Tea and Roti

"Tea" could be "coffee tea" "chocolate tea", "green tea" (which was usually balck tea), or "bush tea". In other words, tea usually referred to a hot or warm beverage consumed most often with breakfast. Coffee tea was the usual breakfast berverage at our home. The coffee was often boiled in a big iron pot. The water was brought to a rolling boil and the coffee added and allowed to boil for a while. The result was usually a coffee flavored drink which was then adulterated with large quantities of milk and sugar.

The next most popular "tea" was chocolate tea, which was prepared from cocoa beans, usually locally produced, and sweated, danced and dried, whch was the usual process of preparing the beans. The beans were then parched in a large iron pot and the thin outer shell removed. The beans were then ground, by hand, in a mill grinder. The soft pliable paste was then formed into elongated egg shapes and allowed to dry. The dried chocolate balls would then be grated into a coarse powder which would be boiled to make the tea, with the usual generous portions of milk and sugar. We did not have this beverage very often in our home as my stomach did not telerate this very rich chocolate well.

Bush tea was what we would now call an herbal tea. This usually prepared for medicinal or health purposes, or when nothing else was available. I recall from my childhood in the scarcity of the war years that my father would often come home with different ideas for tea, such as coconut root tea, cocoa leaf tea, in addtion to the tradtional "kozay maho", black sage, and hibiscus teas. These latter were all thought to have beneficial health effects. Again, the particular herb would be boiled and then dressed up with the usual milk and sugar

Roti, referred to above, is an tradtional Indian flat bread made from a baking powder dough. There are many varieties of roti in our Trinidad Indian repertoire, but they did not include tradtional India breads Naan and Chapatti. Of the tradtional paratha, dosti, dahl-pourri and saada roti, the latter was the most usual, as it ws the easiest to prepare. Flour, water a bit of salt and baking powder would be mixed into a dough, allowed to rise, made into small "loya", (small rounded lumps), and allowed to sit for a while before being rolled out as a pie crust. It woudl then be cooked on a flat round iron (tawa) roughly equivalent to a griddle, heated on a fire. After it was sufficiently cooked on both sides the edges were then cooked (sehkay). Durng this process the roti would become bloated and round, if the proess were successful. This would form a "pocket" in roti, which could be filled before eating.

"Tea and roti" referred to the usual breakfast that my siblings and I shared for most of the years of our growing up. Of course, we did not call the meal breakfast, but Tea. The tea would be in an enamel cup, or sometimes a tin cup with a handle that was attached by the tinsmith. The roti would be broken in small pieces and dunked before being eaten. Sometimes all the littel peices would be dropped into the tea at once and fished out and eaten after they had soaked in some of the tea. All of this, of course, was done with our fingers, although occasionally a spoon might be used to scoop up the soaked roti. This meal was usually eaten with each of us seeking a seat on floor in a corner, or sitting on the steps. It was much later in my experience that a table and chairs were introduced, together with table ware.

I don't know how many other families, if any, ate in a similar fashion, although I suspect that many did. Sitting at a table with china or corelle dishes and knives, forks and spoons is an acquired custom. Breakfast cereals and milk are a later import, too. Looking back, although those simple meals eaten in very humble homes seem primitive. The nutritional quality of the meal, I am sure, left much to be desired, although boxed cereal does not seem like much of an advance in that department. At the same time, those were warm and comfortable times to which my spirit returns with pleasure and satisfaction. How well I remember sharing this meal with my borthers and sisters! Tea and roti was so much more than just a meal. It was an experience in which relationships and memories for a lifetime were formed. My spirit often returns thither to be refreshed, even now.

Special Edition: A Man Called Mr. John

August 23, 2002

(This essay is a revision of the tribute I wrote on my father's 99th birthday)

August 23, 2002 marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of John Kanhai of Syne Village. He was named Premchand and his father's name was Dhanpal. He was nicknamed Kanhai, as he was thought to have been born on the birthday of Lord Krishna, one of whose nicknames was Kanhai. Kanhai became the name by which he was known, and when he was baptized and took a Christian name John was placed ahead of his nickname and he became John Kanhai.

Pa, as we called him, with the exception of our youngest brother, who called him Pappy, had very little schooling, but was by no means uneducated. The started school late. At the time going to school was not the general rule. Missionary workers came and got him from home to take him to school. He quit school in the Third Standard (roughly equivalent to the Third Grade). He was fourteen years old then and decided to go to work to support his family, as his father had died about that time.

