Friday, February 16, 2007

Dearest God,

This morning I came across some very old letters written by my father just after he entered the Marines in 1942. Barely 18 years old he and his twin brother were stationed in San Diego, California for boot camp. He was writing to his parents. The letters span the time of December, 1942 to a letter from a U S Navy Chaplain to my grandparents written in November, 1945.

The first letter describes life in the camp. Up at 5:30 a.m., to bed by 9:00 p.m. On his first day he was due for a haircut. He promised to send a lock of his hair to his mother for safekeeping. His brother planned to do the same. The food was fair. A number of his hometown buddies were posted there with him. He asked for a lighter for Christmas. (I guess he was a smoker.)

The innocence of a very young man from the farm permeates the letter. Heck, darn, shoot, the worst words he uses. In his third letter he shares how the corporals cursed at everybody. He pleads for more letters from home, signing each letter, "Your devoted (or loving) son, Milton Hughes." When he finished training, his signature includes PFC, Private First Class.

My father grew up on 80 acres of hallowed ground in north central Indiana. He wore overalls to school, worked hard each morning before walking a mile to school, and played basketball. He longed to travel. He salvaged maps from all over the world. Put them up on a wall. Dreamed of flying to all parts of the globe. In the Marines he served in Guam, the Philipines, and the Marianna Islands. He was a boy when he left home. That all changed.

He had dated my mother, a 17 year old girl from a neighboring town, before he enlisted. In one of his early letters he talks about her writing him an eight page letter. The rest of the story is that after boot camp and before he was shipped overseas, the 18 and 17 year olds married. Three years passed before they were reunited. My father came home a man.

Mother used to enjoy talking about meeting my father, the shy farm boy who once fell off the curb as he walked beside my mother. He was so embarrassed. He could hardly look her in the eye. When they got married, my father didn't know what to do. He told me on his wedding night, he didn't want mother to hear him in the bathroom so he put his size 13 foot in the toilet so my mom wouldn't hear him urinate. When he came home after the war, Mom was scared to death of him. She had lost her favorite farm boy.

I've only read a handful of letters. I put them in chronological order from the first to the last letters he wrote, most to his parents, one to his older brother in the army and some to my mom. I want to know this 18 year old boy who became my father. I want to listen to the tone of the letters, see the changes in his life, watch how he related to the war, his feelings regarding the "enemy."

In some ways I feel like I'm intruding. I'm fairly certain he never dreamed that his oldest daughter would one day peer into his personal life by reading his writings. At the same time I cherish these historical documents written by the man I called Daddy all my life. He loved his Marine buddies, felt like they were brothers. After they returned home following the disastrous war that claimed millions of lives, Daddy and Uncle Merrill created reunions with their Marine Corps friends. This year a handful will gather in Kentucky for one of the last reunions. Most have died, including my father.

I wonder how I got the letters, why I found them today. I don't remember whether I discovered them in my parents' apartment after my mother's death or someone gave them to me. I just can't recall. But they are prized possessions. After I read them, I think I will give my siblings an opportunity to read them. Who knows what I will find?

Most Gracious Heavenly Father,
Daddy was the first father I ever loved.
Although he was always too busy
to spend time with me,
I thought
he was the most wonderful daddy
in the world.
Six foot four,
handsome, smart.
I used to stand on his feet
as he danced me around the room.
After I was grown
but still living at home,
we played word games.
We loved Indiana tomatoes.
He worked three jobs
as I grew up.
Always gone.
Then he got his dream job.
Traveling around the world.
Loved it.
Gone all the time.
He once said,
"Friends are the most important thing
in the world."
I always wanted him to say,
"Family."
From a small farm in the Hoosier heartland
to Saudi Arabia,
my father experienced the world
he envisioned.
I was the last to be with him
before he died.
I thanked him
for the word games,
for dancing with me,
for visiting me
a few days after
I was diagnosed with cancer,
for saying the wonderful
things he said.
Nothing will be present
to distract us
in this final conversation.

Love, Andrea