The Crab Chronicles

Letters Home

It's often hard to imagine that our parents had a life before we were born, and to get any insight into that life or how it shaped them. My dad could be very stern and strict with me when I was a kid, in contrast to Mom, who was easygoing 95% of the time. Dad liked to say things like "Children are to be SEEN, and NOT heard!" -- which invariably made Mom roll her eyes.

I found a pile of old letters in a box in my garage and I spent a fair amount of Sunday afternoon reading those letters. They were written by my Dad. The young man who wrote those letters bears little resemblance to the middle-aged guy I knew, but I like him anyway.

Unfortunately, I only have Dad's letter home. I imagine my grandmother carefully put them away as keepsakes. Dad either didn't save her letters to him or somehow they just got lost over the years.

 

When Dad went into the Army in 1953/54, he frequently wrote letters home to his parents (Thompson and Cordelia).  There are a bunch of them. His handwriting is awful but you get used to it. (He makes his "f" letter really weird.)

 

Around 1953 Dad went into the Army and did basic training at Ft. Jackson SC -- not far from home. He had already finished college and had his master's. Back then all guys had to do compulsory military service. He went to Camp Kilmer New Jersey for several months and then shipped over to Germany for the rest of his time. In Germany, he was a corporal, basically a clerical job. He writes about how boring his job was, not surprisingly. However, he spent a LOT of time with buddies sightseeing on weekends and when he could get leave. There are literally hundreds of photos. I don't know what to do with them all..

 

Dad always had a good camera and he was the family photographer at our house, but that guy to the left? He looks so young! He was a busy guy, sightseeing all over Europe and taking photos everywhere he went.

 

Dad was born in 1930 and spent most of his entire life in Georgia, with perhaps the occasional trip to Florida or South Carolina, before he went into the Army. He didn't care for Camp Kilmer, New Jersey. He had never spent time up north and wasn't used to the cold, I'm sure. He liked going to New York City, though, and seeing shows.

 

He saw the original production of "The King and I" and was seated in the best seats in the theater, thanks to a wealthy guy who came rushing out and gave away his tickets to Dad and his buddy, who happened to be standing there.

 

One night they went to eat at Sardi's, the famous celebrity hangout. "There we saw all the famous people in show business - Gary Moore, David Wayne, Henry Morgan, Victor Borge, etc."

 

Another night they went into town and saw a play, then planned on going into the Stork Club, but realized they had run out of money and ended up eating at the Automat.

[at the automat all the food came out of vending machines -- quite a novelty at that time...]

 

In another letter, after he got to Germany, he talks about going to London and seeing plays like "Can Can" and "The Tea House of the August Moon" and sightseeing. I labeled the letter Fran because my cousin Fran was a baby and he said "No, I don't get tired of you bragging on Fran. I would wonder if you did not. I'm sure that when she gets older she will brag on her grandparents." Thompson and Cordelia kept Fran while her mother worked. [Note: I sent Fran (now a grandmother) copies of the letters and she got a kick out of them.] Dad sent dolls home to Fran as souvenirs. They always had a special bond, Dad and Fran.

 

Of course, when Dad was there the Cold War was in full swing, and Berlin was a divided city.

 

Dad went on a trip to Berlin, and somehow managed to cross over into East Berlin and sightsee - "...wearing dark glasses and a trench coat, we took off to breach the Iron Curtain..." He tried to talk to Russian soldiers, without success, although he noted "They seemed very nice and I got some pictures of them." Of course, he had no idea one day his grandchildren would come from Russia...

 

One of the things that struck me about all the letters was that he was very homesick, despite all the running around and partying.

 

"If you can't read between the lines and tell I am homesick -- something's wrong -- because I'm as homesick as a ten year old."

 

Many years later he was in the opposite position, when I was in England one summer, and I kept getting calls from Dad every few days in which he got choked up and said "Your mama misses you!" -- which Mom told me later was his inability to say HE missed me. Mom was fine.

 

My favorite thing about these letters is that in reading them (like reading my mother's blogs) he comes back to me. There are no other letters that I've ever found. He never wrote me a letter -- he let Mom do that, when I was in college or just far away for some reason. In reading these, I hear his voice.

