Letters Late: Things Left Unsaid

By Allen R. Remaley

In a series of letters written to those who influenced his life and who have since long passed, a man pays tribute to those he loved. Moments in time, some tender, some troubling and sad, reveal the character of family, friends, teachers and acquaintances. Intertwined in these events of the past are snippets of the present which sometimes contrast sharply with the economic, political and societal changing mores of Americans. This snapshot of the past opens to view what was, what could have been and what might be for the reader. Some letters will make the reader cry, others will bring a smile to your face and even make you laugh. But, like the writer, you will remember Letters Late...

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477270493

Allen R. Remaley

Allen R. Remaley has written fifteen novels, collections of short stories, letters and professional articles. While most of his novels are categorized as fiction, some are bathed in actual experience. He is a four-year veteran of the United States Marine Corps, a thirty-seven -year teacher at the elementary, secondary and graduate-school levels of education. He holds a doctorate in French and in the Teaching of Foreign Languages. Dr. Remaley no longer skydives, but he does play pickle ball and strums the banjo. He lives with his wife in Saratoga Springs, NY and in Scottsdale, AZ.

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© 2012 by Allen R. Remaley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   09/12/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7048-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7049-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012917032

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Ruth Vivian Remaley

Andrew Birescki

Elizabeth Sarvey Ford

Lawrence E. Ford

Martin Johnson

Floyd Sarvey

Mrs. Carol Hawthorne

Norsey Remaley Meyers

Elva Richards Remaley

Clark S. Baughman

Mrs. Ella Baughman

Mrs. Maud Estelle Sarvey

Mr. Arch Johnstone

Mr. Lee Van Horn

Gunnery Sergeant Duane Rowles

Mrs. Roxy Strump

Mr. Gilbert Hathaway

Edward Lyons Gallagher, M.D.

Glenn Wilkinson

Harold Sarvey

Pfc. Bruce Cobb

John Richard Remaley

Dedication

To all those who, during their lifetime, knew or would like to have known any of the addressees.

Preface

Why, one must ask, would anyone write a letter to someone who no longer exists? What fruitless pain would the writer of such things incur, and what benefit might be derived from such an undertaking? Those thoughts used to trouble me. They do no longer, and now, I know why certain things should not be left unsaid.

Our memory of those who touched our lives and shared our dreams never fully erases images conjured up in our minds. Those things are stored back in the recesses of our thoughts, and from time to time, when we are alone or in some unfamiliar place, we summon them as if to relieve the guilt or sadness of not having said certain things to those who have passed. Marian Evens, writing under the pen name of George Eliot tells us, Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them. For me, some people whose lives I witnessed can never ever be lost.

How many times have we said, If only…. How many times have we thought, What would that person say if he or she knew what was happening in this day and age?? The addressees in the following letters will never be able to respond to my questions. Their voices are now silent. But, their images still exist in my heart and mind, and those people, mostly family members, should have been told certain things. Let’s begin.

August 9, 2012

Ruth Vivian Remaley

Curwensville, PA

Dear Mom,

You left us too soon. Fifty-seven years did not give you the time to fully know and love your grandchildren, something every grandmother should experience. You would have been proud of them, and now, they, too, have children of their own. How often I have wanted to tell you about all this. But, cancer cancels the hopes and dreams of many people. You were one of those people.

A lot of your friends and relatives said that the cancer which invaded your lungs and killed you was caused by smoking. There is little doubt that your terrible habit of lighting up those Lucky Strikes, Camels, and later, the Lady Menthols, something you started before the age of sixteen, did contribute to your death. There is too much scientific proof to refute that fact. But, in your case, Mom, other more insidious preconditions opened the way for that dreaded disease to enter your body.

While there might be certain doubts about this, your meeting my father and your marriage with him at such a young age might have been the first spark which ignited the slow-burning fires of stress—that catalyst which sometimes opens our bodies to illness. My bet that growing up in a family of eight and left fatherless at such a young age spurred you on to want to get away and go out on your own looking for Mr. Right. John R. Remaley, the man you married, was not the man you should have had in your life. He was a man who, abandoned by both his mother and father at the age of four and sent to live with relatives who had their own problems and who didn’t need another mouth to feed during the First World War years, was deeply scared. The man you married grew up hating women; his mother had abandoned him, and she would later suffer that scorn from her son. The fact is that my father trusted no woman, and you, Mom, as sweet and as hardworking as you were, merely represented his mother’s doppelganger. Living with such a man for as long as you did must have caused much tension in your life.

How old were you when you became pregnant with me? I know now that the only reason I lived past conception was because your husband left you behind while he and Cooper Tozer’s brother hopped a train and rode boxcars all the way to New Orleans and Texas. When he returned, I was already months old and too old to kill. That was not true of my brother and sisters, was it?

While she would never say much about it, grandmother Sarvey hinted at what took place. I do remember hearing the terms, wire clothes hanger and midnight burial in the back yard. It is not difficult to piece the two together with other things I heard indicating that the baby would have been a boy.

A year after that, allegedly still-born, my two baby sisters were given a burial plot in Bloomington Cemetery above the river. What a weighty and heavily taxing blow that must have been. But, then, Mom, you were young and strong and more able to brush aside the loss of your own blood. Or were you?

Later on, as I got older, and like most boys growing up, I, too, probably added to your strife. Your husband never made an effort to purchase a home of your own for you. A place where you could make and hang curtains for your windows, hang clothes outside on a line strung on land you owned. But, never once did I ever hear you complain. And, when grandmother gave us her two-room storage shed, a shack with no running water, no heating source and one thin electric wire running from her house to the shed which powered two 100 W. bulbs, you didn’t complain. You made that little house shine. Yes, Mom, I called it a house, and you made it sparkle. You made me feel warm even in the middle of a Pennsylvania winter by keeping a coal fire going in an old iron cook stove. But, even then, things did not go easy for you. Mom, the menace inside you was feeding off the every-day pressures brought on by work outside the home and making sure your boy was OK.

When I left you on the day of my high school graduation, you told me, I got you this far. Now, you are on your own. Three days later, I arrived in South Carolina in a place called, Parris Island. Thank you, Mom. You were the best, and I will never forget the sacrifices you made for me. You kept me well dressed as best you could, and I never remember feeling like anything was withheld from me. You made your son happy. Later, things got worse for you.

You had to go to work in places like Kent Clothing in Curwensville. In that sweatshop and others, in the fifties, women were treated like second-class citizens. Quotas were set and day’s-end requirements kept you and others at the machines in the hot summer and in the freezing winter. I smile in contempt at the irony of today’s women who claim discrimination and talk of glass ceilings in the work place. The only difference between you and the pickers of cotton on the plantations is that you were given money instead of food and shelter, and that money did not buy you luxury. My God, Mom, today’s workers could not hold a candle to you.

You were alone then. My father was long gone still cradling the pain of thinking that he was still alone, abandoned. Yet, he fell into the same footsteps as his own father and mother. It was too late for him. But, still you carried on. You bought a car, an old 56 Chevy, and that machine carried you and grandmother Sarvey on countless shopping trips, to the beauty parlor, and yes, on occasion, to the dance hall at the Firehouse. But, perhaps to relax you, perhaps to feed the habit formed many years before, you still smoked. And, then it happened.

One Saturday, while you and grandmother Sarvey were shopping in DuBois, a young driver went through a stop sign and almost totaled the Chevy. No insurance, no medical coverage, and having to beg people to come and pick