©2001

Part I 1940-1945  --  The War Years

by Valerie Webber Elson 

I remember an afternoon during the Second World War. I'm two years old. My crib's been brought into the living room for my afternoon nap. Sunlight streams around the edges of the drawn blackout shades. I suck milk sweetened with Karo syrup from a baby bottle, when suddenly I'm aware, maybe for the first time, of my own existence. A feeling of well-being sweeps over me and I think, "This isn't bad at all, this is really very nice." The room's comfortably warm. I pluck fuzz from my blanket and fill each nostril with the fluff, overwhelming my senses with its comforting smell. Searchlight-like beams of light sparkle and dance with dust motes. A sensuous contentment is what I feel and I think, "This is just where I want to be."

An even earlier memory occurs to me. My first balloon is red and it casts a red shadow. The number one is painted on it, probably with fingernail polish, but I'm not aware of the details. My brother Donny is six years old, no different than a grown-up to me. It's my first birthday and my brother is taking my picture. Mama's in the background, but it's Donny who's in charge. He snaps one in the house. Mama carries me outside to the porch where a blanket's draped behind me and he snaps another one. The photos won't be developed for many years because there's a war on, and then not for a few years after that because it costs money.

My wartime memories are vivid but not in chronological order, perhaps because I am so young. I was born May 28, 1940. The war began a few months earlier and will last until I'm five and just about to start Kindergarten.

Actually, the glossy black and white picture of me with my red balloon will be the only baby picture to make it out of my childhood. Mama and Papa have a tall dresser in their bedroom. I remember pulling the drawers out "step ladder" fashion and climbing to the mirror at the top. When I tire peering at myself and start back down I spy several little round cylinders tucked in the side of one of the open drawers. I pick one up. I like the colors, black and red. A tab sticks out invitingly from the side of the packet and I give it a yank. A streamer bursts forth. I giggle and squeal with delight as the tightly wound roll uncoils with a snap and a spin. What a marvelous thing. The streamer wraps itself around my neck then curly cues down my body in a springy spiral. Let's try that again. In a few seconds I've managed to overexpose the entire graphic record of my infancy.
    My yelps of delight have summoned Mama. She scolds me for the dangerous climbing feat, "You're lucky you didn't kill yourself." Then in horror she sees the film draped and dangling from around my neck and gives me a real "talking to." "This is the thanks I get," she says, giving me her stern eye, and, "…it serves you right," and, "…you'll regret this for the rest of your life." 
    Suddenly she turns her attention to one of the rolls that apparently dropped from my hand and did it's uncoiling less boisterously down in the dark of the drawer. She thinks maybe she can salvage it. Forgetting me she tightly rewinds it, wraps it in a handkerchief from the same drawer and buries it under more layers of hankies. This will be the roll from which the sole survivor, my first birthday picture, is developed, printed and saved for posterity.
    It's several days before I dare to climb to the top of the dresser again and never, for the rest of my life, do I open an exposed roll of film. My mother is wrong about one thing though, I only regret it for the next fifty years, give or take a few. After the age of fifty baby pictures lose their importance in the overall scheme of things.

I'm playing on the sidewalk in front of our house at 3420 Fairmount Avenue, San Diego, California. At first there's just a low rumble under my feet, an odd sensation of motion and sound coming, seemingly, from the pavement. In a few moments the noise turns to thunder and I can feel it's rhythm in my heart. Now I see them. Soldiers, as far as the eye can see are marching down our street toward me. I'm terrified. Gun turreted tanks, trucks and Jeeps accompany the soldiers and they're headed this way. I must warn my mother. I run down the steps two by two into the front yard screaming at the top of my lungs, "The Germans are coming, the Germans are coming!" Mama is out of the house now, running to me. She picks me up and holds me tightly to her. "It's alright," she says, "they're our boys, they're good soldiers, it's alright." She carries me back to the street. Yes, it seems to be true. The soldiers are smiling. "Wave to them," Mama says. I do and they wave back.
    When I'm much older and talk to Mother about this memory she'll speculate that it's a troop movement on their way to the Forty-second Street Pier or maybe the foot of Broadway and from there to over-seas.

My mother's youngest brother, Uncle Lee, is a sailor in the Navy. When he comes home from the war he calls me "Valley Ann" and gives me a silver fifty-cent piece.

  I suck my finger and cry myself to sleep every night because it comforts me. Although I have no way of knowing it now, when I'm twelve years old I'll set a time limit on these activities. I'll vow to quite sucking my finger when I turn eighteen and to give up crying on my wedding night. It turns out, that's exactly what I do.