 

I plan to copy each letter, however long it takes, so one day when he has time my son can read these and realize that his grandfather was not so different from him. Young men with hearts full of love for their families -- what a beautiful thing.

 

Dad lost both his parents young, his dad in 1957 and his mom in 1959. He missed them for the rest of his life.

Normal and Loving It

I realized some years ago that I was not then, and never would be, a Cool person. I am not an intellectual. I am not much of an artist -- although I took art classes for years, desperately trying to be a good visual artist. I am not a stylish dresser -- my fashion goals are simple, to wear clothes that are clean and not torn. For my husband-hunting years [ages 22-42] I tried to dress somewhat fashionably and wear makeup every day, etc. but I always knew I was falling far short of my goal.

I have friends who know how to accessorize, and who do it brilliantly. I thought about that other day when I spotted a jaunty straw fedora in my son's room. I bought it in 1983 when I was a senior in college. I thought I might look Cool if I wore that hat. I didn't. The hat was too small for my overly large Hercule Poirot-like egg-shaped head. I continued to collect hats but hats never fit me. My mother always resented my large head, like it had been some sort of torture to give birth to me. (I only weighed 5 lbs. 8 oz. so I have never felt bad about that whole birth experience.) A few years ago I saw a photo of my great-great grandfather C.C. Phillips (see below). He had a big head. Two of my great aunts had large heads, and yet they both found husbands, proving once again my theory that decades ago men weren't so picky. You could have a large behind and/or a big head and still find a husband. Nowadays, you have to be rail-thin and have a butt no larger than two cantaloupes if you want a husband...

Like most un-Cool people, I have always instinctively known that my people were not the kind of folks who hobnob at country clubs and enter beauty pageants. [Yes, when I was little my parents belonged to a country club but that ended when I was 8 and we moved.]

Likewise, I don't belong with those who like to attend Star Trek conventions and engage in COSPLAY [wear costumes and play]. I am not smart enough to hang out with that crowd. I don't speak that language.

If I had to choose between being a Cool person, though, and a Normal person, I would choose Normal. It's way more than just a setting on the dryer. There is so much room in the Normal category. You can be a bit weird but still fall on the spectrum of Normal.

I spent my entire high school tenure trying to be normal. I never fit into any of the many cliques at my high school. I couldn't afford Aigner purses or shoes. I wasn't athletic and I found football horribly boring so the cheerleaders had no interest in hanging out with me. I was smart but not nerd-level smart, so the really smart kids ignored me, too. I was on the newspaper staff and I sang in the chorus every year but those fell under the Normal category. 

I didn't do a lot of socializing as a high schooler because I stayed very busy. I took voice lessons and piano lessons. I did youth group at church. I sang in the church choir. I was always in drama club so there was a lot of after-school rehearsing and set-building to attend to. The first two summers my family still had a lake cabin so every weekend in the summer we were at the lake. I also took babysitting jobs, helped my mother in the garden, and liked to play tennis.

Looking back, I realize that by staying so busy I was sort of postponing maturity but then again, I was too young to handle drinking and drugs and promiscuity, so it's a good thing I wasn't tempted. My parents were pretty keen on sheltering me from Bad Influences. They had no idea my older brother was a bad influence and when they went out at night he and his friends who let me tag along and blow up mailboxes, light farts, and drink Boone's Farm in movie theaters. One of the guys loved to pinch my butt, but if he had tried anything else my brother would have punched him. Even though I did those things enthusiastically I had no illusions that I was truly One of the Guys. I peed sitting down. End of story.

 

I was reminded of my utter failure at being Cool when I realized that one can now see The New Yorker online. My parents didn't subscribe to The New Yorker but my aunt and uncle did. I was always impressed by that, even though I always paid more attention to the cartoons than the articles. Now I am so freakishly old I read the articles and don't get half the cartoons. That's okay.

I have made my peace with not being cool. I am now like my parents, and unlike the Progressive commercials I am just fine with that. I like to tell waiters my name, and I take pride in getting up early. I have funny signs in my house. I read un-cool books and websites. I dress for comfort, not fashion. I don't mind being single. I cherish old photos. I enthusiastically espouse silly notions like paying taxes, singing the national anthem, and cooking things like meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

If you are not cool, and embrace Normal, congratulations, you have my admiration. We should get together, except I don't like to drive at night...