Faith, fun, and family

Early April letters provide hints of both Dad’s days and what the “folks” at home were up to.  “We also took an electrical test this afternoon. 50 questions in 25 minutes, mostly on telephone equipment. I think I did fair on it, whereas most of the new fellows were completely lost.” I believe my Dad had already had some experience working with AT&T before joining the army, but I’m not sure how much! (question to you, Dad!)

I also would like to know how bad a cold has to be to land you in the hospital: “That rest I had in the hospital did me a lot of good besides completely curing my cold. I was there six days.”

Dad clearly took his job as oldest child in the family seriously and knew how to communicate both love and respect: “I’ll bet you’re doing a swell job, Mom, rolling bandages. If every woman who has a son in the service would do as much, the bandage situation would be greatly improved. Tell Dad not to work too hard. You don’t have to do all the work at the Meisel Press. Why don’t you let the bosses do some; that is if it’s alright with you.”   The Meisel Press Mfg. Company And United Electrical, Radio & Machine Workers Of America was established in 1942. Dad’s dad was a tailor by trade (in Canada before emmigrating to the U.S.), so I am curious about this job. I also wonder about the bandage rolling situation . . . Red Cross, perhaps?

Two themes are consistent so far in his letters: missing home, and keeping up with his Catholic obligations. Although he wants to hear his parents’ voices one afternoon, he is thwarted: “I was over to the main post this afternoon and was going to call up but the operator said it would take from three to six hours to put it through, so I didn’t bother. I did make it a point, though, to go to confession and I’m going to communion tomorrow.” His faith was, and still is, paramount in his life.

Dad doesn’t failed to find opportunities for recreation, however, as the topic of U.S.O. dances comes up frequently: “Girls and refreshments will be served.”  That quirky sense of humor again!  And money . . . what a difference half a century makes. He acknowledges receiving a letter from an aunt: “It was very nice and contained a lot of advice, but the best thing it contained was a dollar.” A dollar in a letter! That’d buy 100 boxes of penny matches! (I am left wondering what advice an old aunt would give a young G.I.!)

Gas, tennis, measles and dirt.

Betwee April 4th and 8th of 1943, Dad experienced his first gas mask drills. The first came after some tragic news of an Engineering Lieutenant and several of his men who were killed when a faulty fuse failed to trigger at the right moment.

“The other night I was tired and went to bed early. Some of the fellows came back from the P.X. [post exchange…the army equivalent of a department store] crying and laughing at the same time. Somebody either planned or accidentally dropped a case of tear gas. Immediately the alarm was given to put on our masks. In my first experience with gas, where was I but in bed, reading a magazine with my gas mask on.”

I want to know what magazine he was reading! The second drill came after receiving the results of his IQ test; he explains that “If you get 110 you qualify for Officers candidate school,” and he earned a 122/150.  “When we got back we were told to prepare for a tornado. We had to wear gas masks, rain coats and helmets.” Fortunately, the tornado did not manifest, and the drill was called off. I wonder how the masks would have helped had the storm struck!

In these letters I start to sense that this young soldier may be a bit of a perfectionist. After apologizing for the quality of his writing, “(This penmanship is very poor as I am writing in bed),” he makes a generous offer to his younger sister…but with conditions!  “Tell Kay that if she gets the urge to play tennis, she can use my racket; but make sure she loans it to no one and always puts it in the press when not in use.”  I wonder how this proclivity will affect his behavior as his time in the army passes. I recognize hints of this trait in my oldest son, now the age my Dad would have been.

Dad wraps up these letters with a true sign of the times:  “Three out of six barracks in the company are quarantined on account of measles & mumps. Never a dull moment here,”  and then throws in the bit of humor that I will continue to search out in his messages home. “They say you have to eat a ton of dirt before you die. I’m well on my way to my last few pounds.”

A Penny for . . .

The last paragraph in a letter dated March 22, 1943 reminds me to take stock of all that I own, and of the conveniences of living in the 21st century:

“Pass this news on to the fellows and tell them I can’t write them all because I’ll only have to tell them all the same news . . . tell them and the LeBlancs that this is sure a swell pen & pencil set. The pen writes by itself. All I have to do is hold it. I really appreciate it. This watch that you gave me is really on the ball. It will go pretty near two days on one winding and it’s keeping good time.”

Just the thought of having to write individual letters to all my friends and family leaves me exhausted. With Facebook and other social media, I can update all 255 of my closest peeps (!) with the click of a key. I do, though, remember receiving my own gift pen & pencil set when I left for my first college, and treasured it as I did my Smith Corona electric typewriter (which was quite a technological advancement from the manual one on which I learned to type at Braintree High School). Do we make wind-up watches anymore? I wonder what percentage of our population even wears a wrist watch in 2011.

