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mouth but gurgled down in my stomach.  
    Francesca went on, “Perhaps you should consider a money belt, Clay.”  
    “Don't be silly, Francesca,” Maude broke in. “ Paris is a very civilized place.”
    “So was Ancient Rome, and look at what went on there!” Francesca pointed out and went on with the list. “Take some American bathroom tissue. Yes, you’ll need it; believe me. Do you have your motion sickness pills and your tickets? I think that does it.”
    My stomach was still leaping and swaying when Mother shouted from the front door: “The taxi’s coming!”
    Maude and Harry were also leaving but would be back in two weeks. That made saying good-bye even harder. I clung to my parents tightly and started to cry again. In a soothing manner, Daddyboys promised to bring me presents from Europe and reminded me of the amazing adventures I would have with Francesca.
    That turned out to be the second biggest understatement of 1947. 
    With a last volley of waves, they were all gone. 
    Francesca and I looked at one another for a moment before I dropped my chin to my chest.
    “Look at me, child,” my grandmother said softly. “Mark my words; it's going to be one helluva of a summer.” 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 5
    Surprise Visitors
     
     
     
     
     
    L
    ightning bolts sizzled across the sky, and the rain poured down in buckets as a string of thunderstorms hit Lost Nation near the end of June. The weather delighted Francesca. She would stand on the porch, watching the spectacle, breathing deep, letting her soul soak up the cool. Inside, as she cleaned and cooked, she hummed to herself in rhythm with the rolling claps of thunder.
    These were the days when any self-respecting child had to get busy thinking of ways to entertain herself.
    In the front parlor, next to the large stone fireplace, my grandfather had built an indoor-outdoor wood box. Under the eaves of the house, a substantial pile of firewood was always stacked, dry and ready for use. This was an efficient storage arrangement in a place where unexpected snow clouds could breeze in and unload in a matter of a few minutes.
    At this time of year, the tin-lined wood box was empty. On drizzly days, I'd spread a comforter, open the outside door and laze away the hours, reading or just watching the massive cloud formations roll through. Now that I was almost ten, my little haven had grown cramped. But it was still a good way to pass the daylight hours that were too wet for outdoor activity.
    I was an avid and precocious reader. That summer, I had taken a serious step up in material, thanks to Francesca’s enthusiastic ministrations.
    She’d graduated from the State University of Iowa, one of the most forward-thinking schools of its time. State U was the first public university in the country to admit men and women on an equal basis. It was also the world’s first university to accept creative work in the arts (including literature) on an equal basis with academic research. It was just the kind of environment in which Francesca could thrive.
    Even after she’d married Cox and rerouted her energies into gardening, her tremendous respect for and love of the written word was always a hallmark of her happiness. She made sure she passed these feelings down to me. Starting on my fifth birthday, she’d drive me once a week to the library, and we'd pick out children’s stories and biographies together.
    I was currently working my way through A Tale of Two Cities , a historical novel by Charles Dickens set in Europe during the French Revolution. Francesca had carefully explained the many threads of plot which the author wove expertly in and out of the fabric of his writing. I was madly in love with Sidney Carton, that heroic ne'er do well and pictured myself as Dr. Manette's hapless daughter, Lucy, saucy ringlets and hoop skirts included.
    I was gazing adoringly into the gun metal sky at an imaginary portrait of Monsieur Carton