Letters from the Attic: Save the Last Dance for Me

By Charles Young

FASCINATING MANY WILL APPRECIATE THE NOSTALGIA AND PERSONAL LOOK INTO THE GREATEST ERA OF OUR AMERICAN HISTORY.

Dr. Bruce Shields, Professor Emeritus, Yale

This personal history recalls family, love, and young romance beneath the roar of a raging war, building on letters stored away during World War II.

A widower now remarried, Charles Young retires from a long teaching career in Greece and returns home to Connecticut with his wife, Mary. After they move into his old family homestead, they discover a box of letters in the attic. One letter at a time an early life is revealed.

Charles was just finishing junior high school when World War II broke out. He was a boy then and deeply in love with a girl named Launa, with whom hed meet at night in the park every full moonuntil they were discovered and Launa was sent away. There was nothing to keep them together but their letters.

In 1943 Charles was accepted into a naval program at Harvard University. Away from his family for the first time, he kept in contact once again through letters, which included a detailed account of his service with the marines during the battle of Okinawa and the final surrender by the Japanese in Tokyo Bay in 1945.

Sharing a cache of letters from the early forties, Charles recalls family, friendship, and love throughout his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475976038

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Copyright © 2013, 2014 CHARLES YOUNG.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-7601-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7602-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7603-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903315

iUniverse rev. date: 07/10/2014

Cover – author at Columbia 1947, Photo by David Manzella.

CONTENTS

Ithaca

-One- New Britain,Connecticut 2010

-Two- Cambriddge, Massachusetts 1943

-Three- Newport, Rhode Island 1943

-Four- Portsmouth,Virginia 1944

-Five- Camp Lejeune, Northcarolina 1944

-Six- The Solomon Islands 1944–1945

-Seven- Okinawa 1945

-Eight- Guam 1945

-Nine- Japan 1945

-Ten- Homeward Bound 1945

-Eleven- New Britain, Connecticut 2013

About The Author

This novel is

dedicated to the memory of my sister Betty, who after eighty-four years saved the last dance for me.

ITHACA

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

the angry Posidon—do not fear them:

You will never find such as these on your path,

if your thoughts remain lofty,

if a fine emotion touches your spirit and your body.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

the fierce Posidon you will never encounter,

if you do not carry them within your soul,

if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

with such pleasure, with such joy

you will enter ports seen for the first time;

stop at Phoenician markets,

and purchase fine merchandise,

mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

and sensual perfumes of all kinds,

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

visit many Egyptian cities,

to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to let it last for many years:

and to anchor at the island when you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would have never set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must have already understood what Ithaca means.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1915)

-ONE-

NEW BRITAIN,

CONNECTICUT 2010

I AM HOME. LIKE the grizzled Odysseus, I have returned to spend my final years in my native land after a long absence abroad that began in 1967. At the time, the tapestry that was the United States had begun to unravel –Vietnam, the assassinations of the two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr., and sex, drugs, and rock and roll all took their toll on the nation. To care for my wife, Marcie, who was recovering from a bout with thyroid cancer, and our three small children, I found myself working sixteen hours a day at two jobs, teaching and managing a general store. Fate then intervened. I spotted a notice for teaching positions abroad at the placement office of Central Connecticut University. Outlandish as it seemed, I filled out an initial application for Athens College in Athens, Greece. Over the next few months, more paperwork followed, I was interviewed in New York and finally signed a three-year contract. In the fall of 1967 I moved with my wife and our three kids to Marousi, a sleepy little hamlet north of Athens on the slopes of Pendeli that time had forgotten. Life was idyllic. We lived on a dirt street, dusty in summer, muddy in winter; goats grazed in shady olive groves; chickens roamed free. Gypsies wandered through, peddling their wares and offering to sharpen knives. At night revelers wending their way home from the local taverna were often heard singing. My wife’s health, always precarious, vastly improved. The kids happily bonded with the family a few doors away and soon babbled in Greek. At the end of my contract, I signed on again at the college. Two years later tragedy struck. The cancer, which had been in remission, reared its ugly head. Marcie succumbed in 1975.

On my own with three rampant teenagers, I could not have coped without Mary, a classy Greek American guidance counselor at the college. Having recently lost her husband to the same insidious disease as my wife, Mary, who was childless, found herself suddenly besieged by a desperate widower and his three waifs. Because of her ability to charm the hellions and magically solve problems, I called her Circe, after the enchantress loved by Odysseus. It was she who suggested I look for an inexpensive piece of property on one of the nearby islands in the Saronic Gulf—a hangout for weekends and holidays would keep the kids away from the temptations and distractions of metropolitan Athens.

That fall we made several trips to look at real estate on the islands of Aegina, Poros, and Spetses. Everything was pricey, far out of my budget. About to give up, we made a final trip to Hydra, a small, rocky island four hours from the port of Piraeus. Ten miles long and two wide, the island had little going for it other than a picturesque, horseshoe shaped port. The prices looked right, but then we discovered that the island fell under the jurisdiction of the National Archaeological Society, whose policies mandated adherence to a strict building code.

Which means? I asked the realtor, a short, balding man in an ill-fitting three-piece suit.

No worry, he quickly assured us, waving his arms about. Start with ruin. Same footprint like old house. No wood, no brick, only stone. All the stones you want right here on island. White outside like everybody else, same kind tile roof. Just one bad thing. No automobile, no truck, no motorbike. All forbidden.

I looked at Circe, who was listening enthralled. I can live with that. We know what cars are doing to Athens.

