The Penny

By Stewert James

Elinor Louise “Penny” MacDonald grows up in Kansas City, Missouri, during the Great Depression. She lives a quiet existence, longing for travel and adventure. Near the end of World War II, she meets Air Force bombardier and pilot Frank McHenry. They wed, and Penny’s quiet life changes dramatically.

They travel the United States and around the globe as Frank braves world conflicts and Penny battles loneliness. She meets Marta, June, and Sharon, and together they embark on a lifelong friendship calming one another’s quiet fears while their husbands fight overseas.

Penny endures her own war with breast cancer. After she passes, her companions seize a penny placed near her ashes. Little do they know, this penny has a history connecting two families yet to meet. Through it all, Sam—Penny and Frank’s lost daughter—looks for a life of tranquility and happiness after growing up surrounded by turmoil. The Penny is a masterful compilation of true stories involving the families of author Stewert James and his wife. This saga creates an epic generational journey from the Great Depression through World War II, Korea, the Cold War, and Vietnam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480896758

Stewert James

Stewert James is the author of the bestselling SuperPAC Trilogy. He spent forty-two years in healthcare as a practitioner, executive, and lobbyist. For six years prior to retirement, he worked with adults of the Greatest Generation and heard their stories of life, happiness, and survival. He and his wife live in Petoskey, Michigan. This is his sixth book.

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Copyright © 2020 Stewert James.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9676-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9674-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9675-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020918664

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/21/2020

CONTENTS

July 1864: One Month After The Battle Of Cold Harbor

Part I

A Funeral And Survival

Not Perfect

In Memory

Next

Surviving

Medals, Monuments, And Relics

Home, Somewhere

Reality Marches On

Part II

A Rebirth And Life

Six Degrees Of Separation

Life With Frank

Death’s Doorstep

Full Circle

Winter, 1864, Camp Sumter - Andersonville Prison

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

For Penny

JULY 1864: ONE MONTH AFTER

THE BATTLE OF COLD HARBOR

He stands, despondent, weak and weary among the wounded, sick and suffering. Men missing limbs; men shivering at their nearness to death. With fashioned bravery they await the gates to open and begin the march into the hell that is Camp Sumter - Andersonville. Behind the wooden walls, prisoners fabricate their homes, scratching out hollows in the mud and the muck. While some are lucky enough to have a coat or blanket as a roof, most utilize only their bodies as extensions of the ground to create a living space, stuck among ten thousand other wretched humans. Death strolls among the rows of the diseased and dying, grabbing souls at random, leaving only space for another.

At Cold Harbor, the young infantryman charged through the morning mist and trees, and, like every other Northern bluecoat, believed in their surprise attack. How could they lose? Twenty minutes later, seven thousand dead, wounded and captured ended the day more surprised than anyone in gray. Now, beyond a tour with Virgil and a perpetual purgatory, a fate worse than crossing the river Styx has befallen any who believes the fight is over. Once inside the fortress, a prisoner who dares step into the void that is The Deadline will be shot by guards from watchtowers above. Nineteen feet of perceived freedom curtails the suffering with one Minni ball.

But his life is not over. Breaching The Deadline is a mere temptation. Having persevered through three long years of continual soldiering, he stands determined to finish the exercise. There’s a family to provide for and a farm to tend, if he can survive the next six months— living without food and water on a scratched-out swale of dirt.

PART I

A FUNERAL AND SURVIVAL

NOT PERFECT

MANY YEARS LATER…

The rectangular metal box sat motionless, paradoxically, containing a spirit that could never be restrained. Amidst photographs and memories, the box sat upon a purple cloth, providing some color. No sound, of course, escaped from within the four small sides and lid. Only the whir of a fan overhead interrupted the silence in the room. Fingerprints had been wiped from the surface, creating a soft sheen to an otherwise sullen gray—the antithesis of its occupant’s usual happiness. Those who had touched the box had no recollection of the connected life force that placed this very precious gift within their realm. There are no memories attached to the metal other than some factory of precise instruments and precision craftsman not realizing their finished masterpiece would hold something so imperfect. So irascible. So cherished.

Ashes. A life. Children. More life. Old age, Sam eulogized. Then, like dumping a pipe in the ashtray, ashes.

