Pilgrimage to Mom's Childhood Home

            Fog factored in the not very mathematical equation last Saturday.  Both my departure on March 24 and my return on Tuesday were delayed because the air controllers could accommodate only one blinded pilot at a time.  Aunt Virginia, now the last of the 5 siblings I found in 1983 for Mom, who was brought up as an only child,  and her grandson Derrick (the one who, with his mother,  was going to stay with her for two weeks and has been there for 20 years) were picking me up, but I realized I would be unrecognizable since I last saw Aunt V in the early 1990’s, when I was much younger and without the strange special effects I've added to my hair since then, so I made a crude “Tina at 66” sign, but I spotted her first.   They drove to a spot outside the airport, where I met my cousin Babs for the first time, and then Aunt Virginia and I went on to Camarillo, where John Statham was hosting us because “She thinks my dust bunnies are better than her dust bunnies.” 

            John is the son of Aunt Margaret, one of the 5 siblings Mother never met or knew she had until 1984.  I won't mention the soap-operish circumstances of his birth.  He’s very warm, smart, and articulate, and he really went out of his way to make our stay enjoyable and meaningful.  I could improve my hostess skills quite a bit if I learned from him.  In advance he'd asked what I liked to eat, and when I arrived he had huge bunches of bananas and vanilla extract, milk, vegetables, Earl Grey tea, and other such things.  (I left a $100 bill with a thank you note.)  What I appreciated most of all was his looking up things from Mom’s high school yearbooks and about 9134 Hargis Street.   He was the one who found Mom as President of the World Friendship Club in the 1937 yearbook from Hamilton High, and he even spotted which one she was in the group picture.  He also found the names of people recently connected to 9134 Hargis Street:  Samira Naeem Ellahi, Saraiya S.  Joomabhoy.  Nikesh V Thakker.  I remember hearing about Grandmother Robison’s asking Mom, “Don’t you have any white friends?” and thought that it was ironic that Indians should be the new owners or occupants in view of that white ideal but quite fitting in light of Mom’s being president of the World Friendship Club!  The white house is now the color of bright orange fruit.  Passion fruit?

            When I first made contact with these blood relatives in 1983, they presented a very idealized picture of  their mother, who gave Mom up for adoption after her birth in 1921.  This time there was much less of that idealization, and I felt more sympathy for her and more admiration for them, particularly Aunt Virginia, as transcendants.  In fact, one of the things Aunt Virginia said was that their mother never talked to them.  She worked hard, came home,  and then went to bed with a book.  When their grandmother came from Missouri to visit, what stood out about Grandmother Fowler Stephens Chapman Cosby (multiple marriages in our family) was that she talked to them.  Aunt Virginia’s sympathy is definitely more with their mother than with their father, who was a drinker and a womanizer and even fathered a child while still with Helen Stephens (though maybe not yet married since they waited until after the birth of their youngest child to get married—maybe because she was still married to Lee Culley until then).   I have a very good impression of Aunt Virginia.  I marvel at her strength at having survived all this, some of which I will not mention on a blog.  Even having her daughter and grandson with her for 20 years seems heroic to me even though I liked them.  

            One of the families I put Aunt Virginia in touch with in 1984 was still in touch with her and had sent an album of the family on the side of Helen Stephens with quite a bit about Mom’s brother Jasper Culley, the one whom my brother David resembles and who also had epilepsy.    So we looked through that album together.   I also found out that our Robison grandparents arrived in California at least a decade before the Langans (Helen Stephens’ assumed name—thought not legally her married name) and that the Langans rode from Kansas City, MI, to California in a car driven by Aunt Nadine’s boyfriend and drove right in to an Auto Court, where they lived for more than a decade, the six of them. 

            On Sunday morning, John showed me the yearbook pictures, and then we three took off in the rain to go to 9134 Hargis Street, where Mom lived until she married Daddy in 1941 and where our Grandparents Robison lived from 1929 until their deaths in the early 1960s.  This was also where I stayed when I was 4 and  visited when I was 9.  I don’t know why I wasn’t sent there more often.  I loved them, and they really wanted to see us.