In its heyday during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Hydra housed forty thousand inhabitants; in the 1970’s it was down to two thousand. Abandoned dwellings in all stages of disrepair were everywhere. Locating the lawful owner and reaching an agreement, however, was no simple task. In property after property that we considered, the parties appeared prepared to sell until it came to the price, which often rose astronomically as we spoke. Multiple heirs were another ordeal. One family member had immigrated to Africa, another to Australia; they had been long out of touch. Two sisters, joint owners, had not spoken to each other in years. After a dozen or so of these frustrating episodes, we were about to give up when the agent mentioned a piece of property that had just come on the market. An American army officer serving in Greece had purchased the land on the island and started to build. He was transferred back to the States and was now anxious to sell.

I rolled my eyes. Smells fishy, Circe. Something has to be wrong with the property if the guy wants to get rid of it.

Not necessarily, she replied, excited at the prospect. He could be having second thoughts now that he’s back home. Maybe he’s got a wife who doesn’t share his enthusiasm for the Mediterranean. What’s important is that he began building. That means he has a proper deed. And a building permit. Since we’re here, let’s take a look at the property.

After lunch at a waterfront taverna in the port, we followed the huffing and puffing realtor up an endless flight of over three hundred steps and then wound our way through one sleepy neighborhood after another. We finally arrived at the crest of an empty hillside. On a site of about half an acre stood four stark, roofless stone walls with openings for windows and doors. A donkey stabled inside on a dirt floor littered with trash, straw and shit brayed a noisy greeting.

Cheap, twenty thousand only, the agent offered, wiping the sweat from his brow. You get papers of title, building permit, and plan for house. What more you want?

I shrugged, feigning indifference. We’ll take a look around and think about it. I do like the view of the water down below and the mountains on the mainland across the way. And you say that the plans have been approved? Does that mean we have to follow them?

No, no, no, the realtor was quick to reply. Only outside. Inside, do what you like. Take time, have good look. Come my office in port when you finished. You won’t find no better property on island.

Over the next three or four hours, Circe and I checked out several nearby ruins. We also spoke to a number of friendly locals whose families went back for generations on the island. For an overview of the area, we carefully picked our way up a rocky path on the treacherous slope of a three hundred foot outcropping of cliff. I pointed out to Circe that this buffer would shield us from the north wind. At the top a pristine white chapel kept a lonely vigil over the vast scene below: on the inland side, a valley of scattered ruins amid red-tiled roofs of inhabited dwellings; on the seaside, three small islands dotted the body of blue water that stretched to the mainland some ten miles across the way. The chapel was dark and cool and smelled heavily of incense. We lit votive candles, and Circe crossed herself in front of an icon of Saint Thanasis, patron of the chapel. Back down at the site, we paced off the area that would eventually become our garden and inspected the original cistern. Although smelly and half filled with debris, it appeared to be in good shape structurally and needed only a thorough cleaning. We next measured the existing walls, finding there was more than ample room for a large living room with an inglenook, a dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. The bedrooms and a master bathroom would make up the second level. A terrace for the western view, Circe insisted, was a must.

I chuckled at her enthusiasm. Talk about putting the cart before the horse. We don’t even own the property, and you have us moving in. Twenty grand does seem a lot for four empty stone walls.

But we’ll be getting a clear title and the building permit. And no static from a dozen relatives spread all over the globe. Look, Charlie, you’ve still got royalties coming in from your last book. And I can loan you money if you get in a pinch. We don’t have to do everything all at once. If we cover the existing walls, put in windows and doors, we can move into the first floor on weekends and save on hotel bills. Play Greek. Put in a bid of eighteen thousand.

Two weeks later our bid was accepted. We signed the papers on Hydra and the property was registered in the town hall. Throughout the following winter, rain or shine, we faithfully camped out in our ruin every weekend and holiday, moving rocks, shifting dirt, cleaning the cistern, whitewashing, and painting. During the week a pair of local stonemasons hauled up building materials from the port by horse and donkey –bags of cement, sand, gravel and slabs of slate and marble to complete the second floor and terraces. A local carpenter built and installed doors, windows, kitchen cabinets, bookcases, closets, and a magnificent bed. The final touch was the electricity – no more kerosene lamps. And plumbing. We called the first flush, the flush heard round the world. In late spring, seven months after construction had begun, our villa was a home ready for occupancy. This was some kind of record according to our awed neighbors and the priest who officiated at the traditional house blessing and a feast of roast lamb.

Kids have a way of growing up. Before we knew it, all three had left the nest and returned to the States for schooling and careers. It was then 1978, and cars and pollution had exacted their toll on the capital. Sadly, our beloved Marousi had become a vast shopping center clogged with motor vehicles. Gone were the goats, gypsies, and olive trees. Our dirt street was paved.

On Hydra, I accepted a position in the English department at the National Maritime Academy and persuaded Circe to opt for early retirement. We then moved permanently to the island. For the next thirty years we lived our dream: I continued my teaching and wrote two bestsellers. During evenings on our terrace we witnessed spectacular sunsets over the mountains of the Peloponnese, wined and dined, and danced under the stars.

Those halcyon years fled all too quickly. Out of nowhere a myriad of health issues that accompany aging – arthritis, glaucoma, diabetes two, hearing loss – made it necessary for us to return to my family home in Connecticut. While I no longer drive , Circe, who is a few years younger, manages to see that we get from one appointment to the next with doctors, doctors, doctors, who prescribe pills, pills, pills for a host of pesky ailments.

