SEVEN ON THE SEVENTEENTH

 

 

On the day, February 16, 1943, my father departed by train from Chicago for basic training in Texas he began writing letters to my mother back in Michigan.  There are seven first letters, postmarked at different times, but all the same date, February 17.  Each letter echoes the poignant pleas of a very homesick twenty year old, “…to say I missed you last night would be putting it mildly, but then I have got to face it.  More than me had that homesick look in their eye.”

Mom and Dad were country kids growing up in the southern farmlands of Michigan.  A big trip meant traveling slightly northwest thirty miles to Kalamazoo or slightly northeast thirty miles to Battle Creek.  Now, Dad has left all that is familiar, especially his wife of just a year.

Dad describes these new scenes… “the hills or mountains (take your choice) of Missouri. Rolled across the plains of Arkansas, the oilfields of Oklahoma, went through Claremore, the home of Will Rogers, saw the Will Rogers airport. We went by a huge airplane factory and saw lots of bombers flying around…”

After sharing the lower train berth with his card playing new buddy, Herb, and “waking up about six times” he continues… “Well this is Texas—rolling plains and ranch homes, little old shacks that look 100 years old… we just passed a field of Texas Longhorns.  There is a lot of cactus.”

Each letter is a new chapter… “Well, this is San Antonio—wow!!!---they piled us all in a truck---had a physical---our names were taken---chow---marched to barracks---Herb and I bunk together---cut cards for upper or lower. I got the upper… I have your picture all set up and darling you sure look sweet to me.”

Millions wrote letters home during World War II. Today emails more instantly gratify spouses, sweethearts and those on modern battlefields. These communications can’t conquer loneliness, lost time together, or death.  They can, however, endow a daughter with specifics to shape a memory of just what it was like to be her father.  Seventy two years later the sentences surround me with a cascade of images I savor.  He is my father I can now know and touch and feel and love through these pale photos, yellowed scrapbooks, and brittle letters.