Like So Many Feathers In An Eagle's Wings

Like So Many Feathers In An Eagle's Wings

My life as an American didn't really begin until I was five years old, had

caught a fever, and almost died. About a week before, my parents had decided

to clean out our small cottage home in Thatcham, England, and put our few

lovely possessions into boxes stamped for America. My father had accepted a

job in Indianapolis, which meant that my parents, sister, and I would be the

first and only of our family to become American immigrants.

Our relatives simply couldn't understand it, and to be quite honest, at the

time neither could I. They thought my parents irresponsible for wanting to

take my sister and me away from all we knew and all that could ever love us.

"All for what?" They would protest. "To chase some silly dream? To call

yourselves American?" I was young. I was confused and couldn't understand.

I even thought my parents were selfish.

Then began a time of heart wrenched good-byes, which in my case occurred

while clasped between my nanny's large pale hands and soft chest. I didn't

really know that I was about to be torn from her and that the rest of my life

would be spent wanting to belong. I only knew that something horrible was

about to happen, and I didn't want to face it alone. She said, "You be a good

lad. Be brave, my sunshine. Don't you go forgetting your old Nan." My

mother walked my sister and me out of her bungalow. As we climbed into the

car, I could hear Nan let the tears flow. " Goodbye, my darlings," and as

though Granddad had not died last spring, "Don't let them take my grandbabies,

George." It was then that I realized I might never see my nanny again. I did

what I promised my mother I would not. I cried.

I had no previous knowledge of America, only what I had heard from Blaine

Sutton. He lived next door, and said his armies of toy soldiers were blue

because they were American Yanks.