Memorial Day came and went. I always think about my grandfather and my dad — they both served in the armed forces. My grandfather in WWII and my father enlisted when he finished college, just after the end of the Korean War. They both told stories about their time in the service — the stories that were tellable anyway. The story I remember the most is one told to me by my grandfather on more than one occasion. I remember it fairly well because my grandmother would tell me the same story from her perspective. I understood, at an early age, how confusing words can be — even when you’re reading them for yourself.
The story goes that around 1942, my grandfather had to leave to go overseas in the army, leaving my grandmother and my mother behind (my mother would have been around 6 or 7 years old at this time). When my grandfather was “called to duty”, all he was told was that he would be returning in about a year. This news made my grandmother angry… angry at the thought of being away from him for so long, at being alone for so long, at being left to care for my mother by herself for so long. The reasons she was angry were limitless when my grandmother would tell her side of the story. My grandfather’s side of the story was that when he finally shipped out, he turned to face my grandmother and said, “don’t be mad momma” (my grandfather called my grandmother mom and momma all the time… that’s all I ever heard him call her really.)
During the time my grandfather was away, my grandmother worked at an Italian prisoner of war camp located in Weingarten — just down the road from their community of Farmington. She did odd jobs at the camp… seamstressing, cooking some, helping the POW’s write letters. She took my mother with her each day she went — my mother often talked about how all the prisoners would call her “bambino” and smile at her. The fact that this was a prisoner of war camp always made this part of the story confusing for me — I mean my mother was running around a POW camp like it was an amusement park (back to the story).
The months went by slowly… always slowly for my grandmother who wanted her husband back. She wrote him at least once a week, sometimes more. And she received letters from him often — once every couple of weeks or once a month. But the letters she received were confusing and apologetic, asking her to, “…please don’t be mad momma”, “…write me back momma.” So my grandmother would write back and each time she would say that she wasn’t mad and why didn’t he believe her. This often confusing exchange went on for a year — until she got a letter saying he was coming home.
My grandfather’s side of the story is a little different. He knew my grandmother was upset about him leaving for the war but there was nothing he could do — war is war. He began writing letters home to my grandmother immediately… two within the first week and one or two every month after that — “…how are you?”, “… how is Barb?”, “… why won’t you write me back?”, “… don’t be mad momma.” There was never a reply. For a year he was unsure if his wife and daughter were ok, were still in their house, were still a part of his world.
The day finally came when my grandfather was to come home — a home he wasn’t sure was still a reality. My grandmother gathered up my mother and went to pick him up at the time he had given her in his often confusing letters that she had trouble deciphering.
When my grandfather had collected his belongings and was leaving the base to find my grandmother, he was given something — something he had trouble understanding… a stack of unopened letters… a year’s worth of worry and doubt and confusion was handed to him all at once. The Army had never delivered the letters that my grandmother wrote to him — they collected them, thinking it would make being overseas and away from family easier for the soldiers. My grandfather said he was dumbfounded. He had no time to read a years worth of letters in the few minutes he had before my grandmother was due to pick him up — he was still unsure his wife would even show up to collect him.
My grandmother arrived with my mother in tote and waited for him and for his explanation as to the confusing letters he had been writing for the last year.
When they finally saw each other, my grandfather held up the letters that he had only moments earlier been given. He approached my grandmother and said, “don’t be mad momma.”
The year-long confusion finally made sense to them both. My grandmother was receiving my grandfathers letters but he was not being given her replies. For morale.
I guess war is confusing — I’m sure love is. I guess there can always be two sides to every story and often the confusion about who has the best perspective can be found somewhere in the midst of each story. I guess, at times, it’s easy to believe only what you read or hear, but even then, you must be careful and delve ever deeper to understand the often confusing mess left in the wake of a story that always has two sides. Sometimes, I guess, what we think we know is often as confusing as what we don’t know.
What a sad, sweet story about one family living through our history ~ told with love and insight. Thank you so much for sharing, B. How little the military understood at that time about what would most help the servicemen’s morale, as well as that of the families at home also making sacrifices for our country and the world. I hope that they returned all undelivered letters to the families of those who never made it home so that they could understand what had happened, too.
