Boy, it’s been quite a while.
I really enjoy reading about all of your memories, and I am amazed at all that some of you can remember. I have trouble remembering my name.
I was definitely a short termer at ANS, so I did not have the pleasure of meeting many of you. I was in Managua for only my senior year, arriving in June of ’63, and departing the following January.
I came down there being madly in love with a girl that had gone on to college. (She dumped me a year later.) As a result, I wasn’t really into the dating scene. One teacher told me (he was one who everyone said was a CIA agent; Dyson???) that I was living like someone taking a sandwich to a picnic. I guess he was right, ladies!
My father was the manager at the Gran hotel from ’63 to ’72, departing just before the earthquake. We lived on the top floor of the new addition to the hotel, once completed. I envy those of you who lived in the ‘burbs, but I can still smell the aromas and hear the sounds of the street vendors hawking their goods each night to the taxi rivers and others: “Nacatamales!!! Nacatamales!!!”
Most of you probably came into the country, or left, via the hotel. Maybe some bad memories for you, but all good ones for me. The tucans, the monkey (we called it “Mico,” not realizing what that meant in slang) that got drunk every weekend at the tertulias held each Saturday and Sunday in the lobby, and the sloth.
The sloth is how I first met Dr. Bisbee. He was living at the hotel (I don’t know when the Lido Palace came into play) in one of the open-air rooms above the lobby. He slept under a canopy of mosquito netting. One morning I heard a cry for help. When I entered the room, I found the sloth entangled in the netting above Harold’s bed. Quite a sight. Just try to imagine what kind of a beast of La Mancha he was imagining this to be.
Dr. Bisbee and I were the first pickups on the bus each morning, so I got to know him pretty well. I also struggled through his class on Don Quixote.
My “cousin” (actually my mother’s second cousin, so I don’t know what he was to me) was Harry “Vern” Jacobson (we called him as “Jake”). He and his wife, Molly, owned the hotel. It blew me away when I was watching TV in the States several years later when the early morning news announced the news of an earthquake in San Salvador, and showed a picture of him on the screen and had an interview with Peder.
I see where some of you still correspond with some of his kids (how many “removed” cousins are they??). I just recently corresponded with Jane’s husband, Richard. He and I (and Janey as well) went to Thunderbird at the same time. We also met several times with Peder and his family when we lived in Panamá, in the 80’s. Other than that, I have been remiss in keeping up with the family.
My first morning in Managua, I was awakened by having my bed bouncing from one wall to the other. My first experience with an earthquake. As I recall there were over 120 (the number probably grows each time that I relate this story) aftershocks within the next 24 hours. Quite a greeting.
I met a lot of your parents at the tertulias in the hotel, but we won’t go into that here. I worked in the bar, but my favorite thing to do was to make almendras. What a drink!
I remember vividly swigging down a Cerveza Victoria at the end of one long Saturday session. After gulping it all down, I discovered a dead mouse crammed into the bottle. (Do you think that was put there by someone who couldn’t find the parts to build a ship in a bottle?) Never drank that brand after that.
Other memories include a road trip to go fishing, when my dad’s car threw a rod. I don’t remember who was in the group with me, but I do remember how dark it was on the desolate road at 4 in the morning. Our car was a Plymouth (probably the largest one ever made). If the car in question in another post was a Thunderbird, it makes me wonder what evil forces controlled that stretch of highway.
When I looked at the posted picture of much of the basketball team, I wondered aloud how we ever won even one game, let alone going undefeated. Must have had one helluva coach!! (Thanks for your update, coach.) I remember playing in the downtown outdoor arena (where the boxing matches were held), and someone shooting their gun, in addition to the bottles being hurled our way. I also vividly recall the bats falling to the floor of the gym at a downtown colegio, and people running out and smashing them for sport.
Neal was a key to our team and a good friend. I was so sorry to hear of his passing. One fantastic guy (and family). Happy to hear that Little Brother has been so successful.
I apparently didn’t spend as much time at the country club as many of you, but the bistec and onions was fabulous. Mainly, I followed Mike around on the golf course.
Visiting the tobacco plantations in Jalapa and Jinotega with Bud (can’t recall his last name), who had moved to Nicaragua from North Carolina (Butler, NC, comes to mind), got me hooked on cigars. My wife wishes I did not have this devise, but I graciously only smoke outside.
I don’t recall listening to the US radio as you guys did, as my dad was a ham radio operator, and that’s how we connected to AFR and other stations in the US. I specifically remember listening to the “Ice Bowl” between Dallas and the Packers. Down to the final thrust at the goal line at the end of the game, and… we lost the signal. I didn’t find out for an hour how it had turned out.
Climbing Momotombo and Momotombito also were memorable. A jaguar was stalking our horses.
I came back to Managua on Christmas breaks during school (Duke), and then spent the summer there after graduation and before entering Naval Aviation Officer Candidate School. Many fine, and some very foggy, memories of that time. I probably ran into some of you younger people then, because I was invited to lots of parties for kids still in school. I spent most of those parties with the parents, drinking up their offerings.
This has gone on way too long, so I’ll close. Sorry for any errors, but that’s the way I remember it… and it’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
Saludos.
John Wickersham
