My sister has been the keeper of Dad’s WWII letters. I didn’t read them until a few weeks ago when we were driving north through Skagit Valley on our way to Chuckanut Manor for lunch. On a straight stretch along I-5, Sue took one hand off the steering wheel and reached behind her for a Manila envelope. “Dad’s letters,” she said. “Why don’t you read a couple of them out loud.”
Okay. Why not?
They were still in their original envelopes, neatly opened, read, and then slid back in. Mom must have kept them in a box in the attic. When she died, Sue was interested in keeping the scores of photo albums Mom had put together over the years along with the box of letters and also her favorite old dolls.
The first envelope I opened was a letter to our grandparents, Rose and Bill. It was written while Dad was in bootcamp.
So, what does a young soldier write to his in-laws?
He started by telling them he was about to go on bivouac. French for a camping trip, he explained. Then he commented on their problem with chickens that wouldn’t lay. “Gosh,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He suggested wet mash and crushed oyster shells. “Are they still eating their own eggs?” he asked. “They don’t seem to realize there’s a war on and everything is rationed.”
He warned that his younger brother Joe was coming up to see you-uns. He probably wants one more good meal before he’s drafted. Look out, Rose!! (I suspect “you-uns” is something Dad picked up from a movie.)
Next he made sure to thank them for taking care of Mom. “It makes me feel like pitching in and getting this war over so I can get back and do something for you, and I will.”
Then he described the weapon the recruits were studying, a carbine. “It’s sure a cute lil’ thing. It weighs 51/4#, shoots 7 rounds to a clip. The shells are the same diameter as a 30 cal. But are much shorter. It’s good up to 300 yds. But it’s not accurate.”
These are only excerpts from what was a long-ish letter.
After reading Dad’s letter, I was surprised by how revealing it was—what he chose to say and how he said it. I recognized his handwriting, but I’d never appreciated before how even, smooth, and well-formed his masculine-looking cursive was.
Photos are only a moment in time, a shadow seen from the outside. Letters are more intimate.
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Do you have a box of letters in the attic?
Will anyone save your letters?
Oh! Wait! Does anyone even write letters anymore? Is there an adequate substitute?
P.S. The letters to Mom were quite different. As were the letters from the front.
My dad and grandfather saved lots of letters . . . including some from ancestors as far back as the Civil War. I shared a number of my dad’s from the Korean war on SLTW. I have quite a few in 3 ring binders along with typed summaries. My siblings have the same summary and a sprinkling of actual letters.
Letters provide an intimate glimpse into the past. I also love epistolary novels, like Ella Minnow Pea, and A Woman of Independent Means.
I can’t follow the link, but will try again later. In any case I’m sure the letters are priceless
I have letters written from an ancestor in WWI. He was assigned to guard German POWs in Arizona, and one POW recognized the German last name of said ancestor and what part of Germany his ancestors emigrated from : “Ya, ya, Lippenhold.”
The reason my German forefather left for the U.S.? He was furious with the rise of German nationalism and fascism in the 1800s.
Wow! Good for him. He caught on early. Are you the one in your family who saves things like this?
My uncle sent me quite a few items. My brother has a few others. But I think it’s mostly the two of us.
You are lucky to have these. I don’t have a lot of mementos from my parents. I have some of my mother’s cooking utensils and jewelry and that’s it. I still use my dad’s hammer. He passed in 1958, it’s that old!
I don’t think I have any of my mom’s cooking utensils, but I do carry around little bits of her cooking advice, and I have some the china-painted plates she did. It’s nice to have some of those things around.
What a treasure to have your dad’s letters! I don’t have any of my dad’s letters. I have my mom’s mini-bio, which she wrote by hand. It is only eight notebook pages.
Sometimes a friend and I will exchange notes. Other than that, I don’t have many letters.
A young, newly married woman, a husband at war. It’s the most romantic time to save all his letters. For years, when we lived overseas, my mom and I wrote every week. I appreciated her letters, but I didn’t see any reason to save them. Maybe I would have appreciated them years later. I guess I’m not a big saver. My mom, on the other hand, saved all my letters and later gave me a box full of them.
I meant to publish this post next Sunday, but I marked February instead of March. I took it down, but too late. You’ll get another notice on Sunday.