Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  I hope you write,

  Samuel

  Dear Samuel,

  I was so excited when I got your letter. I’d been checking at the post office every day, and when it finally came in I felt like crying. So I did. You know me—a little emotional. I have to say I probably wouldn’t last a day at boot camp. I don’t do well with people screaming at me. Plus, I’m a major klutz. I’d be tripping over myself and everyone else the entire time. Yuck! It’s a good thing God blesses people with different talents. The world would be in trouble if I were a Marine.

  I added a little bridge section to your song. Maybe someday I can record it and send it to you. I don’t think you said whether or not they will let you listen to music eventually, so I’ll save it for when you graduate. I’ve been playing constantly since school got out. Sonja has been working with me on composing music and actually writing it out on composition paper. Up to this point I’ve only read and played music, but never written it down. It feels like school, but I don’t mind. Sonja says I have the ability to make a living as a musician, perhaps play with an orchestra or a symphony, maybe tour Europe. Wouldn’t that be amazing? I don’t know how I would feel about leaving my dad, though.

  I was thinking about your comments on Samson when you had your hair shaved. I went back and read the story. I don’t think Samson’s power was really in his hair. I’ve always thought what an idiot he was to trust Delilah with his secret. She’d proven herself completely untrustworthy. She used everything he told her against him. After reading the story, it occurred to me that Samson didn’t trust her. He just didn’t believe that he would really lose his strength if he cut his hair. He believed the strength was his and that it hadn’t really been given to him from God with certain responsibilities and conditions, like his parents had taught him. He didn’t keep his promise to God. God said that his long hair would be a symbol of that promise. Not the source of his power. So when Samson revealed the symbol of his promise to Delilah, he rejected God and essentially cut himself off from the source of his power. So, to make a long explanation short and sweet—your individuality does not come from the way you wear your hair, Samuel. Your individual worth comes from keeping your promises and being a man of character. Easy for me to say, I know, here in my comfy room, listening to Mozart. But I think it’s true, all the same.

  Do you remember that little part I read you from Jane Eyre? Jane Eyre’s worth came from her sterling character. I guess none of us really knows what kind of character we truly have until we are really tested. I think you’ll find you have plenty of character in these next few weeks. I believe in you. Would it embarrass you to tell you that I really miss you? Because I do.

  I’ll listen to enough music for both of us, and try to send it to you telepathically. Wouldn’t that be cool, to be able to transmit our thoughts like radio waves? I think there has to be a way.

  Be safe and be happy,

  Josie

  July 1, 1997

  Dear Josie,

  I got your latest letter last night during platoon mail call. I’ve read it slowly, in sections, making it last. My Grandma Nettie keeps sending care packages full of stuff I can’t have. She communicates her love through food rather than letters, although she sent a short one. Your letters are especially appreciated—thank you. Some of the guys pass around their letters, especially if they’re from girlfriends. Some of those girls have no class. The difference between you and them is mind boggling. They aren’t fit to lick your shoes. This big black kid from Los Angeles named Antwon Carlton was passing around some filthy thing and everybody was laughing. I didn’t want to read it and refused to take it when Tyler passed it to me. It made Carlton mad and he started saying “You too good white boy? Or do you just not like girls?” I told him I had no interest in touching his trash. I don’t think he likes me much, but the feeling is mutual.

  Tyler jumped in, saying I wasn’t white, and the Hispanic kid, Mercado, said “Well we know he ain’t Hispanic.” They all stared at me. I just kept cleaning my weapon. Tyler jumped in again and said ‘He’s Green!” Green is what the Marines call themselves. I used to think it would be nice if people were all one color—everybody the same. Not anymore—because then you wouldn’t be you. Your hair wouldn’t be all white and gold and your eyes wouldn’t be so blue. But here the goal is to make us the same… green. It’s strangely therapeutic after all these years of feeling so torn by my desire to know more about my father’s culture and still be loyal to my mother’s. There’s a whole new culture here.

