My Father Speaks

	by Florence Bothwell Cosby
June, 2010 ew3

My Father Speaks

A number of years ago, former NBC news anchor Tom Brokaw turned his popular book *The Greatest Generation* into a trilogy, following it with The Greatest Generation Speaks, and then An Album of Memories. The latter is a collection of letters and photos sent to Mr. Brokaw by readers who were youngsters during the Depression and then served in World War II as young men.



I was reminded of these books a while ago, as Memorial Day approached and I was thinking about my own father’s contribution to The Greatest Generation.



So, once again I scrambled amongst the dusty boxes in my attic and found the one devoted to his wartime years in the U. S. Navy, 1943-1945. The box is not large and as such was buried at the bottom of another, larger box containing my mother’s collection of old family photos and albums. Although my mother was not a pack rat, she did save a fair number of keepsakes that were important to her. I do not dismiss these items summarily, but rather try to view them through her eyes, for the roles of meaning and substance they played in her life with my father, so very long ago. I handle the box gingerly, as it is brittle with tattered corners holding its contents intact. It smells musty with age, and well it should, as I am sure this is the original box my mother used to store its precious contents. It is an old Bloomingdale’s box, diagonally striped in silver and bronze, about the size of a robe or a bulky sweater.



The largest item in the box is a yearbook of sorts, chronicling the activities of the Naval Construction Battalion during World War II. Prior to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, advanced naval bases were constructed by civilian contractors. However, once the United States had entered the war, it became readily apparent that these construction workers did not have the equipment, discipline, or knowledge of how to fight amidst the enemy. Thus came about the creation of the Navy’s fighting Seabees, with the now appropriate motto “We Build, We Fight.” My father was one of 234,000 service personnel in the 113th Seabees who served in New Guinea from 5 August 1943 to 2 September 1945, building bases, bulldozing and paving roadways and airstrips, as well as other construction projects in the South Pacific.



I spend a lot of time inside this book, searching for the photos of my father which my mother had marked, seeing him with another set of eyes, the person my father was at the time when my brother and I had just been born, for he left home when we were two months old and did not return until more than two years later.



I set aside the story of the Seabees and look deeper into the dusty box of treasures. There is an album of Official Navy Photographs entitled Remember… which have been collected to form this souvenir of those never-to-be-forgotten times. The images are haunting, disturbing, yet I cannot pull my eyes from the story they tell, from the life my father lived, so very long ago.

The remaining items in the box are mostly pieces my father had sent my mother: clippings from newspapers, copies of Navy newsletters, booklets and brochures outlining benefits and provisions for military personnel and veterans. There is even a label from a bottle of beer, consumed in New Guinea, but brewed and bottled on Staten Island. How exciting that must have been for him, to sip a taste of home.



And then, at the very bottom of the box of keepsakes I discoverer the best treasure yet, for its inclusion in this collection of memorabilia sets me off on the most interesting path of detection and discovery. It is a letter, written on a small sheet of USO stationery in a child’s hand and addressed to my father as Johno, his basketball nickname, yet obviously from a stranger who did not know him. In all likelihood it was a school assignment, to write to a serviceman, with names from a list supplied by one of the many service organizations and intended to make the recipient feel appreciated and cared for, less lonely so far from home. Well, it most certainly must have hit the mark with my father, the fact that he kept it through the duration of his service and brought it safely home with him, to be saved in this old box, uncovered for decades. Until now.





I hold the letter in my hand, my thoughts drifting back to this child of long ago; pencil clutched in his second grader’s hand, intent upon his task, carefully forming the letters, the words, and the ideas into sentences. A little boy of seven. I am moved by his simple message. I am touched by the beauty of his image in my mind. I long to know about him, to connect with him across the years, to thank him for giving my father a bright moment in the dreary hell of war.

My search begins…

I start of course with Google, with what I already know: his name, his address, his age and the date when he wrote the letter. I begin with his name and address in St Louis, in hopes that perhaps he or his parents still live there. I check the Social Security Death Index to see if he is maybe not even available for tracking down. I broaden my search with just his name, and tediously read each entry in turn. Site after site. Hour after hour. Leads become dead ends, and I am thinking perhaps that this endeavor is beyond my resources or even my stamina. But I am patient, thorough, and driven by enormous curiosity.

And then it happens. I have come to a site for a conference schedule for applied geography sponsored by several southwestern universities. By now I am an expert at skimming and scanning, checking out the speakers for the Richard Boehm I look for. I heave a sigh and prepare myself for yet another stray thread, yet another disappointment, but for some reason, this particular conference catalogue offers more than the usual cursory background information for the featured speakers. There is, in fact, a link to this man’s entire Curriculum Vitae, and at the top, next to his name in the heading, is his age in parentheses… Richard G. Boehm (age 67). I feel a distinct tingle run down my spine, I sit up straighter in my desk chair, and excitedly peruse page after page of this man’s accomplishments, his honors, his publications and accolades, all in reverse chronological order. Finally I reach the last page, which is the beginning of his academic life, and there it is, BS University of Missouri. Bingo! More than a nibble, a tidbit for sure. The age is right, the starting location is on target, and so I move on to Phase Two of my adventure.

Carefully and thoughtfully I construct an email to him. Richard G. Boehm, PhD., Director for Geographic Education, Texas State University, San Marcos, TX. I locate his email address at the TSU website. I attach a copy of the letter that was sent to my father. I take a deep breath and press SEND.



And then I wait…

*A week later, an agonizing* week later, I receive a reply.**



The circle is complete and I am deeply satisfied. I pack away all the bits and pieces of the keepsakes my mother saved for so many years, and attach this email to the little boy’s letter. It is but a minor victory in the grand scheme of things, but I am so pleased to have made this connection.

But back in my mind, somewhere in the depths of memory, the name of Richard G. Boehm tweaks at me. Somehow it is familiar; somehow I feel I have seen it, somewhere, along with that geography context. And finally it comes to me, one day at school, in the middle of a social studies lesson I am teaching to my students. It is an Aha! moment, as I find myself flipping to the title page of the textbook. And there it is. Richard G. Boehm is one of the consultants for the series. Just another little link in the mysterious web that surrounds us, connecting us all one way or another.



Memorial Day is approaching as I write this, and Father’s Day a few weeks later. I take pause to consider this juxtaposition of celebrations: remembering my father’s role in the greatest generation, his service to his country during World War II. And remembering as well that there have been fifty Father’s Days that I have been without him. But not a one passes that I don’t think of him with fond memories of love, security, humor, and devotion to his family, for the gifts he left for me that are always in my memory, always in my heart, and always in a dusty box in the recesses of my attic.



Other articles by Florence:
M y Father's Eyes (2004)	J ohnno Bothwell's Basketball Career (2010)
We encourage you to e-mail Florence with your comments. It's easy to do: Just click her name, underlined in blue!
Content Copyright 2010, Florence Bothwell Cosby. All rights reserved. Published with permission.