tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52859592011-08-20T06:12:17.091-07:00A journal of memories, impressions, ideas and mistakes.Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.comBlogger3301100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-86449757729187811552010-11-22T12:30:00.000-08:002010-11-22T12:36:50.829-08:00

Our digs in Frome, a 17th century publick house. My friend Jeff and I stayed here to celebrate our friend Jeremy's wedding last NYE to the lovely Penny. They postponed the wedding reception until Midsummer. Frome is a lovely town on the Avon (I am told "Avon" means "river," so to refer to the "river Avon" is redundant, redundant). Eminently walkable and very friendly, it was marred only by

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-90929590578580733842010-11-21T11:49:00.000-08:002010-11-21T11:53:08.344-08:00

Edinburgh, Morita Art and Guesthouse. Caroline and I stayed here for two days with the delightful Kozo and John and their bizarrely wonderful collection of 19th Century Scottish ceramics - and very wonderful paintings, which covered every wall of every room. My first post in this picture series was of old Edinburgh, and can be found further down. Today I present http://www.morita.co.uk/

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-67760740811669704512010-11-20T11:00:00.000-08:002010-11-20T11:04:45.699-08:00

About a century apart. First, a peek into the Beatrix Potter Garden in Dunkeld, Scotland. She spent childhood holidays here. Then modern day Inverness, with a McDonald's on one side of the street, and Poundland (British version of the Dollar Store) on the other.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-85916115650524847122010-11-19T12:53:00.000-08:002010-11-19T14:39:13.697-08:00

My friend Patty assures me that, whatever I may think I see on my site, the pictures and captions are actually in the spaces in which I placed them. That said, I'll start off today with a counterpoint to the picture from yesterday. Patty told me she had photographed the river from a tower of Conwy Castle. Here is one I took of the countryside:Earlier, Melissa and Mauri and Jeff and I climbed

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-45489225211795029332010-11-18T12:23:00.000-08:002010-11-18T14:05:08.526-08:00

Let's try this again. Only one picture per entry.Conwy Castle in Wales is (the Wiki) on the north coast, built between 1283 and 1289 during King Edward I's second campaign in North Wales. Conwy replaced an earlier stronghold that had been destroyed by Llywelyn the Last in 1263.I wonder if folks called Llywelyn "the Last" before or after his demise.Someone talked me into visiting Bodiam Castle

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-7168997473174272642010-11-17T12:02:00.000-08:002010-11-17T17:02:44.756-08:00

Bath: On either side of the entrance to the Abbey Church at Bath, angels climb or descend Jacob's Ladder. The Roman baths of Aquae Sulis are just to the right of the Abbey.I went there in 2005, and pictures can be found at http://s21.photobucket.com/albums/b257/Lucelucy/Revolutions/#!cpZZ3QQtppZZ20.This time I was in Bath to change trains and run errands. I found a T-Mobile store to provide me

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-78444562486705619412010-11-16T15:39:00.000-08:002010-11-16T16:29:18.521-08:00

First Class LA to London:Remember those first episodes of Weeds? Is Agresic down there anywhere? First impressions of First Class, however, was that there were too many amenities between me and the window. I'm in it for the landscape.East LA. I didn't know it was an ACTUAL wasteland. Oh, wait. This is northeast OF LA. I don't advise going there without a camel.I think this is what is called

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-6192064906899611472010-11-15T12:37:00.000-08:002010-11-15T12:40:57.302-08:00

An experiment here - can I post pictures?And so I can. I wonder how many of these they'll let me do. Anyway, this one is from summer 2010 in Edinburgh. The back of the Royal Mile taken from down the hill and across the river.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-41289554616967760472007-06-29T15:23:00.001-07:002007-06-29T15:33:17.254-07:00

I've got a letter from his mom - to him - don't know why it is in my possession. I should send all of these letters back to him - not the ones from me - but the ones from his aunt and mother. She encloses $10 for "the overcoat." No, the ten bucks isn't in here. Back in the day, that might have been about half the cost of a good overcoat. Maybe less, but not insignificant. Today, of course,

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-22750195973477048732007-06-24T12:40:00.000-07:002007-06-24T12:49:24.785-07:00

Finally, a letter that sounds familiar. It sounds like me. I'm not depressed and needy (although that is sometimes me). I'm not promising things I can't deliver (something I tried and have mostly succeeded in giving up over the years). There is no desperation or preaching or pleading. There is just me, telling a story about how I missed a zoology mid-term. One whole page of various

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-75693237809376359252007-06-19T16:45:00.000-07:002007-06-19T16:55:15.626-07:00

"I hate Carthage," I say on December 3, 1962. So of course, I can only be nostalgic for it now. I don't even know if there was actual ivy (the scourge of Northwest gardens), but I can almost remember ivy-covered gothic halls and picturesque walks and a library with sunny windows and leather seats. I don't think it had those either, but it did have an approximation.His "signature" signature to

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-52570481509458720842007-06-15T13:15:00.000-07:002007-06-15T13:23:28.701-07:00

Another one of those crazy "I'm all fucked up" letters - from me to him - I HOPE I didn't send these, but have a nasty feeling that he did not entirely escape the horrid self-negating tirades with which I plagued the husbands I actually did marry.As I later figured out - I fought the fight I should have had with my father using them as substitutes - and this went on until sometime in my

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-50672941193801513752007-06-11T13:33:00.000-07:002007-06-11T13:42:39.463-07:00