  I should have known you would find a way to comfort me about my hair. Interesting take on the Samson story...did you come up with that yourself? Knowing you, yes. I found the story in the Bible and read it yesterday during my free time. Samson was a serious warrior. I think you’re right about his strength not actually being in his hair. It’s probably a good lesson for most of us here. Samson was this unbelievably powerful guy, but he lost everything when he thought he could do it alone.

  History is a big deal here at boot camp. We’ve been in classes for hours on end. It’s interesting and it builds a sense of pride in me, like I’m part of something important. They’ve been drilling dates and battles into us—Inchon, Belleau Wood, Saipan (my grandfather fought at Saipan) Peleliu, Okinawa, Chosin, and more. Iwo Jima in World War II is kind of the pinnacle for the Marines.

  We’re also learning about the Warriors, as the D.I.’s call them—Marine’s who did great things. I found out today that a Native American named Jim Crowe was a Marine. I recognized his name. He has an interesting story. We also have to memorize the fourteen leadership traits, which are things like integrity, knowledge, unselfishness, courage (I thought you’d like that—you’re kind of big on character) the eight principles of camouflage, the six battlefield disciplines, and on and on. They call this stuff ‘knowledge’ and we are tested on it constantly.

  There’s no time for debate or discussion, and I thought of you one day, as they were drilling us on facts and traits. It almost made me laugh (which wouldn’t have been good) knowing how much you would hate that. You love to analyze everything and discussion is important to you—you would hate just memorizing whatever they told you was important. Other than that, I think you’d make a great Marine. You said the world would be in trouble if you were a Marine. Don’t even think that. The physical stuff you could learn—although it might be a little harder for you. You’re unselfish and loyal and courageous. I can’t think of one of the traits that you don’t have. The world would be a much better place if there were more people like you.

  We were introduced to the pugil sticks this week. Pugil sticks are basically a four foot stick with thick pads on each end. The recruits wear helmets and protective padding. We battled guys from platoons 4043 and 4045. They had us lined up along this boardwalk, and we fought one on one. The goal is to deliver a blow to the head or chest, both considered kill shots. The first guy who lands two kill shots wins. When it was my turn, I went flying up the ramp yelling like my grandmother taught me to do when a coyote is trying to attack the sheep. I knocked the other guy off the platform with one big blow to the chest. D.I Meadows actually cheered. Sergeant Blood said “What was that, some kind of Indian War Cry?” He seemed to like it—at least he didn’t complain that I wasn’t loud enough. I think my opponent was more scared by my blood curdling scream than the actual blow to the chest. I’m starting to realize that’s the whole point with the constant yelling. Our troop got beat by troop 4043, so they get to carry the flag. I was a little disgusted with the turn-out. I’ve got to give it to Carlton. He may be a street thug, but he knows how to fight. He said the same to me when we were done, just not the street thug part. I almost liked him today. Some of these guys have never been in a single fist fight. I’ve been fighting my whole life. Who knew it would give me an advantage at boot camp. Anyway, since we lost, we ended up doing extra drilling.

  I knew it was coming, and I was dreading the pool. After a bunch of classes and instruction
we put on our jackets, helmets, packs, and boots and had to jump in the pool in full gear. They told us how to stay afloat, but I could feel the panic setting in right away. My face went under the water, but if you lean back as far as you can against the pack and tilt your head up, your face will be just above the water. We had to kick back and forth the across the pool a few times. Then we had to jump off of the diving tower and swim 15 meters. It wasn’t too bad. I can just imagine how terrifying the whole experience would have been if I didn’t know how to swim. I wasn’t the fastest, but I didn’t draw any negative attention to myself, either. There actually were a couple guys that didn’t know how to swim at all. That would have been me if wasn’t for you.