             I would never drop in on friends or relatives without calling first, but I decided to catch the current occupants of the house off guard so they couldn’t bar their doors.  It was a mistake, I think, but it’s the tactic I’ve always taken, and I’ve always gotten in.  While John and Nadine waited in the car in the rain, I went to the house, which had a Prius parked where Grandmother Robison’s 1951 De Sota had been.  (I’m sure she had an earlier model when I was there at the age of four, but it’s the 1951 De Sota that G’mother Robison drove and Mom inherited after Grandmother’s death in 1962. )  I knew from Google—sent to me by Mark Miller and Jonathan—that the house was now painted a brick red, which is close to orange.  It had also shrunk, but I knew that from a drive by in 1966.  I rang the door bell, and a pretty woman—but not 100% Indian if at all-- peered through, warning me about the dogs.  I said,  “Hi, my name is Tina Martin, and my mom and grandparents used to live here.”  She invited me in and let me look around.  She apologized for the mess the house was in, and of course all the apologies should have come from me.  I told her, “I’m just so grateful that you let me in,” and she said, “You have an honest face.” (But not honest enough to let them know in advance.)   I’d read online that the house was built in 1929 and last remodeled in 1929, but there were changes that made it almost unrecognizable.  I think the floor plan was the same, but things like the sinks, bathtub—all the furnishings—were totally different.  And where was the Grandfather Clock that “stopped, short, never to go again when the old man died”?  The back yard was grassy and full of dog poop, which I miraculously managed not to step in as far as I know.  (They may know differently.)  The woman who’d let me in, Jenny, told me they had been renters for two years and the owners were attending to a family situation in Oakland, and she offered to give them the letter I’d written in advance (in case they weren’t home), which had pictures of the house with Grandmother and Grandmother Robison in front and mention of my memories of being let out every afternoon to run down the street to greet Granddaddy and of my first encounter with the Good Humor Man bringing ice cream.  (Very corny but truly very vivid and wonderful memories.  Both sheer joy!)  She introduced me to her friend and to her husband George, and they were all very friendly.  They let me take pictures.   I think she told me that six women lived in the house usually.  But I may have gotten that wrong.   I did show her my list of names, and she nodded.  I guess that she was the Jennifer Trimble we found on the list of otherwise Indian names. 

            I looked for the mail drop that my grandparents had watched with such hope every day of their lives—at least when I was with them.  I don’t regret things like my marriages or divorces, but I do regret that I was such a bad letter-writer during their lifetime.  Maybe that’s my greatest regret.  

            I wasn’t there long—maybe 10-15 minutes.  Then I went down the block taking still more pictures, and then John drove us to Marshall High School, which is really around the block, but I think there may have been an obstacle to Mom’s taking that shortcut when she was in high school.  Aunt V chose to stay in the car, but John and I got out and walked around, spotting signs like “Global Peace” showing Mom’s lasting influence as President of the World Friendship Club.  I also saw for the first time a sign saying iHop.  I thought it was funny that what was once a sock hop should take on the iPod, iPhone, iPad trend and be called iHop—the Internet had pervaded even the dance floor, and kids were texting instead of necking-- but John straightened me out on that.  It’s the International House of Pancakes, a chain where I treated Aunt V to breakfast the following day on our way back to Huntington Beach.  (I could see that Aunt V, who's had to deal with the deaths of two sisters and a husband in the past three years,  has lost her will to live.  She had the breakfast combo—two pieces of bacon, two pieces of ham, two sausages along with a pancake and syrup.)  But before leaving LA I treated ALunt V. and John  to lunch at a place John said a friend of his grew up in, Dolores Café—a very Denny’s-like place but with Persian hors d’oeuvres. 

            Sunday evening we looked at a video made of our reunion in 1984, and then we watched the season opening of Mad Men, which had gotten rave reviews from David Wiegand of the SF Chronicle, who compared the lead character to Jay Gatsby.  It was on from 9 to 11, so of course I drifted off more than once, but what I saw left me puzzled by why it’s gotten such raves.

            On Monday Aunt Virginia and I, after her killer breakfast, drove from Camarillo to her house in Huntington Beach. where Babs, Derrick, and their dog Cocoa were waiting for us.  Babs, who needed a knee replacement operation 20 years ago but couldn’t afford one, was in bandages from a recent  exacerbation! of the problem, and Derrick was home for spring break.  Babs works for a public institution that makes people work overtime for no pay, and everyone who works there is too tired and discouraged to blow the whistle.  No breath left in them. I treated them to Mexican take-out from their favorite place, nearby.

            The rest of our time was spent in the past, a great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. 

              I saw pictures of Aunt Virginia as a young woman.  Like her sisters, she was beautiful.  In some pictures she looks like Vivian Leigh in Gone with the Wind.  In another she looks like Ida Lupino.  

            What's now missing from our collection of the past is Mom's likely father, Lee Culley.  As soon as I got back, I contacted Marsha Milner, Jasper's daughter, whom I found in 1983, when she told me my brother looked a lot more like her father than anyone else in the family.  I've talked to her on the phone and sent her some pictures, so I hope to soon get a response to my request for a photo.  I feel that I'm very lucky to have found blood relatives who are warm and welcoming.  I also feel lucky to have had grandparents I knew and loved and should have written much, much more often.

