"BORN TO BE WILD": chapter 5 ~ page 2

I can also effortlessly recall holding onto the bars on my crib for support and jumping and jumping ever higher, until I toppled over the rail onto the hardwood floor below.


My mother hearing the thud would come running, pick me up, lovingly rub my head and place me back inside the crib and sure enough ~ I would bounce and bounce and jump out again!


My mom and Lita always bragged to their relatives and friends about what a happy baby I was.


They would endlessly recount that no matter what time of day or night that I was awakened, I would always greet them with a heartwarming smile.


They also would gleefully relate that no matter where they put the pillows on the bed to safely ensconce me, I would invariably roll off on the other side where there were no pillows.


The 1st male born outside of Costa Rica in my immediate family on August 10, 1951, I was showered with endless amounts of love and affection.


Maturing from an infant to a little boy, I still vividly remember lying on my Mom's lush backyard fenced-in lawn, my hands relaxed behind my head and staring at the monstrous zeppelins as they flew across the post World War II skies of San Francisco.


Every Tuesday in the 1950’s precisely at High Noon we were startled by the blaring and piercing bellows of The City’s air raid sirens, testing to be sure that we would be alerted in case that World War III broke out.


My mom would meticulously tend to her beautifully landscaped garden adorned with flowers, fragrant herbs and bright red and super sweet strawberries that I ate before anyone else had a chance.


Blessed with strong arms like Lito’s, my mother would push and pull the manual lawn mower across the grass so that it was as short and manicured as a golf putting green.


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Disclaimer

To protect the innocent and those antagonists that are dead or still alive, I have purposely and respectfully changed the names of all of the people characterized in this book that contributed to the actual 100% true events that took place.

The only persons in the narratives whose real “names are named” ala Don Corleone are my wife Christine, daughter Alexandra and son Christian.

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CWD