Lemonade Life

By Lloyd S. Daley

This meaningful biography from the hand of a now-polished diamond in the rough is nothing short of what all hopeful foreigners come to U.S. shores to achieve. Lloyd S. Daley has managed to overcome obstacles, resolve brutal memories, educate and hoist himself into a solid, contributing citizen.
This volume is a remarkable testament to those not born to platinum privilege, but who teach themselves to overcome and achieve. This is a testament to making lemonade, even from the bitter of lemons. Reading it humbles, yet elevates, the reader into the possible glories we can all achieve if we keep faith and work as earnestly as we can. A tell-all of what it is really like growing up on the uneven playing field of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lloyd S. Daley
• Release date: May 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301121861

Lloyd S. Daley

Lloyd S. Daley, Sr. grew up in Jamaica, West Indies and immigrated to the United States in 1967. Holding a degree in Applied Science and certifications in food-service management and office support systems, he has worked in various trades and held positions as Food and Beverage Cost Accounting Manager at New York University Medical Center, and Assistant Director of Operations and Director of Food and Nutrition Services at Coler/Goldwater Memorial Hospitals, NYC. Mr. Daley is now retired and lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with his wife, Evelyn. He has three adult children and four grandchildren.

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Lemonade Life

A Survivor’s Story

PUBLISHED BY

Lloyd S. Daley, Sr. on Smashwords

E-mail: [e-mail]

Website: lloydslemonadelife.com

Lemonade Life: A Survivor’s Story

Copyright © 2010-2013 Lloyd S. Daley, Sr.

All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Names of certain individuals in this memoir have been changed in consideration of their privacy and confidentiality.

Table Of Contents

About The Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Preface

Chapter 1: David Without a Slingshot

Chapter 2: Mending Wounds

Chapter 3: Like a Rolling Stone

Chapter 4: The Growing Years

Chapter 5: Riding Life’s Waves

Chapter 6: Treading New Ground

Chapter 7: Succeeding on the Battlefield

Chapter 8: Higher Horizons

Chapter 9: The Contagion of Success

Chapter 10: Adrift, Home Again, Adrift

Chapter 11: Breaking the Pattern

Chapter 12: Full Circle and Beyond

Chapter 13: Lessons From the Book of Experience

Chapter 14: Life Reflections

About The Author

Lloyd S. Daley, Sr. grew up in Jamaica, West Indies and immigrated to the United States in 1967. Holding a degree in Applied Science and certifications in food-service management and office support systems, he has worked in various trades and held positions as Food and Beverage Cost Accounting Manager at New York University Medical Center, and Assistant Director of Operations and Director of Food and Nutrition Services at Coler/Goldwater Memorial Hospitals, NYC. Mr. Daley is now retired and lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with his wife, Evelyn. He has three adult children and four grandchildren.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother Alice Mae Gillette Loving - Kind - Wise,

the architect of my foundation and the one who gave me the tools at an early age to build the house (person) I have become.

Also to all those who have been through experiences similar to mine who did not consider themselves victims but individuals—those who, despite the roadblocks they met on their journeys, survived to tell their stories, to inspire and motivate others.

My mother, Alice Mae Gillette

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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the many people who have touched my life in positive ways during my journey and put my story in a readable form:

My wife, Evelyn, the person I refer to as Joy throughout the story, the one who made my life special and who, after seventeen years of marriage, still keeps me humble, grateful and grounded. Her support and advice during the project is greatly cherished.

Roslyn Grant, my adoptive mother, who gave me her all when I needed it most.

Mrs. Eulalee Dell, spiritual counselor and source of strength in the absence of my mother during my teenage years.

My editor, Marion D.S. Dreyfus, who spent countless hours making sure that the story is presented in the most readable and professional way.

I also owe thanks to many others whose names I am not permitted to mention but who have been instrumental in my survival and success. Without all those players, this project never would have been possible. I will be forever grateful to all.

Very truly yours,

Lloyd S. Daley, Sr.

Roslyn (Ms. Rose) Grant, Adoptive Mother

Eulalee Dell, Spiritual Counselor

The author, Lloyd S. Daley, Sr. at age 19

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Preface

Each human being is like a microcosmic universe and we each have our own stories to tell. When I first decided to put pen to paper and write my own story, questions arose: Who will read my story? Just because you have a past and something to say, will people be interested?

No stranger to a challenge, I rose to the occasion. Affirming, I am alive!

