A Moment in Another's Cocoon

As I watched the reportage of the attempted coup in Turkey just now, the day after the murder of 84 people in Nice by a Tunisian born individual whose motives are being debated by the pundits, I found myself thinking about my afternoon visiting my elderly friend at her nursing home. Her condition is such that she no longer reads or seems to have any interest in the news. As she sat in her blue wing back chair striving to find words for memories that are faded or fading, about her mother, about the cemetery in Pennsylvania to which she long ago arranged to commit her mortal remains, about the health of her former pastor, I found myself looking around her room, its walls covered with religious icons and paintings and then through the sliding glass doors leading to a patio surrounded by green grass and old trees, a lovely quiet, safe, even meditative environment unlike most skilled senior residences, I closed my eyes. This home is in the city, but way up a hill overlooking it, with a panoramic 360 degree view that encompasses even the ocean. When I drive a mere two or three minutes down the hill I am back at the entry to the larger and well trafficked world, where things like Orlando, or Nice, or San Bernardino have happened and where, alas, much worse will happen, since the heart of man, despite the gift of salvation, remains dark and has embraced pursuits unconstrained by any moral prohibitions.  I had the most ephemeral of thoughts: if only I could stay here.

In a sense you are powerless in a nursing home, on the outer edge of existence itself. So, that wouldn't be the place for me, not now, at least. Right? But in so many ways, I, we, are powerless in the broader world and taxed endlessly by it. At least, in the home I would not be taxed by the madness that swats other human lives, children among them, with the bumper of a truck.

It would have nothing to do with me, living on the side of a hill in a little room like this, with all my needs tended. How odd a thing! It would be, as it is for my friend, as if none of it were happening.

I would not exist for the world and the world, except this minuscule patch, would not exist for me.

Bliss. And then Veronica repeats an earlier question I have already answered. I open my eyes.

No. I don't belong here. Not yet. "Thank God", it occurs to me. My friend's role is to be where she is, free of the concerns of a violent world. She had other roles in the versions of the mess human kind makes that occurred in years gone by. Now her role is to be tended to, having been a good and faithful servant--even being arrested for praying at abortion clinics, three times, one of the memories that she still can retrieve from time to time.

This cocoon is not mine to share. In time, if God Wills that I have a long life, I will find myself in one, but not until I complete whatever He has in mind for now.

How Long, O Lord!

It's been too hard to write over this last several weeks.  There have been just too many acts of pure evil perpetrated by human beings that are reported over and over and over and over until I want to scream. "If it bleeds, it leads" indeed and then some.  I can't listen to anything from the media and I find reading the local newspapers enraging. And that I think is what is the point of these so-called sources of "information". It is not to state facts, that old, "where, what, when and who" of journalism long dead so you or I can decide what is true, truth having a foundation of long developed premises on which everyone agrees. No, it is opinion without fact or nuance. It is outright brainwashing. It is government, and groups, (professing but not demonstrating the liberality of ideas) censoring discussion. Social media isn't 'social' at all.  But it is another locale for opinions without either substance or knowledge of philosophy or history or the Natural Law out of which this country was painstakingly developed by people who are summarily disregarded because unlike the man, woman or self-identifying individuals of our enlightened century, they weren't so well endowed with humanistic perfection.

What set me off today was something very small, but something I have noticed a great deal as I drive around Los Angeles. The driver in front of me doesn't signal a turn. "So what?" you might say.  That small behavior is the seed of the larger breakdown of everything around us. It is another tendril of what was once called, in the days of Rudy Giulani as Mayor of New York, "the broken window syndrome".  If you allow people to mar a neighborhood by breaking windows, and leaving them broken, or defacing with graffitti, or, for example, as a driver, never signal, without consequence, then it is easy to slide into the bigger things. There are a million "little things" that our society considers no big deal, even if there might be a "law" on the books about it. Like spitting on the street. People spit on the street all the time. Sometimes right in front of you. What's the big deal? Well, it's illegal for a reason. It is profoundly unsanitary aside from the fact that it disregards anyone in the vicinity or anyone who will be in the vicinity to step on the product left in utter contempt for the "other".

