A friend of ours who had been sent to Holland as a small boy for specialized treatment of stuttering, used to come home to Aruba and Lago Heights during the school holidays.

On one such occasion he had joined us when we were visiting Otto and Essie de Vries (800).
The grown-ups were on one side of the living room, while we youngsters enjoyed Essie's kid sister Linda's chocolate fudge cakes on the other. At a certain moment, for some reason or other, our conversation had steered to the topic of chickens. We were talking about these, when our friend said:
"Dey are not called chickens, but broilers" (referring to little chicks).
"Come on," we said, "maybe they do in Holland, but here we just call them chickens."
"No! No!" came the resolute answer, "dey are called broilers!"
"Nope. We call 'em chickens!" we retorted.
(At the time we just "answered back", but now I know that we had actually "retorted" . . . . ..
Our friend, not willing to give in, stood up and furiously exclaimed:
"Wat do you no? Dey are called broilers. I no, becuz my fadder is a chicken-fokker!!"

Coloring red as a lobster with anger, he just couldn't figure out why all of us, including the grown-ups, were rolling over the floor with laughter.
(It should be explained to those again who do not have a command of Dutch, that in that language "fokker" means "farmer" or "breeder" . . . . . Sorry, but you just missed the punch-line.)

There was another friend of ours who stuttered. But anytime he opened his mouth to sing, his speech impediment vanished. Until after the song, when he had to respond to applause:
"Th...., th...., th...., thank you!"

One day his Mom sent him to the Chinese grocery store below the hill, to buy cheese. When he got to the store he said:
"Ch...., Ch...., Chinaman, I want to buy some ch...., ch...., ch....".
He tried a second time:
"Ch...., Ch...., Chinaman, I want to buy some ch...., ch...., ch....".
To no avail. Then a third time:
"Ch...., Ch...., Chinaman, I want to buy some ch...., ch...., ch.... Ah, heck, give me some ham!"

A group of Lago Heights youths always had a particular area to sit during the sport events at the Lago Sports Park. We had our seats halfway down on the right (when facing the seating area from the field).

One of the athletes from Lago Heights was Robert (Obie) Naar (607).
One year we looked around the field for Obie, but we couldn't spot him anywhere. Just when they were announcing the 100-yards dash, Obie's usual sprinting event (the meter had not yet been introduced, and the distances were 100, 220 and 440 yards and the mile . . . . .), Obie appeared, well-dressed in suit-and-tie, holding a bottle of beer in his hand. When asked how come he was not participating in the race, he shrugged and said that he didn't really feel up to it.

Well, that was definitely the wrong thing to say to us. If "our" athlete was skipping the running this year, he could just go and find himself another place to sit, certainly not among us!

Obie stormed away, raging mad. To our great surprise and amusement we detected him moments later, wearing sports gear and heading over to the starting line. He ran . . . . . and won! After being presented with his trophy, he changed back into his suit and returned, holding the trophy filled with beer, sporting a huge smile, to ask:
"Now, can I have a seat?"
(Obie had gone down and found some ill-fitting shorts and shoes, and could register just in time as a late entry, as the officials knew him from previous sporting meets.)

On another occasion, not quite a sporting event, a boy of about twelve, sitting next to a lovely young lass of about the same age during the matinee at the club, very tentatively put his arm over the back of the girl's seat. After having gotten enough courage to continue, he got his arm over the girl's shoulder.
It must be noted at this point that the lad had no inkling of what was taking place on the screen.

Having his arm now over the girl's shoulder, he proceeded to very gently fondle the young lass' budding breasts. And as the girl did not protest, this activity continued until the move was over.

But, as they left the movie theater he felt rather embarrassed to walk close to the girl in broad daylight. Having rather enjoyed the activities during the matinee, he now felt remorse and decided to apologize to the girl. She replied:
"But it wasn't my breast you were fondling. I was wondering why you were so intent on caressing my elbow during the whole movie . . . . . ?"

