The parcel arrived last week from my 91 year old uncle who lives in South Carolina. The cover letter said, “I was cleaning and found these. They were written by your father to his sister, my wife. I thought you might like them.” Inside the package were eighteen letters written by my then 28 year old father who was stationed in Europe in 1944-1945. He was serving as the transportation officer providing logistical radar support for an Army Air Corp unit. He was assigned to one of those hurry-up-and-wait outfits. One day there might be a flurry of activity while the unit re-positioned its equipment one hundred miles up the road. Then three weeks of boredom would follow as they waited for new orders.

The letters, which are now yellow and have a musty smell to them, suggest that “Mail Call” was the highlight of the day. Each one was hand written and had a stamp indicating it was read by a censor. A few read like a travel journal. One described a three day visit to Paris which my father described as more beautiful than any city he had ever seen including New York. In another he described his visit to Rome, listing all the historical sites he saw with his Army buddies.

Most of the letters mention something about my mother. My parents met at a dance in 1943 when my father’s unit was training in Fresno. They got engaged and then his unit shipped off to Europe. She was a twenty-two year old beauty. He had escaped 200 years of family tradition in the South and  was in love. I got the impression that my father could hardly believe what a lucky guy he was to have found my mother. They were married for 62 two years and that impression stayed with him to the very end.

My Favorite New Word

In describing my mother, my father said to his sister, “She is a swell little gal and her parents are swell too.” Swell is a word I would expect to come from the mouth of Jimmy Stewart. You don’t hear it often any more. Maybe I can change that.
My father’s letters sure are swell!