We miss the island life, the friendly neighbors, our hilltop villa, evening sunsets, and glorious views of the sea and mountains, but the old family homestead in New Britain is comfortable enough and meets all of our needs. The town, though a ghost of what it once was, still has good doctors and a hospital. My sister is just a short fifteen-minute walk away. The house has a large garden and a patio off the kitchen. For company, we have rabbits, a clan of gray squirrels, and the occasional skunk or possum. Hummingbirds, woodpeckers, and doves keep me busy filling the feeders. My retreat on the third floor is an open studio lined with shelves overcrowded with books and old manuscripts. An oversized desk that once held my typewriter is now home to my computer. A trapdoor in the ceiling above the desk opens to an attic crammed with old furniture, steamer trunks, lamps, and boxes.

You won’t believe what I just found on the third floor, my wife announced, coming down the steps into the living room. I was up there looking for some place to store my yarn, and there it was, this box. I know it wasn’t there before.

Had to be the carpenter installing insulation. He probably took it down from the attic and didn’t put it back. A lot of that junk up there has to be pitched.

No, no, not this box, Circe vigorously protested. It’s full of letters postmarked from the forties. Bundles of them, all neatly tied up. And photos and greeting cards. Family history. You’ve got to look at them.

I will, I said, my curiosity aroused. Could be letters I wrote home during the war. Sounds like something my mother would save. She was a real pack rat, never threw anything away.

The box was sturdy cardboard and packed with letters as my wife had said. I brought the box down from the third floor, set it on the kitchen table and handed Circe a loose bulky envelope off the top.

Check this out, love. I said, and took up a slim packet of letters that had a small jeweler’s box attached. The dried out rubber band broke and crumbled in my hand.

Launa Darcy. August 1940.

I caught my breath and stared at the name in disbelief. Launa Darcy. My first love. How … how … did these letters happen to turn up after all these years? Where was Launa today? Was she well? And her husband, who was older, was he still alive? Did she have the sons she often talked about and who would be the age of my kids? Had she read my books? The humiliation of our last meeting—the love, anger, jealousy, guilt, hate, regret, rage—rose in my psyche like a swarm of locusts that had lain dormant for the past sixty years.

Circe’s scream snapped me back to the present. A dead mouse! she cried, wringing her hands. Oh my God, Charlie, burn the lot!

Easy, easy, love, I cautioned. Let me look at what we have here.

I picked up the envelope she had thrown down and drew out a thick lock of blonde silken curls. "Donny’s first haircut, I read aloud my mother’s neat calligraphy. My little brother. He was eight when I went into the service. Didn’t I tell you that my mother saved everything?"

I’ll take your word for it, Circe replied skeptically, now more composed. Gingerly she picked up the little jeweler’s box on the table. What can this be? Gold, maybe?

Don’t count on it, I said, uneasily eyeing Launa’s letters in my hand. Back then in the Depression no one had money for jewelry or anything else.

Look, smarty, it is jewelry. A pair of something. Not earrings. Can’t be cufflinks. Each has a chain with the number forty, the year … Circe paused and regarded me with concern. Love, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I … I … I … Words failed me. I took the box from her. Maybe I have. I didn’t expect anything like this to turn up.

You still haven’t told me what they are.

I felt my heart quicken. Lapel pins. Rings for junior high graduation were too expensive for most families during the hard times. Instead, we were given these little trinkets. Same idea. Kids going steady often exchanged them.

But there are two here. One has your initials. The other is L. D.

I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Launa, I said, feeling myself break into a sweat. Launa Darcy. We were kids… Nathan Hale… in the ninth grade.

Circe smiled coyly. But you didn’t return her pin. You kept it. Were you sweethearts?

I guess you could say that. Anxious to drop the subject, I put the pins back into the case and snapped it shut. "As far as love goes, it was on-again, off-again while we wrote during the war. I was pretty shaken when we finally broke up. To be honest, I … I didn’t expect it. But like the song says ,It was just one of those things. No one ever died of a broken heart. During the war some guy or other was always getting a Dear John letter from a spouse or girlfriend calling it quits. Some took it pretty hard, but it didn’t kill them."

Is that what you got? A letter?

No, no. The final break didn’t come until I was enrolled at Columbia, about a year after the war was over. But that’s an ugly story I don’t want to go into.

So what ever became of this Launa? Do you know where she is today?

The last I heard, she was living in the West Hartford area. My sister might know. You know how Betty keeps tabs on the old New Britain crowd.

Circe smiled and gave me a playful slap on the wrist. Yes, and I think I’m beginning to feel a little bit jealous. So, Mr. Romeo, how many of these letters were from Launa?

Who knows? I said, still very uncomfortable and anxious to get off the topic. I wrote to a number of guys and girl friends, sometimes two or three times a day. Everybody did. Letters were our phone, TV, and computer. Relationships were different back then. The church was everything and sex was taboo, out of the question. A guy fell in love, got engaged, and married. Today kids don’t even talk about falling in love. They meet, sniff, and hook up like dogs. I don’t know whether we were naïve back then, or just plain dumb.

Circe picked up one of Launa’s letters and glanced through it. I can see that you must have been very much in love. And all this happened in the ninth grade?

"Our last year in junior high. Launa had been dropped off in New Britain to stay with her aunt, Miss O’Hare. The aunt was only about ten years older than Launa and also our science teacher. A real snob, she always referred to herself in the third-person. Miss O’Hare wants this; Miss O’Hare wants that. She didn’t think I was good enough for her niece. I remember one day in the cloakroom. I said to my buddy Benny, ‘Miss O’Hare can shit in her hat and pull it down over her ears.’ The witch was standing right behind us. She had me expelled for two days."