American society is breaking down. Unless a miracle occurs, I truly do not believe that America will make it to its 250th year, let alone its 300th. We are presently at year 240, and every underpinning of that delicate structure that has been America is being systematically deconstructed. The only thing I will point to for now is, to me, national suicide--the insistence not only of taking God out of the foundation of the nation, but of denying that He ever was a cornerstone of its formation. The problem is that the documentation of history does not support that God was out of the mix. That is what Natural Law is, something from God, a Divine inspiration. I am not saying it. History says it. History may be interpreted but not to the point of utter distortion. I take that back. It can be interpreted to distortion. That distortion is destroying the United States.

It may seem like I am trying to convince the reader of a purely personal position. In a society which rejects the idea of First Principles, I can understand that. If there is no objective truth then everything is opinion which has force only if enough people share that opinion. Then comes the persecutions history tells us, but history itself has become personal opinion. So, no, I am not trying to convince.

I am trying to stay sane in the relatively few years that are statistically likely to be given to me. And, maybe, those others who see things as I do, will derive some sense of stability. We can nod our heads to one another in sympathy and support.  I am looking to that God who is being so thoroughly forbidden in the very society that was developed under His inspiration to keep me from despair, but also from fear and cowardice, for in time, I will have to make choices that will demonstrate whether I truly believe in the God I profess. It isn't a sure thing for I am very very weak.

So like the prophet Habakkuk, I think the only thing to do is to pray.

Battle Scene

I was watching the last 45 minutes of "Saving Private Ryan".  I haven't watched it before because I knew that there was a graphic depiction of war time casualties. I have intended to put on this site one of the stories that Dad wrote when he was at NYU, in 1948, after his four year stint in World War II, describing in two very short pages a battle scene. Maybe as I go through his stories again, I'll see more that describe, fictionally and non-fictionally, Dad's experience, which I have reason to believe was as true life graphic as "Saving Private Ryan" was Hollywood graphic. I doubt it.  But this story isn't really graphic. It is subdued and I expect that after skirmishes or full fledged battles, or watching the flashes of battles from the rear, awaiting his turn to go back to the front, the life of an infantryman, was gray, dank and grim, the feeling of this short scene.

Streaks of gray begin to appear in the blackness of the East. A thick, damp mist hangs over the area and penetrates the walls of the grave-like trenches, making them moist and clammy to the touch.  In the distance there is the sound of men digging--the scrape of metal against unyielding stone grates painfully on raw-edged nerves.  Other sounds lend themselves to the discordant, predawn symphony of death; a racking cough that ends in a half-suffocating wheeze; a low moan of pain followed by the inevitable, pleading, "medics. . . .medics"; and nearby a boy sobbing--quiet, terrible, despairing sobs of loneliness and fear.

Overhead, shells whisper--like the sound of wind caressing autumnal trees.  The ground vibrates with muffled explosions.  From the rear come the answering booms of heavy artillery--unrealistic reverberations like the thunder of monster drums in a cavern.  Bursts of orange-red sparks light up a distant hill--thuds trail leisurely behind the lightning flashes.  Suddenly silence.

A fare bursts above, outlining in its greenish-white brightness the surrounding, ghost-like hills.  A plane drones overhead and the hum indicates it is circling.  A pop.  Another flare. . .another, and the eerie fluorescence reveals a tableau of men clinging fearfully to the ground.  Then it is gone.  The booming recommences; chattering machine-guns lend their staccato monotones to the deadly cacophony; tank motors roar their readiness to move; the area is alive with motion. It is dawn.

They begin to bring up the dead and wounded.  The bodies are carried in blankets.  Four men, each holding a corner of a blanket, half-carry, half-drag a huge hulk, its limp feet trailing the ground.  In a little clearing they lay the bodies in orderly lines.  No attempt is made to lend dignity to the attitudes sudden death has given.  The men lay the bodies down and walk off silently to gather more of last night's harvest.

The wounded are carried to the rear.  The more seriously wounded to first.  The less seriously hurt sit or lie on the ground.  A soldier sitting on a rock shivers, despite the blanket draped around his shoulders.  Blood oozes from a chest wound staining the olive drab blanket, almost black.  From time to time he looks up and hate glares from blood-shot eyes.

