Twenty-Four Years, and Counting

By Suzy Stewart Dubot

A memoir telling of an Anglo/American, who was tossed back and forth between the US and the UK, and yet became a free spirit thanks to divorced parents. The twist in the tale is that neither country would become her home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzy Stewart Dubot
• Release date: Jul 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463535097

Suzy Stewart Dubot

An Anglo/American who has lived in France for nearly 40 years, she began writing as soon as she retired. She moved to London in 2012 and spent more than a year there with family. The spring of 2014, she returned to France, Her laptop has never had any trouble following her.Before retiring, she worked at a variety of jobs. Some of the more interesting have been : Art and Crafts teacher, Bartender, Marketing Assistant for N° 1 World Yacht Charterers (Moorings), Beaux Arts Model, Secretary to the French Haflinger Association...With her daughters, she is a vegetarian and a supporter of animal rights! She is also an admirer of William Wilberforce.(If you should read her book 'The Viscount's Midsummer Mistress' you will see that she has devoted some paragraphs to the subject in Regency times.)PLEASE BE KIND ENOUGH TO LEAVE A REVIEW FOR ANY BOOK YOU READ (hers included).

Book preview

Twenty-Four Years, and Counting

by

Suzy Stewart Dubot

Copyright©July 2022 Suzy Stewart Dubot

Published by Smashwords

DEDICATION

This is dedicated to my American mother,

Doris A. Stewart.

8th November 1921—3rd February 2018

Although she already had our baby brother to care for, she graciously took in three children she’d never met and gave them a home.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you did for us so generously!

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Prologue

As with so many people, early childhood memories are embellished by stories told by family members or enhanced by snapshots taken at the time.

My earliest, personal memories are emotional vignettes of events — my shoe/foot stuck between the rails of the local train track, scaring me with the idea that a train might come and squash me; summer at dusk with the town’s outdoor movie being shown on the side of a building; rainwater from the roof’s gutter, dripping and caught in a cup; the acrid taste remains with me to this day; a night owl hooting outside and echoing in the nearly empty bedroom of a farmhouse my parents rented; the clinking of glass bottles of milk delivered to my grandma’s doorstep and, all the cakes my grandma baked…

Then definite memories of kindergartens and elementary schools as we moved from one house to another, until the day my parents had the money to have a house built.

We left city life for a neighbourhood of newly built homes on the outer limits of the city.

That house would be in the family for more than ten years. The hedge, which was my job to cut, would last sixty years before the house owners decided to rid themselves of the chore of clipping it.

Chapter 1

1955/1956

Our mother didn’t think it was necessary to tell us where or when we were going. I suppose she didn’t see any point in discussing anything with three children, all under the age of eight. Besides, it was another epoch when children did as they were told without discussion. We probably wouldn’t have understood the answers to our questions anyway, because we had no idea that there were places, states, countries, beyond our own town, Lima, Ohio.

It was summer when we’d gone into town to have our passport photograph taken, and for once, we were told not to smile. Some months later, I had to practice writing my name in script, which wasn’t easy for a seven-year-old second grader who wasn’t used to writing without parallel lines. My brothers’ and my passport had arrived, and as I was the bearer for all three of us, it was I who had to sign. My mother grumbled at my poor signature, but when I look at it today, all these decades later, I am pleased with my valiant effort. It is legible.

My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Duff, hugged me on my last day of school — several months before summer vacation. It was then that I understood that something special was about to happen. Without trying, she’d instilled in me the first embers of excitement.

I don’t remember the day of the week when we left home, but it was already dark when my father delivered us to the train station in town. So many banal details escape me now that I’m a little sad that I hadn’t paid more attention. The drive to the station was no different to any other car ride, but I do remember getting out at the station and waiting for our train.

The March evening breeze made the station platform’s yellow lights sway a little, shifting the shadows, but not enough to make their feeble, yellow glow overlap. It was cold standing on the open platform waiting for the Chicago train to stop on its way to New York City. We children were restless, but my father’s timing had been right, and the train soon rolled in spitting out steam as it came to a grinding halt. It might have stood there ten minutes allowing enough time to load a large metal chest with labels, locks and stickers and a couple of suitcases. Each of us children had a soft bag. I don’t remember seeing anyone else getting on with us, but perhaps they were avoiding three young kids. Our mother hurried us into the carriage so we could wave goodbye to our father.

The sadness of leaving would only come to me months later when I realised we would not be going home any time soon. I often relived that last image of my father, standing alone on the platform looking up at us. His coat collar was turned up against the chill of the night and he was yellow. The station’s lights had at least managed to shine on him.

That night in the train seemed interminable.

The wagon we