Morning Glory
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then take this and put it with your things. It’s a book of poems by the masters, and I want your assurance that you’ll read and reread it.”
“Poems... well...”
“A man, it is said, can live three days without water but not one without poetry.”
He accepted the book, looked down at it with a full heart.
“Thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary. Only the promise that you’ll read it.”
“I promise.”
“I can see your dubiousness. Undoubtedly you’ve never thought of yourself as a poetic man, but I’ve heard you talking about the bees and the boys and the boughs—they have been your poetry. This shall stand in lieu of them... until your return.”
He gripped the book in both hands as if swearing upon it. “Until my return.”
“So be it. Now...” She paused as if putting aside one subject before attacking another. “Do you have money for your fare?”
It was a question a mother might have asked, and it went straight to Will’s heart. “The draft board sent me a ticket.”
“Ah, of course. And decent meals while you travel?”
“Yes, ma’am. Besides, Elly packed me some sandwiches and a piece of quince pie.” He hefted his bag.
“Why, of course. How silly of me to ask.”
They paused, trying to think of something to fill the awful void which seemed impacted with hidden emotions.
“I told her to come to you if she needs help with anything. She don’t have nobody else, so I hope that’s okay.”
“No sense in getting maudlin, Mr. Parker. I’d be insulted if she didn’t. I shall write to you and keep you informed of the goings-on about the library and town.”
“’Preciate it, ma’am. And I’ll write back, tell you ‘bout all them Japs and Jerries I get.”
The train steamed in on a billow of smoke and noise. They were at once relieved and sorry it had finally arrived. He touched her arm and moved toward the silver car with the black and white families and the Girl Scouts and the DAR ladies and the local reporter, all who politely nodded and called Miss Beasley by name.
The sun still shone in an azure sky pocked with bundles of clouds a shade darker than the smoke spouting from the locomotive. A flock of pigeons dropped down in a flurry of wings to settle on the baggage dray. The black family kissed their boy goodbye. The white family kissed theirs. The conductor said, “Boooooard!” but Will Parker and Gladys Beasley stood uncertainly before one another—a portly old woman in an ugly black hat and a rangy young man in a battered felt one. They looked at their feet, their hands, her purse handle, his brown paper bag. And finally at each other.
“I shall miss you,” she said, and for once her sternness was gone, the dry-pudding lines relaxed about her mouth.
“In my whole life I never had anybody to miss—now I got so many. Elly, the kids and you. I’m a lucky man.”
“If I were a sentimental woman I might say, if I had a son, and all that.”
“Booooard!”
“I imagine conductors these days get hoarse calling that word,” she ventured, and suddenly they pitched together, his book pressed against her back, her purse thumping his hindside. Immersed in her spicy scent, he closed his eyes a moment, thinking of how grateful he was that she’d come into his life.
“If you get yourself killed I shall never forgive you, Mr. Parker.”
“I know. Neither will I. Take care of yourself and I’ll see you when I get back.”
They lurched apart, searched each other’s faces—hers pruned to keep her from breaking down, his wearing a soft grin—then he kissed her swiftly on the mouth and spun for the steps of the waiting car.
CHAPTER
16
Feb. 26, 1942
Dear Elly,
I’m at Parris Island and the trip down wasnt bad. I had to change trains in Atlanta, and made it into Yemassee in late afternoon. Met there by marine corp recruit bus and rode it thirty mi. to the base, which is just outside Buford an ugly town I was glad I dint live in. Crossed a bridge and traveled thru a big marsh to get here. Yellow grass and birds by the hundruds you would love to see em. Met by our drill sergeant a big mean bull name of Twitchum and he right away starts laying it to us. He roars like a sonuvabee and says how we got to start and end everything we say with sir, like—sir request permission to speak sir—and he makes a couple recruits crinj and feel dumb and theres a few farm boys here from Iowa and Dakota who never saw anything but the back end of a horse, and they’re pretty big-eyed I dont know why they came to the marines but some think the armys the worst and would rather take the sea instead thinking to keep away from the front maybe. Them farmboys looked ready to jump the fence but Ive seen all kinds in prison, so boot camp’s nothing new. Twitchum he likes to make those farmboys scart. Kept em up till all hours making them learn how to make up a bed before they could sleep in it cause their mamas allways made theres up at home so they never lurnd how. Me I had five years of making up my own and plenty worse to pay if it wasn’t done right than around here. Twitchum he comes by and gives everybody the old eagle eye and he sees my bed done up good and stops with his nose so close to mine I could smell his snot and he says to me (testing me, see)—what’s your name boy and I says sir-Parker-William-Lee-sir, and he says to me—northerner or southerner? But Ive seen his kind before and Ive seen how he looks at those yankee farmboys and enjoys making them squirm and how he takes digs at the black boys and makes them squirm too so I says to him—sir-westerner-sir. He thinks about it a hen’s blink and barks—Bunk patrol every morning at 0-500 hours, Parker. You dont teach them farmboys how to do womens work and its your ass! So I reckon I got me a duty already. How about that. Miss Beasley gave me a fare-well book of poems and I gave her a kiss she din’t seem to mind They issued us our fatigues and blankets and toilet artikles and marched us in here to our barracks and half of em are laying here snivveling for home I reckon. Me I know theres worse places than this cause I been there. But I sure miss you green eyes and those babies and our bed. I ate the sandwiches and the pie on the train and they tasted real good and I probly never told you before but you make the best quince pie of anything. Lites out theyre saying so I have to end here and I’m sorry if this aint so clear my writing never was good cause I hated school and dint go much less they made me.
