21

Throughout the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s, my Family of friends prospered. No small measure of our success was due to our unity. Many of us were Castellammarese, or somehow related to a Castellammarese. We were never the largest Family in New York City, but we were the most tightly knit. As Father, I kept my Family out of the business of other Families more notorious than mine and constantly racked by bloody battles of succession.

The Bonanno Family was not only the most cohesive but also the most conservative. I hewed to the old ways, the ways of my Tradition. The way of life I and my friends had chosen was but a means to attain social advancement and respectability. We didn’t consider ourselves criminals. In fact, we considered our code of ethics stricter and fairer than any we encountered in America.

But in America, I had seen my Tradition corroded by social forces at work in this new country and by fellow Italian-Americans who adopted the terms and concepts of my Tradition without living up to its ideals.

When I first committed myself to the “mafioso” way of life, I thought that men like me were merely transplanting our Tradition to another setting. Little by little, however, our Tradition deteriorated until it lost its connotation of honor and became instead a byword for gangsterism.

For nearly three decades I had observed the unwholesome changes decaying my Tradition, but since I wasn’t in a position to pull out (and probably wouldn’t have, because I thought myself smarter than I do now), I applied my energies toward trying to keep my Family untainted by these corrosive forces.

Apalachin changed all that.

In the aftermath of Apalachin, I saw my Tradition die away completely and a distantly related mutation take its place.

*   *   *

After I recuperated in Tucson from my second heart attack, I resolved more than ever to avoid publicity. The Apalachin affair had taught me how dramatic was the power of the mass media. It was publicity, above all else, that had transformed the Apalachin meeting into a conclave that supposedly threatened national security. The Sicilian Families were likened to a conspiratorial group, similar to the Communists in that they were intent on overthrowing the American system. The mass media equated the Sicilian Families with a national crime syndicate. Journalists took the word “Mafia” and went on a verbal rampage with it.

Most Americans undoubtedly considered “Mafia” some sort of foreign germ. The word brought to mind gangland slayings and seamy rackets. That’s the only context in which they heard the word. It’s not surprising, therefore, that Americans concluded that’s all there was to it.

There was another side, however, to American interest in “Mafia.” All good Americans wanted to destroy it, but they were also enthralled by it. They read gory accounts of it in paperbacks and flocked to the movies to watch men wearing dark glasses and carrying violin cases.

The more the government battled a bogeyman which wasn’t there, the more vivid and outrageous this bogeyman appeared in works of fiction.

That’s why I so ardently wanted to keep out of the limelight. Any publicity was bad publicity. Every disclosure concerning “Mafia” was subjected to muddled thinking and sensationalism.

I can’t say that men of my world helped matters any. At a time when we should have been seeking obscurity, we found ourselves involved in a sorry and visible series of battles among ourselves. At the same time that the public thirsted for lurid accounts of our world, we fought among ourselves and, as if in response, provided the public its thrills.

We were falling, falling, falling apart.

No sooner did the federal appeals court dismiss the charges against the Apalachin visitors than fresh trouble erupted in my world.

In 1961 or so, a group within the Profaci Family rebelled against their Father. This dissident group was led by the Gallo brothers, Albert, Larry and Joey. In an internal revolt such as this, the matter is normally resolved within the Family. To bolster their position, however, the Gallos sought the support of another Family head, Carlo Gambino. Gambino could have refused to listen to the Gallos, because, according to the old Tradition, one Father is not supposed to take the side of another Father’s children. But Gambino granted an audience to the Gallos themselves and heard their complaints. When Profaci found out about this, he was incensed that Gambino hadn’t shunned the Gallos.

In the aftermath of Apalachin—what with investigators, commissions, committees, prosecutors, grand juries and reporters breathing down our necks—the heads of the New York Families largely avoided one another for some four years. In addition to not having seen each other, there were also some new faces. Gambino was one of them. After a probationary period of some three years, his Family confirmed him as their Father. Also, Vito Genovese was now in jail on a narcotics conviction. In Vito’s absence, Tommy Eboli became the temporary representative for his Family.

The Commission, in the hiatus forced on us by Apalachin, had been dormant. When we began to meet again, we all had much “face-reading” to do. The Apalachin fiasco had estranged us somewhat. After our long separation, we all wanted to know what new alliances would develop.

