I had the advantage of being bussed to a public segregated school. Our black workers and their families did not. I remember a single-room school that was built on private plantation property. I was not familiar with how it was funded, whether public or private. Very few of our field workers and their families attended.

My parents moved from the island about the time we were married. My father was now the superintendent of a plantation. Our sons were educated at integrated schools. On occasion, they would visit their grandparents. Our son Dan, questioned why Hopkins, a caretaker of sorts and a friend, ate meals served on their screened-in porch instead of eating in their grandparents' dining room. It was an accepted segregated custom handed down through generations. It was a practice that was carried out during their lifetime.

When the boys were growing up, we had a summer cottage. We enjoyed the river and its surroundings as a retreat, vacation spot, etc. We had a local yardman on call. He seemed excited to greet us on our many trips. He and our boys would joke, work, and play together.

During breaks when we worked outside, we would share ice-cold sodas. Our favorites included Shasta Cream Sodas. We would stock them for a weekend or a week stay. He would greet us with a big grin and asked if we brought any Cream Sodas.

Over the years he helped paint the cottage, inside and out. He helped move furniture and trim shrubbery. When he knew we were coming, the lawn would be immaculately trimmed when we arrived. He was loyal. We considered him a friend up until his untimely death.

I guess it was the Huguenot belief I inherited. History tells me that my ancestors came to America and mingled into life among the many tradesmen. They arrived in this country with nothing but a fierce loyalty and a will to get along with others. They were a gentle people and had malice toward none.

Our motto: Guerre a mort pour Die vet Patrice -- "To die for God and Country."