Still planning the Thanksgiving getaway - a bus schedule from Ft. Knox to Louisville.I have little to say about it - no great insights, no more memories - but as it happens, I read a review in yesterday's paper about a book called "On Chesil Beach," by Ian McEwan."'They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-46518274096410108412007-06-10T13:24:00.000-07:002007-06-10T13:44:48.307-07:00

Ok, this is much better. It is before Thanksgiving - still looking forward to Louisville - not so much the dark side.A cultural note: It's 1962. We were not married, but we were planning to spend the weekend together in a hotel. In 1962, unless you were in a dive of some sort, this is hard to do. The letter is full of all kinds of ruses and strategems for getting away with it. From

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-38773640891570372007-06-09T14:44:00.000-07:002007-06-09T14:55:30.790-07:00

I knew this would get difficult, but I didn't know how difficult until I read this letter I wrote on December 4, 1962. It seems to be a prologue to a frame of mind I would be wrestling with for much of the rest of my life. It certainly forecasts a frame of mind which would succeed in making the lives of two husbands in a row miserable - and one for which I can almost forgive myself for breaking

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-70805693589672923542007-06-07T15:38:00.001-07:002007-06-07T15:55:11.212-07:00

It is, as I feared, even more difficult to read my thoughts from the past than it is to read his. It is here about a month before the meeting in Louisville, and I am very anxious to see him. I am so very much in love with him, that I cannot for the life of me figure out what/when things changed. It is less than a year until I run away. But here, I can't say I love him enough.I wonder if I

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-9328655633649930142007-06-06T20:30:00.000-07:002007-06-06T20:39:57.686-07:00

Okay. I read the first one. Apparently, I am totally in love with him (I even "darling" him). Much later in life, I had one boyfriend who had to put some thought into exactly which affectionate name he could bring himself to call me, and finally settled on "darlin'. Nobody "darliings" with a straight face anymore, not without a Country and Western accent, anyway.My roommate is in love as well

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-35341340878254886662007-06-05T18:00:00.000-07:002007-06-05T18:05:42.984-07:00

Is it illegal to read someone else's mail? Even though it's been 45 years, already opened, and left somehow in your possession? Even though the sender is almost certainly dead? Even though the biggest news it contains are bowling scores? Just asking.I think I'm opening this peripheral stuff putting off the time that I deal with the small collection of my own letters - letters I wrote 45 years

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-17353558040729247952007-06-04T15:57:00.000-07:002007-06-04T18:36:32.005-07:00

An envelope on which he doodles Christmas thoughts: "Once upon a time, a long time ago, the son of god was born the son of man so that you and I should live happily ever after. Amen."He was, I think, a good Christian. A good thoughtful Christian, that is. One who did truly try to walk the talk, but not in a stuffy way. I was, at the time, a practicing atheist (the Ayn Rand effect). I don't

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-36503309491598822192007-06-03T11:15:00.001-07:002007-06-03T11:19:53.275-07:00

Next bunny from hat: a card sent to the fiancee' from a photographer who had taken a photo portrait, for what reason, I don't remember. It asks for the color of his eyes, hair, jacket and tie.]I know we had color photography then. I don't remember why we had to have photos tinted. But I do remember that they were. Which accounts for the lovely, soft colors in the photos of my mother and

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-89140933846683918932007-05-30T15:14:00.000-07:002007-05-30T15:27:32.420-07:00

Our first hot day here in Seattle. When I say "hot", I mean maybe somewhere in the 80's and excruciatingly lovely. Birds are singing (yes, I can hear them), the garden is blooming, and there is so much to be grateful for I won't even mention the sciatica. All of this is simply to hold my place until I can get something more interesting to write about. The rabbit I pulled out of the Sorting Hat

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-58515417425547808972007-05-28T13:57:00.000-07:002007-05-28T14:04:13.832-07:00

One more batch of mail in that envelope - and when I opened the 45-year-old envelope which holds them (and it's the exact same kind of 9x6 brown paper envelope that I use today) I find that they are letters sent TO him. Some of them from me. I don't know why I have them. I would think perhaps he sent all mine back to me, but I don't think so, and there's no reason that he would have sent me a

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-52441661187885167992007-05-27T15:13:00.000-07:002007-05-27T15:38:15.897-07:00

12 October 1962. He responds to a letter of mine about the attempt of some women to form a sorority on the Carthage College campus. I barely remember this, but it is important in trying to figure out where my head was at the time. Indeed, where it still is.I believe some women wanted to form a sorority - there were none, although there were three fraternities. The fiancee' seems to think it

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-70207701020033392442007-05-26T15:14:00.000-07:002007-05-26T15:31:56.830-07:00

Been awhile. I'm recovering from severe sciatica - not being able to sit for any length of time is playing havoc with the writing part of my day. But I have caught up with all the stuff saved on DVR, the latest episodes of the Sopranos, and when this is done, I am tackling The Tudors on On Demand. Life in the 21st century.Life in the 20th century, circa 1963, via a letter from my St. Olaf

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-55774525649120802342007-05-15T13:02:00.000-07:002007-05-15T13:11:57.797-07:00

A clue to his birthday. The letter dated Oct. 30, 1962, in which he says that he was 22 on Monday. Finally finding a 1962 calendar online, I see that Oct. 30 was Tuesday, so his birthday must be October 29, 1940. He is 67 now.Another clue to why I may have decided to flee. I quote: "On the whole our conversation was the best I have participated in. This is not meant to be a grading of your

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-86750265959043267192007-05-06T18:10:00.000-07:002007-05-06T18:29:03.477-07:00