Yes, Ann reflected, a long journey for her.

The sisters stood with dripping emotions and swirling thoughts as they attempted to connect their loss to a future without their mother. Cradling each other in a soft charade of hope, they stood over the precious remains. Sam allowed her older sister, Ann, to rest a weary head on her shoulder.

There were framed photos of the bowling teams, faded snapshots of milestones in the travels and travails around the world with an Air Force husband, and portraits of four children at birth—and then years later posing around their mother while she sat propped in her lounge chair, days before she died. In every picture and wrinkled Polaroid print, one thing remained constant, that smile.

Crafty and cunning, yet kind and gentle, the smile became a warm welcome to all who entered Penny McHenry’s life. Frank, her husband of fifty-nine years, would often say that Penny was his social world. As he disbursed twenty-eight years and three wars in the United States Army Air Corp and Air Force from 1944 through 1972, wandering from base to base around the country and around the world, the kids would command attention, often as voices in the jury box, but usually with Frank and Penny holding court. Eventually each child found his or her way, and not always along an easy road. Nonetheless, foundations eventually took hold and they were on their own—both kids and parents.

Penny’s breast cancer and fungal lung disease twisted along an arduous thirteen years, bringing the clan back together for many a rendezvous and adventure. Some gatherings hovered over cordiality after long absences. Others were rowdy with celebrations and new beginnings. In either case, the timidity one might have felt soon warmed into a lather of adoration for Mom.

The funeral would be different—the finality of a life and spirit that connected them all. Frank, often away on a military operation or assignment, had left Penny with the grocery shopping at the base exchange, scraped knees, bloody noses, homework, and the troubled love lives of teenagers and young adults. A lost mother was one thing, losing the thread of the family hem was another.

Dad’s sad, but happy, Sam moaned.

Yes, Ann whispered softly.

Is everything ready for the luncheon?

What? Ann answered, startled from her thoughts, removing her head from Sam’s shoulder.

The lunch? Is everything set? Sam repeated, quietly emphatic.

Yes. Yes. The luncheon is all set, Ann confirmed while realigning her headrest. Do you remember what Mom said every time we came to see her in the last month?

Smile when you think of me, Sam declared.

The two were now arm in arm, with Sam’s shoulder continuing as a pillow for her sister. Sam, with her short blonde hair, hourglass figure, and movie-star smile, had become an executive with a precise persona and solution-oriented style, along with a little of her father’s daredevil spirit. Ann was her mother’s daughter with black curly hair, dark eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses, hosting a demeanor no one challenged. But, unlike her mother’s love of a boisterous lifestyle, Ann had a devilish playful side that was totally unpredictable. The sisters had impeccable postures from Penny’s constant reminder, Knockers up, shoulders back, girls. Soft tears rolled down cheeks, but neither daughter wanted to move and disturb the calm. They gazed at the box for a few more moments until Sam placed a shiny 1863 Indian Head cent at the base. The newly shined icon of a coin had a small but visible scratch on the face side.

Sam, where did you get that? Ann asked as she jerked herself away from her sister.

Mom gave it to me. She told me she found it half buried in the ground near the gravesite she and Dad reserved.

That’s amazing! That penny must be worth a mint. And the shine!

I took good care of it, Sam said, smiling at the coin, and had the local jeweler provide a lovely rejuvenation

The two paused and held each other around the waist.

Bye, Mom. Sam sighed. You weren’t perfect, but you were perfectly human, and you’ll never be forgotten,

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John, do you think it was easy? Marta asked her husband of sixty-four years.

Was what easy? He returned the question as his face twisted in the mirror while the razor scraped two-day-old, gray whiskers. In his retirement, the task of a daily shave had disappeared long ago.

Marta Murray, Penny’s best friend and bowling teammate for almost forty years in Warner Robins, Georgia, readied herself for the funeral service along with John Murray, an Air Force companion of Frank’s through three wars.

Penny’s death. Do you think it was easy?

John stopped shaving and contemplated an answer somewhere among the short gray whiskers floating in the soapy froth. At eighty-five years old, death remained a difficult theme for John to grasp.

I guess, he softly concluded, now inching the razor slowly between his nose and upper lip.