The young romances:
Frank and . . . . . ?
Gilbert and . . . . . and . . . . . and . . . . . and . . . . . !!?
Rumor has it that the real reason Gil left Aruba, only to return after almost thirty-six years, was that too many daddies with double-barrelled shotguns came after him. He finally found his Waterloo when Jenny put a noose around his neck (and a ring through his nose . . . . .)
. . . . . and . . . . . ?
Fred and . . . . . ?
Desmond and . . . . . ?
Yvette and what's-his-name . . . . . ?

Another persistent rumor that had been circulating was the experiment with the "parachute" . . . . .
I've been trying to find out which group of then youngsters had been responsible for this. At most I get a grin, but never a corroboration! The culprits should be sought in the group born between '33 and '40. Anyway, they can come out of hiding now, as the statute of limitations for this heinous act has long expired!

The story goes that one day several mothers' linen closets were raided and sheets were taken. These sheets were then sewn together into a parachute. (Who, we wonder did the sewing? If not one of the boys, at least one girl had to have been an accomplice!)
The next step in the exercise was to find a volunteer to test this parachute.
A lad (probably of reduced mental ability or who didn't have all his wits with him at the time) was found and sent up the water towers.
(Everybody should know by now where these were located?? Otherwise consult the map!!)

The jump was made, but with mildly disastrous results. The volunteer lad suffered broken legs, bruises and a variety of other physical discomforts and was taken to the Lago Hospital.

To sane people this would have been the end of the exercise, letting well alone be! But this group of young Lago Heights-ians thought it proper to visit the lad, taking a box of chocolates for him.
Strangely enough, the lad bore no grudge against the group.
The reason was found out later: the group had congratulated the lad with his outstanding contribution to science, and the lad was proud of this feat . . . . .

There was a rule in most Lago Heights households, that kids had to be inside by the time that the street lights went on around 6 in the evening.
When one evening a youngster came in at around 8 P.M., his father demanded to know why he'd broken that rule? (Licks for man's tail in the offing!). When the father was told that the lights had not gone on, he took his son outside to verify this.

And, indeed, that evening the street lamps did not go on, the reason being that all the bulbs - from every single light pole in Lago Heights - were shot out with catapults, the faithful "stichis". I wonder who could have done such an act of pure vandalism?

Will the ones who enjoyed free movies, by looking in from the roof of the club, please come forward? How many were chased away by the watchmen (guards) on scooters? Of course, there were risks having to jump off the roof. As on one occasion, someone (no name, just to protect the guilty one) broke his leg.

An arm, This time Rudy MacDonald's, was broken during pole vaulting practice in the north-east corner of the ball field behind the club. He claimed to have lost his balance when he sailed over the bar, and couldn't regain it.

I can still hear him screaming "MAMA!!" before actually falling and snapping his arm.

Desmond Brook had broken his arm and had it in a cast. Before the arm had properly healed, still in cast, Desmond climbed on the fence in front of his house (818). And yes, he fell and broke his other arm . . . . .!
For several weeks Desmond could be seen with both arms in casts!

Accidents tend to occur when doing sports, resulting in a sprained ankle, a bruise here and there . . . . .

During a baseball game, Erol Brown was at bat. The pitcher threw the ball high and inside, but Erol was too slow dodging it and got it slap-dab in the middle of this forehead. When told that he was bleeding, he just shrugged it away. After all, he wasn't a child . . . . .

Until he passed his hand across his brow and had a look at the red stuff on his hand. We'd never realized before how quick Erol was. He took off, bawling his head off, all the way from the ball park to his home at the other side of Lago Heights . . . . .

There were other types of accidents. Like running barefoot and stepping on rusty nails or broken glass. With as consequence of a visit to the clinic for a tetanus shot.

One such accident befell me, but believe it or not, I had my shoes on at the time.
(Those who claim to know me are probably thinking that it must have been one of rare occasions I did have them on . . . . .)

In any case, I had my shoes on, and was nextdoor seeing how my neighbor Adi Martis was constructing a huge kite (For an eight-year old it did seem huge at the time.) Adi had secured the wooden ribs of the kite with a nail, which was sticking out.

