Dear Glory,
Thanks for whatever you said to Roylene in that letter. It didn’t feel right to read it (it wasn’t addressed to me) so I folded the paper in half and slipped it to her in the alley behind the bar. When I explained who it was from she held it like I’d just handed her the Shroud of Turin.
She wanted me to include some lines from her in this letter, but I refused. If she wants to say something to you, then she needs to write a letter herself, even if she’ll soon be cradling a newborn with one arm. I’m going to hold firm on that for messages to Toby, as well. I know there’s a possibility writing is difficult for her, but isn’t now as good a time as any to tackle that problem? Is that the active me talking? If she gives me something before I mail this, I’ll include it. If not, don’t take offense, as she is about ready to burst.
And, please write to her again if you have the time and inclination. A baby’s birth does usher in a busy time in a woman’s life, but it is a lonely time, too. The more people filling in those dark spaces, the better.
So...news on the Iowa front: I got a letter from Sal. In it, he drew a caricature of himself smoking a cigar, the proud grandpapa. Sal thinks Roylene, Toby and the baby should move in with us permanently when this war is over and done with. That man wants a full house, like the crowded apartment on Western Avenue. I haven’t decided if I like this idea. Don’t young people value privacy these days? Would you want me breathing down your neck?
Sal filled the rest of his V-mail with passionate declarations of his love for...the olive. Yessiree. Over the past few weeks my husband has gotten a tutorial on harvesting olives. This must mean he’s still in Italy. I’m surprised the army didn’t black out the entire message. Maybe the censors were too embarrassed for him to read the whole thing. You would have thought the olives looked like Betty Grable from the way he was going on.
In all seriousness, the letter cheered me. If Sal has time to pluck olives from a tree, then there must be a lull in his corner of the war.
I wrote back and told him I would plant an olive tree in our backyard if it would always put him in such an excited state!
I also told him about my new job. It’s going remarkably well, given the deeply neurotic personality of my boss, Dr. Aloysius Martin. I think he applied for an academic deferment when the war started and regrets it every day since. He’s obsessed with the war, and probably knows more about it than General MacArthur himself. “You can always volunteer,” I told him. He didn’t say a word to that.
He’s posted a map of the world next to my file cabinet and one of my duties is to mark battles and what troop movements we do know about with pushpins. No wonder Florence blew out for California when she had the chance! I told Dr. Martin we had to be sure to lock the inner door because, with all the POWs coming into Iowa, what if one escaped and broke into his office? That map would be pure gold to a German spy.
Of course I was kidding, but the next day Dr. Martin handed me a black cloth to cover the map with before I left for the evening. It knocks out all the pushpins and I have to follow all the holes in the map with squinty eyes to put them back. So I guess the joke’s on me!
So...about the one the subject I promised to avoid...
I’ve been hard on you, kiddo, but I think both you and Levi are making the right choice. Your family will be whole again soon enough, and these experiences will retreat to the place where we keep all those things that make up who we are...but we don’t want to think about all that much.
Love,
Rita
P.S. When it comes to procuring garden seeds, I believe in sticking close to home. Try a local farmer—I’m certain he’s got more than enough.
P.P.S. Has it only been a year since we started writing? I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer than that! I’m grateful you chose me, hon. I really am.
P.P.P.S. I’ll let you know as soon as my grandchild makes its way into this crazy world.