Circe laughed. Charlie, that sounds just like you. But I’m interested in Launa. Tell me more about her. You said she was left in the care of this aunt.

Yes, but the two didn’t get along. Launa was left on her own at an early age and had learned to fend for herself. No one was going to tell her what to do. I think that’s what I loved most about her. She was a free spirit. No brothers or sisters. She referred to her parents as Phoebe and Marvin, never Mom and Dad, which I always thought kind of weird. Anyway, they were never around, and life would have been sheer bliss had it not been for Minnie O’Hare. But still we managed to outfox the ogre. Launa and I were inseparable. In school, I squired her between classes and walked her home every day. It was only a couple of miles, but it sometimes took us an hour or two, or even longer. But, love, you don’t want to hear all this. I’m boring you.

No, you aren’t. Darling, I’m fascinated. I want to know everything about you.

I paused. Fridays were really special, I continued. We had a school dance from four to six. We paid a nickel—five cents—and there was a live band. I guess it was supposed to teach us social graces or something. No jumping about, no jitterbug or lindy. Not even a polka. Waltz or foxtrot, slow gliding about the floor to music like ‘Night and Day.’ We thought the song was written for us. On Saturday evenings we used to meet on the sly after confession and have a few hours before Miss O’Hare’s curfew, something Launa always ignored. I chuckled at the recollection. We would linger beneath the streetlamp outside the house, and her aunt would have a regal fit—turn the porch light on and off, raise and lower the window shades. To spite her we would then take another turn or two about the block. On snowy nights I remember following our own footprints. It was beautiful. But boy, did Minnie O’Hare ever have it in for me.

Circe smiled. And not without good reason. But enough about Miss O’Hare. Tell me what Launa was like.

Bright. She hardly ever opened a book and got all A’s. In college she talked about becoming a doctor. She certainly had the brains.

And she must have been very attractive, from what you say.

I certainly thought so. In junior high girls develop faster than boys. Some of the kids going together looked more like mother and son. Launa was my height, five eight or so. She used to tease me about finding a taller guy so she could wear high heels. She didn’t smile often, but when she did, her smile was dazzling. She had perfect teeth and lovely hazel green eyes. I paused, for a moment lost in the past. She wore Blue Grass, but never any makeup, no lipstick, rouge, or even nail polish. Her chestnut hair was never up or set, always straight and shoulder length. I remember how I loved the feel of it when I helped her with her coat, a kind of cape she wore.

And was this great love of yours reciprocal? You weren’t being used or led on?

Not at all. Launa was too open, too honest. Today, I would say she didn’t love me. Not in the way I loved her. But she trusted me, and there was no one else that she cared about and talked with the way we did. I truly believed it was just a matter of time and that she would come around one day. Like I said, Launa had an independent streak. I never knew what she would come up with next. Once when we were studying astronomy in science, she suggested we sneak out of our houses to view the moon that was supposed to be full. I thought she was kidding, but she was serious. That night at midnight—it had to be March, it was quite cold—we met on a little wooden bridge near the spillway in the nearby park . For the next two or three hours, hand in hand, we cavorted through an incredible lunar landscape: the park, college campus, golf course, backyards—all deserted. Just the two of us in that vast, silent world.

Really. I can’t imagine your parents condoning such behavior.

What did they know? Like Miss O’Hare, they were sound asleep in bed. For us, it was no big deal. That spring we met in the park whenever the moon was full, right up to that last night in June when we got caught. We never figured out how, but Miss O’Hare discovered Launa was not in her room and called my parents. And the police. The woman wanted to have me arrested. I caught hell from my folks, but they took it in stride. ‘Kids will be kids,’ they said, and the police agreed. Miss O’Hare, however, was wild. The day after graduation, she shipped Launa off to her parents, who were working that summer up at Indian Lake in Maine.

You must have been terribly disappointed.

I wouldn’t say so, I replied, after some reflection. You have to remember this was 1940. Because of the war waging in Europe, the economy here was finally on the upswing. I had my own plans for camping out with the guys that summer. Come fall, Launa and I would link up at high school in dear old New Britain, which was nothing like the dead town it is today. Back then it had seventy-five thousand people and was known as the hardware center of the world. Irish, Poles, Italians, Swedes, Armenians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, and Jews poured into the town to work in factories like Landers, Stanley Works, Corbin Lock, and Fafnir Bearing. These immigrants lived in two and three-story tenement houses in the south and east quarters of the town, each with its own church, elementary school, and junior high. The mayor and police and fire chiefs were Irish. A snooty bunch—we called them harps—they were the first to arrive and controlled city hall. A generation later many had moved into the posh west end alongside the factory owners and professionals. We lived in Belvedere, the recently developed north end also known as Stanley Quarter. Although largely residential, we had a state normal school, the municipal park I just told you about, a golf course, and an elementary school. A small commercial strip at the center contained an A & P, barber shop, meat market, gas station, and drug store, which was the local hangout.

Sounds idyllic—a great place to grow up in.

It was. My father served in the First World War. After his discharge he bought two lots on Anise Street, an undeveloped cul-de-sac in Belvedere, and put up this house. In those days it was all open lots, fields, and forest. Ours was the only house on this side of the street. Two houses were across the way and behind us was the hill, an outcropping of cliff in a forested area rich with a variety of wildflowers in the spring. About a mile away beneath a railroad trestle was our swimming hole. There on hot summer days we frolicked naked and waved greetings to passengers on overhead trains. Winters we set out trap lines for muskrats and skunks. The pelts were sold to a local furrier. Winter was also the time for my father’s business, the Evergrip Manufacturing Company. Throughout the dark, snowy months, three or four neighbor ladies sat at a large square table next to an oil stove in our converted two-car garage and packed links, a device patented by my father to repair broken tire chains—ten in a box, twenty-four boxes in a carton, twelve cartons in a case. The links were shipped to outlets all over New England and New York state. The business flourished during the Depression. In 1932 my father bought a new Auburn and another new one in 1936. With the advent of the snow tire, chains became obsolete and the business folded. I was in high school at the time.

