World War I, 1917–My Mama, Lillie, Daddy, Arthur Horlock, and little brother, Fisher, move from our cottage in Navasota, Texas, to Houston to live with Grandma and Grandpa Fisher, a house with four bedrooms upstairs, and one bath, a parlor, living room, dining room and kitchen downstairs. Uncle Clarence, the youngest of Grandpa’s five boys and four girls still live at home. Mama grew up here before she married Daddy and went to live in Navasota at the big house with Grandma and Grandpa Horlock. I didn’t know why we moved then, but now I think it was because Daddy, being the second son, was losing to his older brother in all of Grandpa Horlock’s businesses.
Fisher and I are in the garage watching Grandpa Fisher build my dog Queenie a house to have her puppies in. I smell kerosene as a pot of water and sheets boil over a charcoal fire in the backyard. I am home from school because it’s Saturday. I am eight and in the third grade at Taylor School in Houston where I walk the seven blocks.
One evening my family walks up to Main Street, five blocks away to a big gathering of young men. A band is playing. “What are they doing?” I ask my daddy.
“Signing up for war,” Daddy said. “You mean they have to go far away and shoot someone?” “Yes, sweetheart; I’m afraid that’s true.” Daddy hugs me. “Look, there’s Uncle Clarence and Cousin Edgar.” “Yes, Clarence to the army and Edgar to the navy,” Daddy explained.
I feel sad as we walk home. Why do we have war? Several weeks later I watch my handsome Uncle Clarence walk down the stairs dressed in uniform, going to war. I still feel awful. I might never see my uncle again.
We all miss Uncle Clarence. The house is quiet. Grandpa spends time moving little flags on pins around on a map.
“What do those little flags mean, Grandpa?” I ask.
“When we get a letter or read it in the paper, I push the flag around to the spot where the Americans are.””Show me where Uncle Clarence is.” He points to the pink island. “Show me where Cousin Edgar is out in the water.” I feel alone.
One day Fisher and I, playing out front, hear newsboys hollering: “Extra, extra, read all about it: USS Lincoln sunk!” The second I hear that name I rush to tell Grandpa. That is cousin Edgar’s ship. Grandpa rushes out to buy a paper. He is devastated. Edgar’s mama, Aunt Lottie, comes over. We all cry and pray that Edgar will be rescued.
December 7, 1941, World War II—My husband, Carl Illig, Elaine, six, Carol, two months, and I live in a tiny three bedroom house on the outskirts of Houston. I am warming Carol’s six o’clock bottle and getting my coffee before she awakens. When I hear the kettle whistle, I pour the boiling water over the coffee in my cup. The coffee smells and tastes grand. I eat a roll. Carol is not awake yet. I go into Carol’s tiny bedroom and pick up the cuddly warm bundle, hugging her to me and humming a little tune.
Carl gets up, looks in at me, goes to get his coffee and roll and sits at the tiny table in the kitchen to read the Sunday paper. Later Elaine comes in and speaks to Carl. “Daddy, will you help me change the goldfish water in the bowl?”
He strokes her hair and says kindly, “No, but I’ll show you how. No reason to be afraid.”
I put Carol back to bed, and fold the eighteen diapers I had hung out the day before. Carl washes the breakfast dishes.
Carl: “Elaine, get dressed for Sunday School.”
“Elaine: “I’d rather finish our garden and plant those seeds.” No response. “Will you wait for me at church?”
Carl: “Yes, I have a budget meeting with some other vestrymen.”
I go to the gas stove to make spaghetti for lunch. I add grated carrots to the sauce so we will have a whole meal in the final pasta.
Our dining room is part of the living room with a slender dining table.
It is a beautiful cool sunny Sunday, temperature about sixty degrees.
When Carl and Elaine come back from Sunday school I ask Elaine to set the table and get a few pansies for a centerpiece.
Carol begins to cry. I ask Carl to pick up Carol and walk her around. He does and opens the door for his mother who daily comes to lunch.
The house smells like garlic. We put Carol in her bassinet and all sit down to say the blessing. Elaine reaches over and pats Carol as the phone makes a shrill sound in the Sunday quiet. Carl gets up and goes into the little hall to answer it. He says loudly and angrily, “That’s terrible.” He comes back to whisper, “the Japs have bombarded Pearl Harbor.”
I get up and run to Carl and hug him forlornly. “That’s horrible, another war.”
In January, Carl comes home from the Humble Company where he is in the legal department and says, “I’ve been drafted into the Petroleum Administration for War. I’ll have to go to Washington, D.C.”
“Can’t we go with you?”
“No.” He is emphatic. “You and the children are safer here.”
The next thing I know, Willie, comes in the long black car to take Carl to the airport. Elaine and I run to the window and watch Carl’s back as he goes down the steps to the car. I think, “He has to leave us.”
Vietnam–1967– In 1945 I am in a Specialist’s office because my regular gynecologist is in the war. The doctor says, “It’s two weeks before the baby is due, but I want you to walk and bring the baby today.” Since we have no sidewalk near home, I go out to Rice Institute and walk under the shady oaks while my mother-in- law, Mrs. Illig, drives beside me on Main Street. That evening, August 5, 1945, my son, Dale, is born. “I can’t believe it’s a boy,” I say. I hold the wonderful little baby.
The next morning, August 6, 1945 I hear people running through the hospital halls yelling. “It’s over. It’s over.” I am happy to have a healthy boy. The war is over, but what price to pay–to kill all those people with the Atomic Bomb. I feel as if blood is running over my son.
When ten- year- old Dale finishes mowing the grass, he takes the edger motor off, attaches it to his little frame of a car. We have moved to a larger home with paved streets. Dale has plenty of room for tinkering and driving.
“Mama, come take a spin in my car.” I think if he can build it, I can ride in it. So I do. I am glad for the time we spend together.
One day he calls me out to the driveway, “Mama, I need material for airplane wings. Will you take me to the store? And I need longer nails and another two by four.”
“I’ll drive you, but you have to go in and ask for what you want. To get material we go to a dry goods store, then to a hardware store for nails and a lumber yard for boards. I suggest unbleached domestic for wings.
Dale always built things. He would need that set of skills. When Dale finishes college, he is drafted into the Army to go to Vietnam. He receives a notice, “Your physical exam is due.” I feel awful. How can my loving son go to war and kill people? Dale tells Carl and me he has applied to go to the Peace Corps. We wait and wait to hear if they will accept him. I don’t’ care how far he will have to travel just so he won’t have to kill or be killed. Finally we get the news. He is accepted. He will go to India to drill water wells. But first, he will have to go to a training camp in California to learn Hindi, how to drill water wells, how to live in a tropical climate, avoiding diseases, how to act, what physical precautions are necessary.
The time comes to leave. I watch Dale’s back as he walks out to the car with all his paraphernalia. He is leaving to go far away, but thank goodness he doesn’t have to kill.