People Visited

Bobbie Boecker, (Her husband was my mother's CACO officer - I don't know the correct acronym, but that's what it sounded like - he was a liaison between Mom and the Navy, I believe,) my father's mother, Irene, and my Aunt Renée  

My dad's brother, Peyton, Jerry, Dad, Renée in our living room right after Dad came home.  

Branwen, Don, Michael, me (and a little bit of Mary) right after Dad came home.  Don and Bran gave Michael that shirt.  It was thin Indian cotton and cool in both senses of the word.  They gave me one, too, and I wish I had it now.  I think I remember every gift my older brothers gave me.  Each one made me feel honored.

I don't mean to make this all about me, but since it's my therapy and I might as well get it all out there, I'll point out that the vast number of childhood photos of me covering my stomach is indicative of some serious insecurity and angst.  Oprah would want me to share that if I felt like it.  Rule of thumb:  Always do what Oprah would want.  Right, Micah Bug?

Ross Perot, who had been involved in the POW cause (even to the point of financing a rescue attempt, I believe) treated my family to a week in the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf-Astoria in NYC.  We, and former POW George Coker, went out to dinner where I had my first mai tai.  Don't you think poor George looks like he wants to be rescued during our walk back?  Lord knows what mai tai enhanced sixteen year old Madeleine was saying.

And, while we're on the subject, which is off the subject, here's Don in our hotel suite.  This was a few years before Michael took charge of stocking the bar which accounts for the comparitively limited selection.  Or maybe it's a long table.

Okay, blog content deteriorating into jokes about alcohol.  Time to stop blogging.