A Christmas Memory - I'll Be Home for Christmas

When I was little, most Christmases our family would travel to Lebanon, Pennsylvania to spend the holiday with my Nana Kay. The day after we arrived, Mom, Dad and Debbie would head out to do last minute Christmas and grocery shopping. Since I was a ‘handful’ at the store, I was always left behind. I never thought of it as punishment, for me it was a treat, Nana Kay and I would spend the day baking the final round of Christmas cookies. It is where I discovered the magic of baking.

 I loved her kitchen and often wish I could step back into it; the old white stove with black grates, the square table that sat in the middle, my magnetic paper dolls often adorned the wide metal band that circled the table top, the silver chairs, the peeling sound they made when you got up from the white plastic vinyl cushions. On the right side of the kitchen was the 'dish' sink, it was so tall I had to stand on a stool to wash my hands.  I remember how the oven would warm up the kitchen, the heat would at times be so hot Nana Kay would open the back door, slide down the window on the screen door and let the cold winter air in to cool down the house. 

Next to the kitchen was the formal living room, a place where children were never allowed to sit or play. It was the room with the fancy furniture, end tables with huge doilies, an over-sized curio cabinet I was convinced I could live in and a long table covered with old family photographs that ran the wall of the staircase. I was banished to my room once for knocking down the pictures with my dangling feet as I slid down the banister. Other than the  enticing banister, the room always seemed old, uninviting except for Christmastime. After Thanksgiving the room was a mecca of wonderful. It came alive with feather trees, angels with glittering hair, greens with red bows adorning their drapes, candles that once lit cast dancing shadows on the wall. The trophy of the magnificent room, on the back wall, standing between two large green wing chairs graced with playful Santas and under a set of large shiny red Christmas bells that hung from the ceiling, was a beautiful old hi fi stereo. It was huge, it was wooden and it was awesome. I loved the sound of the brass hinges as I lifted the lid and set the arm to hold it open.  The speaker in the front looked like a black mesh flower, the legs were beautifully sculpted, the sides always polished to a shine.  It was beautiful when it sat silent and it transformed to magnificent when it came alive with music. The only time I was allowed to enter the room and play the stereo unsupervised was Christmas baking day. 

Before Nana Kay would light the oven, measure any ingredient, she would retrieve her Christmas albums from the cabinet and lay them next to Santa in the chair. My job, when an album finished playing, I would replace it with the next one in the pile. As the day wore on the stack in one chair would grow larger as the other stack diminished. Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, The Andrew Sisters, Perry Como, Doris Day, the King Family, Elvis Presley, I had them all memorized and would joyfully sing along with each. 

Decca Records, Bing Crosby in a Santa Hat wearing a holly bow tie, with ‘Bing’ signed on the side. The album was White Christmas and I remember it so vividly, not for its title song but for another track, “I’ll Be Home For Christmas”. When the song ended Nana Kay would tell me to "run and play it again". I would stand on my tippy toes so I could see the album spinning below and safely grab the needle. I would scrunch my nose and squint my eyes as I carefully identified the correct blank track. Curling my lower lip, slightly biting it I would steady my hand so as not to drop the needle or let it bounce as I placed it back down at the beginning of the song. To make sure I had placed the needle in the proper spot, I would wait for the orchestra to begin before I would turn and skip back into the kitchen. When the Bing Crosby finished and the choir began to sing Nana Kay would take my hand and we would dance around the table. The flour from my apron seemed to mimic a light snowfall as it danced its way to the floor as she spun me. Our last Christmas together, we must have danced to the song a dozen times. What I remember most, I was always puzzled, no matter how many times the song played; Nana Kay never sang the lyrics correctly. Her words were only slightly off, but they were still obviously wrong. I never pointed out her mistake, I never asked why; I was nine, I didn't question, I sang along and enjoyed our dance together. 

It was several years after Nana Kay’s death, when I was in college that I re-discovered her old Christmas Albums while searching for a box of lost ornaments in the basement. I pulled the box from where it had been neatly hidden and placed it on the floor next to Dad’s work bench so I could easily retrieve it later. After the tree had been decorated and my parents and sister went off to bed, I decided to dust off the Old Christmas albums and see if they still played. I pulled the box out from the work shop and loaded up my stereo. 

The fire was dancing in the Franklin stove as I lie on the couch, waiting. I heard the record drop, with the sound of the arm moving across the stereo I began to hold my breath. At first there was only static, slowly the crackling from album’s age gave way to Bing Crosby’s beautiful baritone voice. I smiled as I listened to my old familiar Christmas ‘friend’. I was snuggled deep in my blanket when I heard the familiar orchestra and guitar intro for "I'll Be Home for Christmas." I rolled over on my back, closed my eyes, put my arms in the air, so my Nana Kay could spin me once again. As we 'danced' and I sang along I finally realized it wasn’t a mistake, Nana Kay purposely changed the lyrics. Her words were, in a way, a love letter to my Grandfather. He had died at the age of 36 shortly after returning home from World War II. Now I understood why she often looked to the ceiling as we danced, she was singing to heaven. I understood why she wanted me to “run and play it again” and again and again. Irving Berlin’s song from so long ago; was Nana Kay’s Christmas love song to her Marlin, my grandfather. 

The older I become, the more I can relate to the longing that was in her voice as she sang. Life has taught me when you lose someone you love, the years may pass, memories may fade, but the love never changes, the hurt never fades. 