Mindful of my Dad's lectures on safety (him being a "Green Cross" safety instuctor in Lago) not to have pieces of wood lying about with nails sticking out, I proceeded to try to bend the nail flat by stepping on it. The nail refused to bend, but instead penetrated the sole of my shoe, my foot and the upper part of my shoe. (I told you it was big!)
The part I forget (conveniently, or perhaps due to acute selective memory) is whether I was bawling my head off at the time or not!!!

I stumbled home, with the kite as some sort of footwear, to get my brother Fred. Our parents were out with Adi's parents at the time. Fred, upon seeing what had happened, miraculously and to my great astonishment very quickly overcame his squeamish attitude towards anything with blood and got me into our two-tone green '55 Ford Fodor (Ford Motor Company's spelling of four-door).

Mind you, Fred was fifteen at the time, and so not in the possession of a driver's license! But, it wasn't his brotherly regard for my well-being or his sense of duty at all, but rather the possibility to seize upon this "emergency" to drive the car, and oh yes, me to the hospital.

Running around barefoot causes callus to form on the sole of one's foot.
That came in handy when I had to get away from tenderfoot Fred, whom my Mother would invariably send to get me if I did something worthy of a good spanking. Running over the "wanglo" ("cocklehorns"), the spiky thorns, was no problem at all.
And getting away was the name of the game.

Camping out in Grape Field, and spending a few nights there during the school holidays. But one had to have fresh bread to toast for breakfast over the campfires.

Well, it just so happened that the Rainbow Bakery used to deliver loaves of bread in Lago Heights at around 5 A.M., leaving these on the fence by the front gate of the houses.
A raiding party, selected by flipping coins ("Heads - I win; Tails - you lose!") would descend upon Lago Heights to procure bread.

Now, one couldn't just grab the loaves. No, one had to take only part of the loaf, and scatter the remainder on the ground along with the torn wrapping paper. Then the blame would befall . . . . . , yes, the poor innocent donkeys (the four-legged variety) wandering about.

(By the way, there are more donkey stories in the various "Recollections")

Grape field - in the days that there were actually trees and shrubs growing there - was also the San Nicolas version of "Lovers' Lane". Parking the car there, necking and making out was a favorite pastime for some . . . . . But , they never considered the Lago Heights youth. At the height of the activities in the car, the tires would get deflated, sand thrown into the car, and if those inside the car were silly enough to have disrobed, they risked losing their clothes also.

After all, it was our territory, so . . . . . watch out!

By Grape Field there was a gate leading to Seroe Colorado and guarded by a Lago watchman.
Every day a worker came out with a wheelbarrow full of sand. And everyday he was stopped by the watchman who searched the sand in the wheelbarrow for anything that was being taken out without a permit.

This ritual continued for weeks on end. And the guard was certain that there was something amiss, and that the worker was illegally procuring something or other. The worker always sported a grin while the sand in the wheelbarrow was being poked. But nothing was ever found.

It wasn't until very much later that it came to light what the worker had been misappropriating . . . . . yes, wheelbarrows!!! (This last anecdote was contributed by Ivan Ramphal from Below the Hill in Essoville. Ivan spent so much time in Lago Heights that many believed he actually lived there!).

De Vuyst Airfield.
(See some mention of this airfield in the main story)
It was nearing either Thanksgiving of Christmas (the grey matter is letting me down here) and there was a competition at the airfield, which consisted of trying to drop a bag of flour out of a flying plane into a bull's-eye target, painted just outside the clubhouse. There would have to be two persons in the plane; the pilot and the the one who was to drop the bag. The winners would each get a turkey with all the trimmings, which could be prepared, if they so desired, at the Esso Club.

Anyhow, several flyers had gone around already, but no one came close to hitting the target.

Doc, who had been imbibing as if it was about to go out of style, came swaggering stone-drunk out of the clubhouse, asking around who wanted to be his partner in the competition. Seeing the state he was in, everybody declined. But, all of a sudden, this yankee dame in a state of total inebriation, answered with a total slurred: "Yeth, I'll go with ya!"

Even though everybody tried to talk the pair out of going up, there was no stopping them. They stumbled to the plane, toting their bag of flour, managed to climb aboard, and after taking the plane to the start of the runway, revving the engine, they snaked eastwards until the plane - just barely - lifted from the runway. It was the worst take-off I ever saw, and as a flying enthusiast (as were many from Lago Heights), I'd seen a few in my time.

