I? Why don’t you come to our offices in San Juan. We may have something for you at Singer."
Russell did not return to Carolina to teach. He began working for Singer within a few days and remained with them until the United States entered World War II.