Tonight after the Christmas Eve service, as everyone was bustling around me saying their Merry Christmases and good byes; I sat quietly in the pew and said a prayer. I prayed for all the men and women who died serving our country that will never be home for Christmas. I prayed for the family and friends they left behind, who if they are like me will be dreaming of a Christmas one more time with the person they love and miss. When I finished my prayer I quietly sang my Nana Kay’s version of I’ll Be Home For Christmas especially to my Grandpa (Lt. Col. Marlin R. Kopp) and Bobby (Lt. Robert T. Bianchi) and to my friends, Kevin (Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi) and Pete (Cdr. Pete Oswald) who never made it back home.

So this Christmas, I thought I would share my Nana Kay’s story… and hopefully, who knows maybe next time you hear “I’ll Be Home Christmas” you will sing her lyrics, then quietly say a prayer for all servicemen and women who will only be home in the hearts and dreams of the loved ones they left behind. 

Below are her lyrics, (Please note, on the newer recorded versions of the song, there is an intro that was not on the older Bing Crosby rendition, so I added my own changed lyrics to match my Nana Kay’s. I hope you don’t mind) 


I’m dreaming tonight 
Of a man I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it was a long time ago
I promise you

You’ll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
We’ll have snow and mistletoe 
And presents under the tree 
Christmas Eve will find you
Where the love light gleams
You’ll be home for Christmas
Forever in my dreams

Nana Kay's Christmas Secret

After celebrating my first Christmas without Dad I came home from my sister's house, put on warm pajamas, poured myself a glass of wine and grabbed a box of old photo albums from the basement. I felt the need to reminisce, remember Christmas and times long ago. I laid the box of photos next to me on the floor, wrapped myself in a warm blanket, stretched out on the couch while Raider snuggled at my feet. I smiled as I looked at images of my sister and I when we were younger. I chuckled at the photo of me when I was eight years old in my first pair of glasses, white cat eye glasses. When I finished browsing through the first album, I reached down for the next. It was Grandma's brag book, Nana Kay's photo album. The album contained photos from the summer of 1973 and Christmas 1972. My mind was no longer seeing the photos, it was wondering back to days of ole, Christmas 1972. The time I woke up in the middle of the night and discovered Nana Kay's secret. The night when I first learned no matter how much time passes the heart never forgets, it always longs for the one it loves/loved. The night Nana Kay first taught me it is not the number of years we share with a person, but the depth of the love we shared with them. Thirty eight years later I wonder if Nana Kay would be upset if I finally shared her lovely secret?

Nana Kay lived in a wonderful old duplex on Weidman Street in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Behind her house was the Bethlehem Steel factory, down the street was a playground, a corner drug store sat two blocks away. The back door lead to a porch that overlooked a beautiful side yard. In the summer the yard was full of blooming flowers and trees. In the winter it seemed to always be covered in peaceful white snow. Her front door had a nice stoop where as a young child I would often sit and talk to the neighbors as they walked by. At Christmas time it seemed like every stoop in the neighborhood had greens and Christmas lights adorning their railings. To me it was the most beautiful sight. Nana Kay lived in what could easily be described as the picture perfect American working class neighborhood. Everyone knew and looked out for each other especially during the holidays.

I loved Christmas at Nana Kay's house, it overflowed with Christmas spirit. Looking back I realize it must have taken days to remove all the nick knacks from her numerous shelves and curio cabinets and replace them with Santa's and Angels. The banister leading to the second floor was always perfectly wrapped in holly and lights. In the living room the nativity sat on top of the television, the main Christmas tree sat in the corner next to the window. Every room had a tree and was decked out in beautiful holiday decorations, even the bathroom. It was pretty marvelous to take a bath in the old claw foot bathtub with a small Christmas tree in the corner. Nana Kay allowed me to turn the lights off so the only light in the room was from the tree and the three candles that warmly glowed in the window. I often thought this must be the way royalty lived as I bathed myself in the wonderful glimmer of the blinking Christmas lights. The phonograph in the parlor always serenaded us with Christmas carols being sung by Dean Martin, Burl Ives or Bing Crosby. Norman Rockwell could not have painted a better portrait of Christmas.

Christmas 1972 I was nine years old. The world to me was perfect. I was oblivious to cancer raging within my Nana Kay. We arrived late Friday night to find Nana Kay still putting up some last minute decorations. No matter what time of year, Nana Kay always had a small gift waiting for my sister and I on the bed in Uncle Bill's room. The room we shared whenever we visited. After a quick hug, Debbie and I darted up the stairs to see what spectacular surprise awaited us. We quickly turned the corner at the top of the stairs nearly wiping ourselves out, my eyes first caught sight of the two feather trees Nana Kay had placed on the nightstands on either side of the bed. I felt grown up, it was the first time she put a tree on my side of the bed! I stopped and stared in amazement at 'my tree' when I spied two wooden boxes laid upon our pillows. I jumped over the foot board and bounced onto the bed next to my respective box. Inside the box was an old fashioned Santa Claus with changing faces. Each face matched a country, some had short beards, others had long. My sister of course put the American, traditional face on her Santa and stood it next to her tree and headed back downstairs. I sat there for several minutes changing each face trying to determine which one I liked best. I was not like my sister, I knew my Santa was breakable but I was not going to leave him standing alone next to the tree, I took him downstairs with me so I could continue to play with him. I sat Santa on the table next to me as my sister and I enjoyed homemade Christmas cookies and hot chocolate. I sat in the kitchen watching Dad help Nana Kay hang the Christmas Bell lights in the front hallway. It was then that I realized for the first time since I could remember Nana Kay did not have the house fully decorated.

