War in France, 1915

 

The last time Hannah saw Gerald was the day he rode the train out with hundreds, maybe thousands, of boys in uniform.  Fight the Great War…Be home by Christmas! Hannah blew kisses and waved as if her arm needed to go with him.

All the other new brides gathered at the church hall to roll bandages and pack toiletries.  Murmurs echoed across, up, and down from the vaulted ceiling.

“Why, my Joe said that Paris is grand, and some day he will take me there!  He writes to me every day, you know.”  Melissa wrapped bandages, her eyes lost in dreams.  Long white strips draped over her rounded belly.

In the circle of young brides. Hannah was alone with a flat belly. Letters from Gerald came every day, but were grim and spotted with mud.  His words she would not share with the round-belly brides.  They needed their dreams, while Hannah needed truth.

Christmas came and left, church bells rung and carols sung. Then another Christmas slipped by unnoticed.

Brides, now weathered lonely wives, still met at the hall.  While toddlers chased around, mothers wrapped and wrapped rolls of white cotton.  The young faces once wreathed with smiles now reflected strain of another year gone by.  

 

Letters grew fewer and all waited for the one letter they did not want to receive.

Then the boys came home. 

They were other men who left legs and arms behind; some remained, buried in graves in France, near the ocean.  Boys now men-- some shivered at every loud sound, while others were stoic, with distant haunted eyes.

Gerald held Hannah gently.  “It was awful, never seen anything like it.”  Hannah settled her face into the fragrance of Gerald’s wool uniform.

She whispered into the wool.  “I knew you would come home, just knew it.  And, I will never let go of you.”

Ever.

World War 1 is the often-forgotten war.  Its veterans are now gone.  Honor them.

Yes or No, check one.

 Yes? No? Will Jessica answer this letter? What would she say?  What would he say? Life is a challenge when hormones kick in.

Great War

The Boys Went Marching...

The last time Hannah saw Gerald was the day he rode the train out with hundreds, maybe thousands, of boys in uniform.  Fight the Great War…Be home by Christmas! Hannah blew kisses and waved as if her arm needed to go with him.

All the other new brides gathered at the church hall to roll bandages and pack toiletries.  Murmurs echoed across, up, and down from the vaulted ceiling.

“Why, my Joe said that Paris is grand, and some day he will take me there!  He writes to me every day, you know.”  Melissa wrapped bandages, her eyes lost in dreams.  Long white strips draped over her rounded belly.

Beginning of War from Above

In the circle of young brides. Hannah was alone with a flat belly. Letters from Gerald came every day, but were grim and spotted with mud.  His words she would not share with the round-belly brides.  They needed their dreams, while Hannah needed truth.

Christmas came and left, church bells rung and carols sung. Then another Christmas slipped by unnoticed.

Brides, now weathered lonely wives, still met at the hall.  While toddlers chased around, mothers wrapped and wrapped rolls of white cotton.  The young faces once wreathed with smiles now reflected strain of another year gone by.  Letters grew fewer and all waited for the one letter they did not want to receive.

Then.  It ended.

(AWM H11576)
Australia; women watching for their boys to come down the gangplank

The “boys” came home; some had left legs and arms behind; some remained, buried in graves in France, near the ocean.  Boys now men-- some shivered at every loud sound, while others were stoic, with distant haunted eyes.

Gerald held Hannah gently.  “It was awful, never seen anything like it.”  Hannah settled her face into the fragrance of Gerald’s wool uniform.

She whispered into the wool.  “I knew you would come home, just knew it.  And, I will never let go of you.”

Ever.

World War 1 is the often-forgotten war.  Its veterans are now gone.  Honor them. 

Waiting

An avalanche of laundry

Lies in the hallway,

Waiting.

Unwritten overdue Thank You letters

Sit on the desk,

Waiting.

Christmas decorations and Wrapping paper,

Of all colors,

Closed up in a box,

Waiting.

Waiting, dang it.

A lone baby sock

With monkeys,

Rests in my hands,

Stirring memories of Benjamin

With his sweet baby kisses.

While I hold this sock,

Every other thing can just

Wait.


Here are some other things Benjamin left behind:

About Writing

The first thing I wrote was when I was four years old.  My brother Robert was in first grade, which I considered to be highly unfair.  Robert was born in January 1951, and I was born in December of the same year.  In my opinion, where he went, I went.  We were Irish twins, I was told; I was ten-and-a-half months younger than Robert and we shared the same year.  My mother insisted that I add the “and-a-half” to the number, as if it somehow made a difference.  So Robert went to school, and I stayed home, looking out the back screen door for him.  I would run out when I got a glimpse of him, and race to hug him.  He generally hugged me back, if no one was watching. 

He did his homework on the kitchen table, with Mom on one side and me on the other.  As he dutifully learned the ABCs, so did I.  As he learned to add and subtract, so did I.  I expressed the thought that I should go to school then, because I knew as much as Robert.  It didn’t happen.  So I continued to stare out the back screen door, waiting for my brother and wishing that I was with him.

One day he came home and said that there would be a Visitor’s Day at school, and he could bring me to sit beside him for a day.  I leaped around the kitchen, and then waited for the day to come.  On that day, I put on my best dress, and let Mom come my hair without complaint.  I skipped and chattered the whole two blocks to school.

The day was magic.  I got my own piece of lined paper and a pencil that had been sharpened in a pencil sharpener.  The point was perfect for writing.  We were told to write a letter to someone we knew.  I looked around the room; I knew everyone there.  Heck, I knew everyone in the whole town; it was a small farming community, and I was related to half the town.  But I saw that Ralphie Edwards was a visitor for the day, and was sitting by his sister Linda, so I decided to write to him.

In my best form I wrote the letter.  I didn’t know how to make words, but I knew that a bunch of letters put together formed words, so I wrote a combination of letters, interspersed with little drawings of birthday cakes, kittens, and apples.  I wrote until I filled the page, and looked proudly at my work.  We all carefully folded our papers and put them in a giant envelope.  The teacher would “deliver” them later that week.

Ralphie never wrote back.  I waited and waited for a reply, but then gave up. 

As Robert learned to read and write, I was with him at the kitchen table, and understood the mysterious connection between letters and words.  It was a lightening bolt moment that would  lead to more and more bolts and flashes of comprehension.

I have since written volumes and tomes (most of which are in my files and boxes), but it all started with that letter to Ralphie.