It is noble work you’re after, dear Miss Kelly. I have no doubt you are good company with your lemon bars and spunk. You’ll make some shut-in very happy in this town.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
P.S. If you’re at a loss for friends, you can always grow a garden. Something beautiful and blooming might be solace for your soul. Please take these marigold seeds I didn’t get in the ground. Perhaps they’ll find a home on Gardner. Temporarily.
P.P.S. As to Billy and the draft: I wholeheartedly concur with you, Miss Kelly. Your beloved brother Billy must not go to that war.
Monday, June 17, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
You’re the best part of Lake Liberty, you are! A second letter in your milk box! A little gift of seeds! It was almost like my birthday, opening your box to see the things you’d left inside.
I’ll find a place to plant those marigold seeds. I promise that I will.
I’m grateful for your gift, so please don’t think I can’t take no for an answer. I hate it when Gram says I can’t take no. I can take no for an answer, but it’s harder when I’m right. And I’m right that I could be a friend to you.
I have a second reason why the two of us should meet.
I didn’t tell you what it was first thing, but I’ll tell it to you now.
Have you ever had a memory that could’ve been a dream? You know, a thing that might have happened, except you can’t be sure.
I have one of those of you, but it’s not of you exactly. It’s of 1962, and a trip to Gram’s at Christmas, and a walk I took with Mom through the darkness to your house. We didn’t go past your gate, we just stood quiet at your high fence staring at your big brick house lit up with winter moon and falling snow. “Someone special lives here, Reen,” Mom whispered like a secret, then she took a letter from her pocket and left it in your box.
I thought that you were Santa and we’d walked to the North Pole. And I thought it for a long time after that. That’s the crazy way that kids think when they’re small.
Was that a memory or dream? Did Mom leave you a letter, Mr. Marsworth? I admit that Christmas letter made me want to write you, too. And it made me want to meet that special man inside that house. It wasn’t just the route that made me write you.
If Mom thought you were special then she’d want us to be friends.
Don’t you think I’m right?
A Good Deed visit once a week, and we could talk of Betsy Kelly. And maybe you can tell me what she wrote to you that night.
Hoping for a Yes Still,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. I can’t inquire of Blanche Kelly, because Gram’s the kind of gram who thinks a bored kid ought to clean. Sweep. Dust. Mop. Sort the junk drawer. Do the laundry. I’d rather bake you cookies than match socks.
P.P.S. I’m so glad you wholeheartedly “concur” about Billy and the war. Hardly anyone concurs when it comes to Vietnam.
P.P.P.S. Do you support your Minnesota Senator for Peace Eugene McCarthy? Billy can’t vote yet at eighteen, but he hopes if McCarthy wins for president he’ll bring the soldiers home.
P.P.P.P.S. Please keep sending me new words like “concur“ because I always like to learn.
Tuesday, June 18, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
I see you are a smart girl cursed with excess curiosity and time. Have you visited our library on Colfax? What about the beach? The children of Lake Liberty like to swim there in the summer. Your route begins on Friday morning; look to that.
If you think it was a memory, then rest assured it was. Although how much better to believe that you had walked to the North Pole.
A friend will come, Miss Kelly, one that is a child.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Wednesday, June 19, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
You don’t want me to be a nuisance so I won’t, but just in case you’re wondering, you don’t have to be a Good Deed Project, or meet me face-to-face. Sometimes writing letters is the best way to be friends.
Have you ever had a pen pal? Was it Mom?
That’s not a pesky question, you only have to answer yes or no.
I already have one pen pal, but I’m happy to have two. My pen pal is Army Pfc. Skip Nichols, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Skip’s just twenty in April, and he’s fighting for our country all the way in Vietnam. We don’t always write about the war. Skip likes to hear about my school, or how I burned the pancakes, or Billy teaching me new chords on his guitar. I try to keep my letters funny, because our teacher, Mrs. Lamb, says when a soldier’s in a hard time, our hard times never help. Skip is in a hard time in this war. He’s written little things about the heat out in the jungle, and how he sees bombs in his dreams, and how sometimes when he’s fighting he can’t tell enemy from friend. He’s never been a coward, but he’s scared in Vietnam. Mostly he’s pure homesick for his ma and pa, and his six brothers and sisters, all at home in Baton Rouge. And there’s no jambalaya in the jungle. Or birthday cake. The soldiers spent Christmas all together, but Skip said it wasn’t much.