The Depression Christmas Making Do

The picture Aunt Virginia showed me made me think of a story Mom wrote, and I typed it up today:

Tomorrow's Christmas

By Nadine Martin for an Advance Composition class in 1964 or 1965

Retyped by daughter Tina Martin—Originally typed on a typewriter.

                Cora glanced over at the bland face of the alarm-clock ticking at one end of the large, oak bureau, and saw that it was almost time for her ten-year-old to be coming in for lunch.  Then she bent again over the old sewing-machine, her gray hair hanging in meager, untidy wisps about the tense face.  Her feet rocked the black-metal treadle, up-down, up-down, and her fingers fed the brown silk to the needle.  A moment more and the needle had picked its way to the end of the seam.  Cora let out a long-held breath and felt a tight muscle in her cheek relax.  She closed her eyes and rubbed the lids with sandpapery knuckles.

                The dress for Sharon’s Christmas was done at last.  Cora opened her eyes and started at the dress.  How dull it was, how lifeless, how unsuited to the dark, slight child she had made it for.  “Ugly,” she said out loud in the silence of the cluttered, unattractive room.  Her mouth was dry with disappointment.  Oh, what had she expected from an old hand-me-down, anyhow?  A made-over dress for Sharon, their pride, their delight!  Her face felt hot and she pressed the back of her thin, freckled hand to her face and found the hand moist and cold.  What were they going to do?  Her thoughts became jumbled and frantic.  What was to become of the three of them, now that the grocery had failed?  Louie, worn out with worry…an old man at fifty.  Could he even get a job?

                Looking down at the muddy, brown silk, she remembered happier, prosperous, younger days.  She thought of the gay gifts in the past.  Sharon in a tiny frock of red velvet—soft folds of creamy lace tickling fat folds of the baby neck…Sharon at seven, wild with delight, a yellow bird on the sidewalk-bike.  What could she do to brighten up this poor gift…this old-lady’s leaf-brown frock?

                She stood up and moved to the bureau.  Pulling out a deep drawer she found an old, brown-spotted candy box filled with rolls of old ribbons, hand-crotched lace…Yes!  Here was what she was looking for.  From her finger a long length of crimson ribbon unwound its lustrous coils.  Then she noticed the bent, frayed edge of a photograph.  She peered at the sepia tint and flipped on the light switch.  The mild light from the ceiling shone on clear, dark, candid eyes, on a wide breadth of forehead with its wave of hair, richly dark and soft as a plume.  The rather heavy lips met in a firm line, repeating the line of even brow.  There was only a slight suggestion of a smile on the lips and the steadfastness in the gaze seemed underlined by the firmness of a square and tilted chin.

                “Oh, Louie,” her whisper was tender.  “What has happened to you..what is happening to us all?”

                She tucked the picture back into the box, burying it under the hoardings of past luxuries.  She closed the drawer and walked to the machine, the crimson ribbon curling in her hand.  Placing it on the darkness of the dress, she admired its glow—soft, warm.  I’ll make a sash, she thought.  The screen-door slammed, and a quick smile warmed her sallow face.

                “D’ya have to always slam the door?” she called out as she lay the dress with gentle hands in an empty drawer of the bureau.  Funny, she thought, how that old ribbon had kept its young color.  And she went to fix lunch for her darling, her pride, her child. 

                After lunch Cora walked the short block to her husband’s store.  The wind was shrill and bold.  It spun the wires on the telephone poles, then swooped to prickle her neck.  She hunched her shoulder and pulled her head deeper into the scruffy fur-collar of her coat.  Cora felt her heart become a hard lump of pain as she saw the crude sign in the window of the small, red-brick grocery:  “Going out of Business:  Fixtures Cheap.”  Through the window she saw her husband bending over the gas heater, rubbing the palms of his hands together, slowly.  The bell above the door jingled as she entered then tugged the door shut against the wind.

                “Vegetable soup.  Be careful, it sure is hot.”  She had unscrewed the top from the thermos and handed it to him.

                The steam curled up to mist her husband’s steel-rimmed glasses.  He blew at the soup with little breaths and filled up the deep hollows under the high cheekbones.

                “Sharon home?” he asked.  She nodded, looking around the empty shell of the store.  Two rows of dusty shelves held all that remained of the canned goods.  How hard it was to see it as it had been I the good days.  Why, she thought in amazement, it had taken the two of them and sometimes an extra boy just to keep up with the customers.

                She reached up and tugged at the long cord handing from the white-globe fixture suspended from the ceiling.  The light was dim and did not penetrate the gloom beyond the small area in which they stood.

