Hail Mary

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Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:00

Would you mind very much if I went to a camp dance once in a while? Usually on Sunday nights, the USO clubs from the towns near here sponsor a dance at our service club. So far I haven't been to any, but the boys who have been say they've been pretty damn good time. I'll wait for your answer before I go, okay? If it's no, okay. If it's yes, that's okay too. Welcome to Dog Tags and Paper Hearts, a chronicle of my grandfather's letters home during his time in the service. I'm your host, Don Friega, and in each episode, we'll travel back to a time when swing bands ruled the airwaves, ration books shaped the dinner table, and handwritten letters carried love across oceans. Join me as we uncover the stories, sounds, and surprises of an era defined by courage, change, and a touch of romance. From the battlefront to the home front. On today's episode, something a little different. The one and only letter that I have from Mary back to Johnny. It answers a question posed in a prior letter and I think gives us a little bit of insight into her world. So, pull up a chair and let's rewind the clock together. Because the 1940s weren't just about war and worry. They were about hope, humor, and heart. This is Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. Imagine if you can. Mary wakes up before dawn to tend to the coal stove. The small house in Hazel Park, Michigan kept the cold out, mostly, but those drafts still found a way to creep through the window frames, no matter how carefully she stuffed them with rags. The youngest, Eva, had stirred sometime in the night, and Mary had learned to rise without fully waking, to move through the dark by memory alone. Sleep was sporadic with frequent interruptions. Mary pulled on her robe and crossed the creaking floorboards, careful not to wake the kids. She knelt at the stove, feeding in coal a few careful pieces at a time. You didn't waste fuel, not now, not when everything from sugar to gasoline was rationed with stamps and required careful accounting. She kept that ration book in the top drawer wrapped in wax paper like something sacred. Each week she studied it as though it were a map, planning meals around what she could spare: a little butter, a bit of meat when it could be found, powdered eggs that never really tasted quite right. Outside, a train whistle sounds in the distance, long and low. Hazel Park was never quiet, not entirely. The war had a way of filling even the smallest spaces with movement. Freight trains, factory shifts, men coming and going in uniform. Before Johnny left, he had worked at one of the local machine shops. Now he was somewhere in Texas, in basic training, learning to march and shoot and follow orders shouted by men younger than he was. His last letter sat folded on the kitchen table. Mary had read it so many times that the creases were beginning to give. He wrote about marches, bivouacs, patrol duty, and the endless chores that define basic training. He wrote about how much he missed her and how he would never leave her side once he returned home. He asked about the girls, craving updates, trying to paint a mental picture of their growth, and always fearing that their memories of him would slowly fade. And finally, in an attempt to portray some sense of normalcy, he wrote about his adventures, such as they were. These might include discipline studies for NCO training and officer candidate school, or perhaps a description of some of the downtime, the rare foray into town, or the music, skits, and movies shown at the USO Club. By the time the girls woke, the house had warmed enough that their breath didn't show. Mary dressed them in layers, whatever fit, whatever still held together, and set them at the small table, with bowls of oatmeal sweetened with a careful sprinkling of sugar. Sugar was rationed tightly now, but children needed something to make them eat. Sharon talked the most, asking questions Mary couldn't always answer. Where's Daddy today? In training, Mary said, the same answer as yesterday, learning to be a soldier. Is he cold? Mary paused, then sighed. Not as cold as we are. Susie dropped her spoon and Eva began to fuss, and the morning unfolded the way mornings always did. Messy, loud, full of small demands that left little room for worry. There were diapers to wash by hand, hung near the stove to dry. There was a trip to the grocer, ration book in hand, hoping for something fresh. Maybe cabbage, maybe carrots, maybe nothing at all. There was the walk back through streets lined with modest houses, each one carrying its own quiet burden of waiting. Except for the letters from Johnny, the mail was unwelcomed, mostly bills that required some financial juggling to ensure she could make ends meet. On some evenings, Mary listened to the radio after the girls were asleep. The voices came from far away, Europe, the Pacific, speaking of battles and advances and losses in careful, measured tones. Names of places she had never seen became as familiar as her own neighborhood. She learned to listen for what wasn't said as much as what was. There were victories, they said, progress, but always there was the sense of distance. The war was everywhere and nowhere at once, present in the absence of men, in the shortages, in the way neighbors spoke in lowered voices about telegrams delivered by boys in uniform. One afternoon, a woman down the street received such a telegram. Mary saw it from her window, the car pulling up, the stiff posture of the man who stepped out. She turned away before she could see more, pulling the curtain closed with a trembling hand. That night she held Eva a little longer than usual. December deepened, snow came in fits, thin at first, then heavier, settling into the streets and along the rooftops. The girls