jlsathre's Open Salon Blog

In Memory of a Soldier I Never Knew

Fri, 25 May 2012 10:05:56 -0400

When my parents died, my sister and I got out the letters that Dad had written to Mom while he was in Burma during World War II. They had never met at the time they started writing, but wrote back and forth for the last two years of the war. When it ended, Dad came to Springfield, Illinois, where Mom was living, and they started a nine month courtship that turned into a happy 55 year marriage.

My sister and I had known about the letters, but had never been allowed to read them. We knew only that they were kept in an unlocked chest in the back of their closet and, from glimpses of them, that they were bundled together and tied with ribbon. It surprises me that I never breached those ribboons in the same manner that I sought out and and unwrapped my hidden Christmas presents. But I never did. And neither did my sister.

If we had, we would have discovered that half of the letters were not from Dad, but from a Sgt. Charles Rayburn, stationed in England.

The name wasn't a surprise. We knew that Mom had dated him and that he was killed in combat when his plane was shot down. But we had never known much more than that. In the same way that it was somehow clear to us that Dad's letters were private, it was clear that Mom's memory of Charles Rayburn was private too.

I remember only one time when Mom told me any specifics, and it was not until I was an adult, with children of my own. She told me then that, after he died, his mother had asked if she could be pregnant. This was a question that I would have expected Mom to be offended by, but she said she wasn't because she knew it was asked out of love.

My sister remembers gently asking Mom about Charles and that she smiled and repeated his name. They danced, she told her, and he sent her flowers from London for Christmas.

His letters revealed a little more. They met on a train and, during the several months that he remained in the States for training, they were able to spend four additional weekends together before he was sent overseas. One of those weekends was at his home in Chicago, where Mom met his parents and his sister.

The letters don't reflect a love affair, but they do reflect a fondness, which seemed to deepen over time. His greetings progressed from "Dear" to "Dearest" and his salutations progressed from "Sincerely" to "Love." In the last of his letters, he reflected back and wrote:

Just one year ago today "Old Man Fate" handed me a ticket that made our meeting possible. I'm sure going to do my best to repay him for his kindness. Remember? Seats 36 and 37 in Car 5 on the smooth I.C. train the "Green Diamond." You know, Leslie, sometimes it seems so long ago, then, it seems like only yesterday. I really think that although we haven't been together nearly as often as I would have liked, we did get to know each other pretty well, don't you think?

He was killed in combat three days later. Mom continued to write him for several weeks, not knowing. We don't have most of her letters, but we have five that were returned to her, marked "Return to Sender--Addressee deceased, 2/10/44-413 Bomb Squadron, G.L Lintzennich, Captain, A.C."

The first of those returned letters thanked him for flowers that he had sent:

Yesterday was really a red letter day on my calendar--Flowers for Madam--beautiful flowers--and so many of them!!! Eight red roses, iris that looked like orchids, glads, and the most gorgeous sweet peas I've ever seen in my life. Sitting here looking at them now, just can't see them enough--they're so beautiful. Nice guy, this T.Sgt. Rayburn. Wish he were around so I might thank him properly.

Her last letter was dated February 28, 1944, and we assume she was notified sometime soon after, probably by his parents, because she went to his memorial service in Chicago. There was a printed poem from the service with the letters.

There were also pictures. Several with Charles alone in uniform, one with his flight crew, one with him reclined on grass in civilian clothes reading a book, and one with Mom and him together with two friends at a restaurant. Newspaper clippings from a London paper describing air offensives over Germany that he was involved in were there too. All bundled together and tied with ribbon.

Mom's correspondence with Dad started about a month before Charles was killed and appears to have started as a courtesy. In one letter Dad mentioned that Mom's boss was writing him too. The letters weren't initially as frequent as those to or from Charles, and Mom shared at least something about her relationship with Charles and his death. Early on, Dad wrote:

I'm terribly sorry to hear what happened to your friend. I want to take this opportunity to offer my condolences. I'm sure he must have been quite a fellow and that he did his job before he went. That is one of the things all of us over here hope to have said about us if we do go over the Hump.

If you think that I can in any way help you, I want you to be free to write me whenever you wish. I'm deeply touched to think that somebody thinks by writing to me they will get their troubles off their minds.

It was a surprise to find the letters from Charles, kept and tied with the same ribbon as the letters from Dad. And it was hard to read them without wondering, "What if?" Did the death of Sgt. Charles Rayburn somehow give us our lives by leading Mom to Dad? It's an unanswerable question. As is the question of why Mom kept his letters for 55 years.

Yet, there are some answers. We know that Sgt. Charles Rayburn was a good man who did his job before he went and that he would like to have that said.

We also know that his life helped form the mother that we knew--the one that nurtured us with love and with a very real understanding of war, and sacrifice, and honor, and loss.

Barbecued Fish Sticks?

Tue, 22 May 2012 13:05:33 -0400

I have a lot of people (actually a lot is probably a stretch, let's try a few) who come in the store to buy cookbooks to read. Not in a search-for-a-recipe type of reading, but just to read, straight through, like a novel.