  I have a new nickname. A few of the guys have noticed that I am reading the Bible on my free time. I am now Preacher. Not very fitting, if you ask me. Don’t preachers have to stand up and teach people? I guess it could be worse. Some of the guys were talking about their favorite kind of music. Nobody said classical. I wasn’t surprised, and I didn’t volunteer my preference. Later on, I was talking to Tyler Young, and he asked me what I liked to listen to, so I told him about Beethoven. He asked me what songs I liked. I told him I especially liked Air on a G String—big mistake!! He thought I was talking about women’s underwear. He’s calling me ‘G’ now. I think I prefer Preacher. Tyler has a big mouth, especially when he thinks he’s going to get laughs, and before I knew it, he’d told everyone about Air on a G String. Now I’m Preacher G.

  I’m actually enjoying being here. The whole point of boot-camp is to make you into somebody better. I like that idea. I’m four weeks in now, and I’m confident I’ll make it through. By the way, how is Yazzie? I miss you too.

  Don’t change,

  Samuel

  I wrote Samuel several letters, trying to think of every possible thing he might be interested in. I told him how Yazzie chewed everything he could get his little teeth into, and how he made the chickens miserable. If he weren’t such a raggedy ball of cute fluff, my dad might have made me get rid of him. I kept most of his escapades a secret in order to protect him. He was almost house broken. He definitely made more work for me. I had to brush out his coat everyday so that he didn’t leave hair everywhere, but he was worth it. I smothered him with affection and was lavished with doggy love in return. He made my heart a little lighter.

  Other than Yazzie, life was pretty uneventful, and I struggled for material to include in my correspondence. I couldn’t tell him that I had cried yesterday while I fed my chickens, thinking of how I was going to be gathering their stupid brown eggs for the next five years at least, while they clucked and pecked ungratefully around my legs. Meanwhile, Samuel would be off, fighting battles around the world, being a man, falling in love with WOMEN. I hated that I was almost fourteen, and that I was way too young for him. I was alone in my room too often, daydreaming about him coming back in the fall and riding the bus, sitting next to me in his Marine uniform, holding my hand and listening to classical music from the Romance period.

  I would feel even worse when I caught myself in these ridiculous fantasies, realizing how truly juvenile I was. I missed him horribly, and I had a terrible, terrible fear that I would never see him again. In my letters, I found myself saying these things, only to rip the letter up into tiny pieces and send the appropriate missive, chattering about music and telling him the interesting facts and stories Sonja always seemed to provide during our sessions together.

  I spent my free time with Sonja and Doc—as much as I felt I could without wearing out my welcome. My lessons were eclectic and covered more subjects than music. Doc even participated every once in a while, putting in his two-bits, sharing his vast knowledge and opinions. He wasn’t musically talented, but he liked listening to me play, and more often than not would be asleep in his chair when I left. I don’t know what ever became of Doc’s desire to write a book. As far as I know he never finished one, but for whatever reason, he and Sonja loved Levan and stayed. Doc’s son was grown and lived in Connecticut or somewhere else on the other side of the Earth—so they didn’t see him much. Their little eccentricities were not so great that they felt stifled by our little town. People seemed to like them, and Sonja’s musical abilities were utilized on the organ each week at church. Doc fell asleep every week in church too, but he always went, even though he kept his pipe stuck in his mouth throughout the service. He never lit it, so I guess the congregation just decided to let him be.

  I often thought if it hadn’t been for Sonja and Doc, my brain would have atrophied with nothing to occupy it but chicken feed and recipes and unchallenging school work. They were a balm and ballast to my yearning heart and a stimulant to my intellect.

  That summer, I checked the mail every day but only received letters from Samuel sporadically. Two months after he had left town, I received another. Racing home, I threw the rest of the mail in the bill basket for later perusal, and ran up to my room, throwing myself onto my bed and ripping the letter open. I smelled the pages first, closing my eyes and trying to imagine him writing it. I felt like one of those girls who cried whenever they saw Elvis. I shook myself out of my silliness and unfolded the pages. The letter was long, and his precise handwriting slanted forward aggressively. I read it hungrily.