The next morning, Mom and Debbie went shopping, Dad and Herm (Nana Kay's friend)hung the last of the Christmas lights and decorations while Nana Kay and I made more Christmas cookies. I remember Nana Kay apologized over and over to Dad for not finishing the decorations before the family arrived. She was feeling more tired than normal and was thankful for his help. She wanted everything perfect for her girls (Debbie and I). Dad called me into the living room and I felt so special when he lifted me up and for the first time I was the one to put the star on top of the Christmas tree. I stood there in awe of my "star", it seemed higher than normal and I had done that! The rest of the afternoon was spent with Nana Kay filling tin canister with homemade cookies to be delivered the next day to neighbors and friends. After a wonderful family dinner, I stayed in the kitchen watching the adults play cards while my sister watched television and read a book in the living room. I always wanted to be part of the 'fun'. At bedtime Nana Kay accompanied my sister and I upstairs and knelt with us as we said our nightly prayers. Dad came up a few minutes later to tuck us in and wish us sweet dreams. My sister was soon fast asleep. I laid in bed staring at my feather tree counting all the shiny red balls on it. I could hear the laughter from the floor below me. I soon climbed out of bed, grabbed the blanket from the rocking chair. I spread it out on the floor next to the coal grate and fell asleep watching and listening to the card game in the kitchen below. A few hours later I was awoken by the shift change whistle of the Bethlehem Steel factory. I rubbed my eyes, noticed the lights were off downstairs, the house was quiet and peaceful. Everyone had gone to bed.

I folded the blanket and when I placed it back on the rocker I noticed Debbie's Santa standing next to her tree. I suddenly realized I had left my Santa downstairs. Not wanting to get in trouble for being irresponsible I quietly opened the door and headed downstairs to retrieve my Santa. I had tip toed halfway up the stairs when I stopped, I heard Christmas music. I stood there for a few seconds trying to determine if the music was coming from the adjoining house or Nana Kay's. I placed my ear against the wall, there was no noise from the neighbor's house. They were all asleep as well. I continued up the stairs, the soft music became a little louder. When I reached the top I saw Nana Kay's bedroom door was slightly ajar, her light was on and Bing Crosby was softly echoing from her room. I walked down the hall and spied into her room. She was unpacking a box and laying it's contents neatly on her bed. After a few moments I heard my Nana Kay say, "Well come in my little Christmas mouse."

Nana Kay's room was her sanctuary, her place where no one was allowed to wander, explore. Since I was the inquisitive grandchild this was stressed to me on more than one occasion. Before that night I only remember being in her room one other time. My eyes were wide open in wonderment as I entered. She continued to unpack her box as I ran my fingers down her dresser. I walked alongside it and admired all the photographs. There were school portraits of me, my sister, my cousin Janet, a picture of mom and dad's wedding, my uncle Bill in his Air Force Uniform and several portraits of my Grandfather. I noticed placed in front of each of my grandfather's photos was a poinsettia bloom with greens. Nana Kay's voice broke into my silent thoughts. She asked me if I could keep a secret? Since I was now older, named after her, she thought now was a good time as any to share her special Christmas tree with me. I smiled, shook my head yes I could keep a secret. I asked her if my sister Debbie knew the secret, I felt even more special when she replied no. What she was about to tell me would be our secret alone. If I was good, kept our secret, it would be our Christmas tradition from then on. I felt so wonderfully adult when I promised not to tell anyone.

I helped Nana Kay as we removed the small lamp and ceramic dogs from her night stand, wrapped them gently in a cloth and placed them in the now empty box. In their place on her nightstand we began to put together a small Christmas tree. I helped insert the branches in the holes on the trunk of the tree. She handed me a small handmade tree skirt to wrap around the base. I can still see the small gold stars sewn on the red felt skirt. As we put the tree together Nana Kay explained to me this was her tree of love. A tree she put next to her bed every Christmas for Marlin, my grandfather. A reminder when she felt lonely at Christmas of how lucky and blessed she was.

For the fist time I can remember my Nana Kay talked about my Grandfather's death, how deeply it hurt her. He had made it safely through the war, it was 1946 and she was no longer worried about his safety. They had a lifetime ahead of them to share their love, have more children. She explained how shocked she was when she received the telegraph that my Grandfather died of a heart attack at the Army base. It was November a short time before Christmas. My Grandfather was not old, he was a young man. Men of thirty six never have heart attacks, yet her Marlin did. The last letter she had received from my grandfather he wrote how excited he was to be coming home from Camp Lee and spending Christmas with her. After the war, after his time spent away in military, he was happy they were finally going to be a family again. After he died, she felt overwhelmed with emotions. She was depressed as Christmas approached. She was filled with doubt, not sure how she was going to raise their children alone, without the love of her life.