It seems strange to me given all the good books that are acutally meant to be read without accompanying pictures or instructions. But maybe it's not all that unusual. Maybe there are a lot of you out there.

And maybe I'm becoming one of you, because I had a fairly good time when I found myself reading through a cookbook the other day. It was a rather dated one, and a very short one, dedicated solely to barbecues, which I've had a hankering to have ever since the weather turned nice.

Although, when I say reading, what I really mean is reading the name of each recipe to see if anything caught my eye. A few did.

"Cream of Lettuce Soup," for instance--not because this actually sounded good or interesting, but because I couldn't figure out how it ended up in a barbecue cookbook. But then I'm a cookbook reading neophyte. I recognize that.

Which is probably why I also didn't understand the inclusion of "Boiled Asparagus." Although here I also wondered who needs a recipe for something when the only ingredients are "2 or 3 bunches of asparagus and 10 pints of salted water." And, really, since this was an old cookbook, shouldn't they have added something about boiling "until all trace of freshness is gone and the kitchen smells."

"Barbecued Hot Dogs" was another one that caught my eye. I saw the barbecue connection, but didn't really see the need for a recipe telling me nothing other than to "barbecue the frankfurters for 10 minutes turning frequently."

This was about the time that I checked the cover to make sure I wasn't reading a copy of "Barbecues for Dummies." But no, it was a real cookbook, titled "Wonderful Ways to Prepare Barbecues," copyrighted, and published in three English speaking countries.

So I kept reading. It wasn't until I got to the next to the last page that I finally saw what I didn't even know I was looking for--a recipe for "Fish Sticks Barbecued."

I could hardly imagine a better or more perfect blend to satisfy my dual hankerings for barbecue (right now) and nostalgia (nearly always).

Not to mention that it sounded easy. All I had to do was put 12 frozen fish sticks on a plate, brush some lemon juice and butter on them, barbecue on each side until brown, and throw a little tomoto sauce with onions on top. I was set to go on my very own barbecue trip down memory lane.

The only remaining instruction was to, "Sprinkle with capers."

A gourmet's (or cookbook reader's) delight. Circa 1970.

Losing My Big Words

Wed, 16 May 2012 11:05:10 -0400

I re-read one of my posts the other night and was surprised to see that the biggest word I used was eight letters long--not counting a few words with endings like "-ing," which would have brought me up to eleven. But that seemed unfair. The average was about five letters. I'm pretty sure that, if I had had the nerve to check, I would have found that I was writing at about a fifth grade level.

Partly because there were a lot of sentences starting with "and" and "but," some imcomplete sentences used for emphasis, and a rather random placement of commas. But also because I didn't find a single word that I might have felt compelled to look up in the dictionary to ensure I was using it right. I probably did look up my biggest word, which was "apparently," but that was for spelling. I have to look that one up every single time.

None of this would bother me too much except that there was a time not too long ago that I was all about the big words. The "hereinbefores" and "thenceforths" and "aforementioneds" of legalese sent my letter count soaring. Not to mention all those other big words that I didn't know how to pronounce, but liked to include in my legal writing for show--always throwing in a few obscure Latin phrases for good measure.

But, alas, it appears that I lost more than a paycheck when I left the legal world behind. I seem to have lost my big words too.

I'm trying to decide if this is a good thing. Am I better off sticking to the basics, or am I losing something in the translation by saying "no contest" instead of "nolo contendere"? Am I making myself clearer by sticking to the little words or am I obnubilating the points I'm trying to make by not using words that are more specific? (And, yes, I did have to look up "obnubilating," but weren't you impressed?)

I remember when I used to tell my kids to "use your words." And I can't help but wonder if I shouldn't start telling myself to "use my big words."

After all, wouldn't an EP be more likely if this post was titled "The Loss of Lexiphanicism" instead of "Losing My Big Words"? Wouldn't I get more views and comments by using the bigger word--even if for no other reason than people wouldn't know what it was about and would drop by thinking it just might be another slam on Romney? Can I ever be a successful writer if I don't send a single person in search of a dictionary?

I read the memoir of Christopher Buckley recently and found myself looking for a dictionary, a history book, or an atlas every other page. Sometimes all three. I couldn't help but be impressed and came away thinking that his classical education at Portsmouth Abbey School might have been just a smidge better than my four years at the local public high school. And that maybe I should try following his lead and work an occassional "vouchsafed" into my posts. Maybe even borrow his "froideur" or "postprandial." After all, what do I have to lose other than the few minutes it will take me to look them up again.

Although, I guess I might lose some of those readers from my old high school.

It's a conundrum. (Whoah! Nine letters! It might all be coming back!) The question is, should I let it or should I fight it?

I'm pulling my hair out trying to decide this one. Or, maybe I should say, falling prey to my trichotillomania.

Feeling Stupid In a Hair Care Aisle

Tue, 29 May 2012 13:05:03 -0400

I was reading another good post by Pensive Person the other day and was enjoying it right until I came to a word that I hate almost as much as I hate the word slut. I hate it mainly because I have no idea what it is. Not slut--I know what that is. The word I hate almost as much as slut is "product." As in, "He probably had a little product in his hair."