Unschooled, but hardly unlettered, he read everything on which he could lay his hands. He bought books and brought them into our home. He had me read aloud to him, and memorize passages and recite them back to him. He read the newspapers every day. He mastered the Bible and knew it as well as the preacher. He loved to argue the Bible and religion, and welcomed Jehovah's Witnesses, as they provided him an opportunity for his favorite past time.

Even more noteworthy than his love of books and reading was the high value he placed on education. He insisted on an education for his children. He recognized the value of a Western style education to help his family get ahead. When he decided to send my eldest sister to High School (which was not free back then) he consulted with the head of the clan, his eldest uncle. He was told that he was trying to "hang his hat higher than he could reach." Yet he went ahead, and later, with the help of his mother, sent my second sister to High School. The school was in another city and they had to travel by 'bus every day. To this day I can't understand how he managed the transportation, uniforms, books and school fees on his weekly income of $8 (which also fed the whole family). A couple of years later it was my turn, and then my brother, and so on to the rest of the family.

Thus he opened a way, not only for his children, but also for relatives, including his uncle who scoffed at his ambitions. Indeed, his vision opened up the possibility for a poor family to send their children to get a higher education for the rest of the community, and for relatives who lived elsewhere. The impact of that single leap of faith cannot be easily measured. The teachers, university lecturers, business people, doctors, lawyers and assorted others who still make positive contributions to that and other societies and the impact of their influence on others for generations must all be included in the tally.

His vision and passion for social justice were equally ahead of his times. I remembered his involvement in the trade union movement, especially as many of the meetings were held "under" our house. He pioneered the credit union movement in our village. Again, the meetings were held "under" our house. Later, when a consumers' co-operative was formed, it was the small grocery store that he and Ma operated that became the Consumers' Cooperative. I have tried to understand the roots of this vision in his life, but I have no idea. I do know the source of the passion for social justice I've felt present in my siblings, sometimes even in greater intensity than in me. I am convinced in my own mind that this is something I learned from him. The concern he expressed for the welfare of others, from his visiting people in the community of whose difficulties he was aware, to sheltering in our home the vulnerable and needy, to running the shop as a ministry which was more of a benefit to others than it was profitable to him, --in all these ways his social conscience was expressed. I don't recall his teaching any of this specifically, but his example spoke so loudly that it could not be resisted.

Beyond his love for learning, for books, for education and his passion for social justice was his thirst for spiritual fulfillment. The sadhu in him continued his search even after he had embraced Christianity. His unspoken desire for me to enter into the ministry was a secret to me until after I was ordained. Yet, certainly, his whole lifestyle, the way he raised his family, and his personal impact on me were major forces which directed me toward ministry. His complete commitment to the local church and his activity as a life elder of the Presbyterian Church were daily examples of his faith which impacted us all.

In these and in many other ways he spread his spirituality, his social conscience, his love of books and of learning much farther than he could have ever known. Our children have no idea of the fact that some of these influences have been a part of their own formation, nor of how great that influence has been. The people whose lives we touch with compassion and gentleness are not aware that it is his touch mediated through us. Mr. John, as many of the villagers called him, is alive in real and powerful ways long after he is no longer with us in the flesh.

So, today, I have been saying inwardly in my spirit, "Happy Centennial Birthday, Pa! Thank you for so much more than you knew you gave!"

I Called Her Mammy

I called her Mammy. She was not my mother, yet, in very real ways, she was my Mammy. Her home in Grenada I considered my home. Whenever I was in Grenada I went there and stayed with her. She cared for me, in my mind, as for one of her own children. When I lived in Grenada and I wanted to get away for an evening or a night Ruth and I went there and stayed with Mammy. After I got the news of Mammy's death I had to talk to someone and called Ruth at work. She remembered it was the first place I took her when she went to Grenada.

I first met the La Mothe family when I went to Grenada with a group of students from St. Andrew's Theological College in 1956. When I led a mission of the Penal Presbyterian Christian Endeavor Society to Grenada in 1957 I spent a lot of time at the La Mothe home. After I returned to Trinidad from my studies in Canada and was ordained I returned to Grenada for vacations every year and spent time with the La Mothe family. And when, a few years later, I was appointed to serve as minister in Grenada, the La Mothe home was home to Ruth and me whenever we wanted to get away.


