Last week I flew to Tucson upon hearing of my father's death. He'd lived a good life, had been a school-teacher, and had been married for fifty-three years and raised three kids. Our mother had died six years earlier and he'd continued living in their little duplex in Green Valley, Arizona, surrounded by his books and extensive classical music collection. As neither of my younger brothers could stick around after the funeral, it fell to me to go through and dispose of his possessions and get the house ready to be sold. I had taken a couple of weeks off of work, so I had the time to carefully go through all of his stuff.
After a few days I had arranged to for Goodwill to come and pick up much of the furniture and salvageable clothes, and kitchen odds-and-ends. This left me with all of the bookcases containing my father's major collection of books, some of which were rare titles associated with his primary love of astronomy. Each morning I would put on some good music on dad's superb sound system, boot up my laptop, and start carefully going through and cataloging each of the books. There were some that I wanted to keep, and some I knew that my brothers might want, and others I felt could be sold via on-line booksellers. And this was how I found the leather-bound notebook.
I had carried a stack of books over to the table where I was working and sorted the books into a couple of piles. One of them was a black leather-bound journal-like notebook. I casually opened it up and riffled the pages. It looked to contain approximately 100 pages, or so, in my father's neat, but crabbed, handwriting in black ink. I sat down and started reading from the beginning. After several hours I was done, and my prior perspective about my family was now completely stood upon its head. The only way to explain it is to simply share some of my father's story verbatim with you. Obviously, I have changed the names to protect my family's privacy. Here is the first part of "The Notebook".
***
November 1953
I think I truly fell in love with my mother the day I returned home from nearly three years of combat during the Korean War. My mother had single-handedly raised me from my birth in 1930 until I enlisted in the Army in 1950, at the age of nineteen. I never knew my father, and she never talked about him either (well, not until much, much later). All I knew was that I was raised by a woman who loved me dearly and did her very best to give me a good life during the depths of the Depression and the long years of the Second World War. We lived on a small farm in western Nebraska that she had inherited from her father. Between the two of us we managed to raise a few dozen head of cattle, pigs, and farmed a couple of hundred acres with corn, mostly for feed for our own livestock and what was left over to be sold to neighboring farms.
My mother's name was Margaret, but everyone called her Maggie. She was tall, nearly six feet, long-legged, with a mane of long black hair that she typically kept in a braid that went halfway down her back. While I suppose one couldn't say that she was movie star beautiful, she was strikingly good looking. As I grew older I did notice that a lot of men kind of surreptitiously looked her over as she walked past when we went to town. Hell, to be honest, I did too.
Mother was eighteen years old when she had me, and she got the farm where we still lived when she was 24 and I was just a little fellow of six. I do remember that when I was a little boy and really wasn't able to help around the farm, Mother had hired an older man I just knew as "Mike". He came by three or four days a week and worked several hours doing the heavy chores that she couldn't manage on her own. But by the time I was 14 or 15 she was able to let him go as we managed just fine on our own. I had grown into a strapping young man of nearly six and a half feet tall, big, raw-boned and full of piss-and-vinegar.
I enjoyed working with her. My mother was a patient woman, light-hearted, a bit of a practical joker. Looking back on her over all of these years I realize that she was absolutely amazing in how she dealt with the privations of the Depression, the war, and trying to raise a child and run a farm all on her own. Talk about independent women, frankly my mother was the perfect example.
My mother had graduated from high school and she was adamant that not only would I graduate, but that I would go eventually to college too. Well, the Korean War kind of put those plans on hold for a few years. When I received my draft notice in the fall of 1950, I thought my mother would completely go to pieces. She was terrified that I was going to be killed and that she'd be all alone for the rest of her life. It was a tough few weeks around the farm before I left for boot-camp and then Korea.
I am not going to recount my experiences over the three years that I was in Korea during the war—it was terrible from start to finish—but suffice it to say that I wrote my mother, at least a few lines, just about every day that I was there. Interestingly enough, she took each one of those letters and home-made cards that I made for her and mounted them in a series of scrapbooks that she treasured for the rest of her life.
***
I got off of the bus late in the early fall evening, hefted my duffel-bag up onto my shoulder and began the walk up the dusty county road toward our house and farm just before sunset. I hadn't told mother that I was mustered out and on my way home in my last note to her. I wanted to surprise her.
