Letters to Lyla

By Bob Fields

Lyla
is author Bob Fields 11 month old great granddaughter. Inspired by her
birth, he set out to introduce himself to her through stories, not of
his successes in the military or the business worlds, but rather, in his
own childhood where the foundations of his character were formulated.
At age 12, Lyla, when presented with this unique legacy, will come to
know the boy and understand the man he became.

The author has transformed his letters to his great granddaughter into
chapters and takes readers on a guided tour of his early life. His
stories describe family life, playing with friends, sports, unusual
adventures, and aspects of the town of Houlton where he grew up in
northern Maine. Readers will come to know the boy as a risk-taking,
fun-loving, carefree, imaginative youngster. They will also discover
major differences between their culture and my old friend’s way of life.
In spite of generational and societal differences, readers will
understand that the things that really matter in life endure forever.
Life in any generation is no mere accident; it has patterns, purposes,
and meanings.

Readers will appreciate the author’s straight forward and homespun
approach as he interjects emotions and humor into his dialogue. Written
as an expression of love and affection, this novel will encourage
readers to embrace the past and qualities that are essential to living
successfully in any age.
Enjoy the ride as you read this intensely human, heart-warming, loving
account and journey back in time with Lyla.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Fields
• Release date: Feb 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311564801

Bob Fields

Bob Fields possesses an exceptional talent for translating his broadly based life experiences to the written page. A veteran of two wars (three if you count Wall Street), his hardscrabble early life taught him real life lessons; the application of which propelled his success in a military career and numerous business ventures.After his retirement from business in 1999, he began a career as a Free Lance Writer. His work has been published in regional magazines and company oriented newsletters related to the environment. He has published two print books describing life as a boy in the 1940s, and a highly acclaimed novel; “Rendezvous with Destiny” a well-paced story about discrimination, love, murder, revenge, redemption, and the ultimate understanding between people with disparate backgrounds in small town America.Bob is currently working on several short stories soon to be published as an anthology about Maine as it once was.Like me on Face Book

Book preview

One Friday morning seven or eight decades ago, a six year old boy was swinging on a school playground at recess. At the zenith of his swing, overcome by a momentary illusion that he was Captain Marvel, he shouted, "Shazam!," and propelled himself into the air, landing on a female classmate. This was not an historic event. Nor, did the boy in adult life become an astronaut, a test pilot, or a skydiver. He did, however, become an Air Force colonel and a remarkably special great grandfather.

Lyla is author Bob Fields’ 11 month old great granddaughter. Inspired by her birth, he set out to introduce himself to her through stories, not of his successes in the military or the business worlds, but rather, in his own childhood where the foundations of his character were formulated. At age 12, Lyla, when presented with this unique legacy, will come to know the boy and understand the man he became.

The author has transformed his letters to his great granddaughter into chapters, taking readers on a guided tour of his early life. His stories describe family life, playing with friends, sports, unusual adventures, and aspects of the town of Houlton where he grew up in northern Maine. Readers will come to know the boy as a risk-taking, fun-loving, carefree, imaginative youngster. They will also discover major differences between their culture and my old friend’s way of life.

In spite of generational and societal differences, readers will understand that the things that really matter in life endure forever. Life in any generation is no mere accident; it has patterns, purposes, and meanings.

Readers will appreciate the author’s straight forward and homespun approach as he interjects emotions and humor into his dialogue. Written as an expression of love and affection, this novel will encourage readers to embrace the past and qualities that are essential to living successfully in any age.

Enjoy the ride as you read this intensely human, heart-warming, loving account and journey back in time with Lyla.

Breen Bernard

(Author’s Boyhood Pal)

Preface

January 7, 2011

Dear Lyla:

Most grandpas and especially great-grandpas look forward to the time they can sit their grandchild on a knee and tell stories about the olden days when they were young. Mostly they talk about how hard life was: having no school bus, walking five miles to school, not having enough money for warm clothes in the winter, and getting teachers who always had a switch to spank you with when you did something wrong. The story always ends with the grandpa saying, You know, Lyla, as I look back on those times, I didn’t think they were so bad. It’s in the telling years later that it seems to the listener that they were bad times. For me, it was the best of times.

In my case, all those things happened. We were poor, I walked to school even in the snow and cold (lots of that in Northern Maine), and we had no running water in the house so we carried it three hundred feet from a spring. The outhouse was three hundred feet in the other direction. Can you imagine trying to get through snow drifts in the winter just to get to the outhouse? Sometimes, if my mom was not looking, I would cheat and pee behind a tree. I would have to wait a few minutes; if I got back too fast, she would guess I took a short cut.

Maybe every generation feels this way, but I think I grew up in the best of times.