                “That was good, Cora.  Hit the spot.” 

                While her husband went to the backroom to wash the thermos-top, Cora walked to the cash register and found what she was looking for—a shoe-box stuffed with cheap, gray charge books.  She made her voice hard and cold.

                “How long before you collect on these dead-beats, Louie?”

                “I can’t collect from most of those accounts, now or anytime soon, Cora.  You know that,” his voice reproached her quietly.  “Some of those people haven’t worked in months.”

                He bent over suddenly, his face gray and drawn.  The ulcer was acting up again, she thought.  But he had to be made to see, to understand.  It wasn’t right for his own flesh and blood to have to do without so that he could help strangers…It wasn’t fair.

                “Mr. Kashuba’s getting relief checks, now.  Mrs. Cooper saw him cash one at the drug-store yesterday.  Look”  She pulled out two charge-books.  “He owes you $111.75, Louie!  Make him pay some of it, at least.”

                “I  can’t do it, Cora.  All those kids.  Why, tomorrow’s Christmas.”

                “Tomorrow’s Christmas,” her voice was a savage mocking of his slow inflection.  “Louie, tomorrow’s Christmas and all I have for Sharon is an ugly brown dress.  It isn’t right!”

                “All right, all right, Cora.  I’ll go see if they can pay something.”

                She watched him silently while he changed from store-apron to his overcoat and went out into the December wind.     Alone in the store she put her head on the counter and tried to rest.  But anxiety, irritation, and a terrible sadness seemed to churn together in her brain.  Maybe they’d have to go on relief.  That’d be something, wouldn’t it!  On the government, like the Kashubas.  She saw the six, pale kids, string-bean thin and with those dutchy haircuts and the old-timey braids.  Can’t even speak good English.  A hundred dollars!  If Louie could collect even some of that she could get Sharon a little red sweater…get the radio fixed, maybe…

                Then Louie was back and she knew—even before he shrugged his shoulders, apologized with his upturned palms.

                “What could I do, Cora.  Just the kids there.  Looked scared to death.”

                Disappointment made her tongue a sharp, cruel weapon.

                “You’re a failure, Louie, that’s the trouble with you.  You’re just a worn-out failure.”  She pulled her coat on and started for the door.

                “Cora,” he walked toward her, “Cora, I’m sorry.”  His voice was low and unsteady.

                “My God, Louie!”  She thought she might scream if she didn’t get out of there.  “What good is being sorry?”

….

                It was quite dark by the time Cora reached the new shopping-center and the temperature had been dropping steadily.  The afternoon’s wind was a gale now, but  Cora’s fingers were warm as she counted her change in the shelter of a doorway.  She told herself she was glad she had told Louie how she felt.  Maybe it’d wake him up…make him see that a wife and child had some rights too…A dollar bill and sixty cents in change, she counted.  I’ll get some ground-beef at the butcher-shop, she planned, and I’ll fix it up nice with some catsup and onion.  It’d be nice to have turkey, but a good meat-loaf…some people even preferred meat-load, she told herself.

                Inside the butcher-shop the air seemed close and still after the wind-swept freshness outdoors.  She smelled the odor of cold, lifeless flesh, dried blood, damp sawdust.  A red tissue-paper bell hung from  crossed ropes of green crepe paper intertwined with tarnished tinsel.  She had thought she was the last customer, but as she walked up to the counter she saw a puny figure—Mr. Kashuba.  His hands were deep in the pockets of a jacket dark with age and dirty.  Mouse-gray hair was plastered in thin strands over the high dome of his narrow head.  His mouth was pursed.  Cora thought in wonder—He’s whistling!  One of the kids was standing beside him.  A plaited braid of nearly-white hair hung limply down the back of her sweater.  Cora saw sharp points of elbows breaking through the untidy darns of the navy pullover.  Their eyes met, hers and the child’s and Cora saw her tug at her father’s arm until he turned away from the scrawny turkey being folded into the butcher-paper.

                “Mrs. Kashuba,” she began.   “Mr. Kashuba,” she started over.  “You’ve owed Mr. Simpson on our bill too long now…really, too long.”  Surely he understands English, she thought.  I must make him see why it’s all wrong…not fair.  “Mr. Kashuba, you must pay something on the bill.”  Her anger was red and hot.  “I’ll just thank you for the money, Mr. Kashuba.”  She saw the butcher’s red, sausage-shaped fingers begin to tie up the turkey.  “People on relief don’t eat turkey!” she raged.

                The man stared at her from milky-blue, protruding eyes.  Fish eyes, she thought wildly.  He stepped back a little and hid his child from sight.