Quite a background. And only one high school. That’s hard to believe for such a big city.

Not if you think of the school as a giant talent pool. Thousands of kids from all parts of the city gathered in a single three-story granite edifice in the heart of downtown. Year after year New Britain was able to field champion football, basketball, and baseball teams.

And the girls? How did they fare?

"They were our cheerleaders and members of the band. Every year the glee club walked off with all kinds of honors. Dance was the big coed activity. And dance we did to the music of the big bands—Glen Miller, the Dorsey Brothers, Gene Krupa, Lionel Hampton. In this department, I did have a leg up. My mother loved to dance and saw to it that I had tap and ballroom lessons when I was a kid. For dates I was seeing a girl called Cheryl French. She lived in Belvedere but had recently moved to the neighboring town of Oakwood. Cheryl introduced my buddy Benny to her cousin Helen, and the two hit it off.

So there was someone else. A Cheryl in your life.

Yes, but with these other girls it was just friendship and silly flirting. Launa was the real thing, my true love. None of the others measured up to her.

And what happened when you and Launa finally got back together in the fall?

We didn’t. Miss O’Hare persuaded Launa’s parents to enroll her at Briarly Hall, a private school in Massachusetts, but we still wrote and saw each other when she came to New Britain for weekends and holidays. I also had a lot more to think about. At school we had a field day because of the war. Discipline went by the board—we cut classes or took the whole day off. The Depression was over, so money was no longer a problem—everyone worked part time in one of the factories. In my sophomore year Pearl Harbor was attacked, war was declared on the Axis forces, and I had the draft to worry about. My physics and biology teachers were both called up. In Europe the war was going badly. Every day the newspaper carried banner headlines of some new defeat or a ship sunk by German U-boats. Posters all over the place screamed for volunteers to enlist—Uncle Sam Wants You!

I missed all that, Circe said. I was only nine or ten. I do remember collecting scrap metal, newspapers, and fat for the war effort. In school we used to buy war stamps for twenty-five cents. But weren’t you too young for the draft?

Seventeen. I had a year to get my act together. College was out—I didn’t have the grades. What I did have going for me was skiing. My buddy Benny and I had become regular ski bums. Every weekend we headed up to Litchfield or across the border into Massachusetts and Vermont to polish our skills. Then, after the first of the year, the Army, impressed by the defense the Finns had put up against the Russians, decided to form its own mountaineering division. Benny and I saw an opportunity to beat the draft and made preliminary inquiries. Prospects of enlisting in this elite organization were promising. But before we could follow up on our applications, disaster struck. During a weekend up at Stowe, Vermont, Benny plowed into a tree on an icy trail and fractured his leg. Making matters worse, the attending physician botched the cast. For the next year Benny was out of commission—and out of the draft. Call it fate if you like. But since I was on my own, Colorado lost all allure, and I never did apply to the ski patrol. Later in the war the entire force was wiped out on the slopes of Italy.

My God! Circe gasped. "That was fate. But weren’t you then subject to the draft?"

"I was. But before that could happen, I teamed up with Dick Walton, a fellow classmate who had recently moved out to Belvedere. Dick was my height and build, but there any similarity ended. He had dark, wavy hair, which the girls loved. Dick was a real brain, and also president of the National Honor Society and student council. He was editor of the school newspaper and the yearbook. Into everything but skiing. Golf was his sport, and he played like a pro. Strange as it may seem, we clicked, and Dick had me thinking about college and beating the draft, which, like the old saw mill, kept drawing closer with each passing day. Dick planned to be deferred by entering college as a premed student. With his grades and track record, he was a shoo-in. My own case was quite to the contrary. Typical was a German class I took during my freshman year. I knocked myself out but learned I had absolutely no ear for languages. At the end of the course my teacher said that she’d give me a passing grade for effort, but only on the condition that I didn’t take a second year. I licked her hand and promised. In biology, chemistry, and physics I managed to get by, but just. In history and English I was a top student. My mother always claimed I was born with a book in my hand. But that wasn’t going to get me into college with a deferment like my new sidekick Dick—or so I thought until the navy announced its V12 program. Because of a shortage of doctors and engineers, the navy agreed to sponsor anyone in these fields who could pass their test. Dick was one of the first to sign up and urged me to do the same. Engineering? Medicine? Me? Dick told me free tuition was nothing to sneeze at. The war wasn’t going to last forever. By the time I was through premed, the fighting would be over and I could go into any field that I liked. I didn’t think I stood a chance, but Dick convinced me. In March I wrote medicine on my application and we took the test."

And? my wife asked when I paused. What next?

I shook my head. "Nothing. Day after day through March, April, May, not a damn word.

Meanwhile, Dick had fallen head over heels in love with Meg, a live-wire blonde in her junior year. The feeling was mutual and the two became the poster sweethearts of the class. As a favor to Dick, I dated Mary Jo, a friend of Meg, and we often made it a foursome."

So when did you finally get word from the navy?