Mammy had many children. In addition to her four girls she took her nephews and nieces and raised them as her own. She was widowed while her children were still quite young, but she worked hard and kept it all going. What an amazing woman! She was a leader in the church and in the community, too. How did she find the time and the energy?

I kept in touch for a long time, even after we moved to Wisconsin. But, like almost every one else, my correspondence lapsed. I lost track of the family. When I got word that Brenda and Aloma lived in New York, I made contact, and made several visits there by myself; and with Ruth and our daughters one summer. In one of my first visits Mammy was there. She was visiting after having been in Canada. That was the last time I saw her. But I still see and hear her in my mind.

Mammy was 94 years old. When I talked with Brenda a couple of weeks ago I learned that she had been having health problems and had been to Trinidad earlier in the year for surgery. I wanted to write Mammy in Grenada. But I never did. How I wish I had! How I wish I had told her how much she meant to me over the years! How I wish I had told her that she had been a mother to me and that she had made me a part of her family!

No one lives forever. Yet when Brenda called with the news of Mammy's death it came to me as a bolt of lightning. I couldn't restrain the tears. I still feel a hollow pain deep inside of me. But I do not weep for her; I weep for myself and for my loss.

Mowsie

(This tribute to Mowsie was written on August 31, 2001. Now that Mowsie is no longer with us the tribute is just as fitting)



At 89 years of age today "Popo", the baby, has not only outlived her family, she has lived longer than any member of her family has. Which is somewhat strange as her life has not been what one might call "normal". For years she lived unmarried in her mother's and brother's home helping to care for her nieces and nephews. After a couple of attempts at making her own home she succumbed to clinical depression. For the last thirty years or so she has lived almost continually at St. Ann's. Yet Mowsie has a special place in our hearts because she is family in the richest sense of the word.

I was quite a young child when Mowsie decided she wanted to learn to write her name. I thought it a little strange that Cecilia, Ermine and I were teaching her to write. She had never had the benefit of going to school. In her day and generation it was unheard of for a girl child to go to school. But she recognized the value of being able to sign her name, and she practiced and practiced until she could do it. She taught herself to read hymns from the hymnbook and would read and sing to herself when she was alone. Who knows what she might have done had she had the opportunities that opened up to her nieces and nephews!

I remember a time when I returned home after I was ordained we were having a prayer meeting for some reason or other. I was reading the 23rd Psalm and as I read I saw Mowsie mouthing the words silently. I was deeply moved at the depth of the devotion she expressed. I remember thinking to myself, "I know the Psalm, but she knows the Shepherd." Another time, as she had been ill for a while, the radio was on and playing some of the popular songs. Mowsie came out of the bedroom and said, something to this effect: "All of these songs about love! If we had that much love in the world we wouldn't have all the problems we have." The power of that observation has stayed with me, too.

To us Kanhai children, Mowsie was a surrogate mother. Indeed, she was a real mother. Ma had more than she could handle with all of us kids, so close together in age, with all the housework and the shop to run while Pa worked outside to bring home some cash. Mowsie was there to help care for us. I remember those baths she gave us, rubbing our skin until the "maila" came off in rolls (and I always thought, some skin, too!). Or putting so much coconut oil on my head to comb my hair that it ran down my cheeks. Or putting oil in our ears. But Mowsie's penchant was for "hayraying" one's head. If you just happened to be sitting near her Mowsie's hand went automatically to your head and she would start searching automatically. With all the hayraying she did you would think that she would have gotten rid of all the lice!

I would have been quite young, I think, probably less than five years old, and something must have been said about money. Maybe it was something that just came to my mind, but I remember thinking, "when I grow up and I have money I will give Mowsie five dollars." To me five dollars must have seemed like a tidy fortune. In any case, I don't recall giving her five dollars or any amount when I had money, but do I recall that she gave me a great deal more than I could ever repay.

The one thing that I recall that gave me a great deal of "pain" was the relationship between Mowsie and Ma. Some of the same tensions had existed between Nanee and Ma, as I recall. I still remember with a great deal of pain one day in particular when Mowsie was especially mean to Ma in what she said, and Ma in her quiet, long-suffering way said nothing. But, later, when she was alone, Ma cried silently. It broke my heart that these two people who meant so much to me, whom I loved so deeply, and whose love I felt so warmly in my own life, had so much difficulty living together. I was only a child, then, but even now as I think about it my eyes are brimming.