Everybody was certain that they had seen the last of Doc and his co-pilot, because in all probability they would crash further up or drop in the sea. And, as we looked at the plane making all types of strange movements in the air, Doc managed to complete the circle counter-clockwise, and came in from over Yuana Morto. He veered to the right to fly over the front of the clubhouse, and there we saw the bag of flour come sailing down to earth, falling . . . . . right in the middle of the bull's eye. Those two drunks in the plane had done what all the sober ones before them couldn't come even close to do.

The plane circled once more and came down for a landing, bumped a few times on the runway and came to a halt on the far side of the runway, with the nose pointing towards the Golf Club.

EVerybody waited for Doc and his lady co-pilot to come out of the plane. But after no movement was detected across the runway, everyone ran over to see what had happened to the champs. And there, slouched in their seats, were Doc and his partner, happily snoring away, oblivious to the commotion outside the plane.

Around the airfield there used to be several "discarded" airplanes decorating the countryside. Their fuselage, framework and the wings were sometimes constructed out of aluminum (aluminium for the anglophiles out there) piping and sheets, perfect material to be stripped off and used for the garoshis (go-carts). These were used for racing on the slope of the Black Road . . . . . and I've heard that some even were used on the gradient leading out of Lago Heights, and taken to the slopes by Grape Field; one by the gate, the other past the Golf Club.

I wonder how many of the youth of that era - and not only from Lago Heights - got a knack for mechanical engineering from this activity . . . . .

When my Dad was away from the island, he always gave me instructions on starting the car in the garage ("Remember to always have the garage doors wide open!") and letting it idle for some five minutes. This to make sure that the battery would not go flat. (Luckily for me, by this time - I was twelve years old - my brother Fred had already left for Holland to study (yes, mechanical engineering), or he would have been the one to have to start the car).

After the first few starts, the temptation to do something with the gears became to great to withstand. Besides, I had some friends urging me on.

Having seen my Dad changing gears, I knew what had to be done. And after carefullly engaging the gears, slowly releasing the clutch, while gently depressing the gas pedal, I got the hang of it (It actually took me one whole afternoon of starting and stalling) and from from moving backwards and forwards a foot or so every time, I felt that I was ready to attempt greater distances, at least to the front gate and back . . . . .

My nex-door pal Alex would guide me, as I looked in the rear-view mirror.
I then learned that I hadn't gotten my coordination down pat. Because, as Alex was frantically gesturing and signalling to me to turn the wheel to the right, I proceeded to do so in the opposite direction, while attempting to reverse out of the garage for the first time. The bumper caught the left garage door and pulled it off its hinges.

Panic!!
First gear and forward again. But, the car was parked askew and not the way my Dad had left it. So, reverse again, turning the steering wheel, and . . . . . whammo! The right garage door off its hinges. Finally, after a great many attempts, without Alex' help, I got the car back in the right position.

I went to raid my piggy bank and took the little money I had to Bruno Arends (713) who was a carpenter, asking him if he could come and fix the garage doors. And, above all, not to tell my Dad. (My Dad found out anyhow, but he never said anything about it. I've always suspected Bruno for having spilled the beans, but as I was not sure, his house escaped being pelted with rocks.)

This incident with the car and the garage would have taught anyone a lesson an keep them away from trying to drive. But for me it was an extra challenge. And so it was that by the time I was thirteen, I was driving all the way down to Malmok, taking the back roads passing Fontein and Boca Prins, coming out in Santa Cruz and then taking the road via Noord to to the beach at the west side of the island . . . . .

