Today, Gitmo conjures up visions of prisons, terrorists and a dry tropical unused corner of US military presence. Not so for me. I remember Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, Cuba quite differently. My Gitmo is from the early 1960s when our family was stationed there courtesy of the US Navy. It was family friendly, tropical and quite memorable 50 years later. I started school on Gitmo, Kindergarten and halfway through 1st Grade while my brother went to the high school there. We lived in a single family home, ranch type, flat tropical roof, driveway and garage. I’ve started writing these Gitmo stories so I can both remember and share what it was on the only island paradise I lived on so long ago.

This first story is called “Milkweed.” Enjoy!

-John

Milkweed

Tropical paradise that Cuba was, there were still dangers and hazards lurking in Gitmo. Our backyard was especially hazardous. Playing barefoot in the backyard was our main form of outdoor entertainment as five and six year olds. My sister, Theresa, and I would play house or mailman or lunch counter in the plywood playhouse Dad built for us out of scraps of lumber he brought home from work. While playing we had to remember two things. The first was to not stray too close to the back edge of the yard. Why?

Our back yard ended at a cliff face that overlooked the main Navy yard docks. Not really a big deal, but you see, there was no fence! Many a time we would walk ever so slowly to steal a peek down the cliff side. Even though I had a beginning fear of heights I would still take a chance out of curiosity to stare out at the great gantry cranes and haze gray naval ships being worked on or loaded and unloaded.

The second thing we had to remember, especially when barefoot, was to not step on the milkweed. Now I am not sure if that was the correct name for the flat blossoming weed with broad leaves that cropped up from time to time, but that in itself was terrifying to me, at least. If you stepped on milkweed, some type of poison was supposed to secrete into the skin on your feet. I don’t remember what the poison was said to do to you because I focused my horror on the cure… Milk!

I was told by my Mother, well aware that I hated and did not drink white milk, that the only cure to milkweed poison was to drink only milk for two weeks. I remember asking if chocolate milk was okay, and she specifically said no. Apparently the chocolate flavoring negated any healing benefit drinking white milk straight produced.

My plan to thwart any attempts at milkweed poisoning was to wear my Keds all the time when playing outside. My sister, stubborn as always, still played barefoot and never managed to step on the milkweed. At least not that she ever told anyone.

Many years later, as an adult and parent, I was reminiscing with Dad about Gitmo and all the strange memories I had. Mentioning milkweed to my Dad, years after my Mom passed away, he just snorted and gave me his famous toothless grin. There was no such weed, it was my Mother’s way of getting us to wear shoes outside!