For some reason no matter what I say I can't seem to capture in words the intensity, the fierceness with which Mowsie loved us. She loved us with a jealous love. She loved us as if we were the children born of her own body. I sometimes give Mowsie, along with Nanee, the credit for spoiling me as the first son of the family. But then, she spoiled us all as if we were special, indeed, as if we were the only children in the world. And we certainly were, to her. How lucky for us! Happy Birthday Mowsie!

The Longstretch (Long Stretch)

The Longstretch referred to a straight portion of the San Fernando-Siparia-Erin Road (no wonder they resort to numerical or alphabetical systems for naming roads in this country) between Charlo Village and Syne Village. It was also known as Melford Flat. It wasn’t really that long, but for a child walking two and a half miles to and from school looking at this seemingly interminable stretch of road amply justified the name of The Longstretch. Maybe that is why we chose this portion of the road to eat the part of our lunch we had saved for our homeward journey.

The Longstretch was known for other things, too. You’d never know it today, because there are houses built along the way, but when I was a child it was a long, lonely stretch. This was where the unwary encountered lajablesse (la diablesse) and lagahoo also known as les garoux (werewolf). We always made sure that we were not traveling alone when we had to traverse this stretch which the spirits haunted. We traveled in groups. It was safer, and it was more fun.
When I was in my teens I rode my bike the two and a half miles to Bible Study or choir practice and found myself riding this long, lonely stretch alone at night. Although I was not really superstitious, by then one had heard so many stories of encounters with the supernatural that it was hard not to think about it. With only a small battery powered lamp to illuminate the big darkness thoughts of the supernatural kept crowding in. It was in those moments one summoned up faith, and the words of the Shepherd Psalm became very real. I would say it silently, and sometimes out loud, so that the evil spirits would know that I was not traveling alone.

Of course the Longstretch was only a small part of the experience of walking to and from school. We did walk two and a half miles, but it was not uphill both ways. It was uphill and downhill both ways at Molai hill and Murder’s hill, although most of the rest of the way it was flat. As noted earlier we walked in groups. Going to and from school was a social experience, and sometimes even more. It was also the time when tensions were worked off, and occasional scuffles or fights were also part of it.

Funny thing, but it seemed to rain on the way to school more often than on the way back, as I recall. On those occasions we would hope someone would stop and give us a ride. (In those days we were not quite as afraid of riding with strangers, although just a bit). Sometimes it would be the ’bus, sometimes the police van, sometimes a private car. Most of time we tried to find shelter, although there were not many places along the lonely road that offered much shelter. We would cut banana leaves and use them as umbrellas, but most of us did not carry knives, and banana leaves definitely need to be cut.

So we got wet. If we got wet enough we could not be expected to go to school and stay wet. So to be sure we were wet enough to return home we would sit under the wayside pipe stands (hydrants) and get wet enough. Then it would be a holiday at home all day. (I get that feeling today when there is a really big snowstorm that leaves me homebound. It feels like a holiday!) Although I discovered that if one did get to school it was like a holiday in school, too. Since most of the children who came to school got there much the same way that we did, most of them did not get there when it rained. But those who did get there got to have a day of doing fun things rather than regular school work.

In general, walking two and a half miles to and from school was not a hardship. Indeed, it was often fun. When we were younger we walked with my older sisters and their confreres. We probably learned as much from them as we did in school, and not all bad, I might add. When we got older, then we were the elders who passed on wisdom to the young. This was where wisdom was dispensed and learned. This was where tensions were worked out. This was where relationships were developed and strengthened.

There were milestones along the road every quarter of a mile, but we marked distances by referring to Dada gap, Dhan gap, the New Road, Longstretch bridge, Quinam Road Junction, Charlo Village Junction and so on. These were the designations the adults used, and even now as I try to recall the names I form mental images of these places in my mind’s eye.

The Longstretch was a part of the road to school, to home, to relationships, to fun, to experiencing ourselves as children. I guess there were times when it was a very hot sunny day and my legs were too weary, I wished we had a school bus. Today I am glad we didn’t; we would have missed so much!

The Shop

Last November when we were visiting in Sudbury I was reminded how memories of the same events can vary between people. It should not be surprising since we experience people and events differently, and we see things in the light of our individual experience and pre-dispositions. I say this by way of a disclaimer for the memories I have been recalling. My siblings may have very different recollections of these same things.

