by Ann Major
Of course, yours truly is the only one doing something praiseworthy-writing to you! How are you? In your last letter, you sounded down. Don't give up. I know Mike will be back. Somehow, some way. And me? Brazen (to use your word) as ever. Yes, I still fly a mission over Hanoi just about every other day. And no, I haven't had any close calls. Are you kidding me? The ace at Udorn? Come on! This jock has one and a half tours under his belt. I'm considered the Old Man around here. All the younger jocks always gather around me when I sidle up to the bar, wanting stories. So I oblige them.
Thanks for the tin of cookies! My God, they were a hit around here! You know how our post office works don't you? Those enlisted guys have noses on them like bloodhounds. They smell each package. The ones that have cookies in them are somehow detoured or "lost." When the package finally finds its way to the officer, the food that was in it has mysteriously gone. All the guys who work over at the post office are overweight. I wonder why?
However, because you told me ahead of time that you were going to make six dozen chocolate-chip cookies and send them to me for Christmas, I went over and warned all those guys to keep their hands off-or else. Your cookies got through unscathed. How did you know my favorite was chocolate chip?
I'd die for those. Between the box my mom sent and yours, I was the cookie king here at Udorn. And don't you think the other jocks weren't wandering over to my hooch to bum a few. Yes, I shared them, like you requested. Would I hoard them? Don't answer that. I carried out your wishes to the letter. You made a lot of jocks happy. I gave some to the enlisted guys on the flight line, too. Those guys bust themselves twenty-four hours a day, and it was a good feeling to make them smile. They thank you, too.
Hey! Gotta zoom off. One of those beautiful Thai ladies is giving me a look I can't resist. Look, you take care of yourself, hear? Your letters are like life to me here at Udorn. I really enjoy getting them. Don't stop! I won't, either. I promised Mike that I'd take care of you, so expect a letter once a week.
Merry Christmas, Gale.
Your Friend, Kyle.
December 24, 1974
Dear Kyle,
I want you to know that your lively letter-which sounded like a buccaneer swashbuckling-was my Christmas gift. I sat here with two bills, a magazine and your letter in my hand. Your letter, by far, was the one I wanted to open and read.
I had to giggle about the Great Cookie Heist! Just to brighten your day, I'm sending another box (air mail, of course, so it doesn't take three months via ship to reach you) of chocolate-chip cookies. Keeping busy is my only way to keep my sanity, and it's nice to be able to cook for someone who loves my cooking so much. So, in your own way, you're helping me, even if it's something as simple as appreciating my cookies. Baking them keeps my mind off so many terrible thoughts I shouldn't be thinking.
Enough of my maudlin musings. I hope the bloodhounds of the Udorn post office can't smell these. I've triple wrapped them in foil, plus wrapped each cookie individually to make sure no odor escapes to get their attention. And I've disguised them in a plain cardboard box instead of sending them in a suspicious round tin, which I'm sure tips them off that it might be cookies or other goodies inside.
Hi, I'm back. I started this letter an hour after getting yours. When I'm lonely, I write letters to my friends here Stateside. Yours is the only one going overseas. It's Christmas Day now, and I got lonely. I'm learning to turn on the radio or television set just so I can hear the sound of another human voice. What hurts is when the nightly news comes on and they show at least fifteen minutes of footage on the Vietnam War. I forget that it's going to come on, and then, some part of me focuses in on it, no matter what I'm doing. I'll hurry to the living room to shut it off, but it's like I'm mesmerized by some power and I just stand there watching and listening to it. What's wrong with me? Why do I have to watch the shooting, the killing they photograph?
It's worse on the radio because I never know when some news flash is going to come over it. At least with the television on-and if I can remember to turn it off-I only have to avoid hearing it at 6:00 p.m. and 11:00 p.m. I'm learning all these little tricks to avoid pain. Amazing what a human being will do, isn't it?