On my part, I knew that the relationship between Stefano Magaddino and me would never be the same. On the surface we were still friendly, but we harbored subterranean animosities toward each other. He suspected me of arrogance and I suspected him of jealousy. Our differences, I must emphasize again, centered on our different personalities. I had differences with other Fathers—Lucchese, for example—but these differences were over policy issues. With Stefano, it was a much more intimate matter.

Because of the uneasiness between us, the conservative wing of the Commission suffered. Profaci was having trouble with the Gallos. The Gallos were close to Gambino. Gambino was very close to Lucchese. Lucchese was flirting with Magaddino. The center was not holding.

In early 1962, at Gambino’s request, the Commission met. We took up the Profaci matter. In his presentation, Gambino made it seem as if he had only the welfare of all of us at heart. He said the troubles between Profaci and the Gallo brothers were getting out of hand.

—Joe Profaci has been the Father of his Family for many glorious years, Gambino said. But it is my duty to tell the Commission that for the sake of peace, and to avoid more trouble, perhaps it would be best if he retires.

Profaci had to employ all his self-restraint to keep from telling Gambino what he really thought of him. I sympathized with Joe. He was one of my oldest friends on the Commission. We were proud of the fact that up to then only our Families, of the five New York clans, had avoided turmoil and bloodshed.

And this Gambino, where did he get the nerve to challenge Profaci? I knew Carlo’s character. He was not a warrior. Given a choice, he avoided violence. He was a squirrel of a man, a servile and cringing individual. When Anastasia was alive, Albert used to use Gambino as his gopher, to go on errands for him. I once saw Albert get so angry at Carlo for bungling a simple assignment that Albert raised his hand and almost slapped him. In my Tradition, a slap on the face is tantamount to a mortal offense. Another man would not have tolerated such public humiliation. Carlo responded with a fawning grin. No, I couldn’t believe that Gambino was man enough to challenge Profaci. There had to be someone behind him.

After Gambino’s speech, Profaci was asked to leave the room while the rest of us deliberated. I invited comments from the others.

—Would you like to talk first, Tommy? I said.

It was his face and his words I wanted to study the most. The Volcano had taken its toll on Lucchese. His face was beginning to sag. His hair had thinned. Age had drooped his varnished features.

Lucchese lauded Profaci for his many years as a “man of respect.” Lately, however, there had been trouble in his Family, Lucchese continued with unctuous smoothness. Disunity brings a Family down. It takes a strong and vigorous leader to restore peace. Don Piddru had distinguished himself in the past. Why should the serenity of don Piddru be disturbed? He should be resting, leaving the work to the others, to the young.

Lucchese made it sound as if Profaci would be doing himself a favor if he retired. The Commission could not force Profaci to retire, but by withholding a vote of confidence, the Commission would be sending signals to the rest of our world, thereby encouraging others to challenge Profaci in his own Family.

If only in a practical sense, Profaci perhaps would have been more sensible if he had left the field to retire to sunny Florida, where he often went. But a man doesn’t easily walk away from what he has spent a lifetime creating. A Father has his pride. It would have been unseemly for Profaci to abandon his Family during its difficulties. A Father doesn’t like to leave until he has bequeathed peace to his Family.

No one else in the room wanted to speak after Lucchese.

—Don Piddru should stay, I said loudly and emphatically.

I said that the real issue was not old age. We were all getting older. The real issue was trust. Should we trust each other to settle our own affairs? Or should we distrust each other? If we distrusted each other, we would invite malcontents from every Family to foment turmoil.

By my vigorous defense, everyone understood that I was ready to back up my words with force if need be. It was clear that I would not stand idly by while Profaci was sacrificed on the altar of youth.

My views prevailed. Profaci was saved. By dinnertime, we were all acting like friends again.

—Here, Peppino, try some of this. It’s very good, Lucchese said, handing me the blue cheese.

*   *   *

Two new members had been added to the Commission by the early 1960s, increasing the number of representatives to nine. This had been favored by all and had been ratified at our 1956 national convention. Additional representatives would bring fresh views to the Commission. We hoped to distribute responsibilities among the Fathers.

The two new representatives were Joe Zerilli of Detroit and Angelo Bruno of Philadelphia. Zerilli was known to lean closer to the conservatives, especially Profaci. Bruno, through his friend and go-between Sam DeCavalcante of New Jersey, leaned closer to the liberals. Nevertheless, being novices in their positions, neither Bruno nor Zerilli played a critical role in Commission business. The old hands dominated, and the roiling situation in New York continued to receive most of the attention.