As I write this, an idea is forming in my head. I think I will write a short story called Letters to Lyla- It might bore you to tears, but it would be fun for me to write down some of the things I did; some worked, some didn’t.

I’ll do it now, because I am eighty this year and may not be around to tell you the stories while you sit on my knee.

Pretend I am doing it now. Look up and kiss me on the cheek. I will feel it, I promise.

I love you Lyla Quinn,

Great -Grandpa Bob

Chapter 1: Catholic School

August 15, 2011

Dear Lyla:

The secret to flying high on the swing set at recess is to pump your legs while pulling the chains with your arms, holding tight to the chains attached to the seat. At the correct time, at the right spot in the arc, pull down hard on the chains, rock back, and pump your legs hard like a Tour de France biker sprinting to the finish line.

I had it mastered; your great-grandpa could fly higher than any kid at Saint Mary’s Catholic School.

I was also a devoted fan of Captain Marvel and Billy Batson. In our day, Captain Marvel was a super hero or action hero like Superman, Batman, or the Green Hornet. Captain Marvel would only appear when there was evil to overcome, a wrong to be righted, or someone to be saved from a horrible fate. In such circumstances, Billy Batson (a teenager) would utter the word, SHAZAM! Magically, a bolt of lightning would hit the ground at his feet, a flash of blinding light as bright as if ripped from the sun would saturate the area, and as its intensity diminished, Captain Marvel would appear on the spot where Billy Batson had stood.

Billy was transformed from a teenager to action hero!

Well, you can see how exciting that was to a young boy of six. Especially so for me because I truly believed that there was a Billy Batson somewhere in a large city, and Captain Marvel was indeed saving the world from evil. I often dreamed that I was Billy Batson. I was, as they say, possessed.

Everything I have written so far is to sort of set you up for the no-mercy part from the Sisters of Mercy.

Here it comes.

At recess on a sunny day in early May, I was on the swing enjoying the breeze rushing by as I pumped higher and faster on my favorite swing. The higher I went, the faster I pushed the swing, the more powerful I felt. I began to feel that I could go so high that I would actually make a loop around the bar supporting the swing.

For reasons I have yet to understand, beyond being an excited young boy; I began to pump as hard and swing as high as I could. I remember to this day how I looked over the playground below me, surveyed the area with the intensity of a deep space spy satellite, watched the other children play, and noticed the nuns with their rosary beads rolling around their fingers as they prayed while watching the children. Suddenly, incredibly, inexplicably, my body was consumed by a surge of uncontrollable power. I was possessed. It was like a supercharged shot of adrenalin surging through my body.

Just as I reached the swing’s highest point, I yelled, SHAZAM! and flew from the swing, with outstretched arms, twenty feet off the ground. Captain Marvel would have continued to maintain altitude as he searched the scene below.

I was not Captain Marvel.

I flew (dropped) to the ground, landing on top of Geraldine Plourde, a second grader.

As I landed, my momentum carried us both to the ground; she on her back with her legs spread wide, me on top between her legs, holding on to her outstretched arms for balance. The entire scene carried out directly in front of Sister Mary Ancillia.

Sister Mary Ancillia dropped her beads and shouted, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, then quickly made the sign of the cross, assuring the utterance of the Lord’s name was heard by virgin ears as a prayer, not a curse word.

Her next move was to reach for the back of my shirt and drag me off Geraldine (who, by the way, was unhurt and smiling), yelling, Naughty boy, God will punish you for this perverted attack on sacred property. My six-year-old legs could not move fast enough as she dragged me across the playground toward the school. As she hit the first step, she stumbled and lost her grip on me. I scrambled away and headed for home faster than a kid who just knocked down a bees’ nest.

Busting through the front door, I ran to my surprised mom and blurted, Mom, Sister Ancillia wants to beat me.

Calmly, Mom said, Sisters don’t just beat boys for no reason. Why do you think she wants to beat you?

I fell off the swing and landed on Geraldine Plourde and Sister thinks I did it on purpose to attack Geraldine.

Trying to comfort me, my mom said, Nonsense. Come, let’s go back to school and explain what happened. Sister will understand.

I knew I was in double trouble, landing on Geraldine and lying to my mom.

Terrified, I gripped my mom’s hand as we entered the principal’s office.

Her name was Sister Mary Stone and she had a face like one. Mom told my story; the principal summoned Sister Ancillia to the office to hear her story.

Sister Ancillia explained, We were at recess when Bobby was suddenly possessed by the devil and attacked Geraldine Plourde, knocking her to the ground and then, God forbid, jumped between her legs with primal intent I cannot even imagine for a boy his age.

Mom was dismayed, Sister Mary Stone was stone-faced, Sister Mary Ancillia was pompous, and I was terrified.

I realized this Sister of Mercy would show no mercy; I was about to have the wrath of God descend upon my young body.

