Author Harold A. Fonrose's story, as presented here in his memoir, evolves as a historical perspective of a young male arriving in a humble environment of Caribbean culture in Trinidad, British West Indies along with his sister after the death of their mother. There, under the guidance of his paternal grandmother, ambitions and musings began as he was exposed to the characteristics of determination, discipline, and sustained diligence. These attributes became embedded and forged his decision to enter the structured profession of medicine, to which he later made major contributions in the realm of geriatric thinking. Fonrose is firmly convinced that these similar, average characteristics are available to each and every subset of people and culture. This journey is not about the individual; it is about the memories. With regard to the title of the book, there is no attempt to be either dismissive or derisive. But he has a certain degree of contempt for people who genuflect at the altar of money, thereby assuming a posture of kneeling and worship with their eyes fixed to the ground, missing or intentionally avoiding the positive vision of a distant horizon. That general statement is embedded in the title It's Only Money . . . Memory is the True Value.
IT'S ONLY MONEY—MEMORY IS THE TRUE VALUE
Musings of a Journey PastBy HAROLD A. FONROSEiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Harold A. Fonrose
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4697-0934-5Contents
PROLOGUE.........................................xiTHE JOURNEY......................................1THE FORMATIVE YEARS..............................3THE MIDDLE YEARS.................................19THE ACADEMIC YEARS...............................28THE PROFESSIONAL YEARS...........................40PHOTOGRAPHS AND MEMORIES.........................49RECOGNITION AND APPRECIATION.....................169EPILOGUE.........................................179FINAL THOUGHTS...................................183
Chapter One
THE JOURNEY
THE FORMATIVE YEARS
The events which led to a ten-year stay in Trinidad began with the untimely death of my mother in 1932. Two young children, ages seven and five, were left with the need for continued care and supervision. A young father and bereaved husband was left facing an unwelcome chore. A maternal grandmother was left facing the loss of a favorite daughter.
Some of the early solutions involved spending alternating weekends in New York City and Brooklyn with my father. This placed more stress and involvement on the continued care of the children, which was of paramount focus and importance. All involved were grieving. The financial and logistical stresses are obvious.
My father's early remarriage was a temporary solution but hardly positive. In the angst of that environment, an attempt at a permanent stay in New York City seemed only to increase tension in both households. Perhaps the children became pawns in the interfamily discord. The solution of sending us to my paternal grandmother and her triad of family seemed attractive, thus the decision for transfer to Trinidad. The net result from this perspective seems wise, although that was hardly the view of my maternal grandmother and her family circle.
My father's decision was one I look back upon with some doubt, but for the children was singular and positive. From my personal viewpoint, transferring our care to Trinidad is a major and intrinsic episode as events unfold and fulfills several of the themes that emerge in the rest of the journey. The critical features of that decision to go to Trinidad became integral to all that followed. The flow of events with its relationship to the past, present, and future can hardly be denied.
* * *
Even on repeated review, the full basis of the eventual move to Trinidad rests entirely on the untimely death of my mother in 1932.
That sad event produced a trifecta of social needs for solution—(A) continued care of two children at ages seven and five; (B) the need falling fully on the bereaved father of the children; and (C) the grief suddenly descending on the maternal grandmother and her family.
The change of venues appears highly constructive in retrospect and in the tunnel vision of revision. That combination began its motion to the future and the formative years in Trinidad from 1935-1946. Full disclosure requires a peek at the beginning of an adventure that was a trifle untidy.
* * *
The sending of two young children on a voyage on the high seas unattended now would be considered an adventure, but was not that easy for a single father of thirty-five years old. I don't think he considered it romantic, and he probably received major criticisms from his in-law's family. His solution involved obtaining an accompanying guardian to serve as a supervising companion for the trip. The fact that his plan succeeded is another testimony to the role of chance and opportunity, not to mention the high degree of fortune and luck.
The seven-day voyage went smoothly and without mishap. The ship's crew banded together and delivered my sister and myself in good shape to Port of Spain where I can still smell the aroma that will be described later in this narrative. However, memory and recall reveal an event which made a mark on my present personality.
During the passage, there was a tendency for the crew to try and entertain the passengers. One episode touched this seven year old boy. There was a two-bag race which I won, but then I refused to enter a contest which consisted of eating blueberry pie with my hands tied behind my back. That picture of eating that pie with hands unavailable and without utensils was an image that filled me with a sense of awkwardness. My refusal to participate under the rules outlined caused unwelcome friction, but I remained adamant. The memory of my refusal remains clear. Personally that attitude resonates to this day on embarrassing interludes and my refusal to participate in unwelcome imagery.
In contrast, Baby Doll remembers the trip vividly because it was the first time she ever ate tomato soup—and she ate it exclusively every evening for dinner during the entire trip from New York to Port of Spain. To this day, her favorite vegetable remains a tomato in any form.
* * *
My father had planned well, but he could not have known (and the steamship line must have been unaware) that at the disembarkation point a fee or excise tax in the Caribbean island was a necessary practice.
We were not prepared for that contingency of $100.00 per person. On arrival we did not know why we were left in a room while other passengers were leaving the ship. Eventually we were informed by a member of the staff in Port of Spain.
Fortunately, a fellow passenger by the name of Mr. Cadiz (what memory that I would remember him by name approximately 70 years past!) had become friendly with the young lady who had been hired by my father to keep a watchful eye on us during the seven-day voyage. She had left the ship at an earlier island and had probably asked Mr. Cadiz to observe us on our way to our family in Port of Spain, Trinidad. Whatever the reason, it fell on him to solve this disembarkation problem which he did in gracious fashion.
Mr. Cadiz had a very forceful personality and I remember him as being very well-groomed with an imposing stature that reflected a certain air of confidence. He accompanied Baby Doll and myself to our destination at Four Roads in Trinidad for our safe deposit. It is my best recollection that the $200 loan was satisfied by my father on Mr. Cadiz's return to New York City. I don't recall ever seeing Mr. Cadiz again, although my sister believes he did visit us in Four Roads on one occasion. This is just one memory of the multiple examples of humanity and how it is expressed casually and without notice.
* * *
I remember arriving in Trinidad on a sunny morning, and when we got off of the ship, I smelled the aroma which even right now I can recall as a powerful stimulus relating to my years there.
As I think back now, it is probably true that these sensations were mostly from the many mango trees that were on the property. The aroma of ripe mangoes remains part of every thought and memory of my years in Trinidad.
* * *
I also remember riding down from the dock at Port of Spain to Four Roads where I would live. I was overwhelmed by the appearance of the house as I arrived. It was a wooden frame home with four rooms. One was immediately on the left side of the house with the bedrooms on the right...