The Commission’s vote of confidence for Profaci secured only a temporary truce. Later that same year, in 1962, Profaci died of cancer, and his right-hand man, Joe Magliocco, assumed his place. Once again, hostilities broke out with the Gallo brothers. Magliocco’s position was the same as Profaci’s: that the Gallos were an internal problem that he should handle alone. Magliocco resented the meddling of Gambino and Lucchese.

In the high parliamentary games at the Commission, however, Magliocco was at a disadvantage. Profaci could always have counted on my support and that of Magaddino. Also, Profaci could rely on the backing of Zerilli; they had extensive kinship ties. After Profaci’s death, Magliocco could not count on such support, other than myself. Zerilli was cool toward Magliocco. Magaddino had become an unknown factor.

On the whole, then, I felt uneasy both with how things were going in my world in general and with the makeup of the Commission. Although no one had threatened me directly, I sensed that no one would be terribly put out if I quietly left. An air of suspicion pervaded all our conversations on the Commission. I was being outflanked and placed in the role of recalcitrant.

During one of our discussions during this period, it was casually suggested that the Commission representatives extend their terms without being ratified at a national meeting. Lucchese and Magaddino were in favor of voting ourselves in for another five-year term without calling a national meeting. Since we all wanted to avoid another Apalachin, their suggestion seemed motivated solely by caution. I suspected there was more to it than that.

I too recognized that it would have been an inopportune time to call a national meeting. Nonetheless, I was not eager to install ourselves for another term so cavalierly. I reminded my peers that since our last uninterrupted national meeting had been in 1956, our terms had formally expired in 1961. Strictly speaking, we were an unauthorized Commission.

Because Lucchese, Gambino and Magaddino now held the upper hand in Commission politics, it served their purpose to continue business as usual and brush over the issue of illegality I had brought up. Furthermore, they did not want me to take the stage at a national meeting. Before a national audience, because of my experience and popularity, I still had more influence than any of them individually. Also, a national meeting would have to include Magliocco; and he, by now, was plainly not their favorite.

None of us was prepared to force the issue over our expired terms. We let the matter rest for discussion at another time. Still, having voiced my objections, I was greeted by many grave faces. I had given my opponents a clear indication that I was not satisfied with the present situation. In doing so, I piqued some and deeply worried others. I was wondering what their next move might be, and they were wondering what my next move might be, all of us playing it close to the vest.

*   *   *

The Magliocco issue brought out the new coalitions of interests on the Commission. I favored Magliocco and his fight to keep leadership of his Family. And yet, other than speaking on his behalf, there was little I could do. Because of the forces against us on the Commission, any open move to assist Magliocco would have been suicide. In any case, to intervene directly in his fight against the Gallos as much as Magliocco would probably have wanted me to would have violated my very preachings to the Commission.

Lucchese and his ally Gambino now held majority power on the Commission. With Vito Genovese in prison, his stand-ins more or less followed the majority. The representative from Chicago, at this time, was Sam Giancana, who tended to side against me. Zerilli of Detroit played it cagey and noncommittal. Bruno of Philadelphia was a neophyte and could be led by the nose by Gambino or Stefano Magaddino.

Stefano’s two-faced conduct bothered and hurt me the most personally. That we were drifting apart filled me with shame—two cousins and yet we couldn’t hold it together. Stefano had not openly broken with me, but his increasingly apparent efforts to dissociate himself from me gave my opponents on the Commission encouragement to challenge me.

About this time, my aversion to the top men in my own world was cresting. I, who had been on the Commission since it was founded, now felt myself becoming isolated, almost an outcast. My views had been running increasingly counter to the rest of the Commission. It was as if I didn’t belong.

My worries did not end with the Commission. Outside my world, I was a marked man among law-enforcement agents. So far, they had failed to put me out of action, but with each failed attempt, they were goaded all the more to pursue me anew. As head of one of the New York Families, I was a prize catch. They all wanted my head on their trophy shelf.