Another letter, from late '62. Very short. Not much of immediate interest. Except that he calls me "dear." As in: " must close now, dear..."I have trouble sometimes believing that these letters were written to me. Sometimes they seem like something out of someone's old war diary. Didn't lovers in '40's movies call each other "dear." As in, "Oh, my dear...!" And then he goes on to refer to

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-4076530767148555852007-05-04T13:35:00.000-07:002007-05-04T13:49:56.916-07:00

He and a buddy have just gotten back from Louisville. He says he took the advice of a "bumper banner," "Choice - not chance; Go AWOL!" Nothing much to say about it - they had a bit of a bother ducking the MP's getting off the base, and he snuck a bottle of I.W. Harper's back with him. I haven't even heard of that for years - must still be out there - a very good bourbon, I believe.Wish I could

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-5292487340971209492007-04-30T09:45:00.000-07:002007-04-30T09:51:44.163-07:00

This one from much earlier - September 1962. He's still at Fort Knox, in the Service Club, listening to Miles Davis' "Sketches from Spain." He says they had pictures taken, and he's thinking he will pass his out to the NCO's "who I am sure will be delighted." I liked his sense of humor. I didn't have the mental acuity to appreciate Miles until much later. Too much taken with Chubby Checker

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-34023177538176383942007-04-27T14:24:00.000-07:002007-04-27T14:35:41.264-07:00

January 1963. He has just arrived in Fort Lee, VA. Ten pages outlining the new place and his place in it. He is a clerk/typist. The Cuban missile crisis was in October of '61, but he mentions the possibility of his unit being transferred temporarily to Florida in support of something or other there. I don't think they went.This letter holds clues as to why Vietnam - and even now, Iraq - was

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-46329405464567616372007-04-25T13:23:00.000-07:002007-04-25T13:30:49.013-07:00

A letter from mom. They (the whole family) are at a Sporting Goods show in Chicago where my dad is trying to sell a "pinpool" game he invented. Mom indicates there is lots of interest, especially from some military folks who are thinking of games soldiers play in the rec rooms, but as I recall, nothing really came of it. I don't know why.Reading it, I think perhaps my fiancee' would have been

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-29893041893527516672007-04-22T13:28:00.000-07:002007-04-22T13:36:19.458-07:00

18 January 1963: I am beginning to see - or rather, confirmed in my suspicion of - the reason I began to retreat from him. Apparently I have written him about a study group or discussion group or something of the sort with which I am involved, or which I have started - I don't remember it. But I must have written him a letter full of some kind of intellectual speculation, and he is very

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-64938150603229908672007-04-20T14:16:00.000-07:002007-04-20T14:22:59.757-07:00

Just some interesting little tidbits of life in the Army, circa 1963:1. His work group spent an hour and a half "steel-wooling garbage cans."2. This is Virginia, and the nearest town, Petersburg, tends to regard Army personnel as "carpetbaggers." Because of military integration? Is the town segregated in the "Old South" manner? He doesn't say.3. "The First Sergeant told us today that those

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-49994413638284494322007-04-18T09:59:00.000-07:002007-04-18T10:07:42.432-07:00

An explanation of G.I. (government-issued) and a list of the Army-style alphabet, apparently designed for security purposes, a "new list of nomenclature which would be used, each one, to identify in code for security reasons, each and every duty in which a soldier might participate."So we get: A=Alfa (sic); B=Bravo; C=Charlie etc."To say the resulting winning names were humorous is to be kind

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-14592479361520223242007-04-13T12:23:00.000-07:002007-04-13T12:34:38.179-07:00

Another clue as to possible reasons why I ran away from him. Letter of January 23, 1963. He is complaining about the local base library.Now, nothing he says is anything I would not have said myself in similar circumstances. I could be (still can be) as big an intellectual snob as anyone. As a matter of fact, one of the things he complains about is an inability to locate any of the books that

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-41389264182820639082007-04-11T12:57:00.000-07:002007-04-11T13:08:56.432-07:00

Getting toward the end of these letters - these lovely love letters, the like of which I was never to see again. In this one, he details his ritual of taking a shower. As if he has a need to paint me a picture of himself, a picture of who he is, of what he does and how he does it. As if these things will one day be a part of me as well. As familiar to me as they are to him now. My darling, he

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-57427601742488718502007-03-31T22:10:00.000-07:002007-03-31T22:24:58.572-07:00

January 28, 1963: A four-page letter on political philosophy. "Socialism must grow 'upward,' expanding its reforms effectively with total support, instead of 'outward' expansion. By this course our progress will understandably be slow, but can failure be possible?"Well, yes, it can. You never expect a Nixon/Reagan/Bush - much less the Spanish Inquisition. More recently known as the

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-23645240660668449812007-03-30T16:37:00.000-07:002007-03-30T16:41:30.404-07:00

Movies: he goes with his buddy to see "A Pocketful of Miracles" - based on Damon Runyon stories, and when his buddy tells him he has never read Damon Runyon, my guy takes him to a library and gets a book of stories for him. He says he hasn't laughed so much since he saw "Music Man" - with me. I remember seeing "The Music Man," but I don't remember being with him. Which goes to show something,

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-37135300729194928022007-03-27T12:22:00.000-07:002007-03-27T12:38:59.727-07:00

1st of February 1963. Just a very few more letters to go - perhaps a couple of weeks worth. I've lost track of how many there have been. This one - well -"My love, I have such high hopes for the two of us. Sounds petty sometimes but whenever I get to feeling, because of the way the Army operates, that nothing is for sure, nothing can really be counted on to happen as expected, I think of us