Earlier in this same letter, Dad asks his family to remind any of the “fellows” to follow that they should bring 10 hangers with them, and requests “a carton of book matches, if you can get them. All they have down here are those penny boxes of wooden matches and they are too bulky to carry around.” To smoke was the status quo, and if cigarette manufacturers had the knowledge then of the destructive physical results, they sure didn’t tell anyone. Soldiers would find cigarettes in their meal rations . . . “’Spuds,’ ‘Wings,’ and if we were lucky,” Dad tells me, “Chelseys.”  They came four in a pack. I am reminded of being a child in a time when chalky candy cigarettes from the “Penny Store” were a treat. Ugh.

Boston boy in for an eye-opener

In 1943, just a month after his 19th birthday, Dad boarded a train to “somewhere” with a toothbrush and a change of underwear. He had joined the army. In one of his first letters home, I discover both his early sense of humor and his sheltered naiveté:

“To begin with we rode on a Boston and Maine day coach that saw its prime 75 years ago. Nothing but the best for the army, you know. However, the other cars were all more modern and it was better than walking. Leaving Mass., we hit the corner of Vermont, then thru New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Missouri, Oklahoma, then Texas. I might have missed one or two states, but it doesn’t matter. We hit snow in every state except Texas, which I think is God’s country. (It might be a little of the devil’s too, for it is so hot down here!) We passed under the Appalachian Mts. by way of the Hoosac tunnel, and crossed the Mississippi river. After viewing the country all the way down here, except for Texas, I was thankful that I lived in Massachusetts, for you don’t realize the poverty that most of the people live in. Most all shacks we passed were inhabited by colored people, and a few whites. Yet they seemed to be happy and waved to us as we passed by.”

The train’s destination: Camp Swift, Texas. He describes his new daily routine:

“We get up at 6:30; fall out for revile at 6:45, and eat at 7:00. About 7:30 we fall out again and have about an hour of physical exercise, and I do mean exercise. We do all kinds of body bends and twists. Then we form in a circle, walk then run, then do all kinds of torture movements such as squatting down and walking, or walking on our hands and toes. After this we have classes on various things such as courtesy and customs, motors, hygiene, the artillery guns, and other army methods. We eat dinner at 12:00. After dinner we usually have a few more classes, or a training film on different things. Then we usually go for a little walk about 4:00. It’s not so easy to keep step marching in sand. Monday, we did a bit of wood marching. First of all we had to leap across a pretty wide ditch. I didn’t realize it was so deep or wide until I was half way over. I made it all right but some fellows just aren’t jumpers. Poor fellows! Then we do double time running up and down hills, over rocks, and over a log, which is a bridge over a ditch. After going through that I think I’ll give up cigarettes. Boy! was I winded.”

Torture movements! I know Dad played tennis back in his high school days . . . I’ll have to ask if that was the extent of his physical activity before his army days. At least he wasn’t one of the “poor fellows” who couldn’t jump; perhaps he should have played basketball!

I suddenly realize how difficult it will be to find the focus of this memoir writing. So many letters, so much information, so much still to ask . . .

Calling Dad

On October 25th, 2010, one of my high school sophomore English students asked, “What was your dad’s generation called?” She wanted to know so that she could add some meat to her VFW speech competition essay. The topic was, “Does your generation have a role in America’s future?”  I whip out my cell phone (which we were not supposed to use in school) as I tell them the prompt should read, “What will be your generation’s role in America’s future,” and call home. To my delight, Dad, almost 87 and a WWII veteran, picks up.

“Hello, Leadville!” I hear his jovial voice, and my students smile—delighted to see their teacher breaking a rule.  I explain the purpose of my call, and get an immediate response:

“The Greatest Generation.” Journalist/News Anchor Tom Brokaw termed the phrase in his 1998 book. I can hear the pride in Dad’s voice; he knows that my students are listening.

Jump to today, almost one year later, and I finally have the time to dig more deeply into  Dad’s life to write my own responses to his experiences. This morning on the phone my Mom suggests that Dad might like to post something to my blogs now and then, and it hits me–OF COURSE! Who better to respond to the treasures I discover in Dad’s letters home over 60 years ago than the author of the letters himself!

And so…Dad…if you’re reading this, I would like to invite you–formally–to co-author my book! Whadaya say?

Posts and Pages

Before you read on, please remember that my background is in writing and literature, not in computer technology!

I just discovered that there’s a difference between “posts” and “pages” (and I’m hearing now the collective groan of savvy users everywhere! All the handsome men at the top of this post page are wondering where they got me). The pages I created evidently will be there forever and ever (until I delete or convert them), and maybe that’s okay. With only one week behind me as a professional writer (and I’m going to call myself that until it comes true), I still have scads to learn about this 21st Century media.

Today is nearly over, and the realization that I haven’t come close to maintaining my new work schedule is hitting me like the cold sleet that has been assaulting my house all day. My book–V-Mail: (something)–requires me to finish uploading (i.e., typing) Dad’s letters so I can hear the story that must come from them.

Enough of this dilly-dallying! I will keep the pages containing a bit of my background and a week’s worth of my daily musings capturing the start of my new career, but my posts will now be about the discoveries I find in the letters!