That summer, when the young people were rioting on the streets of Paris, when Civil Rights protests in Northern Ireland were on the verge of triggering a 30-year internecine war, and when a much larger conflagration was raging in Vietnam, the talk in the Ferry was of the US Navy sailing up the Forth. Suddenly, the town was awash with Yankee sailors. My wee sister Helena invited one of those sailors to come to our house for tea. In typical country Irish fashion, my Mum pulled out the leaves of the dining table in the living room, got out her best tablecloth and cutlery, prepared a spread that could compete with Christmas Day, and summoned the rest of us to attend the momentous event. The sailor was a fair-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking and well-mannered American boy. His ship had recently returned from Vietnam, where it had been stationed off the coast for some months in support of the air and ground forces. Inevitably, the conversation at the dining table was dominated by the Vietnam War. Shortly before she passed away, when she was looking back at her life, Helena spoke to me about the American boy. She said she often wondered what had happened to him. If he has survived, I wonder, too, if he still remembers not only Helena, but also the kind and generous Irish lady who gave him such a warm welcome to our little town in that troubled time.
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