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-29612372636920309352007-03-26T13:40:00.000-07:002007-03-26T13:47:34.238-07:00

"You know how I like to have everything work like a plan. Not that I ever carry them out, but I like organization. Ideally, I'm a perfectionist."This note on a copy of his Army office work schedule. He's a clerk, remember. So, I have to wonder if this statement made me a little - or more than a little - nervous. Ironically, now I know exactly what he means. I'm a little - or more than a

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-36101539504611171232007-03-19T16:15:00.000-07:002007-03-19T16:29:22.971-07:00

January 1963. He's reading "This Little Band of Prophets," by Anne Fremantle. I remember reading it years ago, after I dumped him, I think I took his reading list with me. The "Prophets" were the Fabian Society of England in the late 19th, early 20th centuries - Socialists, basically - and they included George Bernard Shaw, Sidney and Beatrice Webb, H.G. Wells, Annie Besant (later of the

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-36752433283592067142007-03-18T14:08:00.000-07:002007-03-18T14:34:03.547-07:00

A little note from the not-to-be-mother-in-law. On notepaper from the Essex Inn in Chicago. Michigan and 8th streets. She says she's writing it on her lap (this is some kind of hardware convention, I think), and I almost read "laptop," before realizing... She's sending me a package. I was a little afraid of her. I don't mean "afraid" in that she intimidated me in any obvious way. I was her

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-80204049600859082282007-03-15T11:09:00.002-07:002007-03-15T11:21:45.211-07:00

Back to the fiancee'. I get a list of names and addresses. A list of community. My new community, should I decided to accept it. Of course we know, I don't, but I did try for awhile.These are addresses of his aunts, his brothers (three of them), and his best friends. To whom I am supposed to write, I think. Did I request them? I don't remember. Did I write to them? Probably not. Or maybe I did.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-47297947311461583882007-03-15T11:09:00.000-07:002007-03-15T11:19:12.139-07:00

Back to the fiancee'. I get a list of names and addresses. A list of community. My new community, should I decided to accept it. Of course we know, I don't, but I did try for awhile.These are addresses of his aunts, his brothers (three of them), and his best friends. To whom I am supposed to write, I think. Did I request them? I don't remember. Did I write to them? Probably not. Or

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-14395006970396086662007-03-14T15:40:00.001-07:002007-03-14T18:53:41.525-07:00

Just a little item today - another Valentine. Another one of the kiddie ones. A little smiling vacuum cleaner (in a vacuum cleaner shape) saying "You fill the vacuum in my heart." Toot sweet. On the back..."From Dennis I miss your voice."Now that's strange. Dennis, my little brother - 10 years younger, so maybe about 8 or 9 at this point? Wait - if it's 1963, then he's 10. His birthday is just

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-65623256870273136882007-03-14T15:40:00.000-07:002007-03-14T15:51:27.197-07:00

Just a little item today - another Valentine. Another one of the kiddie ones. A little smiling vacuum cleaner (in a vacuum cleaner shape) saying "You fill the vacuum in my heart." Toot sweet. On the back..."From Dennis I miss your voice."Now that's strange. Dennis, my little brother - 10 years younger, so maybe about 8 or 9 at this point? Wait - if it's 1963, then he's 10. His birthday is

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1679251286571059682007-03-13T18:47:00.000-07:002007-03-13T19:08:54.418-07:00

January 1963. A letter from my mother. Two things she says. "It's a gorgeous day. Hope it is there too and that you feel up to a lot of alert learning all week long! What fun to be learning, learning, learning. You should really h ave a sparkle these days!"My mother didn't finish college. She went to a community college, I believe, for a short time before coming out west to work at Lockheed

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-79050905260147428742007-03-12T19:41:00.000-07:002007-03-12T19:58:34.402-07:00

Not much inspiration today. The letter is from someone I don't remember and never really knew. Apparently she was someone who came to spend a weekend at Carthage, and was hostessed by Ann (my roommate) and I. It's a thank you note.It's February 1, 1962, so perhaps we don't know yet that the college is moving to Kenosha, Wisconsin within a few short years. I was there for two years, and

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-6837352066187911122007-03-11T12:06:00.000-07:002007-03-11T12:13:54.517-07:00

A Valentine, of the old fashioned, grade-school kind. "Hi! It's no blarney, I'm lucky to be your Valentine." Little kid with four-leaved clover. From boyfriend? Nope. From brother. Brother Randy, to be precise, seeing as there are four of them. Wonder if there's a letter further down the pile. Can't remember communicating with him much, but do remember writing a letter - I think it was

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-59839336029785492692007-03-08T17:29:00.000-08:002007-03-08T17:43:31.186-08:00

Fifties life in the married lane. Okay, it's 1962. But believe me, it's the fifties.My old friend Martha writes from Liincoln, Nebraska. The stationery has a cartoon of a plump woman hanging out clothes. Caption: "I'm more BEHIND than I thot I wuz--on writin' you this letter--But I'll SQUEEZE in jest all I kin--and next time I'll do better."The word "married" is used at least four times,

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-78778067952509776522007-03-01T14:18:00.000-08:002007-03-01T14:35:23.168-08:00

Ya know, I don't need this. The guilt. Why do I have to open two letters, right in a row, from mothers. This one's from mine. "I just hope you are worthy of our trust in you and that you are behaving responsibly."Well, of course she assumed I probably was not worthy. That assumption is implicit in the statement. This is May of 1963. She asks again about my scholarship papers that I need to