The children of Lago Heights Club Board Members enjoyed the privilege of free movies. At the door they simply had to mention who their father was.
So while we had to dole out our 25 cents for a movie, they simply went in by saying:
"Morales' son, or De Vries' daughter, or Van Blarcum's son . . . . . "

Our friend Rueben Page, a black youth from Yuana Morto, decided that this would be an easy way to gain entrance to the picture shows. So one afternoon he joined us to go to the matinee, and as he was going through the door, he identified himself as:
"Brook's son!"
Upon which the ticket collector grabbed him by the collar, saying:
"Uh-uh, this Mr. Brook gotta tell me hisself . . . . . !!"
(It should be noted here for those very few who didn't know Mr. Brook, that he is a caucasian . . . . . )

At that precise moment, Mr. Brook, with the perennial cigar in his mouth, just happened to be walking by, and after a look at Rueben, said:
"Let him in, not because I claim him as my son, but for his unmitigated audacity . . . . . !!"
"But, young man," he said, addressing Rueben, "don't you ever try that again!"

Years later, this same Rueben Page was to become a government minister in the cabinet of the Netherlands Antilles. I still wonder whose son he claimed to be, to gain entrance into the cabinet . . . . .?

Mr. Brook was the protagonist of several stories:

I was taken ill one afternoon at school and was rushed to the Lago Hospital. There, upon examination, I was found to have something wrong with my intestines and I was placed in the surgery ward of the hospital. This ward was where one went if the butchers were to slice one open . . . . .
(One cannot help but conjure up images of Dracula, Frankenstein an the lot!)

After a day or so, it was decided (probably by the likes of Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, Boris Karloff and Vincent Price) that surgery was not absolutely necessary, but I had to remain a further few days for observation.

(By the way, this became a new milestone in the annals of the Lago Hospital: I was the first patient ever on the surgery ward who escaped the scalpel of Dr. Van Schouwen . . . . . but, I'm digressing, after all, it is supposed to be a story about Mr. Brook)

After having been bed-ridden, I welcomed the opportunity to be able to walk about the ward. At the same time I was hospitalized, Mr. Brook had been admitted for double-hernia surgery and got a room next to mine. He had come by to see me during my first day there and I decided to repay him with a visit. Usually, with double hernia, surgery is done in two stages, with at least a few months in between. But being the person he is, Mr. Brook decided that he wasn't going to come back a second time, so all necessary treatments had to be done in one go.

During those few days, I got to know an entirely different Mr. Brook, and found out that there hid another person behind the stern exterior. He also taught me the ins and outs of several card games, which he and other Lago Heights fathers played in the club.

One Saturday afternoon, a few weeks later, a few of us were sitting on the steps in front of the Lago Heights Club, when Mr. Brook went in. And, instead of his usual grunting response to our "Good afternoon, Mr. Brook", he stopped and addressed us:
"Hello, boys. Well, Edwin, how are you today? Enjoying yourself?"

The group was flabbergasted, as they had never ever witnessed Mr. Brook taking time to speak to any youths, other to admonish then. And yet greater was their astonishment when my reply came:
"Fine, thank you, sir. Just taking it easy here with my friends.", which only evoked a smile and a good-bye wave from Pedro Brook as he entered the club.
It was not the Mr. Brook they had known before.

Years later, being in New York (in '69, during the week of the moon landing and just before I visited Woodstock in upstate NY), I paid a surprise visit to the Brook's residence in Long Island. (The Brooks moved there after Pedro retired from Lago.) The person I saw doing his garden was none other than Pedro Brook himself.
When he saw me, he exclaimed: "Wel verdraaid, wat een aangename verrassing!" ("Well, I'll be darned, what a pleasant surprise!")
And a surprise for me too, as I'd never heard Dutch spoken by him before.

Anybody remember Pedro's black 1952 Chevrolet, a rust bucket if you ever saw one? But, according to him, the rust spots only contributed to give the car a touch of antique.

Cigar.
One day, as the story goes, Pedro was filling the tires on his car with air at the Esso service station "below the hill", his cigar as usual in his mouth.
All of a sudden, the tire he was filling exploded, throwing Pedro several yards away. The gas-station attendants came running to find him lying on the ground, bruised, his clothes in tatters, his spectacles broken, but . . . . . still with the cigar in his mouth!

Pedro's cigar was also the cause of another incident, this time involving one of the nurses at the Lago Hospital. You must realize that this took place in the early 60s, and smoking had not been banned in hospitals at that time.
This nurse decided that she wasn't going to stand for cigars being smoked during her watch. She never reckoned on the stubborn, intransigent patient she had to deal with.