delighted in it, pressing their mittened hands into the drifts, laughing at the way their boots sank. Mary watched them from the doorway, her arms wrapped tight around herself, and felt something like gratitude cut through the worry. They were here, they were safe. Christmas approached quietly. There would be no grand celebration, no extra sugar for cookies, no new toys beyond what could be improvised or found second hand. Mary had saved a bit of fabric, and at night she stitched small dowels for the girls, using scraps and thread pulled from worn clothing. It wasn't much, but it was something she could give. On Christmas Eve, she gathered them close and read Christmas stories, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. Susie asked again if Daddy would come home for Christmas. Not this one, Mary said gently, but maybe next. Once the children settled down for bed, a lengthy procedure on the best of nights, the house settled into relative quiet, just the low hum of the stove and the faint sound of wind against the walls. Mary sat for a moment longer, listening, her hands resting on the table. She unfolded her husband's letter once more, smoothing it flat. Then she took out a sheet of paper and began to write. Saturday, December 30th, 1944. Dear Johnny, nothing at all has happened today. Your mother called this morning to say she got a letter from you, nothing else to say. I paid the paperboy and milkman$6.39. I also got more to worry about. The taxes came today,$14.58 for the lot and$17.35 for the house. I also got your income tax blanks, and incidentally, I didn't know what I was supposed to do with them. I still owe Van about$15. There is gas, electric, water, telephone, insurance, and rent to pay. Speaking of rent, I didn't pay this month's rent because I wanted to get a few Christmas gifts, so I did want to send$36 this month. Foolish me. At the present I don't have any money until I get my check and I used my Christmas gift money up. Five dollars went on your insurance, and I broke the ten dollars to pay the milkman, so there goes my dream of a new dress. I suppose I don't need it anyway, I can't afford to go anywhere. I've been to a show exactly twice since you left. I have squandered some of the money on going to club meetings and the club party. Sherry and Susie need dresses. At least Sherry can get into her old ones with the hems let down. Kind of short, but she can get by. But Susie hasn't anything at all. Lil Eva is doing alright. I suppose by this time you're wondering what all this is about. Well, to tell the truth, I got your letter dated Saturday, december twenty third, and you mentioned the fact that you would like to drop NCO. The only thing I can say is I'm disappointed. More than anything else, I want you home, but if that's impossible, the thing I want most is for you to make good in the army. I've been so proud when I could tell everyone that you were picked for NCO, and if you make OCS and get somewhere, I'll feel that all this I have to go through now is not as bad as I think. Of course it's up to you and you can do what you think best. And to top off a miserable day, you send the letter and ask, would I mind if you go to the USO dance? Don't you think that's up to you to decide? I don't know. Maybe your letter came at the wrong time, but I feel as low as I can today, and it sure isn't the time to talk about going to dances. I'm sure I'll be sorry after I send this letter, but I'm going to send it right away and before I get a chance to change my mind and send a cheerful one. At least you can have an idea of what I feel. If you can get to a show once a week and a dance once a week, all the more power to you. I only wish I could get out to a show once in a month. It's 8 30 right now, and Pop just got in. I asked him if he'd stay with the kids while I took in a show, and the answer was no, not now or ever. So do as you please about NCO, OCS, and the USO dances. And if you decide to go, have a good time for me and dance one for me. Yours, Mary. My work on this podcast, reading through my grandfather's letters and exploring in depth some of the cultural touch points and the trials and tribulations of life on the home front, has given me a new perspective on my grandmother. Volumes have been written about World War II, the battles, the machinery, the people, leaders, generals, spies, heroes. Much less has been written about the silent battles being fought on the home front. One thing that's really stood out to me is the sheer enormity of what my grandmother had to face at home. Raising children, running a household, and managing finances doesn't leave a lot of time for anything else. Add to this the worry and the fear for the future. Now I completely understand why my grandparents were perfectly content to relax at home most evenings. My memories of my grandmother are complex. She was a major figure in my life. My grandparents were around my entire childhood, and, as with any relatives, I have many fond memories interspersed with the few that are not so fond. Here are some of my memories. Soap operas. For most of the time I knew her, grandma was a homemaker. She had odd jobs now and then at a local department store, but um she mostly stayed at home and took care of things. She didn't necessarily sit in front of the TV all day, but the TV was on. She did make time for one show that I somehow ended up watching with her one summer. That show was The Edge of Night, not a show most people have heard of, but a few facts about The Edge of Night. It debuted on CBS on April 2nd, 1956. It ran as a live broadcast on that network for most of its run until November 28, 1975. It then moved to ABC, where it aired from 1975 until December of 1984. 