Thanks for listening to me. Just talking to someone, another military person, helps. I don't say anything to anyone around here because they all have a husband, brother, sister, son or daughter over in Vietnam and I don't want to depress them or make them worry any more than they already do. Thanks for being a compassionate ear. Please, fly safe. You're in my prayers every night along with Mike.
Warmly, Gale
December 23, 1975
Dear Gale,
Merry Christmas! I tried calling you yesterday, but the airman over at Ops said you'd just gone home after twelve hours of duty. I was going to call you and tease you unmercifully because I hadn't yet received those chocolate-chip cookies you promised to send this year. Now that I'm Stateside and stationed at Homestead AFB in Florida, I wonder if the cookies really got lost in the mail or if the same guys in the post office over in Udorn are now stationed at Homestead with me. I'll fill out a form at the post office, but it won't do any good.
You sounded better in your last letter. I know it's tough to go on without knowing about Mike, but you're a fighter and I admire your courage under the circumstances. Just hang tough. It's all you can do.
So, you're going to be stationed at Travis AFB, eh? Busy place. You'll be there for three years and get plenty of opportunity to visit San Francisco-lucky lady! Have a bowl of clam chowder down on Fisherman's Wharf for me, will you? It's one of my favorite places. I like the smells, the color, the people and activity. Quite a place. Take a cable-car ride for me, too. I like that bell they ring. Makes you want to get up and dance up and down the aisle while they're ringing it, ha, ha.
I can't believe you want me to tell the story of my life! Me, of all people! All I do is give you a hard time, lady. So I make you laugh a little. Nothing wrong with that. I figured it out: fifty-two installments, one letter a week to you, three or four pages at a time, and I ought to have my autobiography finished in the forthcoming year. Brother, are you a glutton for punishment, but, if that's what you want as your Christmas present, I'll indulge your whim. Next letter, I'll start. Can you see it now?
"I was born in Sedona, Arizona, to a grocer and his wife. I was red, wrinkled and too long. My mother, upon seeing me for the first time, broke out in tears because I looked so ugly. Of course, she reassures me that as I grew and filled out, I was the cutest kid in Red Rock county."
Whew, that was close! I'm such a handsome devil now that I couldn't let that info slip out to my flying buddies. I'd never hear the end of it.
Is this the kind of thing you're wanting to hear about in my letters? The down-and-dirty life of Kyle Anderson? Ha, ha. I think you're a real masochist, Gale-a new and provocative side to you I never realized existed. Okay, okay, I can hear you nagging me in the next letter to quit quibbling and get on with it.
So-Merry Christmas! You get fifty-two installments over the next year about me and the story behind this fantastic jet jock. It ought to hit the New York Times bestseller list, don't you think? Nah, don't tell me now. Tell me next Christmas, okay?
I know you don't have anyone to go home to for Christmas, and you've already said you'll spend it there at base. I really think you need to get away for a while and get some down time. You've worked yourself to a bone this year, Gale. Even I take time off and go see my folks in Sedona once a year. Why not take the thirty days leave you've got coming and get some R and R? I worry about you, sometimes. You're a strong lady with a warm heart, but stop and smell the flowers, huh?
Merry Christmas, Gale. As I hitch my foot up on the brass rail of the O Club bar, I'll lift a toast to you.
Your special friend, Kyle
December 30, 1975
Dear Kyle,
I can't believe you didn't get the cookies I sent! Are you sure they're missing? Or do you just want two huge batches to
hoard? Knowing your love of desserts in general-and cookies specifically-I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you fibbed to get a few extra dozen.
I'm so happy you've decided to send me your autobiography. I'm going to do the same thing. Not that I have had a terribly exciting life, but I think that's only fair. As you get writer's cramp and the next let-ter is hounding you to be written, you can fondly think of me having to write to you, too. Only, I won't see it as a royal pain as perhaps you might as the weeks roll by. Letters have been a life-sustaining source for me, giving me hope and often lifting me out of the depression I allow myself to get into.
Actually this year, I'm doing better. But I want to get on with writing my life story to you, too! I hope you won't be bored to death. I can see you sitting at your desk, feet up on it, letter in hand, snoozing away. Ha, ha.
