Jamaica Story

“Aye-Ree! Aye-Ree! Dig it, Mon! Smoke the spliff, mon! Drink a Red Stripe, mon!”

What made me happy this week was my mom, 92 (who lived in KC for many decades), talking about the trip to Jamaica that my parents took with two other couples back in the 1960s.

The three couples rented a house in a gated community near Kingston, Jamaica.

The house had a pool, and every day, a pool boy, gardener, and housekeeper came by to take care of the six Americans.

One day, they drove into Kingston, all packed into a small car. A Rastafarian jumped into the car and scrunched in. Tom, who was driving, said, “Where to?” And they drove the Rasta where he wanted to go.

Mom said the guy had blood in his dreadlocks, and she still remembers how much he stank.

At the end of their stay, my folks asked the pool boy, the housekeeper, and the gardener what they wanted as a gift from the USA.

The pool boy wanted a pair of sneakers that didn’t have heel backs.

The housekeeper wanted a Cleopatra wig (remember, it was the sixties.)

The gardener wanted drapes for his house, so, my parents went to his house to measure for the drapes.

My parents were very generous.

PS: My mom also told me that at cocktail time every day, a four-piece Jamaican band showed up to play steel drum music and reggae by the pool.