James Oscar White was my grandfather, my mother, Margaret Wohosky's father. I knew him for only a short time after my family moved to Key West from Santa Ana California in 1957 when I was 9 years old. I remember him as a very kind and authentic "Southern Gentleman" who even in his retirement from his profession as a life insurance salesman always wore a white suit. He loved his Cuban cigars and always gave me his wooden cigar boxes when they were empty. I'll never forget fragrance of that sweet aromatic smoke and the sound of my crayons as they rattled about in those empty cigar boxes.
In the warm falling darkness of those Key West nights long ago, he and I would sit on the porch of his house on Eaton Street; he in his wooden rocking chair and me in the hanging chair next to him, watching the fireflies light up the night to the sounds of murmuring Cicadas in the coconut trees. Memories I will always treasure.
Bio by Fred Wohosky
In the warm falling darkness of those Key West nights long ago, he and I would sit on the porch of his house on Eaton Street; he in his wooden rocking chair and me in the hanging chair next to him, watching the fireflies light up the night to the sounds of murmuring Cicadas in the coconut trees. Memories I will always treasure.
Bio by Fred Wohosky
James Oscar White was my grandfather, my mother, Margaret Wohosky's father. I knew him for only a short time after my family moved to Key West from Santa Ana California in 1957 when I was 9 years old. I remember him as a very kind and authentic "Southern Gentleman" who even in his retirement from his profession as a life insurance salesman always wore a white suit. He loved his Cuban cigars and always gave me his wooden cigar boxes when they were empty. I'll never forget fragrance of that sweet aromatic smoke and the sound of my crayons as they rattled about in those empty cigar boxes.
In the warm falling darkness of those Key West nights long ago, he and I would sit on the porch of his house on Eaton Street; he in his wooden rocking chair and me in the hanging chair next to him, watching the fireflies light up the night to the sounds of murmuring Cicadas in the coconut trees. Memories I will always treasure.
Bio by Fred Wohosky
In the warm falling darkness of those Key West nights long ago, he and I would sit on the porch of his house on Eaton Street; he in his wooden rocking chair and me in the hanging chair next to him, watching the fireflies light up the night to the sounds of murmuring Cicadas in the coconut trees. Memories I will always treasure.
Bio by Fred Wohosky
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