This unceasing police pressure began drastically to affect my domestic life and the lives of those nearest to me. It affected my son Salvatore the worst. Over my vehement protest, Salvatore had abandoned his dream of becoming a lawyer. When he told me about it, I challenged my son to continue his studies, saying that if he remained in school I would enroll in law school as well. We would graduate together. Levity was as useless as anger in changing Salvatore’s predicament. Being the son of Joe Bonanno had deprived him of his privacy. Because of his name, it was impossible, unless he became a recluse, for him to lead a normal life. His name was Bonanno; he lived in a glass house. On top of this, Salvatore and his wife, Rosalie, were having personal problems that jeopardized their marriage.

My younger son, Joseph, although still in high school, also had been affected by my notoriety, which forced me to keep away from home for long stretches. Joseph had spent most of his life either with his mother or in military boarding school. He hardly knew me.

As for my wife, loving and loyal Fay, she too, of course, wanted to see more of me at home. She would ask me about that trip to Italy I had been promising her for a long time. She asked me about retirement, a gentle reminder that I was approaching that age; and as far as she was concerned, the sooner I retired the better.

Lately, I had given the subject much thought. In the mid-1950s, after Salvatore’s wedding and my trip to Italy, I thought it was too early to retire. After my 1959 heart attack and the wedding of my daughter, Catherine, in 1960, retirement seemed feasible. Catherine’s marriage and her leaving the house meant that Fay and I, along with Joseph, were free to do what we liked.

Our comparative freedom from encumbrances afforded Fay and me the luxury of daydreaming. We chatted blithely about possibly retiring to a villa in Italy. I definitely wanted at least to visit Italy with my wife. I also wanted to take her to Australia. I had a childhood friend there who was trying to interest me in a 55,000-acre ranch. He had told me in a letter that Australia was the place to start a new life. Another possibility was simply to retire in Tucson, where we had many friends and no chill winds blew.

Developments in the Volcano now convinced me the time was ripe for a gradual and tactful divestment of my interests there.

If I hoped to retire from my world, I had to be careful not to antagonize anyone. My main concern was Stefano. I decided that despite our recent spats, Stefano Magaddino, and he only among the Fathers, should know ahead of time of my intentions to retire. I wanted him to know so that my absences and movements away from the Volcano wouldn’t alarm him. Stefano envied me, but I didn’t want him to begin fearing me, for that would make him nervous and reckless. Since from then on I didn’t intend to spend much time in the Volcano, I wanted to reassure Stefano that my absence did not mean I was maneuvering against him or the Commission.

I paid a social visit to Stefano at his new home in Lewiston, near Niagara Falls. I told him nothing should come between us and that whatever differences we had, we should keep them to ourselves. I had the utmost respect for the Magaddino family in Sicily; after my father’s death, Stefano’s uncles, Giuseppe and Stefano, had been like foster fathers to me. I hated to see the two of us, two cousins, feuding.

Family feuds, whether in America or in Sicily, had always disgusted me. Such feuds and vendettas represent the degeneration of society. As an orphan, I was extremely sensitive, preternaturally so, to the waste, stupidity and stridency of quarrels among relatives.

—Friendship is what counts in life, I said.

Stefano seconded my remarks, but on his face I detected a tremor of uncertainty. My remarks had been straightforward. But by this time Stefano distrusted me, and I didn’t quite trust him. He may have wondered whether or not to take my words at face value.

When I said I intended to retire soon, his eyes opened wide and seemed to twinkle.

I made sure the announcement was also heard by Stefano’s son-in-law, who was in the house with us. I had done this on purpose so that someone else in Stefano’s Family would know my intentions. If I had informed only Stefano, he might have withheld this information from the rest of his Family if it suited his purpose. I didn’t want any misunderstandings. This frequently happened in my world, because other than the top men, no one knew what was going on in the highest circle of power. Because of this grapevine system of passing information, rumor and innuendo often traded places with truth. When a Father reported to his men about Commission business, the Father had it in his power, if he wanted to, to shape the minds of his subordinates, by withholding information or slanting it. For example, the men in Stefano’s Family, like the men in my Family, knew little, if anything, about the disenchantment between Stefano and me. Very few people under us knew about Stefano’s dalliance with Lucchese and Gambino.

—Beware of Lucchese, that viper, I said to Stefano in front of his son-in-law.

Stefano responded with an uncomfortable smile. He was miffed that I should make such a statement in front of his son-in-law. It seemed like a breach of decorum among Fathers.

On the whole, however, Stefano reacted favorably to my visit. He was glad I would soon retire, and I wanted to put him at ease while I tried to extricate myself, deliberately, and in a dignified manner, from the top of my world.