                “Here,” he said, pushing the wrapped turkey towards her.  “Take it, take it.”  He fumbled in the outer pocket of the plaid jacket and drew out a bill.  Throwing the  money on the counter he took the child by her hand.  “Come,” he said.  The little girl followed her father to the door of the shop.  At the doorway she paused for a moment and turned to look at Cora.

                Staring back at the child and holding the turkey against her breast Cora pleaded.  “It’s fair.  Don’t you see?  You owe it to us.”  Then the door slammed and they were gone.

                Cora walked to the door holding the turkey in her arms.  She thought miserably, disconsolately—I don’t want just the turkey.  I want them to know I’m right…tell me they know I’m right…

Made-over Trousers in Hard Times the 1920's

My time with my Aunt Virginia, the last of the 5 siblings I found in 1983 for Mom, who was brought up as a child, included looking at an album of photos a relative on the Stephens' side sent her.  But this picture is one Aunt Virginia says was taken by her family in Kansas City, Missouri, when times were hard and her mom (the one who gave birth to Mom in 1921) made trousers for her brother Billy from the fathers old work out trousers.  But she didn't feel good about it because the zipper was too long.  Billy looks fairly satisfied though.

Were they still wearing thoe shoes in the late 1920's of early 1930's?

More tomorrow about the visit to my Grandparent Robisons' house...

Food as Culture ESL Assignment

Report on “Forbidden Food” Interview

I was getting together with some friends who are very good cooks on Saturday, March 17 at 5:00 PM, so I thought it was the perfect time to interview one of them so I could write a sample report for my ESL 142 Speaking and Listening Students.  I contacted our hostess, Nicole, by e-mail and cc’ed the others to ask about conducting the interview before we had dinner that night.  By using Skype we were going to include Linda, a friend who now lives in Oregon, and to my surprise, she was the first to respond to my message, and she answered all my questions.  I thanked her, but I told her that our teacher was really strict, and the teacher had told us to practice our speaking and listening skills, so I wouldn’t be able to use her written answers.  What a shame!

But the hostess was also a good interviewee.  As she set the table around 5:30, I began the interview with Nicole Wendel, a friend I’ve known since around 1982, when we both taught at John Adams.  We had a few pleasant interruptions, but the interview (also pleasant of course) took about 20 minutes between 5:30 and 6:00.  Another friend, Shehla, sat with us during the interview.

On the subject of forbidden foods, diet restrictions, or any food she won’t eat, Nicole said the only taboo for her was “pink slime,” anything that looked awful and wasn’t identifiable, but she also said she avoids food with antibiotics and hormones and anything that’s highly processed.  I asked her to explain what highly processed food was, and she found a package of Jello and read the label to another friend and me. 

I named some recent food trends like eating less meat, vegetarianism, ethnic cuisine, and unusual “insect” dishes and asked her what she thought about these trends.  She said that she pays attention to how the animals have been raised.  In a place like Whole Foods, they rate products 1-5 to show this.  The higher the number, the more “natural” their life is.  This was really interesting to me because I became a vegetarian after learning that in factory farms animals can’t even move or turn their heads or nurse their babies in a natural way.  I was happy to see that some markets as well as customers are concerned about this and are trying to be less cruel. Later I looked this up and found this web site:  http://blog.wholefoodsmarket.com/2011/02/5-step-chicken-whats-in-a-number/

She said the most unusual food she’d ever eaten was guinea pig in Peru, but she also had grasshoppers (chapalines) in Oacaca, Mexico.  (Later I found a YouTube video on this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuOU4WByVmw )

She knew about the ban on shark fins, and I explained what we’d learned in ESL 142 about why sharks are so important to the ecosystem in the ocean.

She said her favorite food is cheese, and she isn’t sure about her favorite restaurant because “I don’t like to eat out much.”  Maybe that’s because she’s a very good cook, and so are most of her friends. 

I asked her when she eats with her family, and she said she eats with them when she visits them in San Diego.  They never have the TV on during meals.  She sometimes eats alone in her kitchen. 

She’s never fasted, but once, a long time ago, she gave up some foods she liked for a special diet.  She doesn’t remember what she ate on her special diet.  She drinks wine but not much other alcohol except for tequila from time to time.  She doesn’t count calories, but she pays attention to portion or serving sizes. She never eats at McDonald’s or any other fast food restaurant except a taqueria.

      She says she associates food with love because “I love food.”  Her best memory of a meal was of  eating outdoors.  One meal was in Mexico, where she had tortillas dipped in chili sauce and heated in a large wok-type dish and filled with potato and chicken.  “The whole setting was magical, night on the zocalo, chilly mountain Patzcuaro.”  The other place was a dairy farm on a hike in Germany that ended in Austria.  She said that she and those she was with  “ate the cheese and visited the cows.”

