A few minutes later
Kelly put her phone near her purse and carried the long-empty tea mug to the kitchen sink. With the extra chill inside, she briefly considered putting her jacket back on, as Perra watched and likely wondered why the schedule and pattern had changed. Kelly was tired but knew she would not sleep right away, not with all the thoughts in her head and feelings in her soul. If she was going to be awake, she might as well be warm, but a jacket was not the answer. Need another blanket tonight.
Other than certain dishes and a stale tea collection, all Kelly had salvaged from Aunt Mildred’s estate was an antique cedar chest and its few contents: a crocheted tablecloth, a few pillowcases of fine linen, and three homemade quilts. As Kelly lifted the quilt on top, she noticed a tip of an eagle’s wing design sticking out from near the bottom of the chest.
Extending her fingers along the edge of the stack, she grasped the quilt above the eagle and was able to retract the pieces on the topmost coverlets enough to see almost the entire corner of that eagle design. A victory eagle, likely from war time. But which war?
She carefully unloaded the top layers until she could see more of the pattern. Probably folded about four times, only one complete square was revealed. With a royal blue border and white background — presently off-white from its age — the stylized eagle hovered over a large V with the legend “for victory”. In much smaller lettering were the words, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” Inking for the eagle, the V, and the wording was all in a rusty, faded red. No doubt the quilt’s earliest days showed brilliant red, white and blue.
At the base of the huge V were three dots and a long dash. It took a few moments, but Kelly recognized the visual symbol for those famous four opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which had been co-opted by Churchill as Britain’s victory call.
Chills went up Kelly’s spine. Pearl Harbor — there must be a connection to her uncle, if only she could comprehend it.
Gently, reverently, she lifted the quilt and placed it on her bed. She carefully unfolded the lovingly hand-crafted heirloom and smoothed out the soft fabric. Inside the third fold was what looked like a packet of waxed paper plus a single sheet of writing paper, now quite faded. On the page, in Mildred’s handwriting, was a list of ladies’ names — most likely the friends who quilted with her — and a description: flocked silk, twenty-five squares. Also the month and year: January 1942. The first full month of America’s combat involvement in the war. Kelly remembered that silk was one of many items rationed during the war years, so the material must have already been in Mildred’s possession.
Touching that paper, reading those words and names in Mildred’s handwriting — Kelly could hear her aunt’s voice. And it sounded exactly as it had when she “heard” it while drinking Mildred’s tea.
Next, Kelly studied the packet of waxed paper. It was neatly folded, apparently wrapped several times around something, which was barely visible through the multiple cloudy layers. The ends were not sealed or folded, but Kelly dared not squeeze the packet to peek inside for fear of damaging whatever was being protected. So she began unwrapping it.
The stiff waxed paper resisted her efforts to un-crease its long-time folds. One circuit, two full unwrapping circuits, plus an extra flip to expose the treasure inside. Kelly recognized it immediately — a clutch of willow leaves. Four, to be precise, and still connected to their thin stem. The elongated oval leaves looked almost like fingers of a hand, though brittle, cracked, and brown. It definitely was not the tree she had discussed with her uncle, because he’d been too sick by then to walk that far. She could only guess that either Edgar or Mildred had set those willow leaves aside at some other time. As she lifted the delicate array, a tiny scrap of paper fell to the unfolded waxed protection.
A few words were scrawled in a hand Kelly did not recognize: grows up fast, stands alone, and dies too young. A breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded; Kelly had to steady herself against the dresser behind her. “That could’ve been your epitaph, Uncle Edgar.”
As carefully as an archivist preserving a national treasure, Kelly resituated the note, the leaves, and then slowly wrapped them again in the brittle waxed paper. “If I had only been a few years older, I could’ve understood more of what you were trying to tell me. Why couldn’t you have lived a few years longer, Uncle Edgar?” She stared at the packet for a long moment.
Placing that packet to one side, near Mildred’s page describing the quilt, Kelly noted the bedside clock. Already after midnight. Time to put away all these memories.
As she gently smoothed the fine silk, Kelly felt something hard. She carefully peeled back the final fold and discovered a small object wrapped in burgundy silvercloth. Her whole body tingled as she slowly removed the protective covering and revealed a tiny jewelry box of tarnished silver. Where has this been? Why had Kelly never seen it? What was inside?
Gently pulling back a corner of the silk victory quilt, Kelly sat on the edge of her bed and placed the box in her lap. “Aunt Mildred, what on earth did you put in here?”
With no reply, Kelly cautiously un-latched the box and opened its lid. Two folded pieces of paper on top. Lifting those out, she noted several tie clasps and cuff links and what was probably a lodge pin. Somehow she knew the papers were more significant.
The one on top had in Mildred’s hand, “Daddy”. Kelly unfolded the paper and found inside a partly-frayed multi-colored ribbon with a large medallion below. In her aunt’s handwriting: Daddy’s Victory Medal, the Great War, 11-11-18. That was the first time Kelly was even aware her grandfather served in World War I. She gently refolded the medal into its protection.
On the second piece of paper, also in Mildred’s hand, the outside was marked, “Edgar”. Kelly unfolded that page and found inside another military medal, with a dark purple ribbon attached. On the inside surface of the page, also in Mildred’s hand, was the explanation: Edgar’s Purple Heart, Hickam Field, 12-7-41.
As her fingers traced lightly over those words, Kelly could again hear her aunt’s June Allyson voice: “He was scared, but he went anyway.”
Three large tears splashed to the brittle, faded paper before Kelly could damp her eyes with the backs of both hands. Now she understood.
The End