There are so many misunderstandings of written words and spoken. I’m trying to learn to ask for clarification before jumping to conclusions – a recent change on my part. Otherwise, I can jump very far and turn a non-problem into a tangled mess that is difficult to find a way out of. Thank you for reminding me that there is always more than one side to every story. Only by listening to all sides can a story be complete.
I love you, B. *biggest squishiest hugs*
Thanks Dani. It is such a real thing to think you know what is happening when you hear the words or read the words — but even then you might not have the whole story.
There are always 2 sides to every story. As a past nurse & as a physicians wife I hear this all the time. The internet is a great example of where you get only one side at a time & sometimes never get to hear from the other side. I do keep this in mind & it does change what I say. I even TRY to delete “sides issues” in my life, from my conversations when possible to make it fair for everyone.
Thank you for sharing such a sweet story. I love your grandmother for bringing some normal life to the POW’s. I am assuming she saw a need for it that she could not ignore.
I’m not even sure it’s a matter of being fair, I think it’s just important to have all the information possible — knowledge is powerful.
I loved hearing the stories of the POW camp and I visited the location often in my childhood.
Thanks for reading Sue!
Great post B! Your grandparents story is fascinating and a great lesson – one that I think we all need to hear more often. I try to be open to both sides (or many sides as the case may be), I am a scientist after all, but it is so easy in my personal life to hear one thing and run with it. Thank you for reminding me that is usually (always) more complex than we think it is. xo #blove
Stories can be very complex — when are you writing your’s??? #clove
Thanks for coming here and reading when I know you’re very swamped!
Memorial Day sparked many memories of my grandfather, as well. A natural born storyteller, he would draw me in with tales of growing up, scraping by, and raising his family. Very rarely, however, did he speak of his time spent at war. I believe what he saw and experienced (he was one of the first on the beach in Nagasaki) was too painful to speak aloud. Late in his life, he did write down some of what happened during those difficult years, and fortunately shared the stories with us. One of these days, I want to weave his stories alongside one of my own. It would be a perfect way to honor him.
Thank you, Becky, for sharing a piece of your grandparent’s story with us. Keeping our histories alive makes all our lives much richer.
Oh Amy — I can’t wait to hear those stories. You need to do that sooner than later!
I’ll be waiting.
Thanks for reading and commenting — seriously…write that story.
What a beautiful post, Becky, so lovely and vivid. I think you could write a wonderful short story with this material. As always, I enjoy your blog.
I was thinking about trying that… maybe I’ll try!
Thanks Kathleen!
I was thinking about trying that… maybe I’ll try!
Thanks Kathleen!
A beautiful story about the heartache and misunderstanding that often accompany separation. Each person has their own “reality”…and reality it is because it is where they are. I cannot begin to imagine the confusion, concern and fear your grandfather must have experienced during a year of not hearing from his wife and daughter. This is just another example of the “government” thinking it knows what is best for the people…hmmm…it hasn’t come very far!
Lovely story, Becky, thanks for sharing.
Thanks Laurette — I always loved hearing this story.
And mom would always add her memories of the POW camp.
Each person does have their own reality — I like that.
There are often multiple sides to every story- more even than the number of people involved. Thank you for sharing this part of your family’s story.
Thanks for reading Allison!
I think even stories we are living for ourselves can have a variety of sides to interpret.
Oh. How sad. I can’t imagine not being in communication with my husband for a year. Times were so different back then.
Your grandparents must have gone through so many emotions. Oh.
I can only imagine that regardless of the thoughts and emotions that they were thinking and feeling, the one that HAD to be the strongest was their love for eachother otherwise . . . poof. In my head, the ONLY way to survive something like that is KNOWING that your loved one loved you even though you hadn’t heard from her/the letters you received were confusing.
Wow. What a story. What a tribute to their strength and love.
I believe that sometimes there are more than two sides to a story . . . but it is nice that you learned at a young age that there is more than one side. I imagine that helps you often in your life.
It was a great story to be heard every time they told it — which was usually at the same time, and with my mother adding her two cents about the POW camp!
War has so many ways of breaking our hearts. I choked up thinking about your grandpa not getting those letters through the years. I’m glad they both shared their sides of that with you, and you with us. Very touching.