Not till mid-June. By that time fellows like Joe Rizzo thought it was a scam and joined the army. Mick Leary and Jack Neuman opted for the regular navy. Finally the first results of the V12 test began to trickle in. To the shock of everyone, Dick flunked. But he had already been accepted into the premed program at Duke. Danny Bray got into Wesleyan. Joe Katz made Holy Cross, and Mike Pierson, Tufts. I heard nothing, turned eighteen, chewed my nails, and waited for the other shoe to drop. But still no word. Nothing. And then came that glorious day in June I’ll never forget. A bunch of us decided to skip school and cycle out to the quarry in nearby Berlin for a swim. On our way home we stopped at a hot dog stand on the highway, and I called home, fully anticipating the usual nothing or even an outright rejection.

And? Circe asked, when I again paused in my narrative.

I chuckled. Harvard. My mother read me the letter. I damn near passed out. The kids in the class couldn’t believe it. Even my teachers were dumbfounded. Talk about ego. At the prom, class night, graduation, this kid walked on air. And that was it. On July 1, I bid my parents, my kid sister, and my little brother good-bye in downtown New Britain and boarded a bus for the trip to Cambridge.

What a story. Is this where the letters start?

I closed up the box. The bulk of them, from what I can see. Just the few on top from Launa were written in 1940.

That night I had little sleep. Twisting and turning, racked with guilt, I thought of my wife sleeping trustfully at my side while I conjured up a teen-age love that took place over seventy years ago and that I believed was long dead. Where was Launa today? She had been so beautiful. I had loved her so much. Most vivid was the memory of our final parting, a humiliating experience that I found still painful. Rather than face that trauma again, and out of loyalty to my beloved wife, I decided the letters should be returned to the attic. Unread.

In keeping with my plan, the following morning I took the box of letters up to the third floor. But curiosity then got the best of me. I looked again at the lapel pins. Hesitantly, I picked up the first of the Launa letters.

PO Box 8

Pinewood, Maine

June 9, 1940

Dear Charlie,

How very formal that sounds. I would much rather say, Hi Stinky – but seeing as how you don’t like it I won’t, I’m a thoughtful soul.

I was out playing tennis with one of the kids when your letter came – gosh, I was glad to see it. I’m so darn lonely up here and so bored that it’s pathetic. I swore I was going to learn how to play tennis this year or die in the attempt sooooo this girl that’s here, her name is Alva, and her brother Mark are trying in vain to teach me. I can beat Alva but Mark – oh, gosh can he play. I was in the middle of losing a game to him when the old Prof. came down with your letter so I stopped in the middle of the game to read it – the kids told me I was crazy and I could read it later but gee, I was sooooo glad to see it I had to read it then. That was about twenty minutes ago – and then it started pouring rain so I never did finish the game but what’s the use, he would have beat me anyway. I then came up to the house and read the letter over 13 times and then I decided to write you. I’m a horrible letter writer in the first place. And, if I did know what to write, I wouldn’t know how to write it so you see my letters to you are going to be quite a mess.

I’ve only been here about 4 days and it seems more like 4 weeks – gosh am I lonesome and unhappy and miserable and everything. I wish I was back in good old New Britain going for a walk with Patty Lou, you and Danny instead of up here in the mountains with a lot of pine trees and water. Do you think it would be possible for Patty Lou, you, Danny and the drug store to sort of move up here? I suppose not but it’s a swell idea, don’t you think?

You’ll never know how scared I was going into the house Friday night. I expected it to be about quarter of eleven and it was only 5 after ten. Gosh—was I happy. I came in and Min told me what time it was and I started dancing around the room – giggling (how do you spell that?) and she thought I was crazy and said she was glad I was going away if going out with you kids made me act like that. If she had given me heck for coming in late it sort of would have ruined the whole night but as it was it was perfect. It doesn’t seem possible that your white shoes could have gone through all that and still not shrink or crack or something – I’m still awfully sorry about that.

Oh!!! The rain is raining and it’s all wet and I feel like crying – I’m so awfully lonesome. I was sitting on the deck gazing at the water the other day and thinking of walks and drug stores and Alva asked me if I had lost my best friend or if I was sick or what. I told her I was missing a couple of people an awful lot and that I wished I was home and so she thought I was crazy and wanted to know how anybody could want to be home instead of here. I started to explain but she said I was just plain nuts and ended up by pushing me in the water.

It stopped raining now so I’m going out to finish that darn tennis game – wish me luck! I’ll finish this letter later.

L.D.

P.O. Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

June 21,1940

Hello, Angel puss,

In spite of the fact that I am very, very lonely I’m slightly happy—guess what—I beat Mark twice – Gosh, do I feel swell. I may learn to play tennis yet although I doubt it. Mark told me yesterday I was a hopeless case.

Gee, am I bored. Both Alva and Mark are bores. I can’t stand them, but seeing as how they’re teaching me to play tennis I’m nice to them.

Charlie, I just remembered and I feel like blushing – do you realize I never thanked you for the swell time I had Thursday? I hate people who do things like that so thanks heaps. I did have a marvelous time. I would have remembered but I got mad before I left you – I didn’t think of it after that.

In your letter you mentioned you and Danny coming up – well, don’t you even think of doing it without writing and telling me. I don’t believe you will come up but if you dared without telling me!!!!!? You just wouldn’t live that’s all.

Seeing as I’m all hot and everything I’m going to take a swim and cool off. Please write soon ‘cause I love to read your letters. ‘Cause nothing ever happens up here.