I listened intently as she told me the story of how the tree came to be. How one afternoon when she was feeling especially despondent walking to the corner store. She was lost in a moment of self pity when she noticed the number of Gold Stars still hanging in the windows of homes along the walk to the store. Seeing those stars, understanding what they stood for reminded her how lucky she was. Yes her Marlin had died, but so many of these stars represented young men, boys who never married, never had children. Young men who had never experienced the love she had shared with my Grandfather. She reminded herself as she continued to the store of the many wonderful years she had shared with her Marlin. She was walking aimlessly through the store, lost in thought remembering my Grandfather, when she saw a stack of boxes. She looked up and saw a sample of what was in the boxes, a small Christmas tree. Next to the trees were boxes of satin Christmas ball ornaments. It was then she came up with her idea to decorate a tree for her Marlin. She bought a tree, a box of red ornaments, 3 boxes of the white ornaments and 4 boxes of blue ornaments. Nana Kay said she didn't really have the extra money to spend on the tree but "then and there" she needed to buy the tree. She needed a reminder of their love. She needed a tree for her Marlin.

I watched as she gently wrapped a small string of white lights around the tree. First we hung fifteen white satin Christmas balls on the tree, the number of years she had been married to my Grandfather. White because their love was faithful, pure and eternal. I was asked to count out twenty seven blue satin Christmas balls. 1972 was the twenty seventh Christmas she would spend without her Marlin. As we hung the balls together I remember saying to my Nana Kay that it was so sad, there were so many more blue ornaments than white. Nana Kay asked me to count the number of white satin balls that hung on the tree again. When I answered fifteen. She explained to me fifteen was a mighty big number, it was better than fourteen, much more wonderful than one or none at all. She was indeed sad that my Grandfather had missed so many Christmases but she was blessed to have shared so many glorious Christmases with him. So many people spend their lives searching for true love, but she found hers. She would always hold the memories of her Marlin close to her heart. If it wasn't for my Grandfather I would have never been born. Their love together gave my Nana Kay two wonderful gifts, my Uncle Bill and my mom. If my mom had never been born, neither would I or my sister. She continued, she knew if God had given my Grandfather a choice, he would have to die or my Nana Kay. He would have said without hesitation to God, take me. He loved Nana Kay so much he would never want to take the joy of watching their children grow up from her. She knew my Grandfather was upset he missed watching his kids grow to become adults, meeting us. She was positive he wished he could be here with us but God called him home, he was with Jesus. One day we would all meet in Heaven.

Together we placed seven red balls on the tree, one for each of the joys in her life. My Uncle Bill, his wife, my mom, my dad and her grandchildren. Next I was handed seven gold stars, the number of years my grandfather proudly served full time in the Army. In his short life he had accomplished his goals. He graduated college, thanks to ROTC he had escaped the future of the coal mines. He found his home in the Quartermaster Corps, he was an officer in the United States Army. I was surprised when my Nana Kay handed me the small Angel to place on top of the tree. She put her hands on my waist and balanced me as I stood on her bed and placed the Angel on top of Marlin's Christmas tree.

She explained to me as she helped me off her bed, on top of the tree in the living room was a star, a reminder of the star that lead the wise men and shepherds to Jesus. On top of Marlin's tree was an Angel to remind her my Grandfather was in heaven with the Angels watching over all of us. She had faith, she knew her Marlin was always with her. If I was still I would be able to feel my Grandfather as well. Nana Kay was happy knowing he was making a place for her, for all of us in heaven.

After we finished decorating the tree, we packed up the left over satin balls, placed them in the box. I sat on the bed for a few moments staring at the beauty of our secret tree while Nana Kay carried the box up the stairs to the attic. I remember walking over to the dresser, staring at the photograph of the man I never met, the love of my Grandmother's life, my Grandfather, Marlin Robert Kopp. I picked up his photograph carried it back to the bed and began to talk to him. I thanked him for loving my Nana Kay, for my Uncle Bill and mom, for watching over us. I promised him I would try to be still so I could hear him but if not it was okay I knew he was there. Nana Kay walked in, I looked up afraid she would scold me for removing his photograph from her dresser, but she didn't. She smiled at my last remark, then took his framed picture from my hands, patted me on my head, then remarked how handsome my Grandfather was as she placed his photograph back where it belonged. She walked over to the switch and turned out the lights. She told me the first year she decorated Marlin's tree it only had fifteen white ornaments, two red ones and a single blue ornament on it. Then remarked at all the life and love the tree had on it now. Then asked what I thought of my Grandfather's tree, our secret tree. The white lights warmly filled the room as I smiled proudly and told Nana Kay there was definitely a lot of love on my Grandfather's tree. I fell asleep that night laying in bed staring at my Grandfather's tree curled up in the arms of my Nana Kay.

Sadly my Nana Kay died the following August from cancer. Christmas 1972 was the last Christmas I shared with her. It was the last time my Nana Kay would decorate her secret tree for my Grandfather and I was blessed to have shared that night with her. It is a night, a memory I will cherish forever.

Henry J. Wilson and Amanda Jane Dent, Soul Mates

Written on the night of November 22, 2010

Why today of all days am I trying to sort how I feel about soul mates, about fate? Are the two interchangeable? I have spent several hours pondering the question does everyone marry their soul mate? Or do most people only marry someone they love? Is there a difference? Are we all destined to meet our soul mate?