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-15038070194067310822007-02-28T14:13:00.000-08:002007-02-28T14:40:30.434-08:00

A lovely letter from his mother saying they were "very pleased when [he] wrote home and told us you were the one and only." I could go into a little guilt trip here, but I'm certain you're all sick of that and we all know by now that I was never anyone's "one and only." I'll concentrate on the rest of the letter.She talks about their store. They owned a hardware store. My fiancee' was going

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-76236796508443522482007-02-27T13:55:00.000-08:002007-02-27T14:04:40.086-08:00

Talk about an item with no clue, no idea, total disconnect. Well, we weren't talking about that at all, but here it is. A postcard of "Fountain of Three Graces on Sun Room Terrace at Arden House, Harriman Campus of Columbia University, Harriman, New York, 10926."I have never been there. I didn't know there was a Harriman Campus. I never thought about going to Columbia at any of its campuses.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-2741430657365547322007-02-21T15:09:00.000-08:002007-02-21T15:18:05.709-08:00

Theme for the day - letters. We wrote letters. With pen and ink on paper, put them in envelopes and paid the post office to deliver them. Apparently I was falling down on the job. I'm not surprised. If I still had to communicate by letter, I wouldn't communicate. One of the reason I lost track of so many folks over the years is that I would let a year or two go by before answering - and

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-9933880674947046002007-02-20T11:34:00.000-08:002007-02-20T11:40:49.092-08:00

December 3, 1962. I think the 60s are starting at last. He is writing oon the Brown Hotel stationery from Louisville, KY where we stayed together over Thanksgiving. It is a song to hotel rooms and beds in general and activity that can happen therein. I won't go into details. He actually doesn't go into details. It is all done in a tone of wonder and happiness and excitement and love. I

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-71247395506769043472007-02-17T11:44:00.000-08:002007-02-17T12:08:12.191-08:00

3 March 1963: He is reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" in anticipation of seeing the movie, out in 1962, but just now getting to the bases, I guess. My friend Kevin asserts that there are no (or very few) movies worth watching made after 1975 or so. I disagree, but reading these old letters, I can see something of what he is talking about. "Days of Wine and Roses," "To Kill a Mockingbird," - I

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-38909091690314079482007-02-13T11:54:00.000-08:002007-02-09T16:09:22.637-08:00

January 1963. just a short note to tell me he has his first real "job" iin the army - assistant stenographer in the Adjutant General's office, and something about plans for Easter - a mention of Cape Cod.I wonder what would have become of us if we had had the money to carry out some of our plans. My parents, certainly, would never have sprung for a trip to Cape Cod to be with my fiancee'. Cape

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-24596920089944334872007-02-09T16:01:00.000-08:002007-02-07T16:03:25.115-08:00

Postcard today - January 13, 1963. Showiing Post Theatre, Fort Lee, VA. ..."the first permanent structure erected on this post for the entertainment and enjoyment of all personnel." He went to see Reptilicus - a google of which finds this:Danish miners dug up a section of a giant reptile's tail from the frozen grounds in Lapland, where they were drilling. The section was flown to the Denmark

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-75565131205298441082007-02-07T15:50:00.000-08:002007-02-07T16:03:25.316-08:00

This letter almost all about seeing "Boccaccio 70" in Richmond - he's stationed at Ft. Lee, VA, I think, by now. The directors are Federico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, and Vittoria Da Sica, and the stars are Anita Ekberg, Sophia Loren and Romy Scheider. Produced by Carlo Ponti. He wants me to see it.More love letter stuff. I was thinking about what I meant the last time when I said there had

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-40884013417159212212007-02-06T10:53:00.000-08:002007-02-06T11:12:58.814-08:00

Letter early December 1962. Written on stationery from "The Brown Hotel" in Louisville, Kentucky. That is, Louisville 2, Kentucky. I don't remember what the 2 is for. A precursor to zip codes? This must be the hotel in which we stayed at Thanksgiving. I have a very fuzzy meeting of that, as I think I have said before, and I think it was perhaps because we drank too much and I was not a good

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-86399500028645934352007-02-04T15:54:00.000-08:002007-02-04T16:06:21.870-08:00

I suggested to him that we discuss books and articles and ideas. He tells me I suggested this, and that I began with something from Mark Twain. Wonder what I said.He mentions a magazine called The Reporter that he says reflects his own views. I know he told me to read The National Review, since we should keep up with the "other side." At least, I think The National Review reflected the "other

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-62699452025687646312007-02-02T14:13:00.000-08:002007-02-02T14:25:25.447-08:00

What has 18 legs and lives in the cellar?You know, the thing about love letters - well, for me, anyway - is that I long to receive them, but when they actually come with salutations like: "My love, Barbara..." I feel slightly queasy. I wonder why. He signs most letters with: "I am fine and very much in love with you..."Did I lose respect for him due to the damned endearments? Was I so used

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-59177107525267937492007-02-01T13:36:00.000-08:002007-02-01T13:52:23.907-08:00

"I must find o ut how to live in a lonely crowd; I must keep an eye on values, see the crowd as a whole and seek to understand it."Apparently I wrote that, back in 1963. He quotes me in a 5-page letter (keep in mind, these are all actual letters written in longhand with pen and ink - that's how old I am!).This from Google (a wikipedia page):The Lonely Crowd, a 1950 sociological analysis by David

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-38672562027319502372007-01-31T19:06:00.000-08:002007-01-31T19:23:06.187-08:00

