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April 12, 1942
Dear Addie,
When Harold’s so unsettled and irritable, remember Mrs. M’s advice—some things are better left unsaid. There’s no need to tell him everything that comes into your mind.
You’ve heard we bombed Lubeck, Germany because of its timbered medieval buildings, to decrease morale? But the RAF only responded in kind to the Luftwaffe’s strategy. Now London’s fire wardens expect raids in retaliation. Sounds like children, doesn’t it?
The March 28 bombing created a 5.5% loss, including Alexandre’s Spitfire. It went down somewhere en route back to England, so I await word again. The worst is not knowing—he might have drowned in the Channel, or be hiding out in enemy territory.
But all around me, thousands of orphans need homes, and fearing Nazi incendiaries, many older folks sleep in the tunnels. They stand in line in the late afternoon to maintain their spots.
Have you heard about the Easter Sunday Ceylon Raid? With anxieties so high after Singapore, an Australian unit reported a large sea turtle as a Japanese amphibious vehicle. Now Harold has something to taunt them about, too.
Though we lost the Dorsetshire, the Cornwall, and nearly five hundred men, the fleet survived, thanks to Admiral Somerville and a new hero, Leonard Birchall, who radioed the Japanese position and strength before being shot down. I’d rather not have Alexandre become a hero.
But the U.S. has bad news, too, with the fall of Bataan. Maybe our generals aren’t perfect, either. In all of this, Halberton seems a peaceful oasis, though I know you have your own battles to fight. I hope you know how much your letters cheer me, and that Spring has fully sprung there. I promise a brighter outlook next time.
Kate
Along the fence, short sticks marked where the renegade hollyhocks should appear, but they seemed to come up wherever they pleased. Berthea called them biennials, but you never knew what to expect—would they disappear for one year, two, or more?
“Where are you? I know I should be patient, and Jane keeps reminding me it’s only May.”
Forget-me-nots’ miniature periwinkle blossoms splashed around the big front porch like paint dabs. Bleeding hearts spread magenta and white under the eave spouts, and daylily clumps promised a golden June spectacle. Even Johnny jump-ups already showed, though they often sprouted later.
Harold called from the shed, so she hurried over. “Hold this hitch while I find a bolt.” He handed her the heavy iron bar that connected the plow to his tractor. “It’s all lined up, and I don’t want to do it over again.”
She concentrated on keeping the small holes in line, but a few minutes later, her back complained.
“Harold?” No answer, and her discomfort became pain. She yelled again and looked around for Berthea, but the old Chevy was gone. Easing the hitch to the ground. She checked the shed, barn, and milk house, but found Harold leaning over a book in his new study at the far end of the living room.
“Harold?”
His head pitched up like a pump handle. “Didn’t I tell you to hold that hitch?”
“I couldn’t any longer. My back—”
He slammed the book down. “I give you one simple duty, and you suddenly develop back problems. I was just checking something.”
“Are you ready now? We can try again.”
He rushed past her. “I’ll do it myself, like everything else around here. You’re so set on your garden, you’re worthless.”
His pronouncement settled over her as she drank a glass of water and studied him through the porch window. His sermonizing hadn’t lessened his propensity for irritation, that was for sure.
“Worthless like those hollyhocks.” She rubbed her lower back and went back outside, where she examined the trumpet vine. Last week she asked Jane if she should prune it.
“No, wait. Those dried-up twigs will turn into green leaves any day.”
She was right. The vines now crawled the fence top like invading snakes. Several pithy branches still protruded, but the whole plant would soon leaf out.
Yet not one hollyhock broke through the black soil near that old fence. Could its rotting wood have something to do with that?
April 21, 1942
Dear Addie,
I may have found work to keep me from the Dover cliffs. My interview with a Mr. Tenney tomorrow will give me some idea, but I wanted to reassure you all is not gloom and doom, as in my last letter. Maybe the sun will set on the British Empire, but England will survive.
Enclosed you’ll find a Dig For Victory flyer. Even the lawns around the Tower of London have been transformed into vegetable gardens, creating a green oasis in the dismal grayness. And we have sparrows, pigeons, and robins. They tell me another paler robin comes in winter from Scandinavia, too.