Though out time people have written about searching for their soul mate, finding true eternal undying love. In Hebrew a soul mate is called a Bashert; your one predestined mate. The person who is determined by God to be your destiny, your fate. When you meet it is kismet. It is believed when soul mates meet they share a love so deep it spans all time. They are forever bound in life and in death. Soul mates complete each other what one lacks the other excels at. They are in a way two opposites that come together to form one soul, one perfect love. When a soul mate dies, the other has a pain so deep they feel lost, empty without the other.

With the common knowledge of what or rather who a soul mate is, I wonder does everyone have a soul mate? Will we know instantly when we find them or do we realize it over time? What happens if we never find our soul mate? Why are some people lucky and live happily ever after, while others are destined to live their life always longing for a person they have lost or searching for the love they never had?

These are questions that have been fueling my thoughts all day. Maybe it is because tomorrow is an anniversary of sorts for me. Most people would think since I am 47 and have never married I do not believe in soul mates, true love. It is quite the opposite, I believe in love, soul mates. There are days like today when I have a hard time believing in the "happily ever after". I wonder if soul mates have a love so deep that it will eventually lead to unbearable sorrow.

One love story that has always captivated my heart is the story of my great great grandparents, Henry J. Wilson and Amanda Jane Dent. Theirs is a story of love and heartache. A love so strong that neither family, poverty not even death could separate the two. They were I believe, soul mates.

Henry John Wilson was born in Ireland and immigrated to Philadelphia in 1850 at the age of thirty. He worked successfully in Philadelphia for several years before he moved to Iowa. There is no explanation why Henry left a good paying job in Philadelphia and moved to Iowa. From the stories I have been told, I learned Henry felt the need to head west. He felt something calling him, later he would say he felt someone calling his heart. Henry settled in Troy Township next to the home of Samuel and Anna Dent. It was there that Henry first saw Amanda Jane Dent, Samuel's daughter. Henry was a poor Irish emigrant and Amanda was a descendant of one of Maryland’s founding families. He had grown up in poverty and starvation in Ireland. She had been born to moderate wealth in Indiana and later moved with her family to Iowa. In Iowa she lived on a large farm. Life for Amanda was easy compared to most women her age. She was educated, Henry was not. She was a vibrant young woman, he was twenty years older than her. According to family lore, it was love at first sight for both Henry and Amanda. When he first saw Amanda talking to her brother he could not take his eyes off her. When she turned and smiled at him, according to each, they had both found their soul mates. She knew when she looked into his eyes she had found her home.

Afraid of what her family would say, Amanda hid her relationship with Henry, her father's new farmhand. When Henry gathered the courage to ask for Amanda’s hand in marriage he was immediately fired, shown the door and told to stay away from Amanda by her father Samuel. Even though she was heartbroken, Amanda obeyed her father and agreed to court other men. No matter how many men came calling she could not stop thinking about Henry. Their love was too strong. She felt lost without him by her side. Once she was of age, Amanda disobeyed her father and began to see Henry again. On March 24, 1864 Henry and Amanda were married. They were two opposites deeply in love joined in the bonds of holy matrimony. Together they were complete, happy.

Amanda’s family did not understand her attraction, her love for Henry. She was a beautiful woman who could have married any young man in the county. Several young men made it clear they wanted to marry Amanda but once she met Henry her heart was taken. No man could compare to Henry, he was the love of her life. She believed he was her destiny from the start. The day after Amanda married Henry, a letter was delivered to their house announcing she had been disowned by her family. To her father she had married beneath her status, he was after all poor and Irish. Her marriage was a dishonor/shame on the family. It did not matter that she was in love, only that she had disobeyed her father.

Amanda cried for days when her family disowned her but she would not give in to their demands to leave him. Even in poverty she proudly stood by Henry's side. She wrote to her father, tried to convince him she was where she belonged. Her heart told her she was meant to be with Henry, he made her whole, he completed her. She wrote without Henry she would not be able to breathe, he was her world, her life. If her father truly loved her he would understand such love and want his daughter to be happy.

When Amanda married Henry she gave up a large comfortable farm house with plenty of land to farm, plenty of food to eat and moved to a small house that she shared with Henry, his sister and his sister’s children. Amanda never looked back or regretted her decision. Henry devoted himself to Amanda; she loved him with all her heart. They were happy, in love and soon were expecting a child.

While she was pregnant Amanda knitted a baby blanket. On two opposite corners of the blanket Amanda embroidered her and Henry’s initials, on the other two hearts. It was a symbol of two soul mates coming together to form a child, their child. Sadly, Amanda Jane died giving birth to my great grandmother Amanda Jane Wilson. She would never see her child swaddled in the blanket she had made with love.

The story of Amanda's death was recorded in a neighbors diary and has been passed down through the generations. Amanda had been in heavy labor and struggling for several days when she finally gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Henry sat on the bed with his arms around Amanda as she held their daughter. As Amanda held her baby in her arms she began to hemorrhage. She died a few minutes later still holding her child. In his grief, Henry picked up both Amanda and their new born daughter carried them to the rocking chair he had built for them. For hours he would not let anyone come near them. He held them both, rocking back and forth, kissing Amanda on the forehead begging her to come back to him. His cries of pain could be heard through the silence of the Iowa night. It was written even the animals cried when they heard the anguish in his tears. He held his two “girls” until the sun came up, praying for a miracle. Finally a little after sun rise his sister convinced Henry he had to let Amanda go, she was in heaven. He needed to take care of his daughter. His little girl needed him. He had to be strong for her. Henry would name their daughter after the love of his life, Amanda Jane.