She says she rarely cooks now.  “Mostly just when I invite people over.”  However she makes oatmeal every week day and eggs on the weekends. 

I felt very comfortable and happy during the interview because like Nicole, I love food, and it’s fun talking about it with friends.  Of course, I know I was conducting the interview in my native language, and for you it won’t be so easy, but it may help you more with your speaking and listening skills.  I’m pretty good at listening, but I need to remember not to interrupt too much, and this time I remembered.  I sometimes asked Nicole for clarification or elaboration, but I never asked her to repeat.

             I learned something I hadn’t known about the 1-5 rating on how animals are raised. 

Then Beth, a third friend,  arrived with cheese, Nicole’s favorite food, and we had a wonderful meal of cheese and crackers, the Thai-influenced noodle salad I made, the asparagus and pasta and shrimp dishes Nicole made, and the mango cheesecake Shehla made.  Everything was delicious, as our friend Linda could see on Skype.  We didn’t want her to feel bad that she couldn’t eat the food, so we pointed out that our meal was low in calories only for her. 

1943 Letter from Mom to Dad in the Navy

Letter from Mom to Daddy postmarked March 5, 1943

Among the items in the boxes Kathy has given me since Mom's death is this letter from her to Dad--in 1943, when she was pregnant with Dana although I'm not sure whether she knew it yet.  This letter is full of politics, a passion for both of my parents, and I also think it was my mother's chief attraction to my dad--his intelligence and the "important" topics he liked to discuss.  Still, I can't help wondering whether he might have liked more mention of how much she missed him.  While speaking of how very happy hearing from him has made her, her focus seems to be equally on Chiang Kai-Shek,  Gandhi, Peyroutan (a name I had to look up--and he turns out to be connected to North Africa, where Mom's second child--me--was to spend two years of her life), the AFL CIO, the plight of the "Negroes," etc.  I suspect it was both genuine interest in these people and topics but also an effort to relate to Daddy in a way that would impress him and make her seem his intellectual equal.  I do remember that when Daddy wrote to me during the years I was in the Peace Corps, most of his focus was on Vietnam!  With no more delay, I'll present the letter!  But after I get in midterm grades and reports, I'll come back and annotate, perhaps.  

******

Thursday Evening

Or

The night after

Your

Long-hoped-for-letter

Arrived!

And I am happy!  Very happy!

Darling, your note seemed to reflect such high spirits, and you’re feeling better, too.  I’m so relieved.  Your optimism in re: to political outlook was a little startling, but I quite agree that, militarily speaking, things are looking up.  But, Peyroutan retains his position in N Africa, we’re mincing matters with Franco—movements to recognize any Spanish Govt in exile receive no attention, let alone support.  Trouble seems dead-ahead for Soviet-Polish amity, due apparently, to machinations of Fascist elements in Polish exiled Govt.  Soviet annexed territory of ’39 is demanded returned, tho’ plebiscites indicated overwhelming majority of populace of territory desired union with the U.S. S.R.

            Madame Chiang Kai-Shek’s personal appearance tour has done a great deal towards enlightening our people re:  stupidity of blanket Chinese Exclusion Act—favorable impression created by her may blind some to reality of Fascist-minded counselors high in the Chiang gov’t.

            No indication as yet that Gandhi has gained anything more than increased Indian adulation thru his latest risk of life.

            The proposed liberal coalition to be headed by Norris has hit a snag because of A.F. L. disinclination to participate.  Tho’ Phil Murray is apparently opposed to a suggested merger with AFL (suggested by Wm Green), he still hesitates to split labor sentiment by backing the liberal group.  A.F.L has also gone on record as unwilling to join British Trade Unions & CIO in USA in labor front with USSR unions.  They (AFL) maintain that there is no free bargaining existing in Russia, only a state sponsored economy which backs one group, i.e., the working class. 

            I’m still hoping for a joining of labor groups into a Labor Party—for I’m convinced that the democratic Party is really going to be (even more than before) hampered & double-crossed by Southern Democrats.  And I have no hopes for a change of heart in the G.O.P.

            M.E. wrote me a fine letter not so long ago.  She’s enjoying the challenges offered by the men and women in “I Believe.”  She and her roommate are organizing their confusion on lots of topics and M.E. has found a prof to talk to.  She’s given M.E. more confidence in her capacity—for ME says that teacher says her IQ is quite eminently satisfactory and she need not feel inferior in that respect.  ME has so often spoken of her tendency to settle back into a real sweet southern "womanhood” because she didn’t feel she was equipped initially to do much rigorous or contributive thinking.  M.E.  feels much closer to you now than ever before.  She is to write a Freshman semester paper, and planned to write on the CIO as she asked for suggestions, I offered a few:  For ex, What are the CIO/AFL records re: employment of women & of minority racial or cultural groups, i.e. Negro; what should be the conceivable advantages and the disadvantages of the merger of CIO & AFL suggested the 1^st of year by Wm Green?  The combined group to be patterned after AFL; what leading industrialists, editors, gov’t officials back which union group?  I’ve a lot of clippings and mag. articles on Labor matters which I’ll send her if she can use such.

