Where Seldom is Heard

If he’s going to be up awhile, I’m going back in time to see what goodies my sister-in-law discovered during her decluttering winter project. I open a Valentine from 1944 where Mom has signed:

“Yours Forever,

with all my love and devotion,

Mary.”

Psalm 91:1

I can hardly wait to get into the letters; even the card has me on cloud nine. One year we all got together to celebrate my parents’ anniversary, and Eileen had asked ahead of time what Mom’s favorite song was. To my surprise, she said: Home on the Range.

We had a soloist sing the first verse, and all the guests joined in on the familiar refrain, “where seldom is heard, a discouraging word…,” and I melted. Somehow, I’d never heard the words until I realized it was Mom’s favorite. I’m singing it today. Shaking out bathroom rugs. Chopping onion. Emptying the trash. Scraping crumbs off my shirt. Opening the windows so the birds can sing along. And believe me, they do—and sound so much better!

The old photos fall out among the letters, something saved from across the oceans. The letters started in Philadelphia and wound up in post offices all over the country to be shipped overseas. I see Norfolk. I see Boston. I see San Francisco. Each time, Dad was getting further and further away from the new love of his life.

Dad faithfully marked on the outside of each envelope when he replied. Without exception, his reply came within four days of receiving her letter. I can tell by the ink and the curve of the letters that Dad was using a fountain pen.

Mom used to say her mom hid all the letters my dad sent, giving them to her on the sly so my grandfather wouldn’t get upset. It’s funny to think about Mom’s mom being an “interceptor,” a behind-the-scenes helper in a love affair. But it makes perfect sense. She knew what love was and didn’t want her daughter to lose her first love. She prayed that the guy in the Navy would make it home in one piece.

I’m bringing back the old stories, not because I need to, but because they’re a part of who I am. Like river rocks smoothed by the water’s movement, my stories will be worked over in my memory. My soul will color them with understanding and hope. They may not read smoothly like a novel, but they will sing.

And they’ll ask questions because I’m always asking. I will never stop asking questions. Asking seems to give me the answer—as if I can hear the letters being scratched out on a ship in the Pacific, the ink filling the little blue pieces of paper, the salt water mixing with the tears of a shipmate longing to come home to his lady.

He wouldn’t write if he didn’t think someone back home was reading those longings, musings, and dreams. Could my parents have imagined the longing in their souls in 1966 when the draft board got a hold of my brother?

My mother fell into depression. My father bought a plane ticket. I watched from my twelve-year-old perch and wrote letters, one of which has remained tucked among the goodies in that winter decluttering box my sister-in-law gathered. I hold it today and giggle.

I AM SO TWELVE!

I tell my brother nothing exciting ever happens around here because he isn’t here. And I ask him to thank his buddy “Rich” for writing me. Oh my goodness! I was writing a soldier! I’m 12!

“Tell Rich that I just loved to hear from him. I got his letter Monday. It was thrilling, and I miss him a lot. Tell him, I hope that his feet don’t hurt from all that marching that you have to do. Tell him to drink all his milk and write me sometime when he has the time.”

I’ve typed the letter on Dad’s stationery, picturing myself telling my brother that I hope I remember to put in the comics before mailing it. I had to do my homework, so bye-bye.

I tell Dennis I’m keeping all his letters (I lied). But bless the soldier serving our country—my brother must have kept mine, and if you believe in miracles, it has magically resurfaced fifty years later, just when I need to start writing my “next thing.”

I take another minute to review the date on the letter and realize my brother was in boot camp, thus the marching, and hadn’t been sent overseas yet. Perhaps he didn’t know that was his final destination. I can only presume there was dread in all their hearts. Perhaps time will give me more insight—maybe it takes fifty-plus years to really understand being twelve.