The War Years, Part 2

My first memories are intimately associated with World War II. We were in Chicago because of the war; we went to New Haven because of the war; and most everything I remember, even a train ride and Thanksgivings seemed to circle around the gravid event.

Hitler sent his troops marching into Poland a few months before my birth. Canadian troops, the first from North America, landed in England the week I was born, and Pearl Harbor was bombed the same month I turned two. The War impacted all of our lives. The Nation was rightfully convinced that we were in a struggle for our existence and everybody was in the same boat. There was a sense of urgency and commitment so pervasive that it even penetrated the awareness of a three year old.

I was too young to understand the politics, follow the battles, or even to know what was happening, but the gravity of the War was inescapable. I grew up with the war. It shadowed my early memories, always there as the backdrop to my infant life. We were nine months in Chicago because of the war and nearly a year in New Haven, Connecticut.

It seemed like everybody was in uniform. I remember brother Don and me sitting on the laps of three servicemen we picked up while driving home from Connecticut. We were in the back seat of our 1936 Ford. They were hitchhiking home on leave; two wore army uniforms and one was a sailor.The house on Lafountain was the place we came home to - Mom Dad, Don, and me. Grandma Della Frank lived with us and was there to welcome us back each time.

Grandma Frank hung a small banner in her front bedroom window. It was about 6 by 10 inches with a white background bordered in red, and a blue star in the middle. Anyone who passed knew there was a person serving in uniform related to the people inside. There were a lot of those banners in a lot of windows. Our star was for my Uncle Joe Frank. He was thirty-two when the war began so he was one of the older soldiers. Uncle Joe served in New Guinea and the Philippines, and like most Vets, he never had much to say about it.

Certain names and phrases stick in my mind even yet: Iwo Jima, Tarawa, Guadalcanal, D-Day, and Omaha Beach for a few. Some houses had banners with two and three stars. One house in Iowa had five stars. The Sullivan brothers. All five, died in 1942 when their ship was torpedoed and sank in the Pacific.

I made my contribution to the war effort in 1945. There were a half dozen boys living on our block. I was the youngest at five. There others ranged from six on up to ten, though three were brother Don’s age of seven. One of the older came up with the idea that we should collect newspapers to sell. We took our wagons and went door-to-door gathering up old newspapers, and then towed them four blocks west on Broadway to the Mervis salvage yard. On the way one of the group suggested a plan in which each of us would put a foot on the scales so we could claim a greater profit.

That seemed easy, and we entered the yard with a light hearted confidence. The scales were five foot on a side and level with the floor, so we easily pulled our wagons onto it and dumped the newspapers. Then we hovered around the edge with one foot projecting onto the scale. There were six small shoes pressing a few more pounds. I wish I had a picture of that scene. Of course we did not get away with it. The old man running the scales told us we had to back off. He was only a little gruff, but I expect he was laughing inside. War profiteering can apparently start at a young age.

The war ended in August of 1945. Everybody in Kokomo was in the streets celebrating. Mom said that people tore up ration booklets and used the stamps as confetti. We drove all around town in our 1936 Ford. The town square was absolutely packed with people. They were dancing, and singing, and some were just yelling in jubilation. Mom and Dad decided that we needed a noise maker so Dad took the metal cover off the spare tire, tied it to the bumper with a rope, and dragged it through the streets. It did a fair job of clanking and banging while it lasted, but came loose in the south part of town, but we kept going. Mom said they didn’t get much sleep for next two or three days, and the celebration when on for week. I’ve never seen a bigger Thanksgiving.

The War Years, Part 1

When I was growing up we had a big Thanksgiving dinner every fourth Thursday in November. I don’t remember any in particular. I don’t remember special guests, though I’m certain several graced our table over the years. I don’t recall a memorable event that occurred during Turkey day. No birds were dropped on the floor; no one got too drunk because no one drank that I remember. There were no fights, no extra funny performances, no sad or tragic happenings. We just sat down to a really big dinner.

The whole turkey, nicely browned and perfectly picturesque did not grace our table. The model for Norman Rockwell’s American Thanksgiving was not found in our home. The bird was transformed before it left the kitchen and its appearance was in an unrecognizable form. The poor bird had been dissected, and its parts waited to be forked and dragged to nearby plates.