My mom said, I am sorry to have troubled you, Sister. Bobby told a far different story, which I now see was a lie. Feel free to administer whatever punishment the school deems appropriate under the circumstances.

And then she left. I was now alone with the Sisters of Mercy, praying for mercy.

Sister Mary Stone administered ten lashes with a switch to my butt, then Sister Ancillia took me by the back of the shirt to each of the eight classrooms, explained my attack on Geraldine, and had me kneel down in front of each class to say an Act of Contrition.

In second grade, as I tearfully finished the prayer with the words, To amend my life, Amen, I looked up just as Geraldine Plourde smiled and winked at me.

Chapter 2: May Day

May 10, 2012

Dear Lyla:

As I write this (2012), I must say, my life in the 1940s was incredibly simple.

Take May Day, for instance.

If you were to ask a young person today what May Day signified, they would tell you it was to celebrate labor, or maybe the Russian Revolution.

Little do they know, nor did I know, that the celebartion of May Day originated before the birth of Christ.

For the Druids of the British Isles, May 1 was the second most important holiday of the year. It was when the festival of Beltane was held. It was thought that the day divided the year in half. In those days, the May Day custom was the setting of new fire. It was one of those ancient New Year rites performed throughout the world. And the fire itself was thought to lend life to the burgeoning springtime sun. Cattle were driven through the fire to purify them. Men, with their sweethearts, passed through the smoke, seeking good luck.

During the Middle Ages, the maypole was introduced to the spring event. The purpose behind the maypole is uncertain; anthropologists attribute it to religious ceremonies, pagan tradition, even symbols of the world. The only consensus is its use on May Day to celebrate with games, sports, and dancing occurring around the pole.

When I was a boy, schools, communities, and clubs danced and played around the maypole in celebration of spring.

But I wanted to tell you about May Day in Houlton.

At Saint Mary’s Catholic School, we had a may pole. It was a tall, skinny, twenty- to twenty-five-foot-high pine with no branches. Looked like a flag pole. The school janitor climbed to the top on a ladder and tied multi-colored ribbons that hung down and folded on the ground. We would all assemble round the pole and when the nun gave a signal, we started singing traditional songs while taking turns picking up a ribbon and dancing around the may pole.

As we kids danced around, we would wind the ribbon around the pole; when it was tightly wound; we reversed and unwound, all the time singing, usually nursery rhymes.

Did I tell you about May baskets? They were also a May Day tradition.

My mom made mine with crepe paper. It was very fancy, very colorful, and filled with pieces of candy with flowers on top—usually buttercups or some other wild flower in bloom at the time.

When the basket was ready I would head to a house of a girl I liked, place the basket on the door knob, knock on the door or ring the doorbell, and run fast to get behind a bush before the door was opened. The fun part was watching her open the door, looking around - trying to see who left it.

The rule was if you got caught, a kiss would be exchanged.

I remember in fourth grade, I had a crush on a girl named Frances Ann Russell. Her initials were FAR; mine were RAF. I thought that was an omen; we were destined to spend our lives together.

I asked my mom to make the best basket ever because it was for a girl I really liked and wanted her to like me. She made a basket so unique and beautiful one would guess it came from a florist. It was a powder-blue cone about a foot long with three circus peanuts, maybe six candy corns, and a Milk Dud arranged on the bottom.

Flowing over the top was what she called a nosegay, although it looked like a bouquet to me. It had forget-me-nots and yellow buttercups, all arranged and tied together with a bow she made with multi-colored velvet found in her sewing basket.

I was astonished; the sight took my breath away.

I figured this would do it: FAR and RAF were about to become ONE.

Frances lived two blocks over from me; it was a fifteen-minute walk to her house. I wanted to get there while it was still light in case she spied me hiding in the bush by her house and wanted to chase me. Her house was on Charles Street, which was parallel to Elm Street, the street I lived on. That made it easy for me to go through Margaret Webb’s yard and approach Frances’s house from the rear, making it difficult to spot me.

I remembered there was a row of tall cedar trees bordering the Russell property, a great place to hide after hooking the May basket to the door.

I got by Margaret’s house and stealthily worked my way along the wall of Frances’s house. I was on the same side as the cedar row, which made the approach easy. I crouched down, balancing the basket in one hand, and stealthily crept down the row of cedars—a good spot to launch my plan.

Feeling safe, I turned to look at the front door just as Frances opened it and saw a purple May basket hanging from her door knob. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle while scanning the yard for the perpetrator. She spotted a figure in the bushes on the opposite side of the yard from me and ran toward it just as Greg McDonald jumped up and yelled, You got me.

They kissed; I sulked, went home, and gave the basket to my dog Pudge.