At least once a week I write to Skip, and then I wait and wait for letters, but I understand a busy soldier can’t write often. First thing I did last week after I got settled in Gram’s attic was sit down on my twin bed to tell my news to Skip. I didn’t say how lost I felt driving out of Denton, or living in a new town, because my letters shouldn’t be sad. Instead I said I’d have my own route in Lake Liberty, and every penny I’d be earning would be saved for Billy’s school. I knew that part would make him happy. At the end of every letter, Skip says Billy shouldn’t end up in Vietnam. If Skip had gone to college, he wouldn’t be fighting now. (So the three of us, plus Billy, wholeheartedly concur!)
Skip’s letters and all the other letters from our pen pals in the Fourth Platoon were the best part of fifth grade, and I wish that school hadn’t ended so we could keep it up. We each had our own soldier, but when one kid got a letter, we listened as a class, and we learned how hard this war is through their words.
Once, when Lt. Gerald Walker lost his right leg in an ambush, his pen pal, tough guy Larry Palmer, ran out of the room. Then we all started crying, including Mrs. Lamb. That’s how much we loved our soldiers, the whole Fourth Platoon was ours.
Every letter that they wrote us we pinned up to the board, including that sad letter about Gerald Walker’s leg, and we hung them with their pictures, and whatever else they sent. The photo I liked best was the high school senior picture Skip mailed me last March. “Me before the Army,” Skip printed on the back. Before he went away to war he looked a lot like Billy, or so many smiling boys in Billy’s high school yearbook. I’ll put his picture in this letter so you can see Skip for yourself. And here’s a second one of Skip on his not-so-happy birthday. Skip’s the dirty soldier with the cone hat on his head. The tall soldier on the right is Skip’s best buddy Jackie Moon.
If you look closely at that picture, you can see that Jackie’s holding the white turtle that he carved Skip as a gift. Skip says no one can make beauty out of soap like Jackie Moon. I wish you could’ve seen the dove Jackie carved for our class for Christmas.
I hope I haven’t blabbered. I hope that you’re not bored. What I really meant to tell you is a pen pal hears your feelings, and cares about your birthday, and how you looked in high school, and you don’t need to be a homesick soldier to be a pen pal. You can be a shut-in, or a homesick kid alone.
What do you say to that idea, Mr. Marsworth? No meeting face-to-face. We won’t even need postage, your milk box works just fine.
Special Delivery,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. Skip’s favorite kind of candy is banana Turkish Taffy and grape Razzles. What’s your favorite candy? Someday I might surprise you, Mr. Marsworth.
P.P.S. Pen pals or no pen pals, when my route starts Friday morning, you’ll f
ind your folded paper in the milk box by 6:15 a.m. You can answer before Friday, I’ll come back and check your milk box, I don’t mind.
P.P.P.S. Once you’ve had a look at Skip and Jackie, maybe you can leave the pictures in your box. I don’t want to wait for Friday to get those keepsakes back. I’m sure you understand a keepsake, Mr. Marsworth.
P.P.P.P.S. I think Skip looks better clean and happy back in high school.
Thursday, June 20, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
A pen pal is a fine thing for a young man in the Army, and I imagine those soldiers in the Fourth Platoon read your loquacious correspondence with great joy. In that regard alone, Pfc. Skip Nichols is a very lucky man.
I have returned your keepsakes promptly, as requested. I agree, I prefer the photograph of Skip as a young senior back in high school. War will age a boy, as I’m sure you’re well aware. Even grown men break down in war. What boy should have to spend his birthday hunting for an unknown enemy to kill? Or praying to be saved? Or praying that another might be spared?