Coming from her desk, halfway up the corridor, she burst into Pedro's hospital room and demanded that the cigar be put out immediately. Upon which came the reply:
"Well, young lady, why don't you ask these gentlemen here in this room if they have any objections to my smoking? But you, all the way up the corridor, are bothered with the smell of good Dutch cigars. I bet that when you smell the terrible cheap American ones, you even offer to light them. So, nurse, do us a favor and get the . . . . . out of here, and take your hypocritical attitude along with you!"
(It must be noted here that euphemisms have been used, along with author's privilege, to spare the ones among us with an over-sensitive attitude to spicy language . . . . .)

For years my friends wanted to know what Dutch color was part of my name.
"Rood" (red), "groen" (green), or perhaps "blauw" (blue)? Their queries was a direct result of finding out that my brother's first name was "Bruin", Dutch for brown.

Fred was named after our Dad, whose "Bruin" in turn came from a couple of generations previously. It seemed that the first one in the family with "Bruin" as their first name got it by a clerical error in the registry at birth. The registrar, not quite familiar with the English name "Brian", spelt it "Bruin", as this was the closest he could get to "Brian" in Dutch, the official language.

B.F., my Dad's first initials, which stood for Bruin Frederick. Behind his back, though, he came to be known as Bulldog Face. Not very complimentary, but certainly believed by several of my - gullible - friends . . . . . especially when they sam him angry for something I had done contrary to his wishes . . . . .!!
(By the way, my older brother Fred's initials are also B.F.!)

Names
There were a lot of nicknames and/or petnames prevalent in the community. Some of the residents were only known by their nicknames and very few were aware of their actual name (See Yvette's Recollections for an example).

Now, I can't really blame anyone for spelling my name incorrectly.
And it wasn't only in past generations that registrars corrupted names, such as "Bruin" for "Brian".

The eldest son of the Hassell family (1036) whose friends know him as Alex, is officially registered as "Alicks"!

Our surname has seen a number of varieties:
Dirks, Dirkz, Dircs, Dircks, Dirckz, Dirckx, and so forth, and so fifth. And there are more names of Lago Heightsians which deserve extra attention:

Then there were the Guyanese of East-Indian origin.
Abdul Rahim, Abdul Kadim, Abdul Syeed. "Abdul" was really their surname, but they and later their offspring were registered with their first names (Rahim, Kadim and Syeed) as surnames . . . . .
So, Julia Rahim (1036) is a second cousin to Oswald Kadim (925) (Abdul Rahim being Abdul Kadim's uncle). And their surnames should have been "Abdul" . . . . .
Can you still follow this? (Both Julia and Oswald married Swiss and have made their home in Switzerland (Lausanne and Geneva, respectively). Oswald, though, plans to move back to Lago Heights when he retires in 2000 . . . . .

Around New Year's gangs of youths would walk through Lago Heights, throwing firecrackers here and there.

One year's end a group of about thirty of us, including some friends from the "Colony" were walking from the intermediate houses down to the 600 road, planning to head to the "Bridge" by the Bachelor Quarters. When we walked passed the houses, the lady of one these houses came out and started yelling abuse to our heads. Instead of ignoring her, someone in the group decided to light one of the larger firecrackers - a "dunderbuss" and throw it in her direction.

She in turn took some rocks and stones (rockstoons) and starting pelting us. (I was later to learn that this lady had been a crack softball pitcher in her youth . . . . . ). In any case, we scattered and regrouped by the bridge for a war council. The group decided that we would return to the scene and put into action a plan concocted by the more evil-minded among us.

It happened that this particular house had a fence with decorative blocks at the top. The ones resembling 8s on their side. And, as it was one of the "intermediate houses", it was built on 2-foot concrete pillars, with space underneath the house.

When it was dark enough we returned to the house an began placing "double-action" firecrackers into the holes in the decorative stones on the fence, all aimed at the house. The "double-action" refers to the fact that the firecracker would shoot forward after igniting and then explode with a roar . . . . .