Chapter 3: A Door in the Floor

May 4, 2012

Dear Lyla:

I never saw a door in a floor before. It was a long door, maybe five feet long and half that wide, covered, like the kitchen floor, with lime green linoleum decorated with little yellow flowers. One end of the door had a recessed iron handle like you see on a screen door, on the other end were two large, maybe four-inch,

Reviews for Letters to Lyla

[clairebearzz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

As you can probably tell from the title, “Letters to Lyla: A boy comes of age in the 1940s” is a series of letters written by the author, Bob Fields, to his granddaughter Lyla. Each chapter comprises a different letter, and each letter focuses on a specific event or period in his life. It is told in a friendly, down-to-earth tone, and was some of the “smoothest” (for lack of a better word) writing I’ve read in a long time. There were no errors, and it was obvious this was well-edited and polished. The stories themselves are witty, endearing, funny, enlightening, and gives us a peek into the past, while reminding us how the more things change, the more they stay the same. Boys will still be getting into trouble and having crushes on little girls, and have fun anyway they can find it. All the stories were interesting, but I found the part about May Day and WWII to be the most fascinating, as I wasn’t aware of some of these things before. A great read highly recommended for all ages.

[jennabrewster · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Brilliant, engaging prose that pulls you right in and makes you a part of the story. The author has written several “letters” to his granddaughter Lyla that talk about his life growing up in the 1940’s. What I really liked most about this book was how personal and natural the tone was. I felt like I could listen to (or read) these words for hours and hours and want more when it was over. I have a confession that sometimes my grandfather would tell me stories as a youngin’ and, well, they were boring. Sorry grandpa! But I really loved reading this and found myself not putting down my iPad until I had read the whole thing cover to cover. Speaking of iPads…I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live in the days that Mr. Fields describes (no indoor plumbing, no tv, Internet, video games, etc…) and I wondered how they weren’t bored. Well now I know, and I have to admit, I’m a little jealous that he got to experience a way of life that I’ll never know. A magical journey that is heart-warming and funny. Five big stars.

[stacydecker · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Do yourself a favor and read this book! You’ll be happy you did. It’s not very often that a great book comes along that will really suck you in and not let you go till the very end. I particularly loved how it was arranged in the form of letters (hence the title) that relayed evens from the author’s childhood. But these were some of the BEST stories ever and I was seriously glued to my kindle eagerly flipping the pages to see was going to happen next. I loved the pictures (especially the nun, LOL!) and wish there would have been more of those. It’s weird, even without all the things we consider “modern conveniences”, I agree with the author when he says it was “the best of times”. A truly wonderful read that you’ll think of long after you’re done.

[readergurrl · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Letters to Lyla” by Bob Fields genuinely surprised me--and I’m not easily shocked. I was expecting another semi-interesting, maybe charming, okay-written novel that was like many other memoirs I’ve read. I was floored at not only the excellent writing, but the way I felt entirely transported back in time with Mr. Field’s effortless prose. I felt like I was a young boy in a snowy winter sneaking behind a tree instead of going all the way to the outhouse, or sitting around the kitchen with my family as we listened to the radio shows. Mr. Fields has a knack for making the stories ring true, and I was surprised at how frequently I was chuckling out loud as I read along. I finished this delightful read in one sitting and was sad to see it end. Hope to read more from this author in the future.

[jhonnip_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I absolutely LOVED this book! It was so well written and so easy to get lost in. I love Mr. Field’s narrative voice and marvel at how authentic his voice rang throughout. This novel is basically a collection of short stories told in the forms of “letters”, and they range in topics from his childhood, but overall paint an amazing picture that I was sad to see end! I have to say that I’ve read several biographies and memoirs in my day, and usually while the stories may be interesting (sometimes—if I’m lucky), usually the writing isn’t all that amazing. But this was definitely not the case here! Mr. Fields is a truly gifted writer and I for one hope he continues to write more…I’d definitely want to read it!

[bellareadz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I'm not gonna lie, at first I was a bit wary as literally the opening sentence had a few typos, so my red-flags instantly popped up thinking this may be a rough ride. However, those fears were soon doused, and with the exception of the extra apostrophes in grandpas (hey, we all make mistakes), I thought this book was utterly flawless. And I don’t dish out this high of praise easily. When I write reviews I try and point out the things I liked with the things I didn’t…honestly I can’t think of one thing I didn’t like other than the fact that it ended! It had it all, a brisk pace (as it is a collection of short-short stories) great description, charming tales, and I actually felt like I learned something! The WWII stories were great, and I’ll never take for granted being able to buy as much stuff as I want without the government rationing me. I felt a tear come to my eye as the patriotic spirit shined through, and I’m so happy I was able to experience these “best of times” if only for a short while. Thank you Mr. Fields for writing such a lovely book. I hope others get even half the enjoyment from it that I did.