Amanda was buried in Selection Cemetery in Iowa. Her father agreed to pay for her funeral but refused to come or see his granddaughter. Samuel made it clear he blamed Henry and their child for his daughter’s death. He would never forgive Henry for taking Amanda away from him.

In the 1800s when a spouse died it was common place for the surviving spouse to remarry. It was expected. Henry was devastated by Amanda’s death. He wrote to his brother he felt lost without her. He could never imagine sharing his bed, his life with another woman. No matter how deeply he loved his daughter, Henry still felt empty and incomplete without Amanda. He had lost half his soul. Henry would never re-marry; he would live the rest of his life alone.

After Amanda Jane’s death, Henry came onto hard times. It was almost impossible for an Irishman to get a good paying job in the late 1800s. Plus, no one wanted to hire the farmhand that the Dent family had fired. He worked odd jobs the best he could to keep food on the table. Henry’s family was near starvation when he found a chicken roaming the street and took it home to feed his family. In Ireland before coming to America Henry had watched most of his family die of starvation, he was not going to watch his daughter starve to death in Iowa. A few days later Henry was accused of being a thief, stealing the chicken. He was considered even more of outcast in Monroe County. The summer of 1867 he wrote his brother he was planning on heading back to Philadelphia to find a better job, a place he could properly care for his daughter. Since Amanda had died there was nothing in Iowa for him. He felt empty without Amanda by his side. He had lost faith, he had lost hope. Everyone saw him as a thief not as a man trying to care for his family. When he had given up all hope, when he was preparing to head to Philadelphia fate stepped in and stopped him. Jeptha Robinson heard about Henry's plight and offered him a job as a farm hand. Jeptha did not need a farm hand he had enough brothers to handle all the work on the farm. For some reason he could not explain, Jeptha felt in his heart he needed to help Henry. He needed to keep Henry and his daughter Amanda in Iowa. Amanda and Henry would spend the rest of their lives in Monroe County, Iowa.

Amanda was even more beautiful than her mother. During school, several young men would try to court Amanda but her heart was set on Jeptha’s oldest son Jacob. She said since she was a little girl she knew she would marry Jacob. It was love at first sight. In 1885 Amanda and Jacob were married in the living room of his parent's house. Jacob had a Celtic knot wedding ring made for Amanda. Their love was eternal, a love with no bonds, no end. Jacob toasted his father on his wedding day thanking him for keeping Amanda and her father Henry in Iowa. For without that one kind gesture he would never have met the love of his life, Amanda Jane.

After they married, Jacob built Amanda a small house on the family farm. Jacob moved Henry into their home. Henry would spend his nights rocking on the porch, talking to the stars, talking to his soul mate, Amanda. He would tell her of his day, how much he still missed her. When Henry died in 1900 the Dents would not allow him to be buried next to his wife, his soul mate, Amanda Jane. Henry was buried in the Robinson Arnold family cemetery in Urbana, Iowa. On either side of him lie strangers. When his daughter Amanda Jane died in 1921 she was buried two rows away from her father. Several years later her husband Jacob would be buried by her side. Henry's body lies alone for all eternity.

When I first heard the story of Amanda Jane and Henry I was left feeling sad, my heart was broken for them. Henry was married to Amanda for a little more than a year before she died. After her death he was never able to find happiness again. This seemed so sad to me. Then I realized Henry and Amanda Jane were lucky, they found each other. They shared a passionate deep undying love for each other that few people ever experience. I would rather have one year of passionate eternal love followed by a lifetime of sorrow than never to have experienced such love at all.

I know in my heart Amanda and Henry have finally found eternal happiness together in Heaven. They are sharing peace and happiness they could not find here on earth.

Eugene Arthur Gammon- World War II

There is a small memorial marker standing silent vigil at the Fort Logan National Cemetery in Denver, Colorado. There is no body buried beneath the marker. Sadly, this sailor was never brought home to his family. His mother was never able to lay her son to rest in the family cemetery. It is certain that Eugene A. Gammon died 24 October 1944 when the Arisan Maru (P.O.W. hell ship) was sunk off the coast of Formosa. Yet, Eugene Arthur Gammon is one of thousands still listed as Missing in Action from World War II.

Eugene was born 3 January 1915 in Ramah, a small town located about 38 miles from Colorado Springs, Colorado. He was the son of Eugene and Gertrude Dunning Gammon. His father was a proud cattle rancher. He was the oldest of two boys. Growing up the Gammon boys were taught to love their land and love their country. Since they had been “knee high” Eugene and his brother, James, were often told of their great great grandfather fighting in the Revolutionary War along side George Rogers Clark. Since before this country was founded the Gammons and Robinsons have been intertwined in her history. When called on, they have always served her needs.

Eugene was different from his younger brother. James wanted to spend his life on the family ranch in Ramah. Eugene, he loved Colorado but since visiting his cousin in California he longed to see the world, long to see what laid beyond the Pacific. Eugene enlisted in the United States Navy hoping this would allow him to see the world. In August 1940 he reported for duty on the U.S.S. Canopus stationed in Manila. In his letters home Eugene wrote about his life on the“Old Lady”, the beauty of the beaches and people, the unbearable heat compared to the gentle summers in Colorado. He wrote to his mom that his ship was called the “Mama-san” because the Canopus repaired and serviced the subs of the pacific. Eugene missed home but loved his new adventure. He was hoping soon he would be able to visit other exotic places.