I get my hair cut and the hairdresser tells me to "put a little product on it, blow dry, and you'll be good to go." My daughter looks at me as we get ready to go out to eat and tells me that I really need to try a little "product" in my hair. I see someone on the street with hair that looks easy, but good, and ask how she gets it to do that and she shrugs, says dismissively, "just a little product," and looks at me like I'm an alien.

It all sounds so easy. Except that I have absolutely no idea what "product" is. Not that I haven't tried.

Because my hair could really use a little help. I know that. It's thin and fine and soft--which is okay, I guess, except that it also means its default setting is straight, limp and stringy. And it gets to default within five minutes of walking out my door--even sooner in the high humidity days of a midwestern summer.

I've tried all the various bottles of hair stuff that my daughters have left behind, but the only difference I ever noted was that my fine, thin, soft hair was suddenly also very sticky. Or, on one particularly memorable day, actually spikey, with ends hard enough to test the doneness of the brownies cooking in the oven.

I thought it might have had something to do with expiration dates on the bottles, so decided to head out to Target for some "product" of my own. I needed some of their everthing bagels anyway and could pick up some non-expired "product" before the high humidity days set in. Except that as I went up and down the hair care aisles, I discovered that there was absolutely nothing in the hair section called "product." There was gel and mousse and styling spray and any number of other things, including hundreds of different choices of gel and mousse and those other things that I had absolutely no idea what they were.

There was also shampoo and conditioner in enough colors and fruit and vegetable scents to make a tasty smoothie. But I already used shampoo and conditioner and my hair was still straight, limp and stringy, so I was pretty sure none of those were "product."

I finally gave up and headed over to WalMart--the everyman's store--where I thought I might have better luck. Surely, they'd have "product" a bit better identified. Perhaps with one of those yellow smiley faces pointing the way, or a greeter who would know exactly what I needed.

But the greeter only pointed to his bald head, shrugged his shoulders and sent me to aisles 8 through 12. The hair supplies of Wal-Mart were no less daunting than Target's. After spending an hour reading labels, I found myself feeling stupid in a hair care aisle. I've had the feeling before, but it's usually been when I was reading a computer manual or trying to get past the first chapter of a James Joyce novel. Never with something as simple as hair care labels?

It was only when I decided to give up and head for the tissues in asile 13 that I came face to face with a "product" I finally understood--ponytail holders.

A friend told me years ago that you're never too old to wear a ponytail.

I'm hoping she's right.

A Eulogy For the Mom Who Loved Gold

Thu, 10 May 2012 10:05:07 -0400

The day after our mom died, my sister and I sat at my kitchen table trying to write a eulogy for her funeral. We had written one for Dad 16 months earlier, but Mom's was proving difficult.

My sister rejected every one of my ideas. I rejected every one of hers. I accused her of being bossy. She accused me of being passive. In the space of 24 hours we had reverted to the two little girls fighting in the back seat of a '57 Chevy during a family vacation. Except that this time we didn't have a mom in the front to act as our referee.

Dad's eulogy had come easily. He had some quirks, which made the writing easier. Mom was harder. She was a bit more straight laced, a bit more serious--the one who cried the first time she cussed in front of us and who worried about us dating "fast" boys. The one who signed our report cards and told us to do our best and to brush our teeth. The one we thought we might disappoint. Not because she gave us any reason to think we could change her feelings towards us, but because we somehow knew that she saw potential in us--sometimes more potential than we saw in ourselves.

She was also the one who suffered from Parkinson's Disease for the last twenty years of her life and who never stopped worrying about us during all those years when we should have been worrying about her.

Because worrying about us was her domain. She laughed when we teased her about it, but she never stopped. When we lived at home, she wouldn't go to bed until we were home safe--although falling asleep on the couch was apparently okay. When we went to college, she wrote letters every week, worried we might be lonely. When we moved away, she worried about our cars and the weather every time we drove home. When I had surgery for cancer, I woke up with her face two inches from mine, worried that I might stop breathing.

And now that she was gone, my sister and I couldn't seem to write a eulogy, worried that we wouldn't do her justice.

The newspaper with her obiturary arrived the next morning. We had given the information to the funeral director, but hadn't written it out ourselves or seen the final draft. It was a relief to see that the cropped picture had turned out okay and that all the family names and history were correct.

It was at the second paragraph that we stopped. And laughed, together. Because there in that final printed tribute to our down to earth mom were words that didn't come close to belonging to her.

"She loved gold."

Our mom loved sale racks and discount stores and a good bargain. She could stretch a small paycheck to cover prom dresses and cheerleading outfits and birthday parties and special Christmases, but the only gold she ever had or ever wanted was the gold stars that we brought home on grade school papers.

She did, however, like her golf, which we had mentioned. And thank goodness for that because, with just one misstep of a letter, it ended up giving us a eulogy.

"For those of you who knew our mom, you may have been surprised to read that she loved gold.....she also loved a good laugh..."

It was all we needed. A start. Mom had given us a good start at life and she had somehow managed to give us a good start at the hardest part of that life--saying goodbye to her. The start was all we needed. The rest flowed smoothly.

Mom deserved gold. But what she loved was us.