I'm sitting under our Pepper tree watching ants when I hear a car stopping across the canyon. I look up and spy a mama with two children getting out of the car. She holds one by the hand and the other she carries. They disappear into their house. I can't remember ever seeing little children like me before. I want a closer look. 
    Setting off on my first expedition, diapers hinder my progress. I walk a few steps, then dragged down by their weight I crawl. I've made it down the alley to the street, the farthest I've ever traveled by myself. This stretch of Myrtle Avenue is unpaved. I maneuver "slow but sure," making my way toward the house where I've seen the children. I keep the house targeted in my vision, sight being the only navigational tool I possess, having never ventured forth alone before.
    At the front door I see them and they see me through the locked screen. One is standing "on his hind legs," as Papa would say. The other crawls toward me "on all fours," (another of Daddy's expressions).
    My nose is pressed against the dust-encrusted screen straining to see the children in the dark living room. They examine me just as intently. It will be more than a year before we meet again.
    Suddenly the mama looms up between us, moving her children back into the shadows where I can no longer see them. I press closer into the screen denting it with my forehead; my need for company is so great. She pushes at the wire mesh, moving me backward before closing the door.

Mama and I delivered telegrams during the war in our old, faithful 1928 Dodge sedan. We delivered our last telegram on April 12, 1945.
    Mama calls me in from the yard. We're going to Western Union to pickup today's packet of envelopes. She's blowing her nose and I think maybe she's crying...she is crying! She picks me up and tells me that President Roosevelt is dead. "No, he wasn't killed in the war," she says, but, he's dead nonetheless. "Don't worry," she tells me, "everything will turn out ok, God willing."
    I'm standing in the passenger seat, my knees locked straight, heels securely dug into the cushion, wedging myself against the back, allowing me a clear, panoramic view of the scenery. I'm wearing a pinafore dress Mama's made from a feed sack. The thing that makes it so beautiful and special is the two little heart shaped pockets on each side into which I carefully slide my hands, "…a word to the wise is sufficient," Mama said after warning me about tugging or pulling on them. Mama and I ride silently with tears brimming our eyes. She, both because of the death of our president and because of the stack of "wires" she's about to deliver. The top four are encircled with a black band signifying death. I'm not conscious of the import of these facts, that's a few years down the road yet. My sadness comes as a reflection of hers. While we drive we see folks sobbing openly on the street.
    We're in North Park, south of University Avenue in a neat, orderly neighborhood. My beautiful redheaded Mother and I solemnly approach the first house. Having heard our car, a lady inside stands at the window peering out at us. Upon reflection I later think she must have thought we were selling something; at any rate she couldn't have suspected our true mission. Before we reach the porch she's in the doorway. Sensing my mother's distress, I suppose, she comes forward to comfort Mama. "I've just heard the news myself. There, there, the war is surely close to an end. We've got to be brave." Her arm is around Mother's shoulder. I'm trying to wrap my whole body around my mother, trying to press my being into her being, clinging to her legs, pulling at her dress. I've never seen big people cry before and I know something terrible is happening.
    Mother is clutching the telegram to her side, out of sight. She reveals it now as she makes our delivery. Taking it from my mother the woman stumbles back, away from us. A sound emanates from the depths of her soul. It is unlike anything human. A sound I will not hear again until one day it pushes up out of my own soul.

My mother's sister, Aunt Emma, is coming to visit from "Frisco." Crisco shortening is advertised on the radio. One of our daytime programs is broadcast from Chicago. These three words tumble and blend in my brain so that I frequently think Auntie's coming from Crisco or Chicago to see us. "Where did you say your aunt lives," Mrs. Edwards asks. "Crisco." "I never heard of it." "I think it's in Chicago." "Well, I think your mother's calling. You run along now." It'll be years before I get it all sorted out, before it dawns on me that "Frisco" is actually our own San Francisco right here in California.
    I walk the block and a half up Fairmount Avenue with Mama to McKaferty's Grocery Store. It has sawdust on the floor around the butcher shop. We're buying cookies as a special treat for Aunt Emma who'll be here anytime now. We've got to hurry so we'll be home when she gets there. Mama picks up a box of Fig Newtons. She says these are Auntie's favorite. When I eat them later at home while visiting with my aunt I discover they are my favorite too.

"Lady bug, lady bug fly away home. Your house is on fire. Your children will burn. All except Valerie Ann. She's hiding under the frying pan," Mama says, "That's you under the frying pan, Valerie (Mama pronounces it: Vow-ree)." She continues, "When I was a little girl my mother told me it was me, little Anna, hiding under that pan." And I think that when I'm grown up with my own children I must remember to tell them that they are the ones hiding under the frying pan. Although I have no way of knowing it now, that's exactly what I do tell Anna and Thea, many years in the future. "And I'm the Ladybug mama who will always find you, no matter where you are or what kind of trouble you've gotten yourself into," she says. I think I'll tell that to my children, too. That we're all Ladybugs, for all generations. Beautiful, shining Ladybugs who will protect our children, and Ladybug children who will always know what to do in case of an emergency.

