A few days ago I started looking back ...today I realized I hadn't looked far enough back, then I found this old letter I wrote just after my mother died on the computer...I think its a good time to share it:
January 29, 2001
Today I received a copy of my birth certificate via Fed Ex. I needed a copy for my new job and we could not locate our important papers, so Lori called the Vital Records Department in Denver, Colorado, and they sent it out to us.
When I opened the blue and red express envelope there was a very official document authenticating my birth. I entered this world at 4:10 in the morning of October 14, 1947. My mother was 29 at the time and my father was 33.
I was thinking of them when I started to cry, John Herbert Stilger and Emma Lucy Keith. John from Portland, Oregon, and Emma from Muldrow, Oklahoma.
They met in a shipyard in Vallejo, California, about 1943. My mother was a riveter in the shipyards that were cranking out Liberty Ships as fast as Nike pops out tennis shoes. My father worked on the high steel, welding plates together; they met at lunch time. My father said, "She stole a banana from me." They were married in Vallejo. After the war, Dad and Mom moved to Climax, Colorado, where Dad worked in an open pit molybdenum mine.
The fact that they met in Vallejo was one of those "cosmic accidents" that happen every day: woman from the Ozarks, leaves home, travels by bus 2000 miles away, finds herself in the middle of a labor shortage, and is immediately put to work building cargo ships - most of which were bigger than the town she called home. Man from Oregon, takes a train out of Portland and spends most of the trip hanging onto the rods under the boxcar, works on the Golden Gate Bridge and Hoover Dam - then when War with Japan breaks out, he is drafted not into the military, but into the hazardous occupation of working suspended several floors above the ground strapped to metal girders wrapped with asbestos. After several months salvaging what can be salvaged of a ravaged navel fleet, he is shipped back to Mare Island Navy Yard where he catches this young beauty from the hills of Oklahoma slipping a banana out of his lunch.
I wonder what it must have been like that early morning in October. Was the morning about to give way to a day warmed by the last of the heat-drenched winds of the Colorado plains, or had the winter that would soon come, filled the streets of Denver with an icy breath ? What hopes and dreams lay in my mother's heart as she cradled me close to her and smiled at my face as I nursed? Was my father able to spend some time with her and me, or was he called back to labor drawing the important alloy from the earth?
4:10 a.m., and there they were. Two of millions; young, full of life and hopes and dreams, living in land that had tasted the bittersweet taste of victory. The darkhaired part Native American girl and the well tanned curly haired man, confronted with this new and precious child that would in time bring them joy and grief, purpose and confusion. 4:10 a.m.: the world outside was barely stirring, perhaps a few lights were snapping on as fathers woke to insistant alarms and mothers heeded the infants' cries that nudged them from sleep. Later that day in a desert to the west, Chuck Yeager would climb into a jet aircraft and punch a hole in the sky and be the first ever man to break the sound barrier. 4:10 a.m.: the earth spinning, turning into the miracle that is the star we call the sun - but at that time there is no hint of the light to come, only the promise and reassurance of several thousands of such rotations. Stars and planets kept the Denver landscape company.
Later as I grew, I would stare at these same stars and planets; I would catch the vapor trail of a speeding jet illuminated by the moon, and can remember the occasional sonic boom as some airborn jocky would follow Mr Yeager through that hole in the sky.
My parents grew older with me. My father found work in Oregon, so the Colorado winters gave way to the temperate Northwest. He worked as a lineman for Portland General Electric, and my mother cared for both my younger brother and I, becoming an expert with cupcake baking and flashcards. And we all grew older together - only I never noticed them aging only me as I grew from toddler to brat to teenager. Those years seem squandered now: a few memories - my father showing me how to catch a ground ball, my mother slicing potatoes into slabs. And I remember popcorn and movies with my mother, and a Lincoln log set I got for Christmas one year.
Soon family weekends and vacations gave way to spending all my time at my girlfriend's house. A new war came, and I stayed home and got married - and then one day I helped my brother, family and friends say goodbye to my father.
I remember the last time I saw him. He had come home from the hospital to die. We had the bed in the living room and his youngest brother had made the trip from Dallas, Texas, to say goodbye. Dad could not swallow; the cancer had taken his strength, his breath, and his wonderful curly black hair. He begged for a piece of cheese and cracker, then choked on it; Mom cleared his throat. I lived in a trailer home in the Portland suburbs. That night, I sat outside on the swing for a few minutes and watched the stars. It was late, with only stars and planets and a feeble moon to keep me company. The phone rang and it was all over: he had gone away.
My mother never remarried; she lived with her memories of that handsome young man for 25 years. The last time I saw her, I watched the moon slip past Mt. Spokane - and now she is gone. They were 29 and 33 when they held me freshly-birthed in the morning hours. Now it's my turn to hold them: glimpses and memories, a few photos, a letter here and a cigarette lighter from his championship little league team he coached so graciously.
Emma Lucy Keith, John Herbert Stilger. This earth is merciless in its turning; this spinning planet devours time and lives. We grow old as Eternity lies clouded and veiled from our understanding, and the stars and planets rush up each dusk to wink at us with promise.
4:10 a.m. October 14, 1947. The day is soon to begin; there are sound barriers to break and wars to weep over. And love looks from father's face to mother's face, and into the newborn eyes ready to open to planets and stars, baseball mitts and frosted cupcakes.
