With homework complete and the 11:00 news playing from Dot’s little radio at his bedside, Dart begins this long letter. He’s pleased that his new plan of getting work done early seems to be working out for him, allowing him time for some leisurely conversation with his sweetie.
Hang onto you hat! There may be a railroad fan trip this Sunday so that members of his model railroad club can visit a number of roundhouses in the region. If it happens, and if he goes (of course he’ll go!), he vows to limit himself to one roll of film in an effort to economize.
He’s having a heck of a time in typing class. He’s so slow and cautious that his very slowness causes him to make mistakes. Even though he practices two hours every night, he gets to class and only seems able to type entire pages of mistakes. He knows he’ll have to work hard to get a 1.5 in that class, but he hopes his grades in psych and poli sci will pull him through. What humiliation it would be if typing is what keeps him off the honor roll!
In psychology they are nearly finished learning about how the human nervous system is constructed and are about to embark on the workings of the mind. “I’ve always wanted to take a course in psych and I’m finding it a bit different from my conception of it, but none the less interesting. For two lessons we’ve been studying the heredity factors of unborn and very young children. Quite amazing what goes on in, and around our bodies. The human organism must surely be God’s pride and joy – His amazingly complex creation.”
His college building is on the corner of Public Square. From the typing room, the windows overlook Lake Erie. “In today’s sunlight, the lake looked actually blue, and almost clean! The muddy water inshore gave almost the appearance of the Pacific on the coral reefs around the islands. The water had shadings from blue to green and yellow which were very reminiscent of things I’ve seen before.” (Maybe the distraction of that window gives a hint about why Dart struggles in typing class!)
And then begins a section of the letter that is Dart at his best. It allows one to overlook the sometimes tedious droning on about railroads and the like. I will share it verbatim, below.
When I wrote today’s date, I had a faint recollection of June 24th having had some specific meaning in my life. Then it occurred to me that one year ago today (it was a Sunday then) the Haggard was at Saipan. Exactly one year ago now, I was in the plotting room, writing to you. There was no stool to sit on for the boys were all attending the movie on the fo’c’stle. We were still thrilled with the beauty of the day and the evening, filled with thankfulness and relief after a harrowing trip. (He’s referring of course to his little ship’s slow and perilous journey across the vast expanse of the Pacific. As crippled and slow moving as she was, she spent weeks at sea as a sitting duck. Each and every moment she was vulnerable to enemy attack.)
The tranquility of the afternoon and the beauty of the evening were only part of the joy we had, for we were on our way to the fabulous land most of us had thought we’d never see again.
But the drowsy laxness of the evening was shattered temporarily by the loudspeakers. They called the mail orderlies to receive their mail. Elation ran high. The great full moon, bright and large as only a tropical moon can be, was casting its silvery coating over water and ship, leaving a huge black mass aglitter with the twinkling lights of home’s farthest outpost. Home was close to us that night, as we read our mail by the light of that moon. Closer to us than in many, many months.
The letters I got that night don’t matter, except for one. That one, Darling, is the one in which you officially accepted my bid that we might be engaged. I’d had no doubts when I asked you that I’d get a letter with that answer, but here it was, in your own hand, as much as if you’d spoken the same words softly into my ear. You’d not said we were too young, let’s wait. You’d been given your parents’ blessing. You’d at last given me the answer that you and I both knew would eventually come. Thank you, my Darling, for all you are, for all you have been, for all you desire to be. I love you for all of that, for all our promises and confessions and hopes and fears; for every loving glance and affectionate response you have; for your radiance, and your health, and your voice; for the moments we’ve had in complete harmony of souls. I miss your caress, Dot. I miss the touch of your cheek, the weight of your head on my shoulder, the sound of your sweet voice singing love songs in my ear as we drive. Our love is so wonderfully beautiful that it overwhelms me at times.
As he returns to the more mundane topics of her recent letters, I’m reminded that the life that can sustain a love like theirs is held together with the bond of ordinary, mundane daily experiences.
He mourns the impending loss of Pegasus, Ruth Chamberlain’s beloved and beleaguered ancient car. “Your mother will surely miss the winged steed. But all horses, be they mythological, iron, race, brewery, or nag, must eventually come to a demise.”
He’s delighted by the news of her job. It’s just what he hoped she’d find because he knows how much she’ll love it.
There’s scuttlebutt on campus that fall classes will not resume until the first or second week of October, which suits Dart fine. (I wonder if they might need to delay in order to accommodate all the returning GIs.)
He knows he’s told her about his superstition about setting dates too far in advance. That’s why he’s not committed yet to coming out east after his summer classes are over. He also suspects that he’s told her before – or at least hinted – that he loves her now, and always.
There’s a little bonus on the last page of this letter: a get well card for Pegasus! Dart has drawn a cartoon of the little coupe, sporting a pair of angel wings. Beside it, he has written these words – “Please get well soon. You’ve been a swell old gal and you can’t let the Chamberlains down now! We’re pulling for you, so don’t lose your clutch, don’t tire of life, hang on to the spark, and we gas everything will be oilright. Water ya gonna do about it?”
# # #
Dot says that if every day goes like this one, the summer will fly by. She had her orientation meeting today and was given a black notebook filled with report forms, activity plans, registration cards and equipment requisitions. She has 16 registrations so far but expects to have 50 by week’s end. So far, her charges range in age from 6 to 16.
There are 12 playgrounds in Greenwich, but she is the only one who will be working alone. Her little area borders a small pond, so she must keep a watchful eye to assure that no equipment or kids fall into the water. (Let me get this straight: 50 kids, one pond, and a single adult staff person? Those stats would never fly with OSHA today!) She’s confident she can manage. Her kids seem eager and cooperative, which Dot observes is a “step in the right direction.”
Each playground has a special night during which local talent entertain the kids, parents and neighbors for an evening. So far, (on her first day) Dot has booked an accordianist and an acrobat. (I can’t make this stuff up.)
“I’ve started organizing a patrol to keep our playground the cleanest in town and the kids seem to take pride in helping to keep it clean. It may be the smallest playground, but we’re determined to make a name for ourselves by what we accomplish this summer.” What a gal!
She apologizes for all this being such an “I-letter” but she has to tell someone about her job and the whole family is asleep. She knows she’s going to love this job, because she does already.
She begs Dart not to get too discouraged with typing. She started out the same way and managed to get a B in the subject. She knows he’ll find a way. Now she must sleep and try to find time tomorrow to answer his swell letter from yesterday.