Marta ceased her makeup application, walked into the bathroom, and stood next to John at the sink. She looked into the mirror, watching, and caught herself mimicking his facial gestures as he moved the razor slowly around his face.

You’re no help, she complained in a low and mechanical voice with loud eyes.

John stopped shaving again and set the razor down at the edge of the sink.

Marta, you know death and me don’t mix. I don’t like talking about it, and I don’t like thinking about it, he stated, hands resting, palms down, on the counter as he looked back at Marta in the mirror. An exasperated smile tugged at his mouth, but he was unable to mask the furrows over his brow.

Marta didn’t answer. She stood staring at herself, recalling the martinis, bowling tournaments, laughter, and then her now-sagging skin and gray hair. Her eyes began to well with tears. She had always been a woman with a soft and compassionate touch, but this visible emotion was new for her. An always confident, physically straight, strikingly handsome woman at eighty-five, comfortable in a well-chosen dress, complete with hose and short pumps, Marta rarely exhibited overt signs of sadness.

You’d better get used to it! she yelled and turned to walk into the bedroom.

John’s eyes widened and his furrowed brow shifted to surprise while he watched her turn from the mirror and march away. Not knowing how to react, or what he was reacting to, he slowly harnessed his razor and finished. Over the years, friends had met their demise. Discussions usually centered around the person who had passed, as well as John’s hatred of his own future death. He understood life would end and claimed no fear of the episode, but he had always put a positive spin on his age, leaving the question of death to his god. There wouldn’t be much he could, or wanted, to do about the result, as long as he was living the life he chose. He viewed such discussions as improper.

Marta wallowed in a window-side chair looking out at her backyard, azaleas in full bloom, allowing tears to stream down her cheeks and cascade over her lips, down her chin and onto her lap, where her hands lay open as cups. Their physician and friend, Harry Sanders, had been succinct and without hesitation. The lump was malignant, and the metastasized cancer was in her lungs. Quality of life was the point he repeatedly emphasized in their discussion. But after the words cancer and metastasized, she’d heard nothing else. Her mind became a blur, a loud buzzing in her ears muffling any attempts at listening.

The great dilemma facing Marta was how to tell John. They’d had their issues over sixty-four years of matrimony, but he was her beloved, her constant companion. Penny was her friend and confidant, and Marta had witnessed what she went through over a thirteen-year illness—years after breast cancer—the pain, suffering, and finally chair-bound in the den in front of the television. That was not the life for which Marta had wished, nor did she want John as her caregiver. She preferred him as best-friend and lover.

Penny had always been a human listening device toward which all trials and tribulations could be loosed, with the knowledge that any return comment would be warm and positive. John couldn’t do that. A child of the Depression and an adult through the Eisenhower years, he was raised as a man should be raised—stoic and without overt emotion, silently supportive. Marta had softened him over the years, but he was hardwired the old-fashioned way. She had planned on Penny being with her when she told John of the cancer, Penny providing the confidence and emotional back-up Marta required. Penny knew she was facing her own death, and Marta had planned on facing the hereafter with her. But by Penny’s passing in her sleep, and without a chance to say goodbye, Marta feared she might forever be haunted. John had to be told.

Honey, what’s wrong? John asked, standing directly behind her.

Startled, she quietly wiped away tears and gathered her composure.

I miss her. She was a special person in my life, and… She hesitated as she stood to face him. I shall miss her deeply. She walked past her husband who didn’t reach out to touch or hug her. Not that he didn’t want to.

He had been taught to be the strength; to be supportive without letting go of his guard. Unbridled emotions confused him. He wanted to cry. Penny was the life of the party, and he missed her. And now, in the blink of an eye, Marta seemed different. John drifted between Penny’s death and the reality of facing the same, yet Marta wasn’t prodding him to share feelings or emotions. There was no back rub, no loving touch he had become used to in troubled times. Even though he was more comfortable being silent, he missed her touch. Marta was too quiet.

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Across town, June Smith was at her bedroom vanity while her husband Jim finished dressing.

Honey, I’m almost… he stopped as he walked out of his dressing room while putting the final touches on his Windsor knot. June, are you okay?

Yeah, er, yes. Penny always said ‘yes,’ June replied, gazing at her reflection. I’m simply looking at me, trying to remember us.