Keep up your good work and as they say here, Cheerio, my dear friend.
Love,
Kate
After Harold left to sow oats, Addie studied Kate’s flyer of a hearty British woman wielding a spade in the midst of towering London buildings. Imagining gardens throughout the great city led Addie outdoors.
Maybe today her hollyhocks would pop through the earth. Their blossoms laced her childhood memories. In her mind, they floated in the wind like bright-skirted ballerinas. Ruthie taught her how to twist buds into broken-off blossoms to create heads for make-believe women bedecked in red, pink, rose, yellow, or white flower skirts.
These delicate ladies kept them company all day long. What other flower could star in a stage play or inspire an impromptu tea party?
Mama was convinced hollyhocks were weeds, and scrunched her sunburned nose at them.
“Blamed things will overrun my green beans.”
In the shadow of the old fence, Addie squatted to look for babies, but as Mama would say, sometimes it was either feast or famine.
“You silly plants. Jane says you’ll surely come this year—don’t you hear her?”
The squishy low area between the house and garden pulled at her feet. One last bitter March snowstorm had preceded rains that seemed endless, but finally, warmer air pressed on purple lilac buds and released their heady scent.
The big yellow daisy bush she strategically planted doubled its girth every year until its foliage hid an ugly, rusting pipe near the back porch. Dogwoods ranged beside the driveway, and even when blizzards bore down, their red bark splashed against the snow like cardinals’ feathers. Now they boasted blossoms.
“Harold calls my work a waste, but how else could I create something beautiful, like Pastor Langly said we should? Anticipation is half the fun, except with those hollyhocks.”
“In due time...” Mama had often made this announcement, or “We’ll see.”
Rarely did she utter one of her fixed responses without studying Dad, draped across his stuffed armchair, his incoherent stare fixed on the broken radio. In due time, perhaps he would come to life.
We’ll see.
The red Farm-All sputtered into the driveway as Addie leaned over to pull a thistle. Three summers ago, Harold might have caught her eye from its bouncy seat. Once, he leaped down, threw her over his shoulder and made for the corncrib during the middle of the day.
Recalling how he carried her up the homemade wooden ladder, her face heated. The solid oak floor creaked under them, and she felt the effects in her back for days.
Back then, Halberton’s 1938 class star had his educational hopes curtailed by Orville’s stroke, but still entertained a passion that matched his anger at life.
“You belong to me, Addie.”
The blue in his eyes changed to gray, but also relayed another message she could never quite decipher. At the time, it was enough for her to feel needed. Did desire for her even enter his mind?
Near the shed, Harold hooked up the plow, and she turned her attention back to the garden. It was time for another consultation with Jane, who seemed not to mind being bothered. Maybe she would ride over after dinner.
A run-down truck turned into the yard, and a man chatted with Harold. When he left, Harold waved her over.
“A man is dying in Halberton, and someone needs to make sure he takes his morning pills. He’s not elderly, just looks that way after his Great War experience. Ride in and check on him as soon as you can.”
With his focus just above Addie’s head, he continued. “Mr. Allen is his name. He lives on Third, two houses down from Mrs. Raney.”
His eyes shone steel gray. “And while you’re in town, stop at the station and pick up a can of oil.”
Addie rubbed a jagged place on her cuticle and crossed the yard to wash her hands. Then she went for the bicycle.
Morning sun and meadowlarks singing from fenceposts eased her jitters over meeting Mr. Allen.
Since the gas station came before his house, she stopped for the oil. No one manned the office, so she went into the shop which smelled heavily of grease. A few steps in, a muffled voice came from under a dark green farm truck.
“Can I help you?”
“I need whatever kind of oil Harold usually buys.”
The grease monkey rolled his dolly out, got to his feet, and gestured to lines of cans on the far wall. “For his tractor?”
“I think so.”
The tall, slender worker took a can from a shelf behind the counter and turned to face Addie.
“Why, Addie—good to see you.”
“Glenora? Is that you under all that grime?”
“Probably doesn’t help that I’ve caught a cold.” The young woman’s good-natured chuckle made Addie smile. “Yep, it’s me, doing my part, since my brother went to off to Fort Leonard Wood last week.”