            Herman is just awaiting his call to report for Naval Air Corps Cadet School.  ME maintains that she loves him very much indeed, tho’ she had about pushed him clear out of her mind (supposedly) in her letter-before-last.  Now she’s arguing to herself that it’d be very impractical, unfeasible, etc. to be married now.  I’m trying to get more complete picture of Herman, but she speaks in rapturous adjectives or declines to discuss him at all.    I’m so glad you specially asked her to keep in touch with me.  I think of her a great many times and I’d like to share a lot with her.

            Honey, I got the sweetest Valentine from your Daddy.  It was a big one with the printed words on outside:  “Happy Valentine Wish” (and) “to dear wife.”  But he had inserted “Elmore’s” so that it reads “to dear Elmore’s wife.”

            Verse read “V. Greetings to say you are dear,” etc.  And he signed it Love and God bless you, Daddy Martin.”

Since then he’s answered a letter of mine and this is what it says in part:

            “Well, you have played havoc now.  You have done something no one else has forced on me.  I don’t ever write letters to anyone and I can’t see how I’ll ever get this one ready for you…”  I must say (your last letter) served its purpose—made me happy, tremendously happy & I enjoyed it, but how in the world will I get this one ready for you.”  “I sure did hate to see Elmore leave.  It hurt me something awful.  I wish I were big, brave and intelligent enough to keep him supplied with some good encouraging letters…”

            He thanked me for combination birthday & Valentine card & asked “Don’t you think I’m the oldest and sweetest one you ever saw?”

            He sent love & best wishes to you, Elmo, and darling, do write him 1^st chance you have.  I love him so much and he is so awed by you.

            Two days ago he sent me a bunch of S.C. newspapers floating banner headlines on the awarding of Navy “C” to Ware Shoals Mfc. Co. employees.

            My mother sent a box of cookies and a sweet little valentine for the two of us.

            Verse concludes:

“Wherever you are, wherever you go,

Somebody cares.—and wants you to know”

            Mother

The cookies were splendid, tho ‘ bit crumpled.  But, oh my sweet, how much better to have shared them with you.

            The Wash. News has really been coming thru.  They had dubbed us the Missing Martins, and wondered if we were on the planet!  I’ve written them all, to put their minds at rest on at least that one point.

            Bert has been moved to Fort Meyer & is underfoot constantly.  2138 is our casa at any drop of any hat—or anchor for that matter!

            Eve’s dad died and he took a trip to Minnesota.  Now is head of a unit of OPA’s Personnel Division.

            Larry is making plans for a complete change, & Riccki is no longer at G.W. but is working for an Economic advisor to the administration in OPA. (Office of Price Administration?  Tina)

            Sylvia Rosenberg has popped up again—with portfolios of evidence!

            All send their love and Terry writes in her usually gay & giddy chatter form Landing, Michigan!  Regards to the Admiral, I quote.

George writes once a week or so, but nothing of import.  Tho’ I’m still hopeful.

            I wrote Mrs. Hunter a good long letter and I’ll bet you get a note from her.

            Pete tells me that they’re closing up at P.C. and only 2 officers remain.  He expects to join you on an LST Marjorie Martin writes from I(nternational? Tina) House, California to say that she misses us, also Clyde who’s at sea.  She’s enjoying Berkeley as I asked her to look up my dynamic red-headed protégée?

            Mrs. Arnold & Selma worked on the 25^th Birthday Party for the Red Army given at Hotel Commodore.  It’s written up in Soviet Russia today in the March issue which hasn’t popped upon Norfolk stands.

            Tho’ we still  have trig homework, our shop work has taken a turn towards the practical.  I can sink a neat rivet now & you should see me running a drill press.  We also hammer and saw at pine boards & to date I have 10 fingers & haven’t bitten my tongue quite off.  My Granddad would be ecstatic at seeing me now.  He also taught me tom-boy tricks—climbing trees & hanging by one knee, walking on gigantic stilts,  and he’d let me use his carpenter tools, which were his pride & delight!

            Darling, I’ve bought a war bond & am on my way towards a 2^nd.  Yesterday my allotment came & you were really generous.  I hope to save from $150-200 per mo. until July or so.  I sent the $14.00 for Aetna, $10.00 to Mary & paid 1^st of 4 income tax installments $56.35.

