It went something like this...
It was 1965, a sunny Sunday morning in Sunnyvale, California, late summer, or early fall, as it was warm enough to share a family breakfast on the back patio. I remember my fun loving dad making the announcement. It went something like this, "We're moving to Formosa." Hmmmmm..."Formosa," I thought to myself...where in the world is Formosa? Keep in mind, I was only 7 years old.
Apparently, my dad answered an ad in the SF Chronicle seeking people with Top Security Clearances. He had one of those, and the CIA needed men like my dad. He departed for Laos in October of 1965, and left his family behind for the next seven months.
The months and days between October 1965, and May of 1966, dad's absence was numbed by school, and the presence of close friends, the Nelsons, the Veltrops, and the Shelleys. I missed my dad, but never felt abandoned by him. His loneliness became apparent with each letter that arrived in the mailbox. I felt his presence with every letter that was read to me. He always reminded me to be a good girl, help my mom, and he let me how much he missed me. His scratchy penmanship was a comfort to me. I long for those letters today.
As the end of the school year closed in on us, we were busy getting vaccines, haircuts, and new clothes for the high temperatures, and humidity of this unknown country that would soon become my new home. My mom was busy giving away my favorite dresses, while I ran down the street with tears flooding my small face, not understanding why she was doing this. I can only imagine that the fever caused by the cholera, typhoid, and tetnaus vaccines added to this emotional frenzy. I was unable to lift my scrawny little arms above my waist as they were temporarily paralyzed by the pain of the vaccines. Packers came to crate our belongings. Familiar things disappeared. My home turned into an empty shell. All while I still wondered, where we were going, and why?
As, it turned out we weren't moving to Formosa, but instead, to Laos. This news didn't offer me any more comfort or less discomfort. It didn't matter. I didn't know better. Laos? Formosa? What's the difference? I just kept asking myself, "Where are we going? Why are we moving?" There were never any answers.
In May of 1966, my mom said good bye to our friends, and neighbors. It was a day filled with sadness for me, a young 8 year old girl. I said good bye to my friends, my grandma, and our dear neighbors, and many close family friends. Jerry and Hal took us to the airport, where we boarded Pan Am Flight #1 to Tokyo, Hong Kong, and eventually Bangkok, where many, many hours later I was happily reunited with my dad.
We spent a couple of days in Bangkok, lingering around a swimming pool, and recovering from the long smoke filled flight of the days back then. I was oblivious to any intimate reunion my parents might have shared.
Finally, we boarded a flight to Vientiane, Laos. We were on Royal Air Lao, a 2 prop plane (DC-3, I think), and landed a little more than a couple of hours after we took off.
They rolled the steps up to the plane. I stopped at the doorway of the plane just before descending down the steps to the hot, dry tarmac awaiting my arrival. . As I stood at the doorway of the airplane in my orange and yellow culotte outfit, and freshly bobbed hair, with freckles on my sweet little face, the hot, humid Laotian air consumed my small body and lungs within seconds. For a moment, I gasped for air. I felt as though I'd become enveloped in another skin.
Welcome to Laos, Elizabeth. May 1966.
Sabaidee,
Liz