“No—Red, too?”
“Yep, and just about everybody else we know. Ira Yates got rejected by the Navy, so he’s moved down to Waterloo to work at the John Deere plant—he’s making tank parts.”
“Good for him.”
“Harold’s got a file here, I think.” Glenora thumbed through a dirty tin recipe box. “Yep. I’ll just write this down.”
“What’s this?” Addie studied a handwritten note taped to the counter.
“One of the Fireside Chats. Dad loves this one.”
Here are three high purposes for every American:
We shall not stop work for a single day. If any dispute arises we shall keep on working while the dispute is solved by mediation, conciliation, or arbitration—until the war is won.
We shall not demand special gains or special privileges or special advantages for any one group or occupation.
We shall give up conveniences and modify the routine of our lives if our country asks us to do so. We will do it cheerfully, remembering that the common enemy seeks to destroy every home and every freedom in every part of our land.
This generation of Americans has come to realize, with a present and personal realization, that there is something larger and more important than the life of any individual or of any individual group - something for which a man will sacrifice, and gladly sacrifice, not only his pleasures, not only his goods, not only his associations with those he loves, but his life itself. In time of crisis when the future is in the balance, we come to understand, with full recognition and devotion, what this Nation is, and what we owe to it.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt
February, 1942
“Dad wrote that all out himself. I could hardly believe my eyes, but with Red gone, he can’t stand anyone griping about the war. He said he figured this might shut somebody up before they start.”
“Not a bad idea.” The pot-bellied stove in the far corner obviously attracted loiterers. “I suppose you get lots of that in here. I thought you—didn’t you win a scholarship to Iowa State?”
“Guess I wasn’t destined to do research after all.”
“Maybe when this is all over...” Addie picked up the can as Glenora wiped a soiled handkerchief over her forehead.
“Harold came in here this winter and went on about the draft board. Any change yet?”
Gnats buzzed in Addie’s stomach. “No, but I keep thinking maybe he’ll resign himself to their decision someday.”
Glenora’s lopsided grin matched her huff. “Eternal optimism, huh? I went through 12 years of school with him. He’s smart, but I’d say he never learned the meaning of the word resign.”
v
May 7, 1942
Dear Kate,
Through all of the ups and downs, you hold on, as always—I hope that Mr. Tenney finds your typing scores irresistible and hires you on the spot.
We just heard that Corregidor has fallen now—Harold makes sure I never miss a report. He ranted about all those Americans General Wainwright surrendered to the Japanese. It’s an awful thing to consider.
But that’s enough about the war.
I’m still catching my breath from an adventure. Harold sent me to check on a sick man in Halberton named Norman Allen. Have you heard of him? His sister is visiting her daughter in Florida, so I have to go every day for a while. The whole time I was there, Norman scratched a peculiar reddish-blue design on his scalp. I had a big urge to tie his hand down.
The county nurse left instructions for his six different pills, one with water, one with food, two before breakfast, and two after. When I asked if he liked eggs, he opened his right eye and part of his left. I don’t know if he can see with it, but it certainly has a life of its own.
“Over easy, two or three.”
I set the eggs frying and put bread in the toaster. While I waited for the warning tch tch sound, Norman sneaked up behind me. His breath grazed my neck, and I must’ve jumped two feet.
“Scaredja, didn’t I?” His laugh sounded more like a cackle. A big black ant ran from a greasy crack in the pale green linoleum, so I smashed it with my shoe, and the second tch-tch-tch stopped.
Norman’s bent frame hit just above my shoulder, and he wheezed something terrible, so I pulled out a chair for him. When I set down his coffee cup, he latched onto my arm and said he learned to sneak up on people in the Great War—in the Meuse-Argonne.
By then, I’d calmed myself, and our world history lessons flooded in—Mr. Blaine called the Meuse-Argonne Hell on earth, remember?
My patient started to eat, but I recalled my mission and reminded him to take his pill first. Brown spittle spewed on his whiskers, and I thought of Berthea nursing Orville for three long years. Knowing how you love suspense, I’ll save the ending for my next letter. Besides, Harold is crossing the yard toward the house right now.
Stay far away from the Dover Cliffs.
Love,
Addie