Okay, here goes nothing. Promise me if you do get bored, tell me. I'll stop my autobiography. As I said before, my life's pretty nonedescript (my opinion).
I was born in Medford, Oregon. Unlike you, I was a pretty baby (according to Mom). She said everyone in the hospital oohed and ahed over me. I don't really remember. However, my star status quickly sank because my older sister, Sandy, really hated me. Sibling rivalry and all that, I suppose. Mom said Sandy (who was four years old when I was born) started having temper tantrums every time Mom picked me up to breast-feed me.
My father, who wasn't long on patience or very tolerant of such childish things, stood about two evenings of Sandy's shrieking and did something about it. He warned her that if she started screaming again, he was going to pick her up by her feet and dip her head in a bucket of water. I guess Sandy believed him because she never ever again had a temper tantrum. I'm not condoning what he did, but I wonder what psychologists would say about it. Sandy is the one who became a hippie in Haight Ashbury. She went to San Francisco when she was eighteen and got into the drugs and flower-children culture. I forget how many times she's been arrested.
I often wonder why she turned out the way she did. Mom said I was the favorite of the family because I was a sweet, quiet baby. Later, I was the "good girl" who did what was expected of her, while Sandy started to rebel. I know this letter is supposed to be about me, but I think every person is somehow fashioned and shaped by those around them. I ache inside because Sandy hates the military and, therefore, hates me.
I just wish she could overlook my job, Kyle, and see me, her sister. We got along well as kids. It's just that in our teenage years, Sandy got wild and had awful fights with Dad. When our parents died in that car crash when Sandy was eighteeen, I think it drove her off the deep end. That's when she took off for San Francisco.
Me? Well, I got shuttled between my father's two brothers and their families for the next four years until I turned eighteen. To this day, Sandy and I have never gotten together to talk about the loss of our parents. It would have been nice if she could have stayed around for the funeral. I really needed to be held. Looking back on it, I'm sure she did, too, but there was no one else who could hold us like our parents. I remember standing in front of the two coffins with my aunt and uncle on either side of me.
I never again felt so alone. Well, I should amend that. I felt that alone when I got the telegram telling me that Mike was shot down. The same kind of awful gutting feeling. Looking back on my short life, I wonder if I'm always destined to lose the people I love.
I don't mean that to sound maudlin. It's just that I see people live their lives in cycles where things get repeated. I hope the cycle changes. I want Mike home, safe and alive.
Your friend, Gale
December 20, 1976
Dearest Gale,
This letter ought to reach you in Medford, Oregon, hopefully before Christmas, not after it.
I was TDY (temporary duty) to Anchorage, Alaska, (where Santa Claus lives) until four days ago. The temperature extreme between Anchorage and Florida is alarming. I'm coming down with a cold. (I can see it now-the next letter I receive from you will tell me to drink lemon juice in hot water, put myself under a lot of blankets, and sweat the cold out of my body. Better yet, I'll probably receive a bottle of vitamin C, along with a finger-shaking letter demanding "why didn't you dress properly so you wouldn't catch a cold?")
This isn't a normal Christmas for me. Usually, I'd be over at the O Club with the rest of the single guys, playing dead bug or something to make the time pass. Getting stuck with duty around here stopped me from going home to Sedona like I wanted to. This year is different. Can't put my finger on it… maybe I'm getting older? Ha, ha. Perish the thought. Older but better-looking. How's that?
I can hear you laughing right now. Did I ever tell you how pretty your laughter is? I like the sound of it.
I intend to call you on New Year's Eve, as always. I really look forward to our talks. I don't know if the post office or the phone company makes more money off us.
When I got back to Homestead, your Christmas present was waiting for me. What a great surprise! You knitted this sweater for me by yourself? Dark blue, for the Air Force, of course. Seriously, Gale, it's beautiful. I just sort of stood over the package after opening it, running my hand across it. It felt soft and yet strong-like you. I never expected such a beautiful or thoughtful gift, Gale. Florida weather isn't very cool for very long, but I'll wear it every chance I get. Thanks.
