Sew in Love

by Debby Lee

  Swiping her hands at her tears, she decided a cup of coffee would be a good idea. She hadn’t slept much last night.

  Walking down the hall to where the nurses kept coffee and tea ready for the families of their patients, Jeni stretched the kinks out of her neck and arms. Mr. Crawford had been very gracious about her not coming in. Of course, she’d made so many hats the past little while that he was probably set on inventory for at least a few more days.

  The aroma of the coffee perked up her senses. As soon as she poured herself a cup and took a sip, her mind was a little more at ease. God knew what He was doing. She would rest in that.

  Walking down the stairs and out of the building, she searched through the crowd at the corner for a newsboy. As she weaved through the people, Jeni spotted a young boy waving a paper over his head.

  “Paper, miss?”

  “Yes, please.” She gave the boy a coin and tucked the paper under her arm.

  When she walked back into Aunt Bridget’s room, Jeni noticed her aunt was awake. “Good morning, Auntie. How are you feeling?”

  “A little tired.” Aunt Bridget shifted in her bed. “Is that a paper?”

  “Yes. I wanted to see the baseball score from yesterday.” Fully expecting a sharp retort from her aunt, Jeni was quite surprised there was none. “Would you like me to read to you?”

  “That would be nice. I haven’t seen a paper since last week.”

  “Of course.” She flicked open the folded paper and saw the face of the man she loved on the front page. Jeni gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Philip.” Scanning the article, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “What?”

  “He’s proposed!”

  “To who?”

  “Me!” Jumping up from her chair, she ran back down to the street and searched for every paper she could find. She had the Tribune in her hand then found the Herald and the World. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, she checked them.

  They all had the same front-page story. HOME RUN KING PROPOSES.

  Apparently, Philip couldn’t find her and decided to do something drastic. So after the game yesterday, he’d talked to every reporter he knew and asked them to run his proposal in their paper.

  Not only had they run it, but it was on the front page. Philip proposing to her.

  She looked up from the papers and couldn’t help but laugh out loud. He loved her! And he wanted to marry her!

  Racing to the closest telegraph station, she composed in her mind what she wanted to say and how Philip could find her.

  Thank You, God!

  Friday, July 14, 1911

  Jeni took a deep breath and looked out at the crowd. The manager of the New York Giants had suggested they get married at the newly rebuilt Polo Grounds and Jeni had agreed, but she hadn’t expected to have the seats completely filled. She’d never been in front of this many people before.

  The past few weeks had been wonderful. Philip had found her at the hospital after his ball game and proposed again in person.

  She accepted.

  Aunt Bridget had gotten well and had even invited Philip over for dinner and apologized for burning his letters and sending the threatening notes. They got along surprisingly well, although she still had to throw in the occasional barb that he wasn’t Irish. Philip handled it all beautifully and with such grace and forgiveness. Even to the point that now he could banter with Aunt Bridget. It made Jeni love him all the more.

  Mrs. Belmont and Mrs. Astor Wilson had become her biggest supporters as she and Mr. Crawford signed the papers to become partners. She’d spoken at a suffragette meeting, the shop saw its profits double in the first week alone, and she’d made time to see lots of baseball games.

  But the best part had been praying with Philip every morning. About their future, about what God had for them, and thanking Him for bringing them together. It had been a whirlwind, but God made beauty out of their messiness.

  A gust of wind blew over her and caused her hat to tilt. Her thoughts came back to the moment at hand as she reached up to straighten it. Looking around her, she smiled. It wasn’t a dream. This was all very real. She was about to marry Philip March.

  Since she didn’t have anyone to give her away, she and Philip had decided to walk out onto the field together. It was a little unorthodox, but so was everything about their relationship.

  They’d fallen in love in a linguistics lesson.

  She was Irish. He was from Brooklyn.

  The papers had a field day with the story. Especially after Philip’s gallant, persuasive, and numerous proposals in the papers. Philip and Jeni had become the king and queen of New York. At least for a little while.

  No one had said anything derogatory about her being Irish. A fact that shocked and surprised her. But times were changing, and she was grateful.

  Straightening her dress of gauzy layers of white, Jeni adjusted her gloves at her wrists. Nerves were beginning to get to her, and she just wanted to marry Philip.

  Reverend Richards walked up beside her. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  He laughed. “I’ll make it quick and painless, I promise.”

  Philip jogged over to her. His blond hair moved gently in the breeze, and she gulped. This handsome man—this baseball player and her best friend—would soon be her husband. The thought thrilled her.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” He winked at her.

  “I’m excited that soon you’ll be mine.”

  “I like how you think, Miss-O’Brien-almost-Mrs.-March.”

  Reverend Richards cleared his throat. “Well, I think we should get started.”

  “That’s a fabulous idea.” Philip laughed.

  The minister walked out to home plate. The crowd cheered.

  Philip offered her his arm. “Are you ready?”

  “I am.” She gave him a big smile.

  He led her slowly across the field. The crowd was standing, shouting, and applauding, but she tuned them out. She took a deep breath and started to sing softly:

  “Take me out to the ball game,

  Take me out with the crowd;

  Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,

  I don’t care if I never get back.

  Let me root, root, root for the home team,

  If they don’t win, it’s a shame.

  For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,

  At the old ball game.”

  Philip beamed at her and laughed. “You memorized it for me?”

  “Well, you loved it so much when we saw it on vaudeville that I thought it was a good present for you.”

  “It was perfect. Thank you.” They reached home plate, and the reverend told them to turn and face one another.

  Reverend Richards kept with his promise. It only took them a few moments to recite their vows to one another, but it was beautiful and something that Jeni would never forget. Even though the crowd couldn’t hear them, they’d kept silent—almost reverent.

  Until Philip was given permission to kiss her. When he leaned in and took her in his arms, the crowd cheered.

  The rumble and roar that coursed through the new Polo Grounds was loud and felt like it could burst her eardrums.

  But it was nothing like the joy that exploded in her heart when Philip’s lips met hers.

  He’d hit a home run.

  Author’s Note

  The famous song “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is the third most sung song in America, inspired when Jack Norworth saw a billboard that read “Baseball Today—Polo Grounds”—an advertisement for the National League’s New York Giants in 1908. It was an instant hit that year and was performed for vaudeville audiences, recorded for the Edison Phonograph Company, and actually ended up being the most popular song of the year. Both Norworth—who wrote the lyrics—and the man who wrote the tune, Albert von Tilzer, had never been to a baseball game.

  But in 1934 its fame would be immortalized as it st
arted to be played at baseball games. This iconic tune—and the story behind it—were too much to pass up, so I had to include it in the story. Every time you hear it, or sing it in the seventh-inning stretch, I hope you remember Philip and Jeni’s story in A Language of Love.

  God bless you!

  Kimberley Woodhouse

  Kimberley Woodhouse is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than twenty fiction and nonfiction books. A popular speaker and teacher, she’s shared her theme of “Joy through Trials” with more than half a million people across the country at more than two thousand events. Kim and her incredible husband of twenty-five-plus years have two adult children. She’s passionate about music and Bible study and loves the gift of story.

  You can connect with Kimberley at www.kimberleywoodhouse.com and www.facebook.com/KimberleyWoodhouseAuthor

  Chapter 1

  Dutch Harbor, Alaska

  April 1945

  In spite of the late spring sunshine, the blustery wind blew through Stella McGovern as she walked home from her job manufacturing parachutes. She wrapped the scarf tighter around her head. Would she ever get used to such bitter temperatures? She tucked her chin against the cold and stepped faster. The answer didn’t matter so much. The circumstances were something she would gladly bear to help bring an end to the terrible war, to help bring Papa home.

  Work at the small warehouse that day had not gone well. The constant humming of the many industrial-sized sewing machines and the tedious, meticulous work required for each chute proved to be too much for three women. That, combined with the harsh, rugged conditions of the Alaskan Fort Mears Army Base, had motivated the three women to quit and plan to move back to their home as soon as possible.

  Their departure would leave Stella working longer hours, but a smile warmed her face. It meant a bigger paycheck and another few months’ worth of iron pills for her anemic mother. And she didn’t mind working with the Singer sewing machines and rolls and rolls of nylon fabric. Each parachute required sixty-five yards of material. She loved piecing together panels.

  Papa, a career army officer, had been stationed at Fort Mears at the onset of the war in early 1942, and the family had moved back to the Alaskan Territories. Then, right after Christmas 1943, he’d been shipped off to England to prepare for D-Day, the retaking of France.

  Papa was in charge of getting supplies to troops stationed in Europe. In spite of the war effort back home, supplies often ran short. His convoys of C-Rations and medicines were often under attack from the German Luftwaffe.

  Mama hadn’t been the same since Papa left. It was one thing for a woman to be apart from her husband because of military duties; it was another when his duties put him in the line of fire and at risk of being killed. Stella could hardly coax food into her heartbroken mother, even when it was plentiful, which wasn’t often enough.

  If only a letter would find its way from the farmlands in eastern France to the Aleutian Island chain a half a world away, and into her mother’s small, bony hands. Mail moved slower than a spring thaw, and Papa’s letters were few. Stella bit her lower lip and steered her thoughts toward more hopeful things.

  A pale blue, two-story clapboard house came into view as she crested a rolling rocky hill. Her childhood home, at least it had been before the Great Depression had landed on their doorstep. With her father out of work, they could no longer afford the house Stella had played in as a child. That’s when Papa had joined the military and they left the Alaskan territories before coming back in 1942.

  She paused to stare at it, as she often did when on her way home from work. Shutters covered the large windows, and the balcony was in serious need of repair.

  A lump formed in Stella’s throat. How many times had Mama walked that balcony as she waited for Papa to come home from work?

  Flower boxes underlined the windows beside the front door. At least they were still in good shape. Stella remembered the bright yellow daffodils and orange tulips that sprang to life every spring, in spite of such frigid weather.

  What drew her attention the most were the two chimneys at each end of the palace-like structure. They had always looked like bookends to Stella. Mama wouldn’t be cold again if they could move back into the house with two fireplaces.

  Her heart fluttered like bird wings at the dream of someday living once again in such a home. But the entire world was embroiled in a bitter war, and fancying such notions seemed foolish. She dreamed anyway. Someday the war would be over. Someday Papa would come home. Someday they would live in this grand house again, and she would have a whole room set aside for her sewing.

  A B-17 airplane thundered overhead. Stella slapped her hands over her ears. How was Mama to get any rest with the planes roaring over the Alaskan Territories day and night? The thought of her mother made Stella forget the blue house and hurry home.

  Twilight crept across the barren tundra by the time she reached the windowless two-room shack, a hovel really, where she and her mother resided. A thick fog spread over the island like a heavy eiderdown quilt. The soupy condensation made seeing difficult, but it did serve a purpose. It helped keep the Japanese from attacking the tiny town of Dutch Harbor. It was harder to bomb what they couldn’t see.

  Dutch Harbor had been bombed back in 1942. Stella would never forget the terrifying night of June 4, when Japanese fighters had dropped their bombs. Steel oil tanks were destroyed, fire erupted from a barracks ship, and the hospital was demolished. Forty-three people lost their lives.

  Stella’s heart still ached at the loss of life, but at that moment her temporary home came into view. She walked faster to get there.

  “Mama, I’m home.” With a hard push, Stella forced the ill-fitting door to close.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I rested well today. I thought we could work on your quilts again tonight by the fire.” Her mother smiled.

  Stella’s heart thumped a bit faster. She loved to see her mother so happy. A surge of warmth swept through her and it seemed the temperature in the shack warmed by several degrees as well.

  “Sounds wonderful, Mama, right after dinner.” Piecing together the quilts from the scraps of material Stella scrounged from her work kept her mother occupied. Donating them to the military hospital gave Mama, and also Stella, a purpose. And it was practical, due to the perpetual cold of an Alaskan spring. Many a brave soldier had thanked them for their contribution. She liked to think those hand-sewn blankets brought comfort to the men who made so many sacrifices for their country. She hoped the quilts would keep them warm for years to come.

  Stella added several pieces of driftwood to the fire and hung a cast-iron kettle of water over the flames. To it she added fish, vegetables, and a dash of salt. Before long the aroma of the stew hung in the air and Stella sat with her mother at the rickety table. Two square feet of plywood was hardly enough space to hold the bowls and silverware, but that didn’t stop Stella from giving thanks to the Lord for all they did have—food, shelter, warmth, and each other.

  Yet, the longing for news of Papa was a hunger that could never be filled. How many months had it been since they’d heard from him? Three, and the postmark bore the name of a town close to the German border. She said a silent prayer for her father’s well-being as she finished eating.

  After dinner, she washed the dishes, placed them on the shelf above the sink, and added another few pieces of driftwood to the waning fire. She sat down to sew with her mother. Dare she burden Mama with news that she’d be working longer hours at the factory?

  An image of the blue house popped into her mind. If the Nazis weren’t trying to conquer the whole of Europe for themselves, Papa would be home to take care of Mama and working a good job to support them all. Then perhaps she could take in sewing jobs and every penny she made could go toward buying back their house.

  She chastised herself. Pointing blame and allowing resentment to creep into her heart was no way to live. She silently asked God’s forgiveness as she stitched a small square
into a quilt block. Nine small squares sewn together made one quilt block. The block in her lap needed one more square to be complete. When she finished her handiwork, she snipped the loose ends. Soon she would need more thread.

  Quilt-making supplies weren’t easy to come by in their remote location, but several local native women, namely her friend Mary, had come through for her in the past. She hoped they would do so again.

  When Stella finished sewing for the evening, she tucked her quilt block into her sewing basket. Then she rubbed her tired eyes and stretched her tired muscles. Not more than two minutes passed when a loud commotion sounded from nearby Fort Mears Army Base.

  Shrill sirens pierced the night air.

  Heavy diesel engines revved to life.

  An airplane overhead whined and sputtered.

  Nausea roiled in Stella’s stomach. She glanced at her mother, whose face blanched. The cacophony meant only one thing.

  A brave but unfortunate pilot was coming in for a crash landing.

  Captain Irving Morgenstern gripped the yoke of the shrapnel-riddled B-17 with both hands. No easy feat considering the tremors reverberating throughout the aircraft. He said a quick prayer for his nine-man crew and one to make sure he was right with the Almighty.

  “Open that hatch and get the belly gunner back up here,” Lieutenant Jack Blankston, Irving’s copilot, shouted.

  The nose gunner scrambled to the back of the plane.

  The radio operator barked their position over the radio, and the number wounded. Frisco and Tex had both been shot, but Irving didn’t know where or how bad. It took every ounce of his skill and concentration to keep the bucking, wavering plane from going into a tailspin.

  Steady.

  Steady.

  In spite of the danger, and the odds against them, Irving vowed to land the plane safely so his crew, his comrades, stood a decent chance of survival. If he could land without the plane exploding, he would count them all lucky. The dense fog coating the runway didn’t make his job easy. He was grateful for the large metal drums of burning oil lining each side of the airstrip that gave him an idea of where to land. And he was determined.