flitting around landing here or there. It feels good. Weightless.
The kids are doing well, though I’ve noticed that Robbie isn’t asking for Robert anymore. He’s taken to calling Levi “Papa.” I’m worried about that and know I should put the kibosh on it. Maybe I should encourage Robbie to call him Uncle Levi? He’s so like a brother to Robert, anyway....
Those meetings, though, with Mrs. M....leave me breathless. I never knew how much power we have as a people, a government. There have been some ingenious women in our history, Rita. Wouldn’t it be nice to join the ranks of Abigail Adams, Lucretia Mott or even Elizabeth Cady Stanton?
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men AND WOMEN are created equal.” Imagine! See what they don’t teach us in school? I swear Corrine will grow up knowing what she’s made of.
As for my garden, well...see for yourself. I’ve enclosed a photograph. The black-and-white won’t do it justice, but just look, Rita! Look at how lush it is, with the sea peeking out from behind the tall sunflowers at the back. I’ve named those sunflowers. I call them Rita 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and I say good-morning each day.
Sending you love and prayers for peace,
Glory
P.S. I just got another letter from Robert. His division will be moving from Sparta to New York. I should be happy, right? Because I’ll surely see him, then. But I know that being stationed back near the coast will mean that he’ll go overseas soon. I wish he could be with Toby or Sal. Maybe we can write to them and tell them to try to take care of one another? I know Toby and Sal are not fighting on the same fronts, but what if you petition them to be nearer? Can we do that?
There’s so much I don’t understand about this war. So much I wish I knew.
Oh, well. I suppose I just have to keep learning. And writing letters.
June 17, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dearest Glory,
Thank you for accepting my letters with such grace. I’ve been in such a state these past few weeks, and your words act as a balm to my frayed nerves. Sometimes I wish the censors would attack domestic letters with the same ferocity they do those going overseas. I’m certain my ravings would merit a few slashes of black ink!
So, to address your most important question: my stockings look like they’ve been in a gunfight at the OK Corral. I will gladly accept any charitable donations to my lingerie wardrobe. I can repay you in heirloom seeds and advice.
I’ll give you an advance on the advice—make sure your children know who their daddy is. We don’t know how long this godforsaken war is going to last, but we do know that our guys are in it for the long haul. I don’t mean to depress you, but that baby of yours could be walking about singing “The White Cliffs of Dover” by the time Robert returns. Levi should be Levi. Papas are Papas.
But then, I don’t know if someone like me should be handing out advice like a regular Queen Bee. I’ve behaved shamefully, Glory. Remember my friend Irene? Well, Irene is a real plain Jane, if I’m being honest, and she’s not one for mixing. In warmer weather, the university hosts a social outdoors near the Old Capitol Building. I convinced Irene to go, and promised I’d join her for moral support. Turns out I’m the one who needs help in the morality department.
As you could guess, the women outnumbered the men ten to one. We hens stood in clusters, some tittering about nothing in particular, others wondering why the men who did attend weren’t in uniform. I caught Irene staring at one of them—a tall, cowboyish sort, with thick, straw-colored hair and an easy smile. I gave her a nudge, but like I said, she isn’t the mixing type. Irene shook her head and started sucking down her ginger ale, like it suddenly required all of her effort and attention.
With a quick apology to Sal—I swear!—I sauntered over to that man, completely brazen, and asked him to join us. He did. We introduced ourselves. (He’s probably only in his mid-thirties, but called himself “Mr. Clark,” so we went by Miss Vincenzo and Miss Wachowski, like a couple of coeds.). Then darn if he didn’t reach into the pocket of his suede sport coat and pull out a flask. Irene just about keeled over.
“Ladies first,” he said, and poured a couple of thumbs into what was left of Irene’s ginger ale.
He turned to me and I didn’t have a glass. With one raised eyebrow he watched as I took hold of that flask and knocked back a shot! I haven’t done that since before Mr. Roosevelt was in office. Irene’s eyes grew big and her mouth pursed tight as a fisherman’s knot.
Well, I talked for both of us, and the next thing I knew I’d invited him over for dinner next Wednesday (with Irene, of course). I’m not sure what I’ve gotten her into, but I’m calling it a date. Irene doesn’t show it much, but she’s excited. I swear, she’s asked me six different times if she should roll her hair up or not.
I love my husband, Glory, but I can’t tell you how nice it is that a man will be admiring my cooking and the way I keep my house. Your suffragette women would probably give me a good pounding if you told them I said that, but it’s true. I suppose what I’m saying is I understand why you have Levi around, it’s just you must understand there are lines we can’t cross.
Warm regards,
Rita
P.S. I haven’t seen Roylene since our trip to Ohio. I didn’t embarrass her or Toby that morning, but I think she suspected I knew what went on. She stared out the window the entire return trip, and scurried off as soon as we arrived in Iowa City.
P.P.S. I haven’t gotten any V-mail at all. Not one letter from Toby or Sal. I think the postman is afraid of me. Every afternoon I nearly tackle him as he approaches our mailbox!
July 4, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dearest Rita,
I know it’s been a while since I wrote back to you. So many things are happening right now and I don’t quite know what to do with myself. The earth moves and I’m trying to find a foothold.
First things first. This letter is inside a box of all sorts of stockings. I hope you like them. I also included a jar of strawberry jam I put up. (If you knew me really well you’d know what a surprising thing that is!) But I wouldn’t have any strawberries, or any garden for that matter, if it wasn’t for you.
Thank you for that.
I’m purposely writing this letter today as it is the birthday of this great nation. The one we sacrifice for every day. One town over, in Gloucester, we have a parade and then bonfires on the beaches. And I took baby Corrine and Robbie. Corrine is getting so big now. She’s a smiley baby with fat cheeks. She soothes me so. I put her in this fancy new pram Claire gave me (she’s a good one for presents, that Claire...), and Robbie helped me push. We were a bit early so I strolled them over to the beaches that Levi, Robert and I made our magical paradise as kids. There were bonfires already starting even with the sun not quite set. And that’s when I saw him. Levi, staring out over the ocean. I’d invited him to come with us...but he told me