Eugene’s dreams of seeing the world changed December 7, 1941. His horrific fate was sealed that Sunday in the Cavite Naval Yard. Hours after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese began bombing Manila. Soon the men of the Canopus were working day and night repairing the ships that were damaged by the daily air raids. On Christmas day, as his family attended church praying for Eugene’s safe return, the Canopus sailed into Mariveles Bay at the tip of Bataan. All other ships were ordered out of Philippines, the U.S.S. Canopus would be serving alone. On December 27 the “Old Lady” took a direct hit, which penetrated all decks and exploded in the alley shaft killing 6 sailors and igniting her powder magazines. The Japanese were not successful in sinking her, the crew worked gallantly saving what seemed to be impossible. That night the first of her crew were buried at sea. Once again on January 6, the Canopus suffered a direct hit. Eugene wrote home he was not sure how much longer they would be able to hold on. They worked under the cover of darkness to repair their ship. At the same time the crew were converting her launches into gunboats to support the Marines off Corregidor. During her short service in World War II, the U.S.S. Canopus received only one battle star, but the battle lasted a long 4 months. Eugene and his fellow sailors fought heroically never giving up even in the face of overwhelming Japanese forces.

9 April 1942, starving, out of ammunition, and out of supplies, the crew was ordered to scuttle the U.S.S. Canopus. On 10 April 1942, her crew did what the Japanese had tried to do for four and a half months they laid the “Old Lady” to rest at bottom of Mariveles Bay with 13 of her crew. As she slowly disappeared into the bay, the reality of what laid ahead for Eugene and the rest of the crew must have been overwhelming. 11 April 1942 Eugene and the rest of the Canopus crew became part of the 4th Marine Division defending Corregidor.

Eugene A. Gammon, service number 96600 USN became a Prisoner of War. After the fall of Corregidor, his journey into hell began at the hands of the Japanese. For three weeks the prisoners were held in Corregidor they faced machine guns, random killings by the Japanese, starvation and disease. The United States Navy lists Eugene's capture after the fall of Corregidor, but in the Greeley Daily Tribune dated 28 February 1944 his mother stated that she clearly saw her son Eugene in some of the photos of the Bataan Death March which if true, meant he had been captured after the fall of Bataan almost a month earlier. She later wrote she fell to her knees crying when she first saw Eugene in the photos. Her handsome son who could wrangle a steer singularly had whittled away to mere skin and bones. For days his mother, Gertrude, could not sleep or eat, she was happy to see her son, yet horrified at how he appeared. Eugene is listed in Japanese records as a prisoner in Bilibid prison beginning in June of 1942. For the next three weeks, Eugene slept on concrete floors, lived on rice balls. The daily enemies at Bilibid were starvation, disease, abuse and boredom.

Eugene was transferred to Cabanatuan Prison in July of 1942. Cabanatuan was made famous by the 2005 film, “The Great Raid.” The story of the rangers rescuing the POWs before the Japanese tried to killed them. Sadly Eugene would never see rescue, never find freedom. For the next two and half years Eugene was a resident of camp 1, Cabanatuan. During the first 8 months Cabanatuan prison over 2,400 prisoners died from starvation or disease. Eugene was listed on burial detail. 30 to 50 prisoners were buried each day. July 1942 85 % of the men who died were under the age of 30. Several men attempted escape in the first few weeks of Cabanatuan, they were unsuccessful. To prevent further escapes the Japanese instituted groups of 10 named “Blood Brothers” or “Shooting Squads’. If anyone of the group escaped the other 9 would be executed. To protect the lives of all the prisoners, the American officers instituted a no escape policy. Men were made to sign an agreement not to attempt escape. They were told if they escaped and survived they would be court martialed after the war for the deaths of the other 9 in the group. It was a common practice by the japanese, before a man was executed he would be forced to dig his own grave as the other prisoners looked on. He would then most likely beheaded. There was later testimony at the War Crimes trial that on numerous instances, the guards would place the head of the decapitated POW on a pole and march it around the camp for all the prisoners to see. Food, water and sanitation were almost non-existent. Most of the food and water the prisoners received was smuggled in by brave civilians. Lugao, a thin watery soup became the main staple of every prisoner. Rice balls and worms were a luxurious dinner. Each morning the dying were removed from the barracks and taken to “zero ward”. Aptly named because those taken there had zero chance of surviving.

May 1943. almost a year after Eugene’s capture, the family received official notification from the Navy that their son, Eugene Arthur Gammon, was a prisoner of war at Cabanatuan. Eugene was promoted in absence to the rank of Boatswain, W.O. July 1943. For 2 years, 5 months Eugene would rot/waste away at the hands of the Japanese. During this time his mother would receive only two “form cards” from her son. When Gertrude died, she was buried with the cards, the last remaining items she had that her son’s hands had touched.