When the signal was given, all the firecrackers were lit simultaneously.
They all flew under the house and exploded at the same time. The noise was deafening. The entire group took off, once again towards the bridge. We got there just in time to see police cars, fire trucks and an ambulance, all with lights and sirens on, speed up the 600 road.

It wasn't true, was it? We didn't set the house on fire, did we?

Later we found out that the lady of the house rushed out after the explosion of the firecrackers under her house, and with all the smoke emanating she though that her house was indeed set ablaze. So she ran like a bat out of hell to the Club, where at that moment her husband was enjoying a card game. And from there, after hearing her story, proceeded to call the emergency services to the scene.

And no, fortunately for us and for those among us with a conscience, there hadn't been any fire.

We had a dog named Panther. It was a cross-breed between a stray dog and some bastard mutt. My Mom always referred to it as a vagabond. It was a black dog, with white lower legs and paws, and it had a white triangular-shaped area under its neck, resembling rolled-up sleeves and an open collar.
Aptly, one would say, if one knew the stories with Panther.

One Friday night, Panther decided to pay a visit to the Lago Heights Club, where as was usually the case, a party was being held on the outdoor patio. Entering by the front door, he proceeded to follow a particular enticing smell emanating from behind the bar counter, where a large carton box lay, full of pre-packed hotdogs in buns from the Esso Club.

It was during those good old days when nobody (dogs excepted, perhaps) had any second thought about leaving everything unattended. Gordon, the bartender, had gone together with the other bar-help to look at the goings-on in the dance area.

Panther, seeing a heaven-sent opportunity, got behind the bar and started wrestling with the box of hotdogs. He pulled the box from behind the counter and proceeded to drag it to the entrance.
At that particular moment, a friend of my father's was coming into the club, and was amused at what he saw Panther doing.

Panther continued pulling the box down the steps in front of the Club and finally got the box to the side of the Club, in the parking area. Here he fought with the box, and had a feast on only the frankfurters, leaving all the buns. With only my father's friend a looker-on.

We had always wondered about that night, why Panther had come home whining, round as a barrel, with his stomach dragging over the ground, and yes, sick as the proverbial canine . . . . .

One of our neighbors was preparing a large chicken for their Sunday lunch. After having been pre-baked, the chicken was left on the kitchen counter to cool off, before being stuffed. (You so-called culinary experts, never mind how chickens should be prepared, just read on . . . . . )

Panther had gained entrance to the kitchen (another case of open upper half of the door!) and took possession of the bird. When the housewife came to continue baking her chicken, all she found were bare bones. That Sunday the family's lunch consisted of Spam . . . . .

There were always dogs wandering about.

One one occasion, a pack of hounds, Panther among them, was chasing a bitch in heat. Of course, Panther stood no chance with the larger dogs around. So, keen strategist as he was, he starting nipping at the dogs at the front of the pack, causing all of them to start fighting among themselves. Panther quickly left the pack, and after a glance at the fighting canines, proceeded to follow the bitch all by himself . . . . .

It always amazed us how many little copies of Panther there were around!

There was someone in Yuana Morto who bred German Shepherds. The dogs were registered and prized pedigrees and were kept in a closed-off yard.

One day the security was let down, and Panther saw the opportunity of "socializing" with aristocrats (dog variety, that is). Before the owners of these fine canines knew it, Panther had already seized his chance to perform his dasterdly deed. All they saw was Panther scampering away, with - had they paid close attention - a big, contented smile on his snout.

In due time a litter of pups, black with white paws, were born.
The owners wanted to take my Dad to court, but the magistrate could not keep a straight face, and threw the case out.

I daresay that the breed was improved by Panther, but then I could possibly be prejudiced!

One day, our neighbor came to tell my Dad that he had seen Panther run over by a car around the corner from where we lived.

Usually when that happens, the police is called to put the poor animal out of his misery. But I wouldn't have any of that. I put Panther in a box and took him to the back of our garage, where I nursed him back to his former self.

Panter was run over another three times, but managed to survive. He died of old age, almost twenty years old (!!) when I was away at college in the States.
Many of our friends still remember the antics of that faithful companion.