23 January 1963. Just over 44 years ago. I might have received this letter exactly 44 years ago. Does that mean any fucking thing?He is going to see "The Days of Wine and Roses," which has just come out, starring Jack Lemon and Lee Remick. He tells me he stayed up almost all night in the barracks reading the paperback. The only information I can Google about that title is that the play and

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-50255887837252935262007-01-30T14:34:00.000-08:002007-01-30T14:38:54.537-08:00

More Christmas cards - handmade - signed Mary. Wonder if this is the elusive Mary Whitley - drawing of Christmas tree with happy skier perched atop it. One of the last places I heard of her was in Boulder, CO - even before that, in Chicago, she had broken a leg skiing. Tucked inside - another card with snail drawings pasted to it - signed Sue, Doug - or Dave - or - ??? - and Barb. Whoever

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-57450135496380775132007-01-29T17:41:00.000-08:002007-01-29T17:56:20.207-08:00

Musta hit a Christmas pocket. Card with three holly-based candles from my old college roommate Char and "my favorite Bruce." Wonder if they ever got married. Wonder if they're still married.I used to have to double-date with Char. Her boyfriend Bruce had a best friend whose name I have erased from the memory banks. I was always cajoled into coming along with them to "chaperone." This may

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-5545489054373607432007-01-28T17:10:00.000-08:002007-01-28T17:20:39.198-08:00

The item today is totally obscure and unimportant - a Christmas card from somebody named Paul, completely unknown to me, featuring a group of sugary sweet little baby angels. What can one say about it? Something, I suppose, about the kitsch of Christmas art over the ages - this one seems to have hardly changed since the 60's when it was sent. I'm certain we could find the same one somewhere

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-83523182559956082622007-01-20T13:26:00.000-08:002007-01-20T13:49:48.282-08:00

Not a letter. A sheet of poems. I don't think I copied these. They are by Robert Burns (John Anderson, my jo, John), some Edwin Markham (He drew a circle that shut me out - heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But love and I had the wit to win: We drew a circle that took him in!).I wonder if that's why I kept taking in lost boys.And a couple of others about fate and forgetting. One of them by

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-46564029056373307042007-01-18T15:24:00.000-08:002007-01-18T15:28:26.671-08:00

Thought I would post a couple of poems here - the ones sent to me by Judy and Robin 45 years ago. They have been living in my file cabinet for all that time, and should see the light of day. They are the poems of 17-year-olds about to graduate from high school But that was a time worth remembering:Too fast - too fast.Oh, please waitYou mustn't leaveNot now.The sun has just risen andAlready

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-57726805649474278012007-01-18T13:43:00.000-08:002007-01-18T14:02:41.284-08:00

May 26-27, 1961 - even further back in the way back machine. This one dredged up a memory buried so deep there is even now only a sliver of a shard left.It is from my friend Judy Stone, daughter of Pastor Al and Arletta Stone, late of Decatur, Illinois, who moved (accepted a call) to Seattle just before Judy's junior(?)senior(?)year. "Dear Barbovitchiroffsloskyani," she begins. She and someone

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-87147365260822373572007-01-17T19:15:00.000-08:002007-01-17T19:25:13.043-08:00

A beautiful Christmas card from the future (or not, as it turned out) mother-in-law. Another one of those that fill me with a kind of regret. Regret for disappointing this very nice woman. There is an angel on the cover. She invites me for Christmas. I remember that Christmas. Not very well, actually, but I do remember being there, feeling a little lost among his family, not understanding

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-9113226176731183542007-01-16T13:25:00.000-08:002007-01-16T14:03:50.397-08:00

This is a ten-page letter written September 19, 1962. I can't possibly deal with most of the stuff in here, but then it's not so important that I do, I guess. There is, howwever, a bit of cultural relevance that I can address. He writes about the proficiency tests he has to take, some of them physical - crawling through mud, throwing grenades, doing this, doing that, running a mile. If you

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-51574484977653243212007-01-15T18:04:00.000-08:002007-01-15T18:19:20.961-08:00

It's December, 1962. The letter serves to remind me why I thought I loved him. Maybe really did. Since he has been in my thoughts ever since. He does say something odd...He has a pass for the weekend, and is "off to see Miles." That would be Miles Davis. He's in Fort Knox, KY (Larry, not Miles) so I have no idea where Miles would be playing. Remember, this is before civil rights really

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-52710258713071122342007-01-14T12:16:00.000-08:002007-01-14T12:20:54.042-08:00

That's the Khumbu Ice Fall. And then there's the Western Cwm and the Lhotse Face. All Everest terms. I had to look it up, memory failing me, but as soon as I saw them, I recognized them almost as places I had been. I read every scrap of mountaineering that I could get my hands on when I was sixteen or so. It was my favorite form of reading, apart from Ayn Rand. Annapurna, K-2, Katchenjunga.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-22547159961392625232007-01-14T11:55:00.000-08:002007-01-14T12:13:11.091-08:00

This morning's letter is from his mom. The fiancee's mom. So far as I know, she's still alive. He actually e-mailed me after my mother's death telling me that his father was gone, but that his mother was still there. He told me that he couldn't forgive his father for being the mean bastard that apparently he was, and was angry with his mother for continuing to stand up for him. I wrote back

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-3241447234891430792007-01-11T18:13:00.000-08:002007-01-11T18:20:02.846-08:00

