Flight-following your dad’s flights and caring for you didn’t take all my time. My nursing skills came in handy. Once I did a short trip with Baba V to immunize kids in the villages, which was a blast. It was like doing child checkups village by village.  He did the medical checkups, and I did vaccines. They had glass syringes and needles that were not disposable, and we just rinsed them in a big bowl of boiled water between kids. Since I had worked in surgery with Dad the lack of sterility didn’t bother me in spite of my American surgery training. 

All sorts of medical emergencies came to the back door. My gardener brought me one man who had cut his calf muscles in a bike accident. The witch doctor had sewn it shut with rusty wire and it was grossly infected. I cleaned it up best I could, used boiled wire cutters and pliers to pull out the wire, and gave him a shot of penicillin. Then I packed the open wound with gauze soaked in iodine and dressed the wound. My gardener later told me he did OK. 

One time I had a young woman come to my door bleeding from an attempted self abortion (she was not married). I was following flights for your dad and grandpa at the time.  I had to find Fred Baylor (another missionary) to follow the flights while I helped her. He always had his shortwave radio on.  Boy was your grandmother mad that I left my post. Fred was actually a better flight follower than I was and I was grateful he was there when I needed him. I could not leave her suffering. In thanks, she taught me more Swahili and I taught her some English, becoming close friends. A teacher took her as a second wife, and I think she was OK.

Your dad’s parents went to the USA on furlough and Rickmans came. Gary and Sue were classmates from Moody and Gary was your dad’s best friend from California. It must have been so hard for them. We certainly were no support, swimming in deep water ourselves. They did not know Swahili and neither of them had a clue about missionary work, houseboys, shopping in the market, butchering chickens or anything else. And they didn’t have someone working for them like Paulo. 

You had several near death experiences. The closest call was cerebral malaria when you were about 10 months old. That is the type your uncle Timmy died from. Your temperature was over the highest mark on my mercury thermometer and you were having seizures. I was sure you would die. We got on the radio to a Goma missionary who happened to have quinine injections: I wrapped you up in wet cold blankets and we drove 4 hours to Goma from Bukavu, praying all the way. Temperatures that high fry brains and kill people, but you lived. 

Your dad was in charge of the aviation program, and it was an awful responsibility. They each had a plane, and did their own 100 hour inspections. Gary ignored a hot spot on the paint of his plane. It was caused by some problem with the engine. Your dad pointed it out but nothing was done.  He had taken off from a jungle strip and the engine failed. Just his wife Sue and the pastor (in the far back seat) were on the plane. Gary turned back to the airport but did not make it, landing upside down in a huge river. The pastor said: “It is God’s will I die” and although both Sue and Gary were lifeguards, he would not unfasten his seat belt or try to get out so he died. They swam to shore. 

Your dad had to pick them up, fly the body back to Bukavu, and get the plane out of the river. He immediately fired Gary and sent him to Nairobi. Your grandparents in the States called and told your dad to come back to the USA to discuss it. So he left you and I in Bukavu. There was a lot of unrest at that time. The African pastor was a dear man. He told your dad if things got uncomfortable for me, send Paulo to his house with me. He would charcoal my face, dress me like an African, and tell the soldiers I was his other wife. 

During that time Fred Baylor hit a child who ran in front of his car when he was driving to the airport. Fred killed the child. The Africans swarmed the car. The civil army man was called, and Fred went to the airport with him. It was a short walk for the angry mob, so they came to our house ready to kill someone, yelling with their machetes out waving them in the air. I got my medical bag and I left you with Paulo to go see the child. I was terrified they would kill me. There wasn’t any blood, but she had no pulse and was not breathing. She was dead. The angry mob headed for the airport. God protected me. 

We also had a bee invasion. African killer bees ousted the bees in our chimney. Paulo brought you to me, and told me to keep you in the bedroom, and put towels by the doors to prevent any bees getting in. We huddled in the bedroom. He lit a fire in the fireplace, somestung. We came out when he said it was safe. I have never seen so many bees in my life. One of the Arabian horses was killed by killer bees. Terrifying.  Maybe that is why you hate bees. 

Your dad came back from the States but never talked about what happened with his parents.Gary and Sue left Congo. He ended his relationship with God and although he continued to fly for the mission, his heart was not in it. The missionaries begged him to stay when his parents returned, but he declined. Somewhere in that period of time our love died. He was going a different direction with his life and I was still in missionary mode. We stopped going to church and he started drinking. 

His parents found another young pilot to serve, and Bob got a job flying commercially for a coffee plantation owner. We moved to Goma briefly, then Bunia. My second kiddo came along, kindness of you teething on my diaphragm. I now had a toddler and a new baby to care for. Paulo was still with us. One day he scolded me for leaving money around. “Do you think I am God or something, that I can resist?” The Zaire money was worthless from my point of view. Bless his heart. He was a trust-worthy man. 

You two kids were wired so differently: you were a thinker, your brother a fat cat. He was cautious, you were a risk taker, climbing everything and driving your “deedon” down the cement steps into the street. Scary child. You loved speed. You also were a questioner. From the first words, you wanted to know “why” about everything. It was hard to teach you to obey first and ask later. 

Your grandfather died when you were two. He had taken off from Bukavu airport and grandma was following the flight. The rod blew out the crankcase and covered the windshield with oil. He told her he was going to try to put the plane down in a field but there were people staring up at him instead of getting out of the way, so he turned into the mountain. Your dad was furious he didn’t at least try to set down in a field, he might have lived. The Africans thought he was a hero because he chose not to hurt any one and flew into the mountain. 

Your grandfather was buried on the mountain where he died. There was a small wooden cross placed there and the family inscribed on it; “Fling ‘er down again”. This actually was a mixed up story about the death of Jezebel but to grandpa it meant to throw the evil down as many times as you needed to, kill it completely. Your Uncle Dale is still alive, and can explain better than I can. Of all your ancesters I think your personality and looks are most like your grandfather. 

Two planes were down out of the 3, so the “Wings of Calvary” folded. Once again, your dad had the job of cleaning up the mess.  He took care of the business end, and sold the last plane. Your Grandma went back to California, and your dad and I moved to Chicago. The missionary dream was dead, my marriage dead along with my dreams of being a missionary. I was so lost.