This is the last installment to the story of my life. Letter #52. Here goes.
Presently, I'm stationed at Homestead AFB, in Florida, doing what I do best: flying. Sometimes, though, I get tired of the military machine and some of its stupider management decisions (and God knows, they abound in great proliferation). If I didn't like flying so much, I'd quit. But what else is there except flying?
I live on base, and the sound of jet engines lull me to sleep. I like that. The house is pretty empty to come home to sometimes. Just depends on what kind of mood I'm in, I guess. The television keeps me company-another human voice, to use your turn of phrase. There's no special lady in my life at the present. Maybe I'm looking for the impossible and I've set my sights too high. I like the fact women are coming into their own sense of identity. That's why I've al-ways admired you so much, Gale. You were a strong, independent woman long before it was popular.
My life revolves around my squadron and the duties therein. I'm lucky: I get paid to do something I love, which is to fly. Still, there's a hollowness in me I can't describe, can't seem to fill, no matter what I do. Maybe it's age or I'm mellowing. Possibly, even changing. Gadzooks! Did I say something personal? I must be getting old! Or maybe it's you. You're easy to talk to and share with.
There! That's it! So now, you've got the inside scoop on this jet jock. Now that it's all over, I don't feel as vulnerable as I did when I started writing my life story last Christmas. You're right: jet jocks are a flippant, arrogant lot who would never reveal their real feelings, their fears, hopes or dreams to anyone else. But I did to you and it felt kinda good. (Don't let that get around, or I'll never be able to live it down here with my squadron.)
On the other hand, I liked getting your letters about your growing-up years, going through ROTC in college and then into the Air Force. Unlike me, you never did have a tough outer image in front of the real you. I always knew you were a softy with a heart as large as this base. You do so much for others, Gale. I know Mike's parents really appreciate the fact you visited them last year. Mom told me it made them happy. I can't know what it cost you in terms of emotions, but I'm sure it was a hell of a lot. They're lost without word on Mike. You've managed to pick yourself up by your boot straps and continue on. God, I admire you for that. Is there a clone of you somewhere? I'd like to meet her.
Take care, sweet lady. I'll call you on New Year's Eve. A special gift for both of us. You're always in my thoughts.
Kyle
December 24, 1976
Dearest Kyle,
I'm going to miss getting your weekly letters. To be honest, your letters and phone calls have helped me sta
y centered during this awful period. You don't see that, though, do you? That's one of the reasons why I could face Mike's parents and stay with them. It was a cathartic experience, but I think, in some ways, healing for all of us.
Well, here's my Letter #52! Last one. I'm surprised you haven't fallen asleep over them yet! What a masochist you are at heart!
Right now, I'm living on base at Travis. The base housing here is Like it is everywhere: you can hear your neighbors through the walls. I'm surrounded by families on both sides of me and I really like that. Often, when I don't have duty at night, I'll baby-sit for Susan, who has three small children ranging in age from one through four, or Jackie, who has two, ages seven and ten.
I really enjoy the children. They give me so much hope. When I hear them laugh, I remember back to the good times when I laughed like that as a kid-or even as a grown-up. I especially remember laughing at something you had in every one of your letters. You have been wonderful in giving humor as a gift to me on days when I felt lower than a snake's belly, to use Susan's words. (She's from Texas, can you tell??)
This fall, I planted daffodils out front. The soil here is really bad, but I've tried to prepare it properly so I'll have at least three dozen plants poking their heads up in early March. It's nice to have something of home that you can bring along with you, isn't it? That's why I knitted you the sweater. To tell you the truth, that sweater was knitted during baby-sitting time. I'm surprised you didn't find a dab of jelly, a gob of sticky caramel or some other unidentifiable stain on it! The younger children especially loved to sit with me while I was knitting. And they love to touch things at their age. I ended up using a lot more yarn than it should have taken because they loved playing with it so much! Rather than them handling your burgeoning sweater, I let them play with the extra skeins I kept in my basket.