Late summer of 1944 the Japanese were aware of the approaching American forces. In August 1944 the Japanese issued a “Kill All” Policy. The Americans were not to find the prisoners. As MacArthur prepared to attack Leyte, Eugene and 1784 other prisoners of Cabanatuan were loaded on the Arisan Maru for transport to Japan. They were crammed like sardines into dark black hulls. . Later in war records these hulls were named hold 1 and 2. There was no sanitation, no fresh air to breath in the holds. The stench and heat were unbearable. The ship was part of a merchant convoy and was not marked as a POW transport ship. For two weeks the men in the holds suffered from heat and continued starvation. It was just before dinner on October 24 when two torpedoes struck the Arisan Maru. The ship stopped instantly and began taking on water. The Japanese issued abandoned ship orders. Before evacuating the ship, the Japanese cut the rope ladder leading to hold 1 and closed the hatches on hold one and two. Trapping the POWs below, guaranteed to cause certain death.. Gathered from surviving testimony, men in hold two though they suffered years of starvation, their will to live prevailed, they escaped their hold and lowered a rope down to the men in hold one. The prisoners jumped from the Arisan Maru and swam to the other Japanese ships who were part of the merchant convoy only to be beaten away, left to drown in the Pacific. Eugene and the other prisoners watched as the merchant ships left them floating in waves of salt water. The men grabbed onto anything that floated, wreckage left by the Arisan Maru. Some men drown quickly, others lasted for hours, days waiting for rescue. As they languished in the pacific they could hear the cries and prayers of those around them. The men watched in agony as their fellow POWs slipped into the depths of the ocean, knowing that eventually that would be their fate. They prayed for a miracle, a ship to find them, but the sub who sank the Arisan Maru was unaware the ship carried prisoners. It went about its mission patrolling the pacific. Out of the 1795 prisoners on the Arisan Maru, only 7 survived, Eugene was not one of them. The Pacific Ocean whom Eugene had fallen in love with on his trip to California, swallowed his body, took Eugene to his watery grave.

Several years after the war ended a fellow POW from camp 1 at Cabanatuan visited the Gammon family in Colorado. He tried his best to answer Eugene's mother’s questions, fill in the blanks of the last part of Eugene’s life. Although beaten and starved Eugene never lost his faith, he prayed every night. During the blistering heat of the Philippines he often told of the soft first snowfalls of Colorado. Before the war, he longed to see the world, at Cabanatuan all he dreamed about was his home in Colorado. Eugene often told his fellow prisoners after the war, they had to visit Colorado, it was the most beautiful place on earth. To cheer men up Eugene would often tell stories of chasing lost cattle in the pass between the mountains. He told of his childhood adventures in Colorado. Eugene often spoke of his mother. He worried most about her, on more than one occasion he said the pain his mother was feeling had to be much worse than what he was going through. He wished/prayed he could hug his mom just once, tell her he was okay. He was coming home one day.

The sinking of the Arisan Maru is the worst Naval disaster in U.S. history. 1780 POWs lost their life after suffering for years at the hands of the Japanese.

There is no definitive answer on when Eugene Arthur Gammon died. Did he die within hours of the sinking of the Arisan Maru or did he linger for days praying for a miracle? I have often wondered, before his death as he closed his eyes was he able to see one last time his home nestled in the foothills of the Rockies?

On Corregidor there sits a memorial to all those who died in the Pacific during World War II. The inscription along the rim of the alter reads;

Sleep, my sons,
Your destiny done,
For freedom’s light has come;
Sleep in the depths of the sea,
Or in your hallow sod,
Until you hear at dawn,
The low reveille of God

Rest in Peace Eugene Arthur Gammon and all those who died serving in the Pacific.

Love Enough

While searching my parent's basement for an old chest of mine I came across a box tucked in the corner labeled 152 Weidman Street.  I was ten years old the last time I visited the magnificent gray duplex built on the edge of the Bethlehem Steel Mill in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Thirty plus years could not erase the memories made in my Nana Kay's home. Even now, when the moon  steals the sky and the silence is broken by a train whistle in the distance I am back in that old house.  Once again I am a small child sitting on the balcony watching the fire blaze brightly through the night from the factory. How I loved falling asleep to the melody of the mill; the clanking metal, the release of steam, the train wheels on the tracks, and the lonely nostalgic whistle. So many memories.

The old maple tree where Penny, her beloved dog, is buried, the side yard framed in bursts of color by the azaleas and hydrangeas, the porch where the rocking chair made the floor boards squeal and me giggle, the staircase my sister and I rousingly ran up and down; images all rushed forward from the recesses of my brain simply by seeing her address. 

I had just turned ten when my Nana Kay died. We didn't share enough years together, but the time we had I cherish. It was impossible as a child to understand the battle my Nana Kay was fighting against cancer. I have often wished instead of rushing outside to play tag with the neighborhood kids I spent more time with her, paid more attention when she shared her memories. When she spoke of my grandfather, the love of her life.  In my eyes everyone was invincible and everything would last forever. August 22, 1973 I learned everything has an end, in life it's death. My Nana Kay was gone. 

Staring at the box I debated whether I should open it, discover its contents or leave it alone; allow it to harbor its secrets for a bit longer. I ran my fingers across the address several times before I finally removed the tape. On top sat an old shoe box labeled Marlin. It was a name I had almost forgotten, my grandfather's.

Gently I lifted the lid revealing several silver 8mm film canisters. They were labeled, Guadalcanal 1943, Tower City, Homecoming Parade 1945, To Babe, and Scrap Metal Drive Montana. Many times I had seen in my Dad's workshop an old  film projector. "Please work," the prayer I repeated to myself as I rushed to retrieve it.

Through a maze of dials, slots, and wