Remembering Romance or Revising Reality?

Salzburg, Austria. Summer of 1945.

He was handsome and strong, an American soldier, having spent much of the war building bridges - forty of them, to be exact. His warm smile and air of confidence camouflaged the pain and trouble he had known all too well in the war.

She was a blond beauty with piercing blue eyes. Her rosy cheeks showed no sign of the ravages of war, the oppression of the Nazi regime or the abuse of Red Army soldiers she and others like her had witnessed first-hand. Since the arrival of the GIs she had heard stories of war brides who were swept up by handsome GIs and taken to America, the land of milk and honey. She had dreamt of Mickey Mouse, Coca Cola and a home with a washing machine. Her mother had warned her, though, about pursuing this foolish dream. She didn't listen. She wanted out.

The room seemed to sway. The smell of smoke and alcohol pungent in the air, a mix of swing and jazz music pulsating in the background only added to the tension between soldiers seeking a much-needed break from their rigorous and often mind-numbing duties, and the beautiful women with their own stories of pain and suffering to tell.

Their eyes locked from across the room. That was the beginning.

But the beginning of what?

My hub’s uncle, Donald, passed away this week. He was just days shy of his 88th birthday. He lived a fairly solitary life, never marrying or having children.

Uncle Donald joined the army at age 21. Serving with the 163rd Combat Engineers, he landed on Omaha Beach in Normandy just days after D-Day, in June of 1944. His service took him through France, Belgium, Germany and Austria. He served his country courageously and received four Bronze Star medals and one Silver Star. He was honorably discharged and returned home in February 1946. Not much else is known about his life during that time.

This week, my sister-in-law collected his belongings from the small room at the assisted living center he called home for the past several years. In a cardboard box with the family photos he loved and a handful of newspaper clippings, she found one small photo that didn’t seem to fit. Not a family member. Not a celebrity. Just an unknown young woman, the photo showing signs of the passing of many years, important enough to hold together with pieces of surgical tape.

Who was she? Why did he keep her photo? The only clue to her identity - two words on the back in Uncle Donald’s handwriting - Salzburg Austria. Did he fall in love with her? Was it a short-lived romance that ended abruptly when he returned home? Had he intended to bring her back with him? Were there children? Was she still alive?

Did he dream of her when he raised his eyes to the clouds in the Wyoming skies all those years he worked the railroad after coming home?

Uncle Donald never spoke of this woman. But, then, like many soldiers who've been in a war zone, he didn't speak much of any of that time. Today, we'd probably say he suffered from PTSD. He certainly had some hard times upon returning home.

There’s not much chance that we’ll ever know the real story. At least not in this life. I like to think that there was something more than a single night of reverie and that perhaps they have found each other once again. Rest in peace, sweet Donald.


Uncharacteristic as it might seem for me, this is my Alphabe-Thursday offering this week. But then, it's an uncharacteristic week and I'm feeling a bit more reflective rather than my usual rebellious and rambunctious self. R is for Remembering Romance or Revising Reality. Be sure to read what the other Alphabetarians registered over at Mrs. Jenny's for that rowdy letter R by clicking HERE.

Errant Dogs...No, Make That DOG

At 16 months, Albert is starting to lose his puppyish looks...

...but apparently not his puppyish ways. He managed to squeeze through the fence again this morning (we really do need to fix it) and go on one of his grand adventures into the woods. 

He came home covered with these...

...and it took nearly an hour of brushing and combing and picking to get him back to looking like this...

He really is pretty cute, so it's hard to stay mad at him for long.

Meanwhile, Jake, being older and wiser, decided to stay home and avoid the whole brushing debacle that he hates. What a good lad. 

And, speaking of debacles that I hate, word verification. It really doesn't do what people think it does, AND it's a royal pain for those of us who like to visit other blogger's sites and leave comments...kinda like picking burrs out of the coat of a long-haired dog that's been running free in the woods for an hour. For  a good read on the appropriately maligned word verification, check out my friend, Sue's, blog here.