7,420 episodes were produced. Grandma was in good company as a fan of this show. Other reported fans include one of my favorite authors, P. G. Woodhouse, also actress Betty Davis and Tolula Bankhead, as well as Eleanor Roosevelt. Also, Canasta. It's a game I learned from both of my grandparents, and my grandmother loved it. Canasta is one of those card games that feels like it's a little mysterious, a little classy, like it belongs in a smoky mid-century living room with cocktails by your side. Of course, we didn't have cocktails when we played. Canasta was invented in the early 1940s by two lawyers in Uruguay. They were trying to create a more strategic and engaging version of rummy. The name Canasta actually means basket, which is probably referring to the card holder that you use to keep the cards together while you're playing. Canasta made its way to the United States in the late 1940s and absolutely exploded in popularity during the 1950s. It kind of became a social ritual. Celebrities and socialites embraced it, including people like Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and hosting Canasta nights became a symbol of sophistication and leisure. I don't recall any Canasta nights being hosted at our house. We just played uh the two of us or the three of us, and it was a lot of fun. I recently learned a variation of Canasta called Hand and Foot, which can be played by multiple players. And Batgammon. I recall introducing Batgammon to my grandparents at some point when I was in high school, and they absolutely took to it. They played it every night, two or three games, and of course I would play a lot of it with my grandmother when the two of us were home alone during my summer vacations. My grandmother liked to read quite a bit. I couldn't tell you what she read, but there was a book in progress at all times. I do remember our trips to Sagatuck. I know I've mentioned this on a prior podcast. We'd usually take about a two-week vacation to Sagatuck, Michigan, which was on the shore of Lake Michigan. Stayed at what I believe was called the Lakeshore Motel. I believe it's still there, but it is more of a resort these days. We had dinners at the Butler. I believe the Butler is still there. It's a restaurant on the marina, and some of my fondest memories of there include my grandmother's drinks. She would drink grasshoppers and old fashions, and I always thought an old fashioned was just some old lady drink that was fruity and um and mild until I finally had an old fashioned and realized, wow, grandma knows how to drink. She didn't drink a lot, but she did when we were on vacation. And of course, there was that one special dinner at Point West every vacation when my grandfather would be present with us. And I've talked about that in a prior podcast as well. Spent a lot of time by the pool. Almost every day we'd swim, and she'd sit by the pool most of the time and take a quick dip here and there, and I would just be a fish and swim the entire time. And then of course we'd go off and feed the ducks once in a while in the mornings. Grandma was a good cook. She made homemade spaghetti. She didn't make the noodles, but she made the homemade spaghetti sauce, and I requested that every year for my birthday. She made something called seven layer dinner, which um was okay for me. I know my mother absolutely loved it. That would be little Eva. She absolutely loved seven layer dinner. Grandma took to making jello salads when those became quite popular in the late 70s, often with little bits of fruit cocktail floating in them. Speaking of dessert, there was always some type of dessert. It could be very simple, maybe a few Lorna Dune cookies, or it could be a pie that she baked, or it could be something pre-made that she heated up in the oven. At any rate, there was always some type of dessert. And she was always good about controlling my snacking. If left to my own devices, I would have been eating cookies and chips all day, and she was really good about controlling that. And last but not least, a couple Serbian words that my grandmother used to use all the time. Grandma's family originally came from Yugoslavia, and she tried to hold on to a couple of Serbian cultural touchstones and a few words. I believe she could count. I really didn't um pay much attention to it as a child, unfortunately. But the words that I remember her saying were shut the piety and bichabatina. Now, I don't know that these words are actual words. They might be variations or some regionalism or something. I tried to look them up. Um she would use the word shootupi when she wanted us to eat. If you break it down, it sounds a lot like shut up and eat. Shootapi. And then she would use the word pizza batina to say, you're gonna get it, as in I'm gonna beat you butt. Anyway, I looked up the words, um, tried to get some approximation online, and this is what I could come up with.

SPEAKER_00 16:28

Uti shit se yede.

SPEAKER_01 16:33

As I said before, I don't think these are direct translations uh the way my grandmother was translating them. For that last one, Bichabatina, I had to say, you're gonna get a spanking. And that's the best translation I could get that sounded close to what my grandmother used to say. Thank you for listening to Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. You can find links to information contained within this episode in the show notes, and I do hope you'll check those out. I try to link some fun videos and interesting facts that may not have been covered in the podcast. I've also provided a link to my Spotify playlist of number one songs during the course of this correspondence. That playlist is also titled Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. Please keep the feedback coming by emailing me at dog tagspaperhearts at gmail.com. And most importantly, I'm still looking for stories from World War II. Whether that's from the battlefront or the home front, stories of relatives or personal stories, please drop me a line and let's get that going. Until next time,