*   *   *

By 1963, I was largely leading a remote existence, as much to avoid complications on the Commission and to avoid Magliocco’s family turmoil as to avoid ruinous publicity. A federal witch hunt was under way. With the advent of Robert F. Kennedy as U. S. Attorney General, the U. S. Justice Department made organized crime its chief target. New federal laws had been passed that gave the FBI jurisdiction over interstate gambling and racketeering. Political pressure was on FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover to stop chasing Communists and start chasing men of my Tradition. Regardless of our backgrounds, whether we were benign or malevolent, good or bad, productive or destructive, the FBI lumped us all together. Hunting us became one of the FBI’s most glamorous assignments.

I kept on the go, never remaining in one place for long, hop-scotching here and there, spending much of my time on the road remaining out of reach of summonses and subpoenas.

I was fifty-eight years old, and such a mobile life-style, away from my family much of the time, was not what I preferred. I accepted my wandering as an enforced holiday. It was a respite from the burden of responsibility. Despite my homesickness and my worries about the future, I also relaxed during those days in the 1960s that I spent on the road.

In the Volcano, I had delegated responsibilities to subordinates, including the responsibility of representing me on the Commission. Sooner or later, someone in my Family would have to replace me. By dispersing my authority, I wanted to see who had the essential leadership qualities to rise above the others. I remained in the background, however, watching events.

*   *   *

Joe Magliocco’s fight was not only against the Gallo brothers but also against the Gallo supporters on the Commission: Lucchese and Gambino. As I had foreseen, Joe Zerilli of Detroit had just about abandoned Magliocco after Profaci died. In addition, Profaci’s son and Profaci’s nephew had both remained aloof from Magliocco. I was still Magliocco’s friend, but my hands were tied. It was not in the best interest of my Family to aid Magliocco openly or to conspire with him against the other Fathers.

That was the situation in the summer of 1963 when fate decided to play a trick on me. At that time, the marital problems between my son Salvatore and his wife, Rosalie, intensified. This precipitated a visit from Rosalie’s mother, Mrs. Salvatore Profaci (Salvatore Profaci was dead), to Phoenix, where my son then made his home. After he left college, I had helped Salvatore set up a wholesale food business. Rosalie decided to return with her mother to New York and to take the children with her. Salvatore followed his wife there, not wanting to break up his marriage. Then the two reconciled, and even though Salvatore didn’t like New York, he agreed to set up house on Long Island so that Rosalie would be close to her relatives. While their new house was being fixed up, Salvatore and Rosalie temporarily stayed with Rosalie’s uncle, Joe Magliocco, who had an estate on Long Island.

Magliocco welcomed Salvatore’s presence. Joe would be a steadying influence on Rosalie, whose marriage with Salvatore he wanted to save. Also, having Salvatore at his side made Magliocco feel closer to me. Magliocco figured Salvatore was the link through which to keep me informed of his situation. Magliocco’s situation was becoming desperate, more so than Salvatore knew. Joe grasped for whatever friends remained.

Since I was on the move, I did not find out about Salvatore’s move to New York until after it happened. I never wanted him to be in New York because of the possibility he might be drawn into the intrigue there. Because he was my son, people tended to regard Salvatore as my standard-bearer as well, even though Salvatore was not involved in the in-house politics in the Volcano.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t prevent Salvatore from remaining in New York if he wanted to. He was fighting to keep his marriage intact; I could hardly expect him to stay away from Rosalie and their children.

One day, while Salvatore was still living at Magliocco’s home, Joe asked Salvatore to drive him to the railroad station, since Magliocco’s regular driver was unavailable. Magliocco didn’t tell Salvatore the purpose of their drive, but he asked Salvatore to take a gun. Salvatore felt strongly that you don’t abandon friends and relatives in need. They drove to the terminal, where they met a train passenger from Brooklyn. The man greeted Magliocco and said hello to Salvatore. The man seemed to know my son, but Salvatore didn’t recognize him. Magliocco and the man briefly exchanged a few words. On the way home, Magliocco didn’t explain what it was all about.

As I later learned, Magliocco apparently was receiving some sort of progress report from someone within his Family. I don’t know specifically what Magliocco had in mind, but it was no secret that Magliocco blamed Gambino and Lucchese for his troubles with the Gallo brothers. There was a man in Magliocco’s Family who had access to and had the confidence of Gambino and Lucchese. Magliocco apparently used this man to keep tabs on his enemies and to let him know what Gambino and Lucchese were saying about him. This man was close to Joseph Colombo.