It's Spring...

How do I know? Because there were about 20-30 big fat red-breasted robins singing outside the window this morning. Did they stick around long enough for me to take some photos of them? No, of course not.

But here are a couple of their happy little cousins

Farewell, icicles!

Just Another Monday...

It's Monday, and everyone knows what that means, right?

You think it looks like Christmas? Nope. That was this morning.

By this afternoon, it looked like a perfect spring day. I've stopped trying to figure it out. Best to just go with the flow...

... like Gus. Apparently he's very excited about Monday too.

 Ho hum...

Certainties

Ironically, even the origin of the quote, "The only two certainties in life are death and taxes", often attributed to Mark Twain, is uncertain. Some say it comes from Benjamin Franklin while others disagree, claiming different sources still. Nonetheless, the saying pretty much holds true.

We woke up to uncertain weather this morning. We've had spring-like temperatures recently, but this morning it was snowing and cold once again. 

The otherwise quiet morning was broken with news of one of life's certainties when we got the call telling us that Uncle Donald had passed away. He left this mortal life only days short of his 88th birthday, pretty much as he had lived it. Peacefully, without complaint at the hand he was dealt and mostly alone. 

He was a sweet man who adored the family he had. He never married, never had children, but visibly loved his siblings and their children and grandchildren. He served our country courageously and fought in the Battle of the Bulge in WWII. He'd had hard times and was no stranger to loneliness, but he always had a smile and we never heard him complain (except perhaps about the gravy at the nursing home in which he lived).

He didn't have much in the way of worldly things. His most prized possessions were the many photos of extended family that adorned the door and walls of his small room.

The words of the hymn, Come Ye Disconsolate (author: Thomas Moore, 1779-1852), seem appropriate.

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er ye languish;
Come to the mercy seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish.
Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure!
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
“Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot cure.”

Here see the Bread of Life; see waters flowing
Forth from the throne of God, pure from above.
Come to the feast of love; come, ever knowing

Earth has no sorrow but heav’n can remove.

We love you, Uncle Donald, and we'll miss your sweet smile at our family gatherings.

Uncle Donald

March 28, 1924 - March 18, 2012

Finders Keepers

Saturday Centus time again. Week 98 so we have exactly 98 words, including the prompt shown in red* below. 

She admired the boots in the old tired mirror. Tall, soft rust-colored suede. She loved them the moment she laid eyes on them.

It had been a long hard winter filled with losses. Her job. Her husband. Her home.

Her eyes moved upward, skipping quickly past her well-worn dress to her earlobes now adorned with a pair of exquisite pearls, seemingly at odds with her life. 

Someone else’s loss tucked inside the toe of the boots. A steal of a deal, even for Goodwill. It was only ninety-eight cents.*

She smiled. Maybe things were finally about to change. 

In my twenties, I had a favorite pair of pearl earrings for special occasions. To be safe, I tucked them away wrapped in a small piece of soft cloth in the toe of my favorite boots. At some point, the fashion changed, as it always does, and the boots began to spend far more time in the closet than on my feet. 

One day, in a spring cleaning frame of mind, I carted them off to Goodwill with a load of other clothes and household items. It wasn't until a few days later that I realized I had forgotten to remove the earrings from the boots. In a panic I returned to the store, hoping that they might still be there, but alas, it was not to be. 

Even though I was sad to have lost my beloved earrings, I always imagined that they brightened the day for someone who really needed a boost in her life. My Saturday Centus piece, based on this true story, is written from the finder's point of view.

Be sure to visit Mrs. Jenny's to see what the other Centusians offered up for their $.98 worth!

Thank Goodness It's Not Every Friday

Beautiful sunrise. Pink lenticulars formed by high altitude winds shearing off the tops of the clouds.

Busy as a bee today. Life is good. All is well.