Personal Narrative: My Long Trip To Georgia

By the end of a depressing cold January, I asked Nonno to drive me to the New Haven train station to inquire about a train schedule to Augusta, Georgia. I made my case why I wanted to leave, and he understood. When Mamma found out, she reacted rather hysterically; called it a crazy notion, and me a stubborn German. Nonno very quietly became my ally and suggested to wait until Frank came home from college for winter break, and he could take Patrizia and me to Georgia. Nonno offered to provide his reliable Chevy Bel Air for the long trip. One chilly, but sunny morning in early February 1963, I had all our belongings packed in the Bel Air and said my goodbyes to Nonno and Mamma who had one of her melodramatic moments. She moaned

We stopped at the agreed meeting place, the Alamo Plaza Hotel Courts, and I called Al who met us later that afternoon. During our many hours of traveling, Patrizia enjoyed looking and pointing and was a perfect little travel companion, but when she saw her father again, she squealed with such joy and ran like the wind toward his arms. In contrast to Connecticut, the weather in Augusta, Georgia had a tropical feel and with temperatures of low seventies in the middle of winter, I knew this had to be better than the French Riviera. Frank, my hero brother-in-law, stayed for two more days and then headed back to cold and icy New England. My belly showed every bit of eight month pregnancy, and we quickly established visits to Obstetrics at Fort Gordon Hospital. We were one happy family again and stayed at Alamo Plaza for two

The baby’s due date was March 16, and I had visions of bringing the baby home to the dump we lived in. We had no specific criteria for buying a home, just something that spoke to us, accommodated two children, and the price fitting into our military pay budget. One Sunday we drove down Peach Orchard Road, or Highway 25 and I saw a sign advertising three and four bedroom homes in a new subdivision called Bloomingdale. I liked the name, and we drove into Bloomingdale Street and around the circle. The houses had a similar look, modest, brick, ranch-style homes with carports, and all seemed occupied, except one house had a small For Sale sign in the grassless front yard. A middle-aged man approached our car and asked if we were interested in buying a house, and added that this one was the last new house for sale in the subdivision. He quoted the price of $12,500 with $500 down, and a twenty-year mortgage if we needed to finance. The agent invited us inside the house for a look around. The smell of newness and highly polished oak floors caught my attention immediately, and I liked the idea of three bedrooms and 1 1/2 bath. The kitchen had no appliances, but a cozy breakfast nook, and a good size living room featured a large picture window facing a sloping front yard. A laundry and storage area was accessible from the kitchen and the carport. The fenced in