The fare was traditional, and seldom varied. The most nutritious part of the spud was its peel, but custom required them to be peeled. The potatoes were mashed, and the peels discarded. It was similar to the practice of refining flour to pure white. White bread was nearly the only choices one had in a store. There was sweet potatoes or yams, green beans, cranberry sauce, giblet gravy, and oyster dressing. The recipe for oyster dressing was a contribution from Grandma Frank’s side of the family. I grew up thinking that every turkey in America came stuffed with oyster dressing, just as I assumed that everyone ate buckwheat pancakes for breakfast. I didn’t learn of the existence of buttermilk pancakes until I was thirteen, and they seemed so bland. Grandma was born to poor dirt farmers in the hills of Kentucky. It was a mystery that she should even know about oysters, but oysters were shipped to the Midwest as early as the 1830’s, and became fashionable even in the homes of poor dirt farmers - thus oyster dressing on our Thanksgiving table. Pumpkin and mincemeat pie was served after we were allowed time to digest and assimilate the meaning of Thanksgiving and its turkey. The first Thanksgiving I remember was during World War II.

GO TO: Part 2

The Things I Do Remember, Part 3 - Home to Kokomo

We returned to Kokomo at the end of 1943. I remember being on the southeast corner of Lafountain Street, a short distance from our house. I don’t remember for certain, but it was probably not long after we got back from New Haven, but I was sitting there on the curb with my feet in the gutter. I must have been small because the curb was no more than six inches high and I was not uncomfortable in that particular conformation. A gas station sat on the corner across from me. An old guy named Chester ran it. He had a German Sheppard called MacArthur. The station was typical for its day with a compact office that had a glass display counter housing a few candy bars. The small brick building had a roof that reached across to two pillars in front to support the carport. Two gas pumps stood between the pillars. The station faced North Street, a road paved in smooth red bricks. Black colored cars, many of them Model T Fords, rumbled down that bumpy street. The Beamer Baptist Church, a wood structure, sat on the corner diagonally across from me. I think I was sitting there trying to figure what to do. I don’t remember the act that caused it, but I was sitting on something mushy inside by pants, and each squirming move caused a shift in its mass, and launched a disagreeable odor . A tall man, wearing a fedora, crossed the street and came walking toward me. He said, “Hi” as he passed. I managed a murmured reply, all the time wondering if he knew about the job I had just completed. Finally I gave up and went home. I acted innocent and ignorant of the job and asked Grandma to drop my trap drawers. She complied. Grandma often used colorful language from the hills of Kentucky,. Usually they were phrases with an anal theme, phrases like, “A buzzard must have flown up your ass and died” , or “I’ll be dipped in shit”. This time it was plain and to the point “ Joe, you’ve shit your pants”. That was the last time I remember doing that particular job.

In 1944 I was standing in the alley that ran by the side of our house. I was in front, at the sidewalk edge, when two older girls passed. They seemed big but were probably no more than junior high school age. One of them ask me how old I was. I raised my right hand like a boy scout, bent my thumb into the palm, and showed four fingers. That was the first memory in which I definitely knew how old I was at the time.

The Things I Do Remember, Part 2 - New Haven, CT

Another photo is from a year later. It’s a black & white taken from the bottom of a very long, narrow staircase. The view looked steeply upward into a dimly lit void. I think we were in New Haven, Connecticut. Dad was then at Yale University, and still teaching for the military. It was probably our apartment building. There were two doors facing each other at the top, one on each side of the hall. There may have been more doors further along but I have no memory of any. I can remember standing alone at the top, anxious because I did not know the one to our place. Inside the apartment I could look out a window and down into a deep pit. The view was into a small courtyard. I could see a small grassy area hemmed in by four white walls. There was no way in or out. It scared me to think of being down there - trapped. How could I ever escape should the unthinkable happen? I think I went to that window frequently, fascinated by the sight, and then one day I saw a man down there with a garden hose.


There was a guy named Porge. I don’t know if that was his last name or a nick name. He was a student of Dad’s, and must have been rich for he had a large estate outside of New Haven at which he gave big parties. We went to several during our year in New Haven. It was a big place and there was always a lot of people, many in uniform. I don’t remember much more than that, but he had a round swimming pool with a sandy bottom. It might have been fed by a stream, because one day when I was in the pool something big came out of the inlet, and swam across the surface, exiting on the opposite side. I did not have any idea what it was but it had a lot of legs and looked menacing. I got out of the pool shortly thereafter and refused to go back.