A great deal of our lives revolved around The Shop. The Shop was a Ma & Pa grocery store our parents operated. Throughout my childhood I heard about when it was located “under the cocoa-house”. The cocoa-house was built up on pillars, and my recollection the downstairs was open. We played there, and sometimes animals were stabled there. The upstairs of the cocoa-house was a large tray, which occupied the entire floor. Then entire roof moved on rails, and would be pushed along the rails, which extended beyond the building to expose the tray to sunlight so that cocoa beans could be dried.

In any case, in my recollection the shop was a wooden building down the hill from our house. There were two wooden steps that brought one into the shop. The area in front of the counter is where customers stood when they came to shop. Behind the counter was where most of the “goods” were kept. We children helped Ma as soon as we were able to count. There was a drawer built in where the money was kept. There was a file, which consisted of a wire hook that was hung from a nail. Customer bills (IOU’s) were kept in this file. On the counter there was a scale and weights where all goods were weighed. Few things were prepackaged.

Back of the sales area were two rooms. One of these rooms there were bulk items like cooking oil, salted cod fish, the salt meat barrel, kerosene etc. The other room was largely vacant, and from to time we had renters (I think) who stayed there. The front doors, where the public entered, were secured by bolts from the inside. Secured is used somewhat loosely since the bolts did not always fit securely in the holes. It was not unusual to come in the morning to open up and find the doors were not quite secured. I used to have nightmares about this, and still do from time to time. We used the back door to access the building, which was secured by a lock.

The shop was more of a public service than a business. My parents were not very good business people. They sold so much on credit that they often did not have enough capital to stock the shelves. Every now and then a new infusion of cash was needed. Pa had to go to work outside as the “business” could not support the family. I faintly remember from my child’s memory, my mother borrowing money from her brother to re-stock the shop. Ma went to San Fernando to buy groceries for the shop on Tuesdays. It was often my chore on Tuesday morning to go to people in the village and tell them that Ma was going “to buy goods” and ask them to pay their bills. I remember this task with great distaste. People often hid, or made my mother look mean for asking for the money they owed. I vowed there and then that I would never go into retail business.

At the same time the shop was, indeed, a public service. Whatever my parents lost in cash they made up in good will. Sure, you can’t take it to the bank, but it fit in well with the kind of people they were. And the shop helped to feed our family. During the WW II when many food items were in short supply, we were able to eat. We still had to live off the fruits of the land, a great deal, but we lived. The shop was central in our lives because it was the family business. But it was much more than that. There was a constant parade of people who came through every week. They knew that Ma and Pa cared. Sometimes they took unfair advantage of them, but there was always a respect there for my parents. I know that the shop helped to form me in my positive ways. In that sense, too, it was much more than a business.

Syne Village

Syne Village (pronounced “sign” village) is home. It’s changed a lot since I lived there, but when I talk about “back home” it is still Syne Village. When I was a child there was not much to it. I remember when “Darcie Phoo-Phoo” (Aunt Darcie) and family built their home on the hill next to us I resented the open field where I used to roam and find high adventure, invaded by a house. Later, of course, it meant that we had playmates in our cousins Marilyn, Clarence, Rawlins and, later, Roy. But at the time the invasion was not welcome.

Syne Village is located on the San Fernando-Siparia-Erin Road equi-distant between Penal and Siparia. It stretches for a couple of miles between Charlo Village on the Penal side, and De Gannes Village on the Siparia side. In my childhood the village was mostly along the road, although now it has expanded into the interior through side roads and traces on both sides.

Pa’s family moved to Syne Village from Siparia Road when Dada (Jaimungal Seesaran) bought some lands there. Dada (grandfather) was Nanee’s eldest brother. Nanee (Miriam Moorti) was really our Agee (paternal grandmother) but our cousin Pearly lived with us and called her Nanee, because she was Pearly’s Nanee (maternal grandmother), and we grew up calling her Nanee, too. Dada was the oldest male relative (although Nanee was older) and was recognized as the head of the clan. Ma’s family (the Mahabirs) lived in Mondesir Road, Fyzabad, and later moved to Rochard Road near Barrackpore.