Questioning the viability of one’s life story and placing a value on it based on external validation that is, the subjective approval of others—is equivalent to asking whether a tree makes a sound when it falls in a forest. Does the listener’s presence render the sound audible and real, or does the life force, the energy of the tree, produce the noise? In my humble opinion, the latter is true. Indeed, I have been that tree, felled mercilessly by life’s fluctuations and obstacles yet yearning to rise and declare myself. Yes, I am alive, here to identify my purpose: to inspire and uplift young and old alike to achieve their fullest potentials, even and especially when confronted with naysayers whose meaningless, self-congratulatory stances always aim at belittling and mocking such individuals. What matters is not what others think but the potential in one’s heart, which, despite appearances and the odds, brilliantly dances to the beat of its own rhythm.

Before arriving at this very moment of healing and striving for personal growth, I had to transcend many painful, seemingly insurmountable stumbling blocks, including a financially and emotionally impoverished childhood, compounded by an absentee father whose lack of interest opened the floodgates of uncertainty. I lacked the guidance of a proper male role model; consequently, I drifted as if without ground beneath my feet. I also had to contend with the unsympathetic, deeply entrenched class consciousness of my small, rural district of Camrose, Jamaica, West Indies, where the clearly defined social groups received unequal levels of respect.

Forced to give up my education due to the many grueling challenges I faced, I had to work hard to build my life from the bottom up, always reaching for dreams that, by so-called conventional standards, were unattainable. But I drew strength from the wisdom of a great philosopher: my mother, Alice Mae Gillette, who, at sixteen years of age, gave me life. Though she had only an eighth-grade education and no marketable skills with which to support her family, she incrementally, painstakingly received her PhD from the world’s foremost learning institution: the school of life.

My mother built her physical and spiritual homes on three unshakable pillars of influence: faith in God, respect for authority, and personal responsibility. Together with my Aunt Ira and my grandmother Cecelia, in whose house we lived, she gave me the foundation on which to build my life, the framework to make something from nothing, as the saying goes. Thanks to her I realized at an early age that affluence means little or nothing when unaccompanied by focus, inner-strength and tenacity.

Such lessons had particularly poignant impacts on me when later in life I confronted my own mortality in two battles with cancer, spinal stenosis surgery and most recently, the loss of one-half of my right kidney. Despite odds and expectations, I surpassed these hurdles and many others through my faith.

It is important to note that throughout my life I was driven at an early age without solicitation; to fend for myself in order to survive. As a result, I became acquainted with my inner-self and my potential to achieve. Except for my mother, no one held my hand or guided me on my journey toward what I proudly label my life, which includes my three children to whom, in these pages, I wish to leave a legacy of hope and an awareness of their father’s love. I might not have been the parent they deserved or the husband I should have been; nor have I acted perfectly toward all those with whom I met on the road to this moment (the present).

However, with great humility, I ask you to join me in revisiting my self-defined and destiny-chartered course, and hopefully I may derive empowerment and joy therein.

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Chapter 1

David without a Slingshot

Cool trade winds wafted outside my window as I awoke before sunrise to the sounds of roosters crowing and a slew of migratory birds; a multitude of sounds as if they were in a contest, trying to outdo each other. The familiar calls were among the many early morning sounds emanating from the yard and the hillside. These morning sounds had been part of my existence since my birth in that very house.

On this particular day, the other folks were already up, sweeping their yards and talking back and forth to each other. Our clothes had been washed by hand and hung to dry before the sun got too high in the sky. In the distance I heard the voices of my neighbors on their morning treks to the fields calling out: Morning, Granny, Morning, Miss Alice, Morning Ira, and each one answered in turn with their own brand of salutation.

Intermittently, my mother’s voice told me that it was time to do my chores and to get ready for school. Startled and in need of more sleep, I groaned and rubbed my eyes as if I had awakened a second time. Catching a momentary glimpse of my mother walking past my room with an armful of laundry, I knew I had to get up, but the urge to snooze was still so strong.

Lloyd! she called to me from down the hallway. Do I have to come in there and pull you from your bed? No, Mother, I called back as I finally got up and began to stretch.

My mother, Alice May Gillette, was only sixteen years old and had only an eighth-grade education when I was born on October 1, 1938, in a small, rural district in the parish of St. James, Jamaica, West Indies. She had no employable skills or any financial means to support us. Since my father was not around to contribute to my care, we had moved in with my grandmother, Cecelia Allen, my Aunt Ira (my mother’s sister) and my cousin Tiny. Together this group provided the framework of my life.