The officers regroup their platoons.  The men assemble in tired, uneven ranks, unshaven, haggard--exhaustion lines their faces.  Uniforms are caked with mud; belts sag with the weight of grenades; shoulders drop under extra bandoliers of ammunition.  They are ready to march again.  

It begins to drizzle. 

I am puzzled by the comment of the teacher, appended to the A given for the story--"But remember, the starkness is hard to live, easy to write or talk about." It seems to me that my father lived this or some similar experience. The starkness, and frankly, my Dad seems unduly restrained in his writing of the two pages, comes from what he saw, what many men saw, what probably is pretty much on target in "Saving Private Ryan".  I get no sense that this was easy to write, although it might have poured out of him, in a way. I wonder if the teacher was ever in the service. I find I am a little annoyed by the comment; it feels patronizing. I wonder how Dad felt about that guidance after four years in the hell made by human evil. Yes, the starkness must have been hard to live. And I don't think it was ever easy to write about. He wrote about it so rarely, unless I find a cache somewhere I know not about. That is unlikely. 

Dad's Conversion

From our Church Bulletin, April 2003

It is a late lazy Saturday afternoon. In a few hours, I will be on my way to the first of my seasonal evenings at my favorite venue, The Hollywood Bowl, to see my more famous contemporaries of my college days, the Rock group, Steely Dan.

It is rare, even in my retirement, that I spend a whole day at home. But it has not been without some activity. I began to rummage for more stories of dad's buried, albeit neatly, at the bottom of my library shelves. Re-read some of his stories, to be placed on this blog soon, written circa 1948, when he attended New York University, on the G.I. Bill. One is quite moving, a battle scene during the war. That's the one I almost posted today. But then I found some memorabilia from the days my father was received into the Catholic Church, April 2003, when he was 85 years old.

I'd like to say that Dad's conversion story mirrored that of St. Paul. That would have made some of my older, more Charismatic movement friends, to kvell (I love that Yiddish word, which means to feel happy and proud). My now memory impaired elderly church friend Veronica used to take my father's hand with serious, compassionate intention and tell us how she was praying for him to join the Catholic Church. She was convinced of God's action in this direction. My prediction through the years was that there wasn't a chance in the world for my father to make a formal dive into Catholicism, or even back to his religion of origin, our close cousins the Greek Orthodox.

That's not to say Dad wasn't always respectful of the faith. And from an intellectual perspective, he knew about Catholicism, Greek Orthodoxy, Judaism, and for that matter, so that he could argue over what he perceived to be faulty translations of the Greek and Arabic with his youngest brother who was a member, the Jehovah's Witnesses. He was well known at my parish, St. Victor, for he often came to see me lector at the 12:15 (he had this odd idea that someone would discover my great voice talents in that venue), and, sharing a half Greek lineage with my then Pastor, George Parnassus, whose own father began in the Greek Orthodox Church, was rather adopted by my pastor as an older brother. He even called him "Tino", something that only Dad's father had done in years long past. And, after all, when my mother, a nominal Catholic herself, insisted that I be raised in the faith, he had not quibbled.

Dad was a part of St. Victor, but I always assumed that he would remain uncommitted on the periphery. My father was rarely impressed with even the most (in my view) stunning homily. I once angrily, and rather irreverently, said to dad that if Our Lord appeared right behind Monsignor during a homily, my father would remain skeptical. I mean, even St. Thomas didn't do that! And there had been others seeking my dad's conversion, way back, during my childhood. After all, did not our dear Mother Alphonsus, my fourth grade teacher, a dainty religious from British Guyana I seem to remember, send me home with rafts of Catholic newspapers for Dad to read?

In 1989, when he was set to have triple (which turned into quadruple) by-pass surgery, I noted with some dismay that Dad had identified himself as not having any religion on his hospital paperwork. I shared my distress with Fr. Parnassus, who told me to "leave him alone."

Thereafter, I left him alone, always with a twinge of irritation when he'd pronounce as he did about pretty much everything the need for a certainty in religion that simply could never be provided to him--or as I could not help but point out--to anyone--hence the nature of faith informed by reason.

