Journal Entry, October 9, 1942:
Excitement courses through me from the moment I awake this morning. I rush to get ready, worried I’ve forgotten to pack some vitally important item or article of clothing.
“I’m not positive, Virginia Anne, but I’m pretty sure they have stores in Madison. Whatever you might forget can be purchased, or I can send it to you.”
I try to smile but my mouth is too tight. I am excited beyond measure, anxious beyond comprehension. This isn’t my first time leaving home, but it sure feels like it.
“Thanks, Mama.” I pull the front door closed on our way out.
My father loads my oversized suitcase into the trunk and puts the car into gear. As we pull away from the house, I remember what I have forgotten.
“Stop! Please, Papa, stop. I forgot something.”
As soon as the car comes to a halt, I push the half-ton door open and run as fast as I can up the stairs to retrieve Mac’s letters. I cannot leave home without my single most treasured possession. I ignore my father’s irritated look and settle back into my seat for the two and a half hour drive to the train station in Detroit.
Saying goodbye to my parents is more difficult than I expected. As the outline of their frames becomes smaller and smaller, I, too, become smaller. I feel as though I’ve lost my only friend. Though they can no longer see me, I continue to wave and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Will I be up to the task? Will I fit in? Will I make new friends?
As the train chugs on and carries me to a new life that is at once scary and exciting, I think about my first day at the convent. I was young and naïve and just foolish enough to believe that my love for God was strong enough to see me through all of the challenges that becoming his bride would entail. In the end, though, my love was not strong enough. Am I being foolish now to believe my love for Mac is strong enough to see us both through this horrible war? I reach for the crucifix I still wear around my neck and send up a silent prayer that I am not. That our love, mine and Mac’s, and my faith will be enough.
Journal Entry, February 17, 1943:
Though it’s been only four months since I last saw my parents, it feels like a lifetime. And I feel like a different person. Over the past four months another chapter of my life has been written, readying me for the one that lies ahead. I feel strong, confident, ready to take on the world. Or at least my little part of it.
As my parents’ Ford pulls up in front of Barnard Hall, I run out to greet them. I hug and kiss my mother, and then round the front of the car and fly into my father’s open arms. I cling to his familiar solid form. For some reason, since the war began, it’s the one place I feel completely safe. In his arms, I can imagine Francis and Mac surviving the war and coming home safely to us. I want to stay in them forever.
“Look at you, pumpkin.” He draws back and twirls me around to get a good look at me in my uniform. His eyes fill with pride. My mother’s fill with tears.
I feel proud and elegant in the Navy wool skirt and blazer with the white shirt and black tie we have so painstakingly learned to tie in the traditional Navy square knot. I turn to the side, sweep my right hand across the rank and radio emblems displayed on the upper left sleeve, and curtsy as my father whistles his approval.
“The graduation ceremony is at two o’clock. We’ll have lunch in the cafeteria at noon. That leaves us an hour for the grand tour.” I open the front door to the place I’ve called home for the past several months.
Inside, my father whistles again at the grand foyer of Barnard Hall, with its rich wood-paneled walls and sweeping staircase that leads upstairs to our bedrooms.
“This looks more like a luxurious hotel than a dormitory,” he says.
“Wait until you see the view from my room.” I lead my parents up the staircase. At the top of the stairs, we make our way to the end of the hall and turn in to the room I’ve shared with a young woman named Gladys Johncox, from Phoenix, Arizona.
From the moment Glad and I met, we’ve been like long-lost sisters. From that moment forward, it became rare to see one of us without the other. Her fella, Fred McCauly, is overseas as well, so we lift each other up when the loneliness gets to be too much.
I lead my parents to the window that overlooks the campus and provides a spectacular view of the sprawling lawn. When I first arrived last October, the lawn was littered with the crimson red and vibrant orange leaves of autumn. I used to sit and watch them fall, trying to count them as they swirled to the ground.
Over lunch, I fill my parents in on all the details of my time here. “I had no idea what to expect when I first arrived. It was a lot of hard work and I was exhausted most of the time, but I felt like I was doing something important.”
“We’re all very proud of you, Virginia,” my mother says. “I’m sure Mac is as well.”
It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen Mac and if I let myself think too much about it, I go crazy with longing. A physical pain fills every cell of my body. I cling to the hope that I’ll be stationed in Hawaii, where I can see with my own eyes that he is okay.
After the graduation ceremony, my parents take me to dinner in town. Afterward, we share another tearful goodbye knowing that, if I receive my wish to be stationed in Hawaii, it will be a long time before we see each other again.