Love and stuff,

         Launa

P.S. If you see Mick give him my love and give some to Danny. Gosh but I’m getting generous with my love (especially where Danny is concerned)

PO Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

July 10, 1940

Dear Charlie,

I can imagine the swell time you kids are having and gee! Am I jealous. Here I am stuck up in the mountains with a lot of water and pine trees while you and Danny and dear Merton are having a wonderful time in a canoe. Ah – hell, it’s all right with me if both Danny and Merton drown but please don’t you drown. Just think of all the mess you’d make – I’d have to come back – all the way back there just to go to your funeral. So please don’t.

I was awfully glad to get your letter but it took you long enough to write. I wrote to you and Patty Lou and Joan all on the same day and I heard from Patty Lou and Joan— 2 days later I heard from you. I hope you didn’t rush but I suppose you have other things to do.

Guess what?!! We’re finally going to get a sailboat. Gosh, am I happy!! One of the boys over in Brunswick had one for rent, so Marvin rented it for the rest of the season. We’re going down early tomorrow morning and sail it back from Brunswick to the Point. We’re going to take our lunch because we won’t be back until after supper. Some fun!!

I’m sitting here listening to Kay Kaiser and they just played I’m Sorry Playmate and it made me think of Mick. Do you ever see him? How is he? Say hello to him from me the next time you see him.

So you got your picture taken, did you? Well, if you don’t send me one I promise I won’t ever speak to you again and I do mean it. And I know it isn’t as bad as you say it is. It can’t be. And I do want one very badly so please send me one soon (and I do mean soon.)

Maybe it’s just as well that I won’t be seeing you this summer because if you could see me as I am now you’d just run – in the opposite direction. Oh –I’m a wreck. My hair is fuzzy and I’m getting fat. I only hope I don’t get any taller. – I must be over six feet now (or almost), I expect you’ll almost have forgotten me by Sept. but I’ll be back in spite of the fact that my dear, dear parents think I am going south with them – the poor disillusioned people don’t know I’m going to stay north and have heaps and heaps of fun (I hope.)

By the way, I just remembered and I hope you do – you did promise you wouldn’t show my letters to anyone – well, please don’t. And that includes dear Daniel (the fish!)

It’s almost 12 o’clock and I’d better go to bed now before I fall asleep sitting here.

Heaps of love and stuff,

         Launa

P.S. You mentioned typing your next letter, well, don’t.

PO Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

July 18, 1940

Dear Charlie,

I swore I would never write to you again, but I just got your letter and I thought I’d better answer it. I read it over 5 times and I admit it sounds swell but hardly likely under the circumstances. You said you loved me – if you do how could you go and deliberately break a promise like you did? Before I left you promised you’d never show my letters to anyone and then you deliberately went and showed my last one to one of your tippsy friends. If you can’t think of anything better to do with my letters I decided it would be better if I just didn’t write at all. I’m furious with you – I wish you were here so I could tell you what I think of you. You’re a - a - a – well, I can’t say it because I’m a lady but that’s what you are regardless. I can tell by your letter that Danny hasn’t told you what I asked him to tell you or else the letter hasn’t reached him yet – well, you can tell by that how very, very, very mad (and I do mean mad) I am at you.

Is it the remark that your tippsy made after reading my letter that made you decide to write and ask me – did I love you? (or about the same)? I suppose it was – well, I don’t make a habit of telling boys I love them – if I do they usually know it. If I was crazy about a boy he’d be the last one I’d tell, and if he asked me I’d say no definitely. Sooooooo that’s how it is, see?

I can certainly say though that none of the letters you have written to me or will write will sound silly to me and as I keep my promises no one else will ever see them – so suit yourself.

I hope that when that friend of yours reads this letter he will not make the same remark as before. I’m still mad and I shall never forgive you for what you did – but then - ?

It’s 11 o’clock and have to go to bed before Phoebe has fits. Sooooooo, goodnight!

Have fun!!!

         Launa

P.S. Give my love to the fish!

P.S. I’m so mad!!!!

PO Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

August 1, 1940

Dear Grumpy,

I got your affectionate (?) postcard this morning and I’m awfully sorry but I was mad at you and now you’re mad at me – oh, well – it will all blow over – I hope. I wrote you last Friday – I suppose you have the letter by now. Well, hurry up and answer it. I’m sooooo bored – the only fun I have is reading letters (Patty Lou’s and yours). Gosh – gee- am I lonesome and unhappy and everything. I can’t wait till September and good old school. Not that I like school – but it’s just that I’m so damned bored with life in general. There is absolutely no one here around my age except some gooney little (?) boy who goes sailing with us. He’s a pest and I hate him – so I’m very rude to him and then Phoebe and Marvin get mad at me – oh well, I’m afraid this isn’t a very cheerful letter but I’m in a morbid mood. I wish you and Patty Lou and Danny and Mick and the car and the drugstore could move up here – I’m lonesome and I don’t care who knows it. Oh gee, I just think of you and Danny having so much fun and I turn green with envy. It isn’t fair. Damn it all anyway.

We went for a moonlight swim the other night and it was swell. The moonlight on the water and the stars and everything – gee! I really would have been happy if I had been with anyone else but my damned family and that brat from next door. He’s 16 I think but he’s a goon. I can’t stand him. (Don’t say, Well, sit down.)

By the way, Charlie, have you got one of those graduation pictures with you at the lake? If you have will you please, please, Pu – lease! Send me one – I do want one and I think you’re perfectly horrid if you don’t send one.

Seeing as how I have yet to write to Patty Lou and to Joan tonight and it is now 10:15. I’d better stop writing, I’m sorry (again) about this letter being so gloomy but I am and I can’t write happy letters feeling like this. Please write soon and in the meantime –

Have Fun!!!

         Launa

P.S. Give my love to the Fish and the jitterbug (dear Merton). I hear he is quite a dancer.