Today I received a copy of my birth certificate via Fed Ex. I needed a copy for my new job and we could not locate our important papers, so Lori called the Vital Records Department in Denver, Colorado, and they sent it out to us.
When I opened the blue and red express envelope there was a very official document authenticating my birth. I entered this world at 4:10 in the morning of October 14, 1947. My mother was 29 at the time and my father was 33.
I was thinking of them when I started to cry, John Herbert Stilger and Emma Lucy Keith. John from Portland, Oregon, and Emma from Muldrow, Oklahoma.
They met in a shipyard in Vallejo, California, about 1943. My mother was a riveter in the shipyards that were cranking out Liberty Ships as fast as Nike pops out tennis shoes. My father worked on the high steel, welding plates together; they met at lunch time. My father said, "She stole a banana from me." They were married in Vallejo. After the war, Dad and Mom moved to Climax, Colorado, where Dad worked in an open pit molybdenum mine.
The fact that they met in Vallejo was one of those "cosmic accidents" that happen every day: woman from the Ozarks, leaves home, travels by bus 2000 miles away, finds herself in the middle of a labor shortage, and is immediately put to work building cargo ships - most of which were bigger than the town she called home. Man from Oregon, takes a train out of Portland and spends most of the trip hanging onto the rods under the boxcar, works on the Golden Gate Bridge and Hoover Dam - then when War with Japan breaks out, he is drafted not into the military, but into the hazardous occupation of working suspended several floors above the ground strapped to metal girders wrapped with asbestos. After several months salvaging what can be salvaged of a ravaged navel fleet, he is shipped back to Mare Island Navy Yard where he catches this young beauty from the hills of Oklahoma slipping a banana out of his lunch.
I wonder what it must have been like that early morning in October. Was the morning about to give way to a day warmed by the last of the heat-drenched winds of the Colorado plains, or had the winter that would soon come, filled the streets of Denver with an icy breath ? What hopes and dreams lay in my mother's heart as she cradled me close to her and smiled at my face as I nursed? Was my father able to spend some time with her and me, or was he called back to labor drawing the important alloy from the earth?
4:10 a.m., and there they were. Two of millions; young, full of life and hopes and dreams, living in land that had tasted the bittersweet taste of victory. The darkhaired part Native American girl and the well tanned curly haired man, confronted with this new and precious child that would in time bring them joy and grief, purpose and confusion. 4:10 a.m.: the world outside was barely stirring, perhaps a few lights were snapping on as fathers woke to insistant alarms and mothers heeded the infants' cries that nudged them from sleep. Later that day in a desert to the west, Chuck Yeager would climb into a jet aircraft and punch a hole in the sky and be the first ever man to break the sound barrier. 4:10 a.m.: the earth spinning, turning into the miracle that is the star we call the sun - but at that time there is no hint of the light to come, only the promise and reassurance of several thousands of such rotations. Stars and planets kept the Denver landscape company.
Later as I grew, I would stare at these same stars and planets; I would catch the vapor trail of a speeding jet illuminated by the moon, and can remember the occasional sonic boom as some airborn jocky would follow Mr Yeager through that hole in the sky.
My parents grew older with me. My father found work in Oregon, so the Colorado winters gave way to the temperate Northwest. He worked as a lineman for Portland General Electric, and my mother cared for both my younger brother and I, becoming an expert with cupcake baking and flashcards. And we all grew older together - only I never noticed them aging only me as I grew from toddler to brat to teenager. Those years seem squandered now: a few memories - my father showing me how to catch a ground ball, my mother slicing potatoes into slabs. And I remember popcorn and movies with my mother, and a Lincoln log set I got for Christmas one year.
Soon family weekends and vacations gave way to spending all my time at my girlfriend's house. A new war came, and I stayed home and got married - and then one day I helped my brother, family and friends say goodbye to my father.
I remember the last time I saw him. He had come home from the hospital to die. We had the bed in the living room and his youngest brother had made the trip from Dallas, Texas, to say goodbye. Dad could not swallow; the cancer had taken his strength, his breath, and his wonderful curly black hair. He begged for a piece of cheese and cracker, then choked on it; Mom cleared his throat. I lived in a trailer home in the Portland suburbs. That night, I sat outside on the swing for a few minutes and watched the stars. It was late, with only stars and planets and a feeble moon to keep me company. The phone rang and it was all over: he had gone away.
My mother never remarried; she lived with her memories of that handsome young man for 25 years. The last time I saw her, I watched the moon slip past Mt. Spokane - and now she is gone. They were 29 and 33 when they held me freshly-birthed in the morning hours. Now it's my turn to hold them: glimpses and memories, a few photos, a letter here and a cigarette lighter from his championship little league team he coached so graciously.
Emma Lucy Keith, John Herbert Stilger. This earth is merciless in its turning; this spinning planet devours time and lives. We grow old as Eternity lies clouded and veiled from our understanding, and the stars and planets rush up each dusk to wink at us with promise.
4:10 a.m. October 14, 1947. The day is soon to begin; there are sound barriers to break and wars to weep over. And love looks from father's face to mother's face, and into the newborn eyes ready to open to planets and stars, baseball mitts and frosted cupcakes.
2 comments:
Kenn, This is an astonishingly beautiful piece of prose, from start to finish. Thank you for sharing it.
Nancy
I landed here from Creative Photography. I just read this wonderful, lovely story about your parents and find myself wishing there were more to read.
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