Our home was almost exactly two and a half miles from Penal and/or Siparia. By the time I came along Penal was our home town. We went to the Jagat-ka-Prakash (Light of the World) Presbyterian Church in Penal, and to the Penal C.M. (Canadian Mission) School, which was later renamed the Penal Presbyterian School. Both my older sisters Cecilia and Ermine completed elementary school there. In my last year my brothers Ezekiel and Nahum and youngest sister Evangeline and I transferred to Siparia Union School. (It had a better record in preparing students for High School entrance under the feared and revered Mrs. Niamath, better known as “schoolmistress”.) Later brothers Joshua and Moses would attend there, too. But our mailing address remained and still remains Syne Village, Penal (although we occasionally got mail in Siparia, too).

Our home was on a hill on an acre of land. Next to the road, “down-the-hill”, was another third of an acre which my parents owned, of which a large section was occupied by a pond, when I was a child. My parents had bought the land from Bhokhal Sadhu, who apparently used the pond for his “pujas” (prayer ceremonials). The pond was a village well, had wide concrete steps going into the pond, and I remember village women coming there to do their laundry. I remember, too, alligator stealing chickens, and our having to be extremely careful if we ventured near the pond. It later had to be filled in because it bred mosquitoes as well as alligators. In addition my parents owned a couple of acres of cocoa land “in the trace” (about a quarter of a mile from the road, accessed by a side road.) Here they grew cocoa, coffee, bananas, oranges, grapefruit and other fruit (and yams! real yams, not sweet potatoes). We made frequent excursions going “in the land” to harvest fruit in season, as well as to help pick cocoa, and coffee.

Niece Rowena wrote a research paper on the history of Syne Village when she was at the University of the West Indies a few years ago. I have a copy somewhere, although I am sure I don’t know where.

Remembering Amy Neehall

Last week an e-mail from brother Moses in Saskatoon advised of the death of Amy Neehall. I am writing this bit on Monday March 1. An e-mail message from Moses this morning advised me that today Amy is being buried.
I remember when the Neehalls came to our church in Penal. Indeed, I was there at the meeting when the vote was taken to issue a call. The Penal Presbyterian Church was well known for its politics. (During the past forty years I have learned that they are by no means unique!) Lots of discussion and debate at that meeting. One man was adamantly against it declaring that we did not need a “coolie Canadian”. When the vote was taken there was one dissenting vote.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that the coming of the Neehalls to Penal was the beginning of a social revolution. Roy was an immediate hit. Indeed, the one dissenting voter became one of his most ardent supporters. Roy’s rich, resonant voice, his wonderful oratorical gifts, his winning way with people, his fresh ideas and great energy brought many changes. The church grew and flourished.
While Roy went about doing important things, Amy stayed at home doing more important things. She had come to our rural community as a “white wife” of a native person trained abroad. But Amy’s quiet dignity and genuine warmth soon removed any color distinction any one might have feared. She raised her beautiful family, she practiced the ministry of hospitality, she formed deep and vital relationships. This person who was raised and formed in a different culture made her home among us. She touched the lives of everyone with whom she came into contact.
In today’s world few of us remain in our place of origin. I lost track of the Neehalls for a while. A few years ago (quite a few), when we visited Western Canada we made a trip to Edmonton, Alberta. Roy and Amy not only invited us to their home for a meal, they invited other people from the islands whom we knew. It was a beautiful reunion. I had the distinct feeling that this sort of thing happened quite often in their home. Practicing hospitality was Amy’s gift to so many of us. She did it with quiet distinction and genuine warmth. She imprinted the Syne Village Kanhai’s very deeply. Her life was a blessing. Her memory is a benediction.

And from Rosalind:
I thoroughly enjoyed reading the first edition of the Syne Village Times. What an excellent way of chronicling events in one's life! I remember AJ (Rampersad) referring to Rev. Ramlogan on different occasions but alas, I was way too young to have known the individual.
I have, however, always been totally impressed with Rev. Neehall. My sister, Pamela, told me a very interesting story 2 years ago when she visited Canada last about that honorable gentleman's contribution to my life in particular. Some of my family history for you is that I used to have numerous asthma attacks and because we were so poor, my parents had to sit all night in hospitals/ clinics etc. He offered and insisted that he pay my medical bills and had them take me to his family doctor. What was even more shocking for me to find out was that he had even asked to adopt me, but of course my parents won't give me up! (Thanks for sharing the memory, Rose).