He had been to many a dinner given by Monsignor Parnassus at the rectory--always ready with a challenge. I was always surprised with the kindness Monsignor responded to these challenges, because they were tinged with a "you can never convince me" tone. Monsignor would ordinarily take umbrage with people who challenged his authority, never mind the Magisterium and 2000 year history of the Church.  But never with Dad.

And then one late night, Dad called me. I could tell he had been imbibing as he did with dinner.
He announced, "I'm thinking of becoming a Catholic." One could inquire until the cows came home over the genesis of any statement or decision of Dad's, but the best I could get was "I've been thinking about it for a long time. It'll make it easier for you."

Now, he never explained that latter statement, but knowing Dad, I also knew that his possible "conversion" was based in more practical concerns and, to be frank, though I was already well into middle age by then, parental ones. He was old and he wanted to make sure that when he "went" I would be able to bury him through the ministrations of my faith, a Catholic funeral and burial.

I promise you I am not being cynical. I am being realistic. But that does not divert from the "miracle" of the whole thing. It wasn't a burning bush. It wasn't getting cast off a horse by the Hand of God on the road to Damascus. But he got there. It's taken me a long time to realize that is miracle enough.

Dad had a proviso to the project. "I will only be instructed by Father Parnassus. If he doesn't agree, I won't do it."  What was that about? Dad never liked group instruction and he wanted an intellectual experience, with someone whose educational credentials he had seen manifested in personal interactions. He also always liked Fr. Parnassus because he saw the human cracks in the priestly presentation. One imperfect human instructing another in the ideals of the faith. By this time, though, Fr. Parnassus was the retired pastor, succumbing slowly but surely to physical ailments.

So, I gave each man the other's number and my father dutifully took the bus for one on one instruction from my pastor. And then I was told by Monsignor, that after a first confession, he would be received at the Easter Vigil on April 19, 2003. I drove Dad to the rectory the afternoon of that Saturday reception, and waited outside for quite a long long time while Dad confessed the sins of his life.

The Easter Vigil Mass, and Dad's reception with a firm hug from Monsignor--these were two men for whom public affection was difficult, even shameful--was videoed by Len Speaks, who had known Dad since my college days. Thereafter, Dad joined me in a ministry. He became an usher at the 12:15. Very occasionally, I'd suggest he might want to attend some of the parish's devotions, but he demurred with the observation that he was probably as good a Catholic as anyone else by going to weekly Mass. He wasn't going to push it, and I wasn't going to make him. I wouldn't have known Dad without the concomitant cynicism or distrust of becoming too involved in that rather treacly thing called religion.

He always had a rather humble sense of himself in regard to his becoming Catholic. I think he thought he wasn't worthy of being Catholic. I tried to tell him that we are a Church of sinners and the whole thing is that none of us is worthy. The tenets of our faith are balm for our illness, the sickness unto death that began in the Garden of Eden, when we believed that we could grasp at being God ourselves, without Him.

But of course, we never really discussed it. Even inside the Church Dad was, as I once blurted out to him in frustration over his commentary on the "human race" as if he weren't one of us, acting like the "Stage Manager" from Our Town. We were at the airport coming back from the installation of Bishop George Niederauer as Bishop of Utah, and this invitation came to Dad BEFORE he became Catholic. I remember a nun chuckling over her book when I said this. Dad liked the idea that he was a little outside the world of the rest of us. That was his contradiction. Always he was unsure of himself, and feeling he wasn't good enough for anything. And yet always he seemed to stand outside, looking in, disdainfully longing to be part of it all.

It all happened, I think these days, as God intended. And it happened; there's a miracle in that, for my money.  Dad died a Catholic. I believe that now, having pierced the Cloud of Unknowing, he is a part of a foursome I look to as my ordinary intercessors, who have seen the Face of God. Dad, my mother, Fr. Parnassus and Bill. Only one of them was sure of God's Benevolence, and even he, the priest, I imagine had his doubts. But now everyone is certain. I hope to experience that same certainty. I have faith, at least today, that I will. I know that I am grateful my mother and my father decided I would carry the Faith for them until they could embrace its fruits themselves, which surely they have.