Your loving husband
Will
Feb. 26, 1942
Dear Will,
I never wrote no letter before I don’t know how but its time I lurn don’t you think. We ate supper without you but the boys were frack fracshus (sorry I ain’t got no eraser) and I had trouble looking at your chair I kep wonderin where you were and if you had got there yet and if they fed you and give you a warm bed and all them things. And did miss Beasley come to the stashion like she said she would I can’t spell nor think clear on paper but feelings are a diffurnt thing and them I got aplenty I miss you so already Will and you been gone only today.
This took me near an hour and it dont seem like much for so long but tomorr I’ll write more.
With love
Eleanor
Feb. 28, 1942
Dear Will,
Your letter came and Parris Island sounds just awful I cried because I felt so bad for you like you are being brave on my account when you say it aint so bad there. I did not cry for myself this time but I feel bad for you being there I hope you are okay that Twitchum sounds like a regular satan and I read plenty about him in my time...
Parris Is., So. Carolina
28 Feb. 1942
Dear Elly,
... I’m sending you my application for war bonds and insurance. Be sure to keep them in a safe place...
March 1, 1942
Dear Will,
I thot sure I’d get another letter from you Are you okay? Everyday when the mail comes I run down there and see if theres a letter in the box but there was only that one. Are you sure you are okay
?...
Parris Is., So. Carolina
2 March 1942
Dear Eleanor,
I sure miss you green eyes and I would of writen before but they dont give us time we’re up at 0430 hours (that’s 4:30 in civvy time) and Twitchum wakes us up by kicking a shit can (that’s a trash can) down the squad bay and we hit the deck running. They give us each exactly three minuts in the latrine to shower and shave and you know what else if we got to and he’s in there barking like a mad dog all the time and the rest of the day its go go go till 0900 hours and then we get one hour of free time but it aint free cuz Twitchum comes in and makes us do drill or polish his boondockers (that’s boots here). So no time for writing till now.
I been what they called processed so I got no hair left kiddo and I look ugly as a coot with mange but it saves time in the morning and you don’t want no picture of anything this ugly. Anyways, they have’nt offered for us to get any pictures taken yet so maybe later. Also they fixed my teeth and gave me 7 shots in different places, four you-know-where. Ouch! Those needles could be a little sharper. In bed at night I think of you and the kids and your good cooking but the chow here ain’t as bad as I expected, better than in prison I can tell you. I don’t...
Ran out of time—mailing this on the run
Love,
W
4 March 1942
Dear Elly,
Your letter came in yesterdays mail call after I already sent mine the day before and I told you why I had not written. Dont worry about me I’m doing fine Twitchum lays off me but I see him watching close in case I make a mistak don’t worry I ain’t gonna make any I’m gonna act like his trained monkey. I sure do miss you and the kids and I suppose Lizzy P is growing. I have read your letters til the edges are getting raggy but don’t you worry about me I’m just a little lonesome is all. They feed me good here and when your bellys full you can put up with near anything. Don’t worry about me tho I’m just fine. Things here are speeding up. Today we got issued our .30 caliber rifles and bayonets and we have to memorize the model numbers—1903 & 1905. Every day I go to physical training, bayonet training and a class on military history who ever would’ve thought I’d be back in school again at my age but I am and next week we start first aid classes and articles-of-war classes and of course there is always close-order drill for hours and hours every day. They say all that marching teaches discipline and thats important in a military organization but now I reckon I know why they call this boot camp cause these boots sure get a workout ever day. Theres sure all kinds here Elly—course I was with all kinds in Huntsville too but heres diffrent cause your closer to them all the time. Some of them stink so bad we all got to go to hygiene lessons and lots of them can’t read so they go to reading classes The blacks got their own barracks and we got ours but everybodys got a buddy it seems. Mine’s this lanky redhead from Kentucky named Otis Luttrell. We get along good cause neither one of us likes to talk much...
March 13, 1942,
Dear Mr. Parker,
By now you are becoming acclimated to Marine life while we at home slowly become acclimated to the idea of our country being at war. We here in town are being propagandized more and more now that America is actively in it. It seems there’s a new sign each week encouraging us to do our part, the latest one a picture of Uncle Sam shushing us, saying, “A slip of the lip can sink a ship.” It seems incredible to believe there could be spies working among us in a place as small as Whitney.
Every organization from the Boy Scouts to the Jane Austen Society is sponsoring a scrap drive these days. To my chagrin they have even taken the Civil War cannon from the Town Square to be melted down as scrap iron. I raised a formal objection with the Town Council—after all, posterity must also be served—but of course their attitude was one of righteous patriotism, thus I was overridden.