"Mareseatoats and doeseatoats and little lambs eat ivy. A kid'lleativy too, wouldn't you?" My sister is taking care of me today. Her name is Alice Madeline. She is eight years older than I. I consider her my mother along with Mama. We're sitting on stools at the fountain in Umbargers Drug Store next to the Fairmont Theater on the  corner of Fairmount and University Avenue. Mareseatoats is playing on the jukebox. It's a summer day and we've come in to get out of the heat and drink cold water. A man and woman sit at the bend of the counter eating lunch. I begin to sing along to Mareseatoats, one of my favorite songs. A song my big sister knows how to play on the piano, as a matter of fact. The couple turns their attention toward me. "Hey, little girl, you know all the words to that song?" the man asks. I snap my jaws together tightly and stare at him wide eyed, nodding my head. "How old's that kid, anyway?" he wants to know. Alice nudges me, "Go on, tell 'em how old you are." I hold up four fingers. "Isn't that cute?" the lady says, the man continues, "How many's that?"  My lips are clamped shut. I motion decisively with my outstretched fingers, figuring he can count them himself if he's so interested. "She's four years old and yes she does know all the words to that song, Mister," my sister always has just the right "come-back." "Sing it for us," the lady says. I bite my lips together and lower my head, which suddenly radiates heat. "I'll buy her a coke if she can do it," the man pleads. Silence. "Why, heck, I'll buy all you kids a coke. All she's gotta do is sing the song. What d'ya say, kid?" "She'll sing," Alice says. She picks me off the stool and sets me down in front of the jukebox. My heart is racing and I feel like I have flames shooting out of my head. Shirley straightens my sundress while Joyce fluffs up my snarled hair. "Don't be scared," Alice says. Scared? I'm not scared, I'm thrilled and excited. This must be the moment I was born for. All eyes are riveted on me. Imagine. I'm the center of attention. I sing Mareseatoats with as much heart and style as I can muster.  "Not much of a voice, but you're right she knows the words." I'd like to stay there and sing my other favorites, Managua, Nicaragua and Chababa, Chababa, Chuwawa, but I've lost my audience. The man and lady are paying the bill for the cokes that Alice, Joyce and Shirley are sipping at the counter. With some difficulty I manage to climb to the top of the high stool. " This isn't bad at all," I think as I drink the first glass of coke that in my whole life I haven't had to share, "this is really very nice."

On September 2, 1945 I'm in the front yard playing between rows of vegetables in Papa's victory garden. Mama is calling to me, "The war's over. Come in the house right now. It's on the radio." Can it be true? I run into the house behind her, letting the screen door slam with impunity. We stare at the radio, listening intently. The war is over. We're crying, we're laughing, and we're jumping up and down. This is the day we've all been waiting for. I want to tell my Auntie Anna, Daddy's older sister. She lives six blocks away, a long distance for a five year old to walk, but I'm bursting with the news and Mama says it's ok. I'm off. "Don't let the screen door (the screen door slams) slam," Mama yells after me.
    I take the short cut through the ally, running all the way, my bare feet almost flying. I stumble but pick myself up immediately and continue racing toward Auntie Anna's house.
    I begin shouting at the top of my lungs as she comes into view, tending plants in her garden. "The war is over, the war is over," I yell. "What have you done to your foot?" she asks. "The war is over," I say. "Look at your toe, the whole tip is missing, it's bleeding." "Auntie Anna, the war is over!" "Yes, dear, I know, I heard it on the radio. Now come along into the house. We've got to get that cleaned up. An awkward spot for a band aide but we'll see what we can do."
    Auntie Anna, I love you. Thank you for paying attention to me. Many years latter, I will sit at my computer writing these words and tears will run down my cheeks, because I'll miss you. But now you minister to my wound and bandage my stubbed toe.

Here are some everyday things I want to remember:
 

	A boy named Dale Diven lives next door. Hi is crippled. From what I can make out I think he was in an auto accident. His mother is Christian Scientist and it was several days before his father got him to a doctor. By that time there was nothing the doctor could do but put braceses on his legs. He never speaks to me. I notice his white hair, like mine. I watch him one day playing on our sawhorse. His braceses get in his way. He falls off and hurts himself. I think his arm is broken. His mother comes and takes him home. I never see him again.
	We have a Cocker Spaniel puppy. When I'm grown I'll think her name is Daisy, but I won't be sure. We don't have her long.
	Papa's planted the front yard with vegetables. We call this our Victory Garden. At the side of the house we have a long row of hutches where we keep rabbits. There are two big trees in the front yard. A palm and an Acacia, both native Californians like me. There's a swing in the Acacia with a wooden seat that slips off and on. The metal chain is rusty. It tastes like blood and turns my hands red.
	My cousin, Bobby Rendi, lives next door. I call his mother Aunt Ruth and his father Uncle Louie even though they are really also my cousins. Aunt Ruth's mother is my father's mother's sister.
	I call my Grandmother Webber "Popeye." The name seems appropriate since it is through my father (Pop) that she and I (eye) are related. She is not amused.
	I make up the phrase, "I scream for ice cream." The play on words pleases me. Mama's hanging out clothes. "Mama, Mama, I scream for ice cream." She continues pinning the laundry on the line as she says back to me in a sing-song voice, "You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream." I'm so tickled at the two of us coming up with this wonderful jingle. Years latter I'll learn that this refrain has been around since before I was born, but still...
	Uncle Louie has a salt and pepper wirehaired terrier named Lady.
	We have a windup Victrola and a few 78rpm records. It takes all my strength to wind it properly. " She walks in her husbands sleep. When he goes to bed then she starts in to creep. She wanders all around the house, just as quiet as a mouse…" and "South of the border down Mexico way…"

Comments are appreciated.
Valerie@Elson.com