  July 31, 1997

  Dear Josie,

  I hear the drill instructors in my sleep yelling “pivot, align to the right, cover, don’t close up, and don’t rush it!” We drill for hours on end it seems like. I feel like I am marching in my sleep. Antwon Carlton actually did march in his sleep. Tyler was on Firewatch duty night before last and Carlton came marching by in his sleep. Tyler called out,” Pivot, back to the rack recruit!” It worked, and big bad Carlton marched back to his bunk. Tyler had everyone laughing about it- you know he didn’t keep it to himself. Carlton got a little ugly, but a couple of the other black guys told him to relax. They all thought it was pretty funny, too.

  Everybody seems to realize if we don’t hang together, we all suffer. One day our squad leader, a tough red-head from Utah named Travis Fitz, had to do punishment exercises every time one of us swatted at a fly or missed a drill order. He paid for our screw ups. It was a pretty big lesson. About half way through, I ended up requesting permission to speak and volunteered to take his place. It bothered me that he was taking the abuse for all of us. Sergeant Blood said that’s what a real leader does—he takes one for the team. He did let me step in for Fitz, but the point was made.

  We’ve been spending the last few weeks on the rifle range. I learned how to shoot from my grandma. When we were out with the sheep she would send me off away from the sheep, and I would practice. She called this time ‘loose time’- when the sheep were finished grazing, and they were full and drowsy, and we stayed in one place for a while to watch them. When my grandma was little she actually used a bow and arrow to run the coyotes off. I know how primitive that sounds—most people probably wouldn’t believe it. My grandmother had her own herd at eight years old. If she lost a sheep she would be whipped, because it meant loss of food and livelihood. She wasn’t as hard on me, but the care and well-being of her sheep was the most important thing to her. I’ve seen my grandma ride full out, shrieking at a coyote, shooting from the back of her horse. My grandma probably would have made a good Marine, too. I’ll have to tell her that when I see her again. She’ll get a kick out of that.

  I haven’t had any difficulty on the rifle range, and it’s all due to her. Again, some of these recruits have never shot a gun before. It blows my mind—even the boys in Levan all have BB guns and 22’s don’t they? What is America coming to? Our generation is unbelievably soft. Man, I’m starting to sound like my D.I.’s. Anyway, on qualification day I scored a 280 on the course, which puts me in the high end of the expert category. Sergeant Meadows said I should set my sights on sniper school after Marine Combat Training and infantry training. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do. I used to think maybe I’d just go into the Reserves, but I’m thinking I’
m going to go Active.

  We’re about half way through, and we just got our Marine pictures taken in full dress blues. I felt a little like crying. It’s funny, I haven’t had the urge to cry one time, not when I’ve been sore and tired and screamed at. But putting that uniform on made me get a big lump in my throat. Unbelievable. For the first time, I feel like I truly belong somewhere.

  You know I’m going to have to give in and read Jane Eyre one of these days. But I can’t read it during boot camp, so please don’t send it to me. I would never live it down; can you imagine my D.I. during mail call ripping open my package and pulling out Jane Eyre? I’d be on the quarterdeck for a year.

  I think I’m having Beethoven withdrawals. What have you done to me? Keep working on the telepathic thing.

  Don’t change,

  Samuel

  I immediately rushed to my little desk and wrote him back.

  Dear Samuel,

  I listened to some John Phillip Sousa today and imagined you marching in your dress blues. Will you send me a picture when you graduate? I can’t wait to see you all serious in front of the flag. You do serious pretty well, so I don’t think you will look too different to me.

  It doesn’t surprise me you are doing so well. I love the stories about your grandma. Someday I’d really like to meet her.

  I feel like I am standing still why you are running forward. I feel a little anxious and antsy, maybe even jealous that you are living your dream. I guess I’ll have my chance someday.