PO Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

August 2, 1940

Hello –

You said to write quick so here I am sitting with my hair soaking wet and all the water running down my back – writing. It’s about 11 o’clock and we just came in from swimming about 10 minutes ago. I love to swim at night- don’t you? Gosh – it’s nice on the lake – the stars and moon and the lights on the lake – gee. I’m getting sooooo tan (it looks horrible) that I’m beginning to look like Virginia – remember that dark cloud Virginia in Min’s home-room? Well, I’m just one big blister. My nose and face are red all the time – I look like a beet. I’ll have to do something about it before I get home – you’ll see me and won’t recognize me. I’m a total wreck.!!!! Gosh!!! Am I hot – Uh huh!! It’s too hot to do anything but swim and sail. We were out sailing tonight till about 10. Gosh – I’m glad we got the boat. I love it. When I make my million dollars I’m going to have lots ‘n lots of sailboats. I’ve got to go and do the damn dishes now but I’ll finish this later.

Love,

         Launa

Hi!!

I’m mad –gr-r-r-r-r – I just had a fight with Phoebe and then Marvin butted in so I had a fight with him too and I’m mad. Oh! Hell! I wish I was home. Last year I didn’t come home until the day before school began. – well, they can’t do that to me again – I won’t stand for it. Oh, well, it’s too hot to get mad at anything. Patty Lou won’t be coming to school till a week after school starts ‘cause she’s going away sometime in August. I’ll die if she isn’t there when I get home.

I just heard that song Happy little motor –put-put-put and it reminded me of the night we walked home through the cemetery. Gosh we did have fun and I was certainly surprised at dear Roger – I didn’t know he had it in him. We had lots of fun last year. I know next year won’t be anything like it and it worries me. Darn it!!!

Phoebe is having fits ‘cause I’m not in bed and she’s mad already so I’m going.

Have Fun!!! (And have some for me ‘cause I’m not having any.)

Launa

P.S. When I get home we’ll discuss who loves who and why – o.k.? That is if you feel the same –maybe you won’t. Oh well – there’s nothing I can do about it so why worry, huh?

PO Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

August 9, 1940

Dear Charlie,

I got your letter about three days ago but I waited to write to you ‘cause I wanted to be sure you would be home when the letter got there. By the way, what’s the number of Danny’s house? I know the street but have no idea of the number.

It has been awfully hot yesterday and today but I’m cold right now. We’ve been out for a sail in the moonlight – gee, it was purty. You know if I lie across the front deck I can dangle my feet in the water and part of my chin goes in too. My family decided that’s how I get so crazy— from dangling my head down in the water – either that or from the sun. Marvin is disgusted with me – he says all I do all day is giggle. This is a crazy letter but I’m feeling very silly (as per usual). Please pardon the writing but I’m lying down in front of the fireplace and it’s rather hard to write but I’m not going to move ‘cause if I do I’ll get cold.

You said you thought I’d be changed. – well, I certainly am. Uh huh! Not inside I guess but in appearance – gosh!! I’m a wreck – a total wreck. In the first place I’m covered with freckles – I look like Mick – I’ve grown about 3 inches (almost) and I’ve gained about 20 pounds. I’m getting positively fat!!!

And I would certainly never think of promising you such a thing but by that time it won’t make a bit of difference to you. After you see me you’ll say ugh and wonder how you could ever, ever think you loved me. And I did mean what I said about discussing it when I got home although I hardly think that question needs answering. I know you won’t feel the same way when you see me – you couldn’t possibly.

I’m awfully sorry about this – it really is a mess but I started to say something and then changed my mind. I should copy it over but I have 6 other letters to write and I do think I should get started on them. I won’t be home until the first of Sept. I don’t think. Damn it all anyway – well, in the meantime –Have Fun! (Have some for me, too.)

Launa

PO Box 84

Pinewood, Maine

August 16, 1940

Hi!

Ugh! Do I feel awful – uh-huh! I have just eaten 19 ½ toasted marshmallows, 3 bottles of Coca Cola, and some pop corn – gee! –gosh!—wow! I’ll never be the same never. It is pouring rain and Roseanne and her brother Rob had the rest of the kids (me included) over for a rummy game but of course we never did play – we ate instead. Oh –oh-oh-oh!!! The rest of the kids ate just as much if not more - gee can those kids eat. I’m still very bored and I wish I were home but these goons were here last year and they are a lot of fun. Well – how goes things with you? It sounds as though you were having a swell time in good old N.B. I envy you- and how! Oh! Bore – bore – bore –Ah me!

By the way – I got your picture and thanks heaps. It’s a swell one. You look positively handsome (or something) anyhow it is an awfully good picture. I would love to see you – have you changed? I don’t suppose so. And by the way (again?) I don’t see why on earth I should write more often – I answer all your letters and if you want more letters from me you can just write more yourself – see? Listen, you lug – I don’t see where you got any idea about any mission bum but may I remind you that Sam is a very nice man with a wife and 3 kids so you see it would be quite impossible for me to be running around with him – You are without doubt one of the most crude people I have ever met.

And furthermore all the fun you have next winter will have to exclude me – my dear (very dear?) parents think their darling little daughter (that’s me – believe it or not) is going to go south with them next winter. I had a fight with both Phoebe and Marvin this morning and it ended up with them determined to take me and me determined not to go! Oh! Gosh! I’ll die if I have to go! Oh woe is me ‘n stuff. I suppose all I can do is wait and see and chew my fingernails – PHOOIE!

It stopped raining and the sun is almost out and I’m sizzling so