Aphrodite and the King's Prisoner

When I was pretty young, Dad would take me to his work place, a little Brooklyn studio for photography of children, Baby Craft. For something like 25 cents I sat and stamped envelopes or helped with cardboard box assembly in the back room or watched the colorists apply oil to the cheeks and lips of the photo subjects. I'd get a glass bottle coke from the red machine and wait for us to get in Dad's ungainly brown station wagon for the drive back to the Bronx. On those trips to and from Baby Craft, Dad often regaled me with Greek and Roman mythology. There was Hercules, of course, the strong demi-god who cleaned out the Augean stables, and Theseus, who did not become a meal of the ravenous Minotaur in a maze for the trick of a very long thread, and Perseus who defeated the Medusa whose face would turn men to stone, because he had a shiny, mirrored shield. By the time I was in high school reading Edith Hamilton, I had heard many of the stories over and over.

Dad's writings frequently made reference to mythology.  This is one done in the course of his writing class with Bea Mitz, a mentor and friend.



This is a story by Lafcadio Hearn.  It is a variation of the ancient tale of Pygmalion and Galatea. Pygmalion's statue of Galatea so impressed the gods that they gave it life. I shall relate Hearn's version using excerpts of his text, then alter the ending to conform to the instructions for this assignment, that is, to change the ending.

It was a world of wonders and marvels of riches and rarities created by the vengeance of the King.  There was but one life amid all the enchantment of Greek marble, of petrified loveliness and beauty made motionless in bronze.  One man was alone in this prison of gold and porphyry on royal edict.  It was said that he was served by invisible hands--that tables covered with luxurious viands rose up as if by magic--and the richest wines, sweetened with honey were chosen for his repasts.  He was given all that art could inspire--save only the sound of a human voice and the sight of a human face.

A figure of Aphrodite displayed the infinite harmony of her naked loveliness upon a pedestal of black marble--a dream of love frozen into that marble by a genius greater than the famed sculptor Praxiteles.  No modern restorer had given this bright divinity the appearance of shame--arms extended as if to welcome a lover, one foot slightly extended in the act of bending to bestow a kiss.

A bronze tablet bore the following inscription: "I madden all who gaze upon me.  Mortal condemned to live in solitude with me, prepare to die of love at my feet."

Now the King's secret messengers were eunuchs, for disabled manhood only could look with impunity on the marble effigy.  Spies whispered into the ear of the silver-bearded King about the suffering of the solitary victim.

"He has poured again and again the blood of doves, and he kisses the marble body until his lips bleed, and the goddess still smiles a smile that is pitiless."

And the King made answer, "It is even as I would wish."  Then he mused, "Aphrodite is no longer to be appeased with the blood of doves.  He is youthful, strong, and an artist. Let the weapons of death be placed, mercifully, at the feet of the goddess.  Greater offering is her due."

And so it came to pass.  Author Hearn was not as merciful as George Bernard Shaw.  The prisoner shed his own blood at the feet of the statue. But that's Hearn's story.  Here is mine.

There was consternation on Olympus.  It is not that the gods resented such cruelty. They resorted to worse visitations on humanity and for the most specious reasons. Zeus was apt to hurl thunderbolts, without provocation.

In one thing the gods were unanimous.  The actions of the human king were a usurpation of their prerogatives.  They agreed that the king had displayed the highest form of hubris, of overweening pride.  Still, they decided to forego punishment, since the king was of an historic origin that traced itself to one of Zeus' earlier adventures into the human boudoir.  Thus, the consensus tended toward a policy of benign tolerance.

Aphrodite looked down upon her marble image from the Olympian heights.  She was not pleased with the blood offerings and the protestations of the hapless lover.  He was young and handsome and his attention to her flattered her.

Still, there was talk in the Olympian cloud covered environs that the statue was more beautiful than she.  Eros informed her that he had seen Ares, the god of war, surreptitiously visiting the prison-garden gazing enraptured, for hours, at her stone image.  She determined to restrain her jealousy.  There were other matters.