In this place, where I was born and raised, there were three things from which one could not escape: faith in God, respect for authority, and the constant reminder to take responsibility to be the best you could. The three strong-willed women who helped raise me instilled in me from an early age a belief that moral values, focus, determination, and hard work were the stepping stones by which I could achieve anything. My family attended to church along with almost everyone else in the district, and talked about the blessings of God. They felt assured that their faith in Him was crucial to their well-being. There was no escape from walking in the fear of God, and my elders made sure that I toed the line daily as we all walked the spiritual path.

God, please get my son up out of his bed and— oh, good morning, Lloyd, my mother said, pausing outside my bedroom door, noticing that I was now standing. It was not unusual to hear my mother and grandmother praying openly, calling upon God for help in their daily tasks. This way of life was contagious and I was strongly influenced by it.

Good morning, Mother, I replied with a warm smile, regarding her in the doorway. She stood tall at five feet, four inches; her beautiful face was framed by dark, long, curly hair. Characteristically, her mild manner and gentle features were poised for either a smile or tears, as circumstances beckoned.

Get dressed and come out for breakfast, she told me, and I nodded in reply. She excused herself and headed off, undoubtedly to get herself ready for work.

My mother was usually the first person I saw at the start of each day, although by the time I arose she had been up and busy for hours. She got out of bed every morning between 5:30 and 6:00 and worked relentlessly to complete her housework. After making sure that I was up and on my way to school, she walked nearly three miles daily to Kemp Shot, where she put in twelve hours or more as a domestic maid for wealthy English and American families. Even on days when the weather was bad she was not deterred, as the need to survive and take care of her family kept her going.

On days when her employers’ families entertained she could be detained until 8:00 or even 11:00 p.m. Sometimes, on those extended days, she did not come home, but stayed in the maids’ quarters of those homes. Her work involved hand-washing, ironing, and starching the wealthy families’ clothes. Most housework was done by hand in those days—there were no washing machines, dishwashers, or vacuum cleaners and even electric irons were rare. Instead, we used irons stacked on the coal stoves until they were red hot and then cooled to the right temperature for pressing. This was a finely tuned skill that could potentially leave scorching holes in the garment.

Besides these duties, my mother also acted as a nanny to these families’ children and cooked each meal, which was paramount to their existence as these were not folks who knew anything about cooking for themselves.

I never met these people face to face, as I was not allowed in their homes; being the kid of the maid I could not mingle with them or their children. This was a result of the colonial rule at the time by the British on the island. The social divides were still firmly in place. The foreigners on the island were mostly British and American civil servants who had major roles in our government or owned large business ventures, while the local citizens eked out their livings by working for them in various ways. This way of life provided a substantial percentage of people’s income.

Notwithstanding the obvious hardships of her demanding schedule and her nominal pay of twenty-five (sterling) shillings per week, my mother was filled with hope and gratitude; always believing that there would come a day when her life would change for the better. She diligently infused in me the need to maintain high moral values and devotion to the love of God without uttering a word of complaint. She just carried the banner of commitment while unselfishly providing for her family.

Hurry up! Make haste, child, it’s getting late! she called from outside, pulling me from my reverie about the still-noisy birds outside my window. I quickly finished buttoning my shirt, the handiwork of my grandmother, Cecilia. All of my clothes were made by my mother or grandmother; with a few hand-me-downs. In those days very few people like my mother could afford buying readymade clothing in the stores.

Morning, Mom, I said to her cheerily as I walked out of the house and into the yard, where the women in my life gathered. They chitchatted amongst themselves as they did their various chores. I inhaled the morning air deeply, smiling at the smell of roasted breadfruit emanating from the woodpile that blazed out in back of the kitchen. Breadfruit was a staple item, just like the bananas that hung just a stone’s throw from the house. One or both of these items, even though seasonal, were always available for most of our meals. My grand- mother, Cecelia, had already cooked the ackee and salt fish that were covered on the coal pot stove in the kitchen, where the other breakfast items were being cooked.

After inhaling the aroma of the morning, I hurried over to the washbasin on the bench and splashed some water on my face. I wiped my face on my shirt sleeve and was then ready to start my first chore that day: fetching water for daily use. There was no running water in the district or in our home, so we relied on transporting water from our famous Bamboo pond to fill drums each day. Just about everyone carried water for their home at some point, adults and