A Mirror of My Life: A Memoir By Vesta L. Hale

By Vesta L. Hale

Born in a farm house in West Sparta, NY, Vesta Greene went on to become a nurse and then joined the army during World War II and worked in an evac hospital following General George Patton as he raced through enemy lines. Married in a tent during WWII, the new bride, Vesta Hale, earned a discharge from the Army and went on to raise a family and continue her nursing career. This is a story of her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483413365

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Copyright © 2014 Vesta L. Hale.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1335-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1336-5 (e)

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 6/17/2014

Contents

Chapter 1

Off the Farm

Chapter 2

Nurse

Chapter 3

Working World

Chapter 4

The War Begins

Chapter 5

On the Move

Chapter 6

Off to Battle

Chapter 7

I Do

Chapter 8

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Chapter 9

A New Life Together

Chapter 10

Moving On

Chapter 1

Off the Farm

Here it is September 21, 1994, and after selling the house in West Brighton that our family lived in for 39 years and moving into the townhouse I bought in Henrietta, I feel I’ve completed yet another turning point in my life.

I find myself reflecting on the past, bringing me back to my birthplace in the small country town of West Sparta up on the hill in upstate New York. I was born December 14, 1919, in a large rambling farmhouse on the family farm. My parents, Otto and Annis Greene, lived in a part of the house built by my grandfather, Egbert Greene. Grandma (Ida) and Grandpa Greene resided in another wing of the house. My two sisters were born here also; Virginia Mary is 13 months my elder, and Marjorie Faith, three years younger.

My father was a reluctant farmer, and my mother was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse; she attended what was then called Geneseo Normal School. When Virginia was born, mother retired to manage the home and the beginning of our family; this was the typical procedure for women of that era.

When I was three years old, the beautiful family farmhouse burned to the ground; the fire was caused by a suspected overstocked wood-burning stove. There was no firefighting equipment and a scant water supply. Consequently, nothing was saved except the barns. This was an indescribable tragedy ending the endeavors of toil and sacrifice on the part of my grandparents. Life was never the same for them afterwards. Grandma Greene went her own way, nursing the ill in that country area, and Grandpa Greene continued to live on a small farm nearby with Grandma’s sister, Mary Chasey. When Mary died, Grandpa went to live with his daughter Cora and her husband, Stanley Jones, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Grandma Greene made her headquarters in our home, and we dearly loved her.

As is so often the case, some good came from this tragic event. In this case, my father was relieved of the burden of having to carry on with the farming he disliked so. He was the type who would like to have lived in the hub of downtown, with all the noise, confusion, and excitement. While hardly a bustling city, mother and father settled for Dansville, New York, a small village town in the valley below West Sparta. My father had taken courses in electrical science via correspondence studies and found employment with the New York State Gas and Electric Company. My parents purchased a house on Cottage Street, and my sister Virginia and I started school there. In 1925, when I was six years old, my only brother Clinton Earnest was born. We didn’t have a lot in the way of luxuries, but I recall a Model T Ford car and an Edison phonograph, which was my mother’s pride and joy. My father was transferred to Hornell, New York, then back to Dansville, and finally to Auburn, New York. We did a lot of moving during this time.

My father hesitated to buy a house after Dansville because it was hard to know if he would stay or be transferred again. Since we had kept our house in Dansville when we all moved briefly to Hornell, when my father was transferred back to Dansville, we had our house to go back to. I don’t remember too much about our stay in Hornell. My brother and sisters and I were so young, and hadn’t made any close friendships. As mentioned, our last move was to Auburn, and by then I was seven years old. This is the city I consider my hometown.

My sisters, brother, and I attended Seward School, an elementary public school named after William Seward, Secretary of State during the Lincoln and then the Andrew Johnson administration, which implemented Seward’s purchase of Alaska, called Seward’s Folly. Seward’s home in Auburn is now a historical museum. The school was located at the corner of our street on Grove Avenue. Most of my recollections seem to be of a pretty orderly, pleasant existence.

As mentioned, my sister Virginia and I were thirteen months apart in age, so we did everything together. My sister Marjorie was three years younger, and my brother Clinton was six years younger, so they eventually had their own group of friends. When at home, we were all congenial.

My parents were not demonstrative, but they bestowed upon us the secure feeling of unmentioned love. It was there in all the day-to-day actions, and we all knew it. I was very shy in those days and preferred any attention be directed elsewhere; consequently, I found myself at times writhing in mental pain from unkind and snide remarks made by noncongenial peers, such as the incident when we all read a part in a play to be presented to the entire school. When it came my turn, I dropped all my inhibitions and put all my heart and soul into the part. All were noticeably amazed. I didn’t get the part, but I was given a solo recitation on stage the day of the play. I even remember the name of the piece: The House by the Side of the Road. As an aftermath, a girl named Rosamund Smith came to me sneering and accused me of crying because I didn’t get the part. I was crushed by her derisive action. As I recount this incident now, I can see where I had difficulty sorting out this inconsiderate treatment. If only I had gone home and talked to my mother about this incident, she probably would have been able to help me sort it through and perhaps better understand people like Rosamund. Possibly I could have learned to better cope with the hurts that are inflicted from others in a better way. Instead I developed an air and toss of my head, which has stayed with me, if I feel intimidated in any way.

There was a group of neighborhood girls, all around the same age, who had a good relationship, and we called ourselves the Grove Avenue Toughies. The girls were Mary Ryan, Esther Williams, Cassy Allen, Eunice and Mary Cottrell, Hazel Paul, and Dorothy Longley. We had some great times together, putting on plays in our back yards, hitching rides to the lake, swimming, and ice