Tales Of My Father

My father was born in Bog Walk, a small town in the Cock-Pit Country of Jamaica with little to commend it. Except that there the soil is so rich, the flora so lush, it appears as if made of plastic. The colors and the texture of the leaves and petals of the innumerable flowering plants are so vibrant as to deny nature's aspect. As Alexander Stoddard Frankson grew into early manhood amidst this splendor of exuberant nature, he attended Mico Teachers' Training College and dreamed of adventure in the far-flung outposts of the British Empire. The island of Jamaica was, in the early years of Empire, a hub of development, even more advanced than the colonies in North America, the United States Of America and Canada. And so it remained, even into the twentieth century, a place from which ambitious adventurers set forth to conquer unclaimed territory. And quell any taste for independence in the breasts of restless, indigenous native populations. British Honduras was such an outpost, where the remnants of the mighty Mayan Empire's constructions still lay shrouded under the canopy of the endless tropical jungle. And the people who once built those cathedrals that today remain the largest man-made structures in the region, have been reduced to simple milperos and subsistence farmers, fishermen, and hunters. European loggers came for the exquisite hardwoods found in the lush tropical jungles and coveted by the pampered residents in the overcrowded cities of the colonial powers. When Alex Frankson, driven by a thirst for adventure, signed up to participate in an educational program as a Jeans Teacher in British Honduras, he had no real idea of what he was getting into. In fact, when he went down to Kingston Harbor and asked "where is the boat that's going to Brtish Honduras", he had expected to be shown a ship of considerable stature. Instead, the dockworkers pointed to a tiny vessel moored below them. My father, though he lived on an island, had never been to sea on any previous occasion. And the sight of that puny tramp-steamer almost convinced him to defer his need for adventure to an instinctive caution.

But he had said his goodbyes and made his departure, and to return would be humiliating. So he stoked his resolve and clambered down to the waiting vessel. The six hundred-mile crossings to British Honduras proved unadventurous, however. Anti-climatic in that the seas were calm and the weather fully cooperative. Passing through the great reef and entering the river-mouth harbor was spectacular. A new adventure into an unknown world at every step along the way, a departure from routine, colonial tranquility. The nondescript agglomeration of plain wooden houses, divided by a muddy river with a single bridge facilitating crossing between north to south, though picturesque, was anti-climatic. Settling into a shabby rooming-house, young Frankson determined to make the best of his unimpressive forecast and familiarized himself with his new surroundings. The Education Department for which he would be working as a Jeans Teacher was located in a nondescript building, easily located among a huddle of equally uncouth structures. All pleading for a fresh coat of paint, a little attention. The Colonial Office building too was close by, and he soon learned that he was destined to venture into the interior, riding horseback visiting schools and inspecting educational facilities in far-flung communities scattered throughout the untamed interior. Where mahogany was king, and chicle a lucrative by-product. Chicle was the sap of the Sapodilla tree, essential for the production of chewing gum, and the domain of the Wrigley Chewing Gum Company of Chicago and British Honduras. In years to come, artificial gum would make chicle obsolete, but when Alex Frankson first arrived in British Honduras chicle was omnipresent, and a prized product of the jungle.

The Chicleros who harvested chicle were stalwart bushmen who spent their lives in the jungle. Delivering their spoils to collection sites scattered throughout the endless forests. Where communities developed and required educational facilities for the children of the woodsmen. Educational facilities that required the attention of Jeans Teachers who traversed the forest trails and farming communities endlessly, Ensuring that the bright young minds of the British Empire received their full measure of book-learning to complement their rural upbringing. Riding endlessly throughout the interior brought stark reminders of his reality to the forefront. In Jamaica, the largest wild creature he ever encountered was an occasional feral pig and/or mongoose. In British Honduras, it was not uncommon to encounter an eighteen-foot boa constrictor lying unperturbed by the trailside. And ever-present in his mind was the knowledge that in the jungle were jaguars, wild boar, and alligators. All quite capable of inflicting serious injury to an unsuspecting traveler. Howler monkeys bellowed tremendously in the bush apparently nearby, when in fact they may have been thousands of yards away. Scarlet Macaw brightened the skies overhead, and green yellow-headed, and red-headed parrots squawked incessantly. Keel-Billed Toucans with their improbable beaks flew in search of select fruit, their great beaks dragging them forever downward. The jungles of British Honduras were a living, breathing, eternal cacophony of subtropical exuberance, the likes of which could be found only on the mainlands of Central and South America.

As the Jeans Teacher rode continuously from village to village, from school to school, he developed acquaintances with his students and their families and became a familiar guest at their dinner tables. Thus did he become entwined with James (Jim) Rogers and his family, and especially with his second daughter Joyce. Their friendship soon developed into a romantic alliance. And their marriage altered his status considerably. No longer was he a visiting Jeans Teacher or inspector of schools, but a permanent resident of the colony and an employee of the colonial government. But he was Jamaican and retained his status as an expatriate, entitled to the privileges afforded to overseas employees of the colonial governing bodies. But he was a Black Jamaican, and so his status among the White colonials remained ambiguous. As a Jamaican married to a British Honduran they were both subjects of the crown, rather than citizens of the British Empire. His ambiguous status did not derail his progress in the colonial administration, and he was soon appointed District Commissioner for the Toledo district, with offices in the major town Punta Gorda. By this time he and his wife had had three children, and the move to Punta Gorda was hair-raising. It entailed an overnight trip by coastal steamer, as there were no roads connecting Toledo to the rest of the colony. Though it was the largest district, Toledo really was an outpost, and the district commissioner was the law, the judge, and the jury. It was a pleasant time, in a tranquil community, but Alexander Frankson's ambition drove upward and outward. Back to Belize Town and the center of power.

In Punta Gorda as District Commissioner, he was also chief magistrate, doling out justice to all and sundry. Back in Belize Town, he returned to the Education Department as Assistant Secretary and was soon assigned to Howard University to pursue an associates' degree in education. Colonial administrations were notoriously ambiguous, and no sooner than his return to British Honduras with his diploma in education, than he was assigned to the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Justice, never to return to his life-long association with education. In the mid-forties in British Honduras the Roman Catholic Church was omnipresent, and before Alex Frankson, who was protestant, could marry Joyce Rogers, he had to agree to preset conditions. Their children would have to be baptized and raised in the Catholic Church and follow strict Catholic tradition. But these requirements were pedestrian, as Alex Frankson had no affinity for anything religious, and in matters of morality, he was simply authoritarian. Growing up in Jamaica, he hadn't ever embraced the joy a child feels in bonding with an animal. While Joyce Rogers grew up in Saint Paul's Bank on the Belize Old River, surrounded by animals. Cattle and horses, chickens and dogs trained in hunting, and as family pets. Alex Frankson welcomed pets for his children but drew the line at cohabiting with them. The house he had built in absentia, while he was DC in Punta Gorda, was ten feet off the ground. And when his family moved in, with a dog they brought from Toledo, the dog was restricted to the open space below the house and the surrounding yard.

But as he aged, Alex Frankson seemed to mellow, and once even tried to convince the dog to enter his living quarters. But force of habit kept the pet at bay, and the old man soon relented. Feeling more comfortable with pets at a distance. Yet after my brother and I went off to boarding school in Jamaica, coming home one semester, were surprised that our father was not at the airport to greet us. We later learned that the pet dog, Pluto, had gone missing, and Alex Frankson had spent all his spare time searching in vain for the lost animal. Although he would never admit it, he had developed a close affinity for the pets he had never had in his childhood. And the pets seemed to sense it, and shared his affection, though guardedly. They both retained their rough exterior and allowed only glimpses of the warmth they felt in each others' company. Alex Frankson was quite a lady's man, but if ever a romantic adventure came to the attention of his family, or upset their equilibrium, he would end it. As in all old colonial societies, family came first, and all else was but icing on the cake and held no substance or foundation on which to stand on.

As Alex Frankson prepared to retire as the most senior civil servant, and permanent secretary in the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Justice, he was immediately offered the position of Country Director of the United States Peace Corps in Belize. The newly acquired name of the colony as it achieved internal self-governance, in preparation for independence. He was the only non-American to have ever been appointed to such a position. Simultaneously with his appointment, he acquired four hundred and fifty acres of virgin forest on the Hummingbird Highway and installed me to oversee its development. I, in turn, acquired an additional one hundred and fifty acres, and together we registered the six hundred acres as "Rancho Lomas, Ltd." A property dedicated to the cultivation of citrus, and owing to its two rivers, holding great potential for development in the hospitality, or tourism industry. Time passed quietly, and British Honduras, now called Belize, gained its independence. After a stint as Peace Corps Director in Jamaica, Alex Frankson retired completely, His heart murmur became a whisper, then a calling. And he required hospitalization in America, where he passed away, not so quietly, complaining with his last breath, that his life's work was not over.

Howard A. Frankson -- Belize