Well, I’m here for you, Jim answered, kissing her on top of the head.

"Thank you, sweetheart, but that’s not the us I’m referring to. The girls. All four of us. Oh, we had some good times."

Like the night in Vegas? Jim added with a smirk.

"Like the nights in Vegas you mean, June said, laughing, her moist eyes now sparkling. The night Penny bowled that 276 to win the championship, well, let’s just say we celebrated that night and into the next morning with anyone who wanted to join us."

Jim leaned on the wall and looked down on his wife of sixty-five years, softly grinning as she continued.

You never realize how old you are until you really look. I mean, inside I still feel like twenty-five, but outside, I look a hundred. This silver, thinning hair, a hound-dog face with droopy eyes and jowls. Glory be! And I’ve used enough makeup on these age-spots to paint the Sistine Chapel.

And you’re still the most beautiful woman I know. Let’s go.

Jim grabbed the two handles of her wheelchair and steered her out of the bedroom toward the front door of their home where they had lived since their marriage in 1943.

Hold it, Jim.

They were beside a table in the foyer. June reached into a jar of change kept for the grandchildren. She sorted a handful of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies until she found the oldest dated penny in her palm, 1973.

For Penny, she said softly, the year of the Vegas championship.

That’s a nice gesture, June. You are a thoughtful woman, Jim remarked as he opened the door.

June’s wrinkled, arthritic fingers moved to wheel herself out onto the patio. Jim let’s not take the van or the Buick. How about your car?

Twist my arm, dear. Twist my arm.

He pushed her over to his 1970 Ford Mustang GT, transferred his wife to the white bucket front seat, folded up the chair, popped the wheeled metal into the trunk, and made his way around to the driver’s side. He was seventeen years old again, going on a first date. Settling into the white leather, he turned the ignition, unfurling the throaty 351 Cleveland V-8. He grabbed the shifter and looked longingly at his wife.

Hang on to your hat.

The tires screeched as June stuck her hand out the window, letting it flail through the air currents, waving at the wind.

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Larry, do you know where my—oh never mind, I found it. Sharon yelled from her bedroom into the empty hallway of her apartment.

She walked out as she pinned the jeweled broach in the shape of a green turtle onto her dress. Her face pinched and wrinkled sideways as she peered down to her chest and adjusted the pin’s angle.

Larry, I’m ready. She took a last look into the mirror by the door. Perfect. For you, Penny. And she kissed the palm of her hand, blowing the kiss to the mirror. She smiled.

Outside, Hank Jones waited for his only passenger of the afternoon. He stood by the open side-door of the Independence Manor bus, smiling as he watched Sharon Thornton walk slowly but steadily toward him.

Thank you, Larry.

Hank assisted Mrs. Thornton into her seat and pushed the button to close the sliding door.

You’re welcome, ma’am, he said tipping his cap to the eighty-two-year-old resident, making sure the door was tightly shut.

Hank had begun working for the Manor after his military retirement ten years earlier. He was in his third year when he found Larry Thornton on the ground outside the condominium, non-responsive and not breathing. Larry died that evening at the Houston Medical Center in Warner Robins, Georgia. Every day after, Hank had been Larry to Sharon, whose dementia was worsening. Having no children and being an only child, Sharon Thornton lived a quiet life but displayed a happy and cheerful self every minute of every day.

When Hank delivered the news of Penny’s death, he was touched and surprised by Mrs. Thornton’s response: That’s sad. I shall miss her but never forget my turtle girl. She continued to remember her dear friend by wearing a turtle pin as a long-lasting symbol of their bowling team.

Hank beamed as he turned toward her in his driver’s seat. Mrs. Thornton, you look wonderful, and that pin on your dress is very pretty.

Thank you, Larry. Penny will smile when she notices. And, I have this bright, shiny penny to give to her. I hope she’s doing better.

Hank, his mouth open and at the ready, caught his words and didn’t remind her that Penny would only be there in spirit. He put the van in drive and slowly headed out the circular driveway.

IN MEMORY

LAVENDERS AND PURPLES FLOODED WANDERING eyes in the funeral home. Drapes, flowers, window toppings, and anything else that could be made purple, were. Over two hundred people crowded into the room, a mingling of family and friends. Penny’s four children