The statue and the King's punishment seemed an affront to her reputation--something that portrayed her in an attitude of extreme cruelty.  She felt it brought undue celestial attention to her adultery against her squat and ugly god-husband, Haphaistos, the heavenly armorer.  Three of the children of their marriage were the progeny of her long-term affair with Ares. Worse, they had been discovered entwined together by her injured spouse.  Haphaistos had anticipated the rendezvous and trapped the in flagrante delicto by means of an invisible but impregnable gossamer mesh.  He then invited the rest of the gods to view the assignation at its height, and render judgment on the injury and ignominy to a fellow divinity.  How she solved the dilemma does not appear in Ovid or Homer, or some obscure monument of inscription.  I beheld in the spectacle of a dream where Aphrodite appeared to me in her full glory, pressing her forefinger against her lips in warning, admonishing me to eternal secrecy.  "Not even the gods know what I am about to ordain in my magnanimity and glorious compassion.  Transfixed by the hypnotic majesty, I watched her descent to the opulent garden prison. The Prisoner was kneeling at the feet of the callous statue, his tears bathing the feet.  He stood for a last look into the darkness of her eyes, lifted the golden sword which had been provided to him for his final offering and placed the point against his breast.

Suddenly, the extended foot moved and the statue fell towards him.  He caught it, and he knew ecstasy.  It was no longer marble, but flesh. He found paradise, and supped therein.  He heard the murmured words of love that were born when first Eros burst forth out of chaos from the celestial egg.  She would come, again and again, she said, for he was indeed godlike, and she forswore him to silence and ordained him there into her priesthood.  When it was morn, she disappeared. The marble, back in place, exuded her scent of the night before, and it was no longer a cold stone image thqt looked down upon hi with scorn. It was more kindly; there was a slight upward turn in the corner of the marble lips.

The King marveled that his prisoner did not die.  He repented of his ire and ordered the statue destroyed.  But the men sent to obliterate it could not.  Her beauty turned their muscles limp. The seers forbade the destruction on the grounds that it would bring famine to the land.  The king relented and asked that the Prisoner be released.

But the Prisoner would not go, and when the King sent his minions to persuade him, he drew the golden sword and set the scurrying back to a wondering king.

"It is perhaps an ome," said the King.  "It is even as I would wish. Let it be so.  

And so it was with the Prisoner, who is said to have lived a very long and happy life, a priest of the miraculous sculpture. The opulent prison became a temple of Aphrodite. And it is said that he lived forever and a day, as it is written in the protocols of the land.  

First Love

                                                                            

I have the feeling this one of Dad's stories might already have made it to one of my earlier blogs Legacy of a Courtly Curmudgeon or DjinnfromtheBronxTwo. But it's worth a run on the current blog, I think. Dad went through a phase in his writing; everything in the present tense a la Damon Runyon.


When I am twelve years old, I attend a Greek parochial school.  One day, the principal invites a guy named Jim Londos to the school.  Jim is the new wold wrestling champeen and the most famous an in the Greek community.

We do not have an auditorium in our very small school, but Mr. Londos comes to each of our classes in turn.

He is no bigger than me, me only twelve years old, but he is sure wider.  He looks powerful enough. He is.  In fact he lifts his almost three hundred pound opponent off the ground, spins him around and hurls him to the canvas.  The opponent does not arise.  As Miss Kouri, our mythology teacher explains, he is not like a guy called Antaeus, who grows stronger each time he is thrown to the ground.  In this ancient fight, Hercules had to hold Antaeus up in the air to strangle him.  The guys wonder what Jim Londos will do if his three-hundred pound enemy gets up off the mat. Opinions are divided.  Half believe strangling would be o.k.

Naturally, all the guys become wrestlers.  There are a couple of sprains and bruises and a few broken bones.  The principal gets a lot of extra attention from the parents, especially the mothers.

I do not indulge in this sport, as I have great concern over getting hurt.  In fact I will never get into a match if this classmate, named Achilles, does not challenge me in front of Winnie.

Now, Winnie is not just any girl.  All the guys fall over each other, jump off cliffs, do battle with each other just for one of her glances.  In fact it is only because she comes into the classroom in the first place that my classmate, Achilles, challenges me to a match.  I cannot refuse for there is Winnie.

I have no hope at all.  Miss Kouri relates how the first Achilles gets dipped into the magic river, Styx, while his mother holds him by the heel, so he can't be killed, unless he is wounded in the spot covered by his mother's hand.