            Apt. Success:  Please address next letter to 50 Willkie Rd.,  Snug Harbor Norfolk, Va. For Jane and I are moving in with a gal (Greek OBK) from Iowa, Berkeley, San Diego & points.  The one, honey, who cooked us the amazing fried chicken dinner.  She’s a pink girl and we’ll have the run of the house.  She’s sub-letting it from a Navy couple.  A Navy Yard bus comes by for am shift & brings us safely home.  Snug Harbor is about 15 min. from Ocean View.

            And Elmo it’ll only be $15 mo rent for me.  We plan to move the 13^th day after school is over, Praise the Lord!  I’ll write you more of this.

            Darling, I’ve really been doing some interesting investigation lately.  Being in Va for a while tho’t I’d read a bit on the Poll Tax stand of Va & the possibilities for effecting any change in the abysmal status of the Negro here.  Wrote to Ntl Comm Repeal Poll Tax and they sent me a monthly pub. called The Repealer.  The Committee could supply me with all copies of Repealers needed for distribution but were unable to give me names of groups-- where in N. , which were already at work.  So---I read & snooped & followed people out of stores when I overheard something intriguing & here’s what I have found so far, in resume:

Of 609 delinquents before N. courts

196 were white boys   291 Negro boys

63 were white girls      59 Negro girls

259                              350

A number of Negroes here felt a desperate need for Negro cops for Negro districts but civil services here examined for white males only.  However, one Ernie Wright, a very light Negro, was given an app by error & he encouraged a group of 6 Negroes to apply.  They were turned down & Ernie was req. to return app as error had been made.  But, there are 2000 organized Negroes here, registered voters with precious Poll-Tax receipts & this group with aid of an organiz. called Interracial Commission & backing of some wealthy Jews here hired lawyer & got case before Fed. Circuit Ct.   Judge said that Wright’s rights had been violated, & the comm could just bustle about & look up another exam & it had better be nowhat harder than the one given whites.  But Chief of Pol. said he had choice of top 6 & he’d never appoint Wright.  Negro pressure group is hopeful of swinging an elec. for a new Chief of Police.  This Sat. I’m going to write a note to Interracial Comm & see what they’re doing.

            Then one of the VPI profs very nearly was run out of Norfolk after being here 15 yrs. When he sided with Negro school teachers in their demand for equal salaried status with wh. Teachers.  That case was taken to the Supreme Ct. in ’41 & a decision invoking the 14^th ammend. was handed down.  The difference in the salaries was to be adjusted a measure each yr. over a 3-yr period.  This is the 3rd yr.  I’m going to check with Melvin Alston, who was the Negro teacher taking case to court. 

            I’ve found that there is a Va. Electoral Reform League headed by a Virginius Dabney (writes for New Repub. occas.) situated in Rich. & I’m writing to it too. 

            The Negro League here has as motto “a Voteless People is a Hopeless People.”

            This is my 1^st attempt at a practical problem, darling, & I’m working hard & with all my heart.  I did affect a minor reform (tho I fear it was but temporary).  13 of us from VPI were invited for an evening of merriment & smorgasbord to a well-to-do class member’s house.  The food was superlatively prepared & I was raving away about how lucky she was to have such a good cook to come in and help her.    I knew the maid was in the kitchen, but I was sure she’d like to know how much we’d enjoyed the dinner.  The hostess came over & said---“Say, what about my pocket-book?” & Elmo she was going to give the girl $2.00 for a whole day’s work & the cooking—but one of the girls said she went in to her purse & took $2 more & so that frightened looking teen-age gal got somewhat more nearly the dough she should have gotten.  PS  The hostess still says, “Howdy” when we meet.

            Russian, my good man, is coming along beautifully.  The st. Car sessions really got me off to a dismal start, but in the calm of my room I find that all is clear glass & I expect to write you a letter most any time now.

            And now, my very dearest darling, I bid you Good night, for I’ve been writing 2 knuckles right off my rt hand & I've come to the airmail limit on paper sheets.  I’ll write you again very soon and until you hear again from me, have confidence in me and know that I’ll never never never stop loving you more & more & more.  You are adored by

            Your Angel.

I’m being very sensible, darling. Eating well and have been sick but twice, & neither time so violently as that night with you.  I’m sure this manual labor is splendid for me, as I exercise very strategic muscles!

            I’m going to have my eyes & teeth examined next week.  Appts are made.

            Sweetheart, can I send you anything?!!?  For any packaged material I must present a request from you as they’re attempting to cut down bulky mail on ships.