November 12, 1962. A naughty little boy cartoon with the adage, "Keep Smiling!! It makes people wonder whaat you've been up to." He must buy this stuff on the base. Military humor? No. Just the same silly shit we see today. But it's another love letter. He says he could just keep writing "I love you" ad infinitum, but is afraid I would get bored, and says he actually doesn't want to do

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-7696775644528174632007-01-10T14:46:00.000-08:002007-01-10T14:50:55.054-08:00

August 29, 1962. 9:25 pm. "P.S. I wish I had someone to pinch my nose for me."I wish I could say, "Oh, I remember, I used to pinch his nose. It was so cute." But I don't. I don't remember that at all. Why in Her name would I pinch his nose? It wasn't big. I don't think it was runny. What the hell kind of endearment was pinching his nose? I mean, I assume that he misses ME pinching

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-66717863473856516032007-01-09T15:56:00.000-08:002007-01-09T16:04:44.127-08:00

Just a short bit today. No new revelations - about him or me. Just the fact that he spells oaf "olf." Surely a misprint. Have I said, most of these letters are in pen and ink on notepaper. A lost art. He calls me "darling." Also a lost art. So is "olf" a mis-scribble?I was thinking the other day about one of my favorite words. "Gloaming." Just looked it up, to be certain of its origins.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-75526047023449697762007-01-08T17:15:00.000-08:002007-01-08T17:31:35.195-08:00

6 November 1962. The stationery has a cartoon charactor at the top - a buck-toothed little urchin - and a tag that says: "Don't ask me. You'll do what you want to anyhow."Wonder if it's some kind of response?Nothing much happening here. He's in clerical school, and is happy that he is meeting other "intellectuals," or at least, fellow college graduates instead of the "morons, punks, etc."

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-72544214271186717812007-01-07T13:14:00.000-08:002007-01-07T13:32:44.017-08:00

Beginning 2007 with a letter dated 22 September 1962. I'm getting the date from the envelope - and changing said date. I could swear the envelope says 1961. But it simply cannot be. I graduated from high school in 1961. By September, I have barely started college and possibly don't even know who this guy is, not to mention having any idea of the drama/s to come. So - Ft. Knox, from where

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1166645244625720852006-12-20T11:58:00.000-08:002006-12-20T12:07:24.660-08:00

I am Ina Garten! I am Ina Garten! In my last post, I assumed that Ina Garten status was a station totally beyond me in this life. Last Sunday, I was confirmed in that assessment. Attempting to make her famous "Jam Thumbprint Cookies" for gifts (just as Ina does), the project fell so totally flat that I was reduced to buying thirty scratch tickets from my local 7-11 in liew of lovely little

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1165868512145298992006-12-11T12:03:00.000-08:002006-12-11T12:21:52.163-08:00

You know by now that this relationship, the one with the fiancee' in the army, is the one I regret leaving the most. I blame myself. I say, I wasn't the person he or his family or my family wanted me to be. I sometimes wish I could have been.Was watching "Barefoot Contessa" the other day, and told my housebuddy Brandon that Ina Garten represented me in another life. I think if I had married

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1165198249589909812006-12-03T18:01:00.000-08:002006-12-03T18:10:49.610-08:00

September 22, 1962. We are still in love. I know this because I have written the words to a song - "I Love Paris in the Springtime" - on the envelope - except that I have substituted his name for Paris. Little did I know at that time that some 23 years later I would date a man named Paris and spend eight months in the house of the 300 pound crazy man (not named Paris)...but I digress. I have

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1164573133572879062006-11-26T12:19:00.000-08:002006-11-26T12:32:13.586-08:00

There is a letter today from a friend of the fiancee'. Someone I evidently met while they were home on leave. He is stationed in Baltimore, MD, and is hoping to ship out for Germany soon. Apparently the reason he joined the Army. See the world, and all that. He describes Baltimore as "a good city...many foreign and art films, avant garde plays (Albee, Genet, etc.)" According to his letter,

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1163986143877792812006-11-19T17:14:00.000-08:002006-11-19T17:29:03.900-08:00

Today there is a true love letter. Not the mushy kind, really. Just a really lovely love letter. Not from the kissing guy. "I had thought, when I first left you [to go into the army], that it would not be long until the memory of you would begin to become vague and finally stray into my unconscious but it's not that way at all. As it turns out, you remain still very much an integral part of

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1163387285909325482006-11-12T18:51:00.000-08:002006-11-12T19:08:05.926-08:00

I feel I should expand upon that kissing business. I only intend to add to this blog once a week, since I am going to make a serious effort to get the novel ready to send to editors/agents in some kind of effort to interest one of them. But since I spent so much effort today trying to remember what I've been doing with myself for the past year and a half, it seems I have not done this latest

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1163367668634657422006-11-12T13:22:00.000-08:002006-11-12T13:41:08.656-08:00

It's been about a year and a half sinice I last posted here. There will be no one watching for it. I'll go on anyway. It's been a remarkable time. I have finished the novel, but not sold it. Been to two Oregon Country Fairs, working midnight to 6 AM at the Dragon Gate and proud of it, been elected Democratic Precinct Committee Officer of my little precinct, and just recently seen my beloved,

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1108421376652133222005-02-14T14:43:00.000-08:002005-02-14T14:49:36.653-08:00

A postcard. A nice covered bridge in Switzer, KY. "All the others were pictures of war machinery or battle scenes" He says he should write, "Having a great time. The weather is fine. Wish you were here." But it's not true, except for the last line. Toot sweet.Today is my 62nd birthday. It's Valentine's Day, 2005. Just got my new driver's license. It doesn't expire until 2010, which