Not long after the incident at the railroad terminal, Colombo apparently decided he would have more to gain if he betrayed Magliocco and switched sides. He therefore went to Gambino and Lucchese to tell them what he knew about Magliocco as proof of his new allegiance.

The reader must keep in mind that throughout this period I was not in New York. I depended for my information on others and I was not in a position to participate in the unfolding drama.

By the fall of 1963, Magliocco was in deep trouble. His man Colombo, a group leader within his Family, had defected. Gambino and Lucchese accused Magliocco of plotting to depose them. They declared they didn’t recognize Magliocco as head of his Family anymore. And they encouraged others to follow Colombo’s example and defect.

Now for the hook that snagged me.

Gambino and Lucchese passed on Colombo’s disclosures to their new “sweetheart,” Stefano Magaddino. Stefano’s ears must have pricked up when he heard that my son was in Magliocco’s car during the railroad-terminal meeting. A more prudent man would first have troubled himself to find out the particulars instead of jumping to conclusions. But Stefano’s reasoning must have gone something like this: If the son of Joe Bonanno was driving Magliocco to such a sensitive meeting, then Joe Bonanno must be behind Magliocco.

Stefano began disseminating the story that Joe Bonanno wanted to kill Gambino and Lucchese, and that I was so power-hungry I wanted to kill my own cousin Stefano as well.

In his state of semi-hysteria, Stefano now wanted to believe the very worst about me. He chose to believe that my travels were but a ruse to buy me time while I planned some sort of coup that would topple him and the others on the Commission. Stefano saw darkness in the middle of the day.

What I had wanted to avoid had happened. In addition to being envious of me, Stefano was now also fearful. After hearing what Stefano was saying about me, I tried to get in touch with my cousin. I was willing to go see him in Buffalo, or for him to come see me in New York. Stefano refused to do either. He refused even to come to the telephone when I called him at his home. By this time, Stefano had become so jittery that he interpreted my attempts to contact him as yet another trick. Soon he began spreading another rumor: that I was going to send my men to Buffalo to get him.

*   *   *

The death of Joe Magliocco late in 1963 alleviated the tension in the Volcano somewhat. Magliocco died of a heart attack. If he had died of gunfire, it probably would have sparked retaliation and general battle. Since he died of natural causes, however, Magliocco’s death cleared the way for Joseph Colombo to seize power in that Family. He did so at the expense of the Gallos, who had lost favor with Gambino and Lucchese once Colombo became their darling. Colombo put down the Gallo insurrection. Then the Commission, with me absent, accepted Colombo as the new leader of his Family on a temporary basis.

For the moment, the fighting had ceased. Lucchese and Gambino, with Magaddino and Colombo as allies, were in clear control of the Commission. Stefano was riding high. By spreading lies about me, he came out looking like the champion of justice; he made me out to be the ungrateful prodigal son. With Stefano at their side, Gambino and Lucchese had destroyed the conservative faction. To keep him at their side, Gambino and Lucchese propitiated and flattered Stefano. Short-lived as it would turn out to be, this was Stefano’s moment of glory.

Although I no longer personally involved myself in Commission business, as I have explained, I too benefited, in a sense, from Magliocco’s death. As long as either Profaci or Magliocco was alive, I was bound to them as an ally and as a friend. Magliocco’s death relieved me of my obligations toward his successor. I had no ties with Colombo or the Gallos.

I was free, then, to continue to pursue my plans of gradually stepping out of the picture in New York.

The slackening of tension produced in me an almost airy feeling. I felt light and footloose. Even during the bad times, it wasn’t all tedium and pain. There were breaks, and this was one of them. When such breaks come along, it’s best to take advantage of them even though the rest of your world is coming apart. You never know when you’re going to get another holiday or if you’ll ever get one at all. So, I always try to live in the present.

It was spring.

—Let’s go around the world, I said to my wife.

Fay thought I was kidding.

—Bermuda, Italy, Australia, Hawaii, I drawled enticingly.

—Are you serious?

—Let’s get away from it all, I said. We might never get another chance.

Pack and leave your worries behind! Hurrah! That’s the spirit in which Fay and I undertook our trip in the spring of 1964.