I reached the house just as the sun went down. I quietly stepped up on the porch and set the duffel down. I peeked in the living room window and could see mother in her robe standing in front of the range in the kitchen. It looked like she was making herself a cup of tea. I stepped back, snugged up my tie, dusted the dust off of my uniform and then lightly tapped on the door. After a few seconds she opened the door, she looked at me for a moment with wonder in her eyes and then she screamed with delight and leaped into my arms!
"Oh, David, David, David, is it really you?" she squealed, as she smothered my cheeks and lips with kisses. I held her weight completely in my arms as she had wrapped her legs around my waist as she hugged me tightly. Instantly I could tell that she was ready for bed as she didn't have any clothes on under her robe, and she smelled so damned good, almost like the soft sweet smell of jasmine on an early spring morning. It was simply intoxicating to be home and to be holding my mother again.
I slowly set her down, circled her waist with my arm, grabbed my duffel and led her into the house. I stopped and looked around taking in the familiar sights and smells, and plopped my bag in the rocker by the door. I kicked the door closed with my heel, looked at her and said, "I'm home, Mother, I'm home for good!"
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she took me in her arms again and kissed me and softly said, "I am so glad, Honey! I have been praying for this day for so long..." she tailed off as she reached up caressed my face and mussed my short bristly hair, "Come along then, honey, let's get you settled."
I grabbed the bag and made my way down the hall to my bedroom. I dumped the contents of my duffel bag on the bed and we both spent a few minutes hanging the clothes in the closet. Mother went over to the tall wooden bureau and opened a drawer. She handed me my old robe, clean and neatly folded and smelling of cedar chips. She smiled and asked, "Do you want to take bath? You've got to be dusty and tired after your trip."
I replied, "Hell yes, Mother, that sounds great! But first I want a whiskey—no rocks, no water, just whiskey."
"Coming up, darling. And I'll go start the bath while you change, and then go make your drink."
***
With a sigh I slowly sank down into the hot water in the large enameled claw-foot iron tub in the bathroom just off of Mother's bedroom. 'Jesus!' I thought, 'this feels too damn good!' I leaned back, up to my neck in the water, and closed my eyes.
A few moments later Mother tapped at the door, poked her head in and asked, "Are you in the tub, dear? Ahh, you are..." She came in, bringing a small wicker stool that she set down next to the tub.
"Yes, I am, and it feels so good...I think it has been three years since I last actually took a bath."
She sat down on the stool, wrapping her robe around her legs, and handed me the whiskey in a heavy glass tumbler. She had one for herself too. We 'clinked' glasses and each took a slug. The fire raced down my gullet and instantly warmed my stomach. The water, the whiskey, and just being finally home seemed to be washing the past three years away in a matter of moments.
We made small talk and caught up on the doings around the farm, town, and the Army. She told me that the crops had been pretty good this year and that we'd actually been turning a profit for the past couple of years. I asked if my salary from the Army had been making it home, and she told me that I had quite a fat bank account waiting for me down at Farmer's Trust on Main Street.
I laughed, "Mother, that money was always yours and the farm's."
She replied, "Oh, honey, that is your money. The farm and I are doing fine, just fine."
I smirked at her, "Well, if that's the case, maybe I'll use my money and the G.I. Bill to buy myself a farm and house of my own."
A look of horror crossed her face, "Oh, no! Honey, don't do that! This is your home. I don't want you to leave...please, please don't leave!"
I laughed and reached out and grabbed her hand, "Don't worry, Mom, I'm just teasing you. I am so glad to be here with you, here in our home."
"Whew!" she whistled, "I thought for a moment you were serious...I mean I know a lot of veterans are coming home and doing just that."
"Nah," I replied as I sipped my drink, "I just wanted to get a rise out of you. It has been a long, long time since I have been able to tease you, Mama."
"You big kidder," she said softly as she reached over and rubbed my shoulder and arm. I slid my toes up out of the water and slowly turned on the hot water to just a trickle to warm up the tub. She said, "Hmm, I'll get that for you, baby," and as she leaned over the tub and reached for the faucet her robe gapped open and I was treated to the sight of my mother's large, pendulous breasts with their large brown nipples.