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1108153569276041172005-02-11T12:22:00.000-08:002005-02-11T12:26:09.276-08:00

A partial notelet from the fiancee's mother saying she has invited me up for "Thanksgiving and Santa Claus". I think I went. I remember snuggling with him in his own bed, and being afraid someone would catch us, but he wasn't worried. I liked his parents. They drank. Mine didn't. When I say that, I mean that they drank socially. I remember having some creme' de menthe and some kind of

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1108078655808621582005-02-10T15:28:00.000-08:002005-02-10T15:37:35.806-08:00

A letter from the fiancee's dad - to the fiancee'. Don't know how it ended up here. Nothing earthshaking. His father owned a hardware store. That fact was a huge factor in my decision not to marry him. Because he had every intention of going into business with his father (and, in fact, he did). Today I would say, "wholesale hardware for me - whoopee" but I did not have that kind of sense

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107984497102422822005-02-09T13:16:00.000-08:002005-02-09T13:28:17.103-08:00

This is peculiar...A list of things, written on a piece of Carthage College notepaper, in printing almost too small and now too faded to make out. I didn't write this. I don't think the fiancee' wrote this. I don't know who wrote it. It begins with Stan Getz and ends with Ayn Rand. In between - Charlie Byrd Herbie Mann with "Common Home Baby" Ben Hect, Quenten Reynolds (all spellings are

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107893133178512472005-02-08T13:01:00.000-08:002005-02-08T12:05:33.176-08:00

January 1963, a letter from my old pal Dave in the Air Force. He's a maintenance guy. Newly assigned to Abilene, TX from Biloxi, MS. He says the planes he was going to work on here (B47's) are being replaced by B52's and need a larger runway. He's writing on cartoon paper that starts out "I'm finally writing you a letter because I need a friend." He complains about there being nothing to do

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107819669723786892005-02-07T15:40:00.000-08:002005-02-07T15:41:09.723-08:00

Just googled India 1962 - Apparently China attacked India in a territory dispute in October of 1962.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107819556382858282005-02-07T15:27:00.000-08:002005-02-07T15:39:16.383-08:00

Army slang: USATC: You sorry ass tank commander...circa 1962 There's a little drawing of a tank at the top of his Fort Knox stationery. He's drawn a little tank driver poking out the top, and a caption telling me to "tell Smitty this is me." I think I am attending Young Republican meetings on campus. I vaguely remember this. My father was an Eisenhower Republican. I have not yet become

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107547533189458972005-02-04T11:57:00.000-08:002005-02-04T12:05:33.190-08:00

He talks about the dressing down they are given when there has been too much fooling around in the barracks. First, he says, the CO gives the assembly a threatening lecture about what will happen should anyone get sent to his office. 2nd, the NCO adds a bit of a physical threat. Finally, the sergeant tells them how the lazy ones are always the ones who get killed in battle. They are the ones

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107462134219631512005-02-03T13:16:00.000-08:002005-02-03T12:22:14.220-08:00

Just a little note where he says he has a letter from my mom, approving our meeting at my roommate Anne's for Thanksgiving. Of course, we plan no such thing. We plan a meeting in a hotel room in Kentucky. I can't even remember where. I remember being there. I vaguely remember being on a bus. I vaguely remember getting very drunk - that is, when I read another of his letters received after

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107287072190588212005-02-01T11:39:00.000-08:002005-02-01T11:44:32.190-08:00

October 29, 1962: The Cuban Missile Crisis He writes: "I get so damned mad when I think of the leaders of the two world powers putting everything on the block, risking all, closing their ears to negotiations leaving no room to save face except by war. It's all so damned silly...Our threats endanger mankind. Why shouldn't Russia demand that we take our missle bases out of Turkey by the same

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1107203656301397202005-01-31T13:25:00.000-08:002005-01-31T12:34:16.300-08:00

A little pamphlet entitled "Things an Individual Soldier Should Know" entails all the financial obligations the army has to its enlisted personnel. Okay, this is 1962. Base pay, Grade E-1 (Under 4 months service) $78/month. Out of that they take $4 income tax and $2.34 Social Security. A new soldier gets $71.66 a month. This gradually increases to a whopping $108/month after two years, of

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1106948756620780002005-01-28T13:28:00.000-08:002005-01-28T13:45:56.620-08:00

Oh where oh where did my other self go? I have come up with a plan for us to meet at Thanksgiving. He writes (after assuring me that even if this one doesn't work, we will meet at T-day somehow somewhere): "It's too bad that your plan could not be worked out for another reason that for the first time, (or maybe the second), you have thought ahead and at least attempted to 'watch your step' so

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1106857063878529192005-01-27T13:13:00.000-08:002005-01-27T12:17:43.876-08:00

"...are you digging the 'Bosa Nova', the new jazz beat sensation. It's written up in Time and is very topical... "Did I tell you to read Mark Twain's 'Letters from the Earth'?...Very bold, it seems." I wonder if he blamed my abscontion (I just made that word up) on the Bosa Nova.

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5285959.post-1106783094862197022005-01-26T15:28:00.000-08:002005-01-26T15:44:54.863-08:00

I must be acting up some, and getting some flack for it at school - damn! I wish he'd sent my letters back, so I would have some clue as to what the hell I was doing. Something extraordinarily selfish, I presume. But I'm not making eyes at anyone else as yet - that doesn't happen until the next semester - but enough of that for right now. There is still a year as yet to go before I really

Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13516846837239708439noreply@blogger.com0