Norris and Nat MacReady have volunteered to organize a Civil Patrol and be air raid wardens. They patrol each night to make sure everyone is in off the streets by ten and all blackouts are observed. Frankly, after all the years they have spent whittling on that bench across the street I thought they had grown into it!
I am making it a Saturday ritual to go out to visit Eleanor immediately after closing, since the days are longer now. Also it helps that we get an extra hour since “War Time” has gone into effect to save on electricity. Your wife and I always have a pleasant visit and a game or two of Chinese checkers. I take the boys books which occupy them while I’m there. They are looking healthy and robust, and Elizabeth is content and growing weekly.
I have put in a little Victory Garden but I fear I am not blessed with a green thumb like Eleanor. But I shall struggle on with it and perhaps get a tomato or two. Eleanor has volunteered to teach me to put up vegetables. I didn’t want to hurt the poor child’s feelings, but I’m afraid I’ve been behind a desk too long to be handy with colanders and sieves. Still, I shall try.
The butcher shop is acting as a collection depot for wastefats. The billboard there claims one pound of fat contains enough glycerine to make a pound of black powder, so we are all saving our bacon drippings for that cause.
Yet another new billboard has been posted in the town square right beside the MacReadys’ bench. On it is listed the names of all the local boys who have joined up. Your name is listed on the right column between Okon, Robert Merle, United States Navy, and Sprague, Neal J., United States Army. Thankfully none have a star behind them yet.
Franklin Gilmore is working out fine at the library although he occasionally shirks when it comes to dusting the top shelves which he thinks I never check.
I hope this finds you well and tolerating the rigors of military life with a minimum of discomforts. I shall look forward to hearing from you only if you may spare the time, which I’m given to understand is at a minimum during basic training.
My best to you,
Gladys Beasley
Mar. 15, 1942
Dear Will,
You’ll never guess who come over here today That pretty young Lydia Marsh from down the town road. Come up the road while I was planting my victory garden—ha! I been planting garden since I was old enough to hoe and all of a sudden they call it by some name so the town people will plant one too but thats neither here nor there. Mrs. Marsh she come to buy honey said she heard we had it for sale but she brung her two kids a girl four name Sally and a boy two name Lonn and the boys got along with them just fine and they were playin in the yard so I offered Mrs. Marsh tea and she stayed a bit and what a nice woman...
20 March 1942
Dear Miss Beasley,
Thank you for your letter and it sure was full of news I didnt know all that was going on back home Elly must not go to town cause she don’t tell me about it. I read some of the poems and they were intresting My favorite was When a Man Turns Homeward by Daniel Whitehead Hicky. I picture it would be like that when I can come back home to Elly and the kids and we will close the door and leave the world like a kitten outside...
25 March 1942
Dear Elly,
This has probly been the worst day since I left home. The whole company is pretty upset the whole base really. You probly heard about it on the radio how this lieut. Calvin Murphree had a platoon out on bivouac and sent them under the barbed wire on their bellies while he was strafing (that means shooting shells over their heads) and he went berzerk and started shooting to kill and he killed one private named Kenser or Kunzor or something like that and wounded two others before somebody stopped him. A man expects to get shot at when he reaches the front but not in boot camp by your own officers. Oh God Elly I miss you so much tonight green eyes. I got out my book of poems from Miss Beasley and read my favorite one to make me feel better. It’s about a man coming home through the moonfall and a woman is waiting with a candle. Only four weeks and one day and basic will be over and I should get leave and be able to come home...
March 25, 1942
Dear Will,
Everything is good here ex
cept for how much I miss you. Miss Beasley she comes every Saturday after work when the library closes early. She brought me a spelling book and is helping me work on my writing so my letters are better. We play Chinese checkers and guess what else she has done. She has started the milk truck coming out here to pick up our milk and the price is up to 11¢ a quart and 30¢ for a pound of butter and eggs up to 30¢ a dozen too and the driver takes them all for me...
27 March 1942
Dear Elly,
I shouldn’t have written that last letter when I was in such a rotten mood. I dont want you worrying about me you got enough to worry about with the boys and anyway I’m better now and things are going along fine. Did good on my first aid class test but I drew KP this week and I dont care for that much. Rifle practice every day and you know its a funny thing about some of those backwoods boys that cant read and write they can take apart a rifle and put it together in the dark. Me and Red (that’s what I call my buddy Otis) do good on that too...
March 29, 1942
Dear Will,
I wonder what your doing tonight. I been listening to the radio and they been playing The White Cliffs of Dover and I wonder if you’ll be shipped to England...
11 April 1942
Dear Elly,
It’s a good thing we get to send these letters for free I never thought I’d write so many letters in my whole life as I wrote since I been here. I got a one-day pass and Red and me went with a bunch who caught the recruit bus in to Buford and we went to a movie. It was Suspicion starring Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine and afterwards just about everybody got drunk and tried to pick up local girls but me. Only 19 days and I should be able to come home...