There were some other fragmentary memories; a sailor with a rifle standing near a really giant anchor in front of an important looking building; the sight, on our kitchen table, of a sea star lying on its back, with its tube feet exposed. We were a bunch of flat-land foreigners, ignorant about the sea, and fearing a little, harmless, sea star. The four of us stood at a respectful distance, gawking at the alien creature that could not sting, but we did not know it.

Sometime during the year in Connecticut we took a train trip. There is no one any longer to ask about the trip, so I don’t know much other than it was during that year. I have a feeling it may have occurred when we were going to Connecticut. Dad might have already gone, and Mom, Don and I were joining him later. I have little memory of it save two frightful events. There was a metal plate covering the coupling between cars. It was constantly vibrating. Its shifting and bouncing was treacherous and I was hesitant about stepping onto it. An adult could probably span the distance in one long step, but I was little and my legs were short. Would I lose my footing? Would I be vibrated off the train? I don’t remember if I ever crossed it. Later I was sitting looking out the window. We were going through beautifully hilly country, a type I had never seen before. The train suddenly passed over a great void. There was nothing under us, and I looked down into a chasm to the forest floor hundreds of feet below. I know now we were crossing a train trestle, and we crossed others and some of them I must has seen as we approached on curves. I could not conceive how such a heavy thing as a train could be supported. I expected us to plunge to the bottom at each crossing. I was stoic. I never cried or said anything. I waited for the end that was sure to come.

GO TO: Part 3

The Things I Do Remember, Part 1 - My First Memories, Chicago

You could compare my early memories to photography. The first ones were snapshots, images frozen in time, with nothing before or after to provide much context. Later, they evolved into silent movies and then talkies.

The year was 1942-43 and the war had changed everything. Dad was no longer an “Omar Man” delivering bread. He was a civilian employee for the military. We were living in Chicago. I remember Mom speaking of a “Scott Field”, but that is in southern Illinois, so I‘m not sure what connection it had with his work. We lived there for nine months while Dad taught airmen how to operate and repair the radios they would be using on warplanes - most likely the radiomen were to be assigned to bombers and air transports

My first memory was in Technicolor. We had an apartment in the Near North of Chicago, close to Lincoln Park Zoo. There was a woman living in the building who babysat for Don and I. She was older, and I don’t recall her name any longer, but her apartment was a sweet delight. It was like going into a giant candy box of sugar and spice. Her place was filled with bright colored furniture splashed with flowery patterns. Mainly, I remember the color red. The sofa and chairs were big billowy things with colorful cushions. The carpet and rugs probably matched the décor. I don’t recall any particulars - maybe there was a sweet aroma to it, maybe it was her pleasant manner. It was a magic place with a sugary softness, warm and cozy to both of us.

We often went to the Lincoln Park. It bordered Lake Michigan, and there was always a cool breeze coming ashore. Mom said we hung around there to escape the summer heat as it was cooler than the apartment (no air conditioning in those days). I remember going to the beach and playing in the sand. Don and I had little buckets and toy shovels. I brought a toy revolver along on one occasion - black metal one that clicked when I pulled the trigger. I got in to digging and making sand piles, and vaguely remember burying the gun, but could not remember its location - one sand pile looked like another. We dug up the immediate area searching, but for naught. I really missed that gun - for a couple days anyway.

The Lincoln Park Zoo is another place we spent time. The main attraction for us was a visit to the Bushman’s cage. He was a giant gorilla behind thick bars in what seemed like a small cage. I remember him sitting calmly, looking through the bars at us visitors. I have no memory of being afraid of him - nor did I want to go cuddle with him. Mom frequently described how he would daintily peel potatoes with his thick fingers, and neatly stack the peels to one side. He would eat the potatoes, and then gather up the peeling and eat them. It did not occur to me at the time, but I wonder if his life might have been rather empty. I don’t recall seeing him with other gorillas. I don’t know if he ever got out of his cage. He lived twenty years, dying in 1951. I heard he died of mal-nutrition - and probably of loneliness and boredom.
GO TO: Part 2