Of course, we hear that some guy named Paris shoots him in the heel with an arrow so Achilles dies.

This modern Achilles looks as strong as if he was the original.  I do not have an arrow.

Right away, he gets a scissors hold on me, which means he wraps his stubby legs around my waist and squeezes I think I am going to die.

"Leave the kid alone," says Winnie.

Now I know I am going to die.  If Achilles does not kill me, shame will.  It bugs me, first of all, that she refers to me as "kid". He is no older than me, only bigger--and dumber.  Worse, I realize that the buttons on my fly are undone.

I hope he kills me before she notices, but I make one last try. I lift him still attached to me by his legs, whirl him in a small arc, and his head hits the iron support of a nearby desk.

He falls like an ox hit by a mallet.

Achilles gets three stitches in his head. I get five good whacks from the principal with a wicker rod.

Winnie smiles at me. 

I am in love for all time.

Celui Qui J'Attends Viendra" (The One I Wait For Will Come)--Words from popular song of yesteryear

I have begun to read dad's stories more closely in preparation for these transcriptions. This one really touches me and it is hard to think of dad being so, sentimental. But there you are, a sentimental tale. In letter form.

Sergeant William Morrison
434 Elm Drive
Poughkeepsie, New York USA

Mon Amour,

No, you will not return.  I live now in the words of the songs we listened to together, and the precious memories of our love.  If this letter reaches you in America, do not feel you have to answer.  Think of it as your last French lesson and a reminder of the happiness we had together.

When they told me you had gone, I looked up at the Parisian sky.  They say Le Ciel de Paris n'est pas longstemps cruelle. . .The Parisian sky is never cruel for long.  It is a lie.  I walk now under the bridges of the Seine so as not to see the sky, those same bridges where we looked at each other, ". . .les yeux dans les yeax. . .our eyes meeting. . . deux couers qui sourient.  Two hearts that were smiling. One smiles no more.

One song will always be ours.  I play it over and over and over again, and I forget.  He will come.
Nothing but belles espoirs, wishful thinking.  Il m'appporta des fleurs. Il me dira des histoires de voyages. You carry flowers.  You tell me wondrous tales of your travels.  Tout si bon.  Everything will be wonderful.  As when we first met, Paris was liberated and it was always. Dimanch toute la semaine. Sunday all week long.  You came with your child-like smile and I said to myself, his eyes caress my being.

You spoke early words of love to a hungry heart.  Le couer qui s'ennui.  You spoke to me of nonsense.  As the song says, Il me dira de bavardes.  It was too soon and I should have known.  I knew I would answer in the only way I could. Je responderais que je t'aime. I will answer with love.

You will not come. Never. Paris is free but le ciel est sombre.  My sky is dark.

                                                                                                           
Mademoisele Mireille Jourdan
43 Place de la Vendome
Premier Arrondissement
Paris, France

Forgive me for having read your letter to Bill.  I am his mother.  Yes, he returned--not his physical self, but his effects.  It was cruel that you were not told the truth at his unit headquarters.  William was killed in a Jeep accident on his way to Paris.

I have known about you for many months.  Bill wrote volumes of you. He spoke about remaining in Paris after the war.  Among his effects was a letter to me, in which he talked of his plas.  I enclose the letter, which belongs to you more than to me.  Take it with my sadness for my son and someone dear who touched him briefly with love.  

Bill is always in my heart, as you are.  I thank you for the happiness you gave my boy.

Samantha Morrison


Dearest Mom:

This letter may not be a surprise to you.  You know how many times I wrote to you about Mireille. Now that the war is over I am taking my accumulated leave in Paris.  I have official permission and access to a Jeep and will be on my way as soon as I can.  I am going to ask Mireille to marry me.  I don't know what Army policy is towards soldiers marrying overseas, but it makes no difference  We will be together regardless of any policy.  If it is possible, I will bring Mireille home  If not, I will remain in France.  I will be the man of her favorite song, "Il e'apportera des fleurs".  I will bring her flowers and we will look forever into each others eyes, two hearts that are smiling where the river is a mistress and her lover is Paris.

La Seine est une amante, et son amant est Paris. 

Love,

William