And now Lt. Gerald Walker must live without a leg. Without a leg, Miss Kelly, and for what?
How will we claim victory when so much has been lost? Not only for Americans, but for all the millions in the countries ravaged by this war. The soldiers and civilians on all sides.
Please forgive me, dear Miss Kelly, as you can see I’m not a proper pen pal for a child. I’m afraid my gloomy letters would profoundly disappoint.
Best of luck tomorrow on the first day of your route. How noble that you’re working to save Billy from this war.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Friday, June 21, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Did you see me at your milk box dropping your Tribune???
Dare made us leave Gram’s house at 4:30 in the morning, so we’d be the first to get our papers at the Dry-Rite drop on State. Dare says you get there late you end up short. Plus, he doesn’t want to meet the other boys. (Dare doesn’t want a friend here, except Float. He’s just too mad about our move to make a friend.)
Can I tell you a small secret? It’s really scary before daybreak on those dark streets all alone. The whole town fast asleep. A yard light now and then, but nothing more. Just my own fast heartbeat, and the thunk of papers landing on the steps. I thought of Skip on night patrol out in the jungle, a job he really hates, and how brave he has to be out in the night all by himself.
I’ll get used to dew-soaked shoes, and the weight of all those papers, and the canvas sack slapping at my leg with every step, but I’m not sure how I’ll get used to all that darkness.
If you’re ever feeling friendly, I’d be happy for a hey. Look for me closer to 5:30, I’ll be there before the sun.
Mostly Brave This Morning,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. If there is a problem with your Sunday paper, it won’t be my fault. Your Sunday route belongs to someone else.
Sunday, June 23, 1968
Dear Mr. H. W. Marsworth of Lake Liberty!
You don’t want to be my pen pal, but you wrote to the Tribune????
I guess the paper doesn’t mind your gloomy letters. ☺ I don’t mind them either, I really truly don’t. There’s plenty of gloomy news at Gram’s house I could write.
“Mr. H. W. Marsworth of Lake Liberty?” Billy said to Gram, surprised. He was sitting at the table with a glass of morning milk and the Tribune. “He’s right here in the paper.”
“Where?” I said, and I edged in close to Billy to see your name in print. “That’s Mr. Marsworth from my route!”
“You know him?” Billy said, like I should have told him sooner. “Have you met him face-to-face?”
“Well sort of. Not exactly. Why?”
“I’ve heard talk of him is all,” Billy said. It was our Sunday morning slow time before Gram dragged us off to church. I was still lounging in my pj’s, and Billy was in his faded jeans and T-shirt, his dark hair a sleepy mess. “Gossip at the station. You know how small towns are.”
“You don’t need to listen,” Gram said. “Or read that letter either.” Still, she hovered at his shoulder to read it for herself. All of us except for Dare were reading what you wrote. (Dare sticks to sports and funnies, that’s why he’s so dumb.)
“I think his letter’s interesting,” I said.
“Interesting?” Gram echoed. I didn’t mind you wrote against the war, but Gram sure did. “That’s one word for it, Reen. Another would be rubbish. If Howard Marsworth doesn’t love this country, he should leave it.”
“He just disagrees with war,” I said. “Folks do. He shouldn’t have to leave this country over that.”
“Even Bobby Kennedy thought the war was wrong,” Billy said to settle Gram. All the Kellys love the Kennedys, and all our hearts are aching over Bobby being killed. I hope he’s met Mom in heaven, because she sure loved him a lot. “If he’d lived and been elected, he would have worked for peace.”
“Of course he’d work for peace,” Gram said. “But he also served his country. Bobby, Jack, and Joe, all those boys fought in World War II. Joe Kennedy was killed doing his duty. They didn’t write letters to the editor saying war is wrong. They served their county first. A letter is a coward’s way—”
“Mr. Marsworth’s not a coward,” I said to take your side.
“You know who’s not a coward?” Gram said. “Your pen pal Skip from Baton Rouge. Don’t you think our soldiers deserve our full support?”
“Skip’s not for this war either,” I told Gram. Float gave a little whine the way he does when Gram’s upset. “Our boys are getting killed in Vietnam.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Reen,” Gram said. “They’re dying for our country. They need us on their side.”
“I am on their side.” I tried to say it kindly, but Float let out a sickly howl.
“Stop arguing,” Dare said. “You’re bugging Float.”
Gram disappeared into the kitchen, and I hoped that we were done, but she came back with sudsy, pink hands, and a lecture for us all.
“The Kellys love their country. Grandpa Kelly’s youngest brother died in World War II. Your father was a soldier in Korea. He was nearly Billy’s age when he enlisted. And Grandpa Kelly’s nephew—”
“We know, Gram,” Billy interrupted, but he said it sweet and calm. He grabbed hold of Gram’s wet hand, and gave it a soft pat. “We’re proud of all the Kelly soldiers. We really are.”
“Men are fighting for our freedom,” Gram said like she couldn’t stop. She took her hand away from Billy, and propped it on her hip. “They didn’t argue with their country, they didn’t refuse to serve. They didn’t stay home to write the paper. Or burn their draft cards like some boys are doing now.”
“But are they fighting for ‘our’ freedom?” Billy asked. He didn’t say it loud or angry, because even disagreeing, Billy’s gentle. “Our men are dying in the thousands there, and nobody knows why. And the Vietnamese are dying. Or else they’re made to suffer while their country is destroyed. Reports are coming in that we’ve killed women and children.”
“Our soldiers wouldn’t kill kids,” I argued, because I had to stand up for Skip and all our pen pals. And I agree with Gram on one thing: the soldiers dying for their country need their country on their side. “Some just want to come home.”
“Most,” Billy said to me. “So why draft ten thousand more of us to fight against our will? To die in some strange country just like Mr. Marsworth says.”
“Because that’s how we beat the Nazis!” Gram snatched the paper from his hands, huffed into the kitchen, and shoved it in the trash.
“It’s not the Nazis that we’re fighting,” Billy muttered. “This isn’t World War II.”
“We’ve still got to have an army.” Dare dropped the funnies on Gram’s carpet like he’d finally heard enough. “How else
will we whomp ’em in a war?”
“You’ll be in college come September,” I said soft in Billy’s ear. “You won’t get sent to Vietnam. And I know it’s not the Nazis, so you’re right.”
I don’t know much about this war, but I know more than Dare. It’s the Communists called the Viet Cong the U.S. troops are there to stop.
“Trouble will find Marsworth from that letter,” Gram called out from the kitchen. “Trouble’s going to come from this, just you mark my words.”
No offense. I just thought you’d want to know we read your letter, and I bet other families read it, and argued like we did. No one can agree about this war, not even us. And I hope Gram isn’t right that you’ll have trouble.
Here’s one thing to make you happy so we end on a good note: I fished the Tribune from the trash to clip your letter out for Billy, and I hid it in his wallet between pictures of his sweetheart Beth and Mom. Someday he’ll be surprised to find it there, Mr. H. W. Marsworth of Lake Liberty. I would have saved it for myself, but Billy needs it more. He’s got Dad and Gram and Dare and nearly all of Denton saying it’s disloyal to stand against this war. Mom stood against this war, but she’s not here for Billy now.
Your Reader,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. I wish Billy wasn’t right about the thousands. Did you see that front-page story about the soldier Kyle Smith? I can’t bear to read the news when our boys die, and still I did. He was eighteen just like Billy, and his little sister Susan is eleven just like me. The Smiths have other kids, but I keep thinking about Susan, and all the Kyle things that are gone now from her life. Maybe Kyle shared his records, or let her have the 45s she listened to the most. Was he the kind of older brother that gave up his favorite bear when she was born? Did he hold her on his shoulders before she learned to walk? Did he do all the best-big-brother things that Billy did for me? I don’t ever want my brother on the front page of the paper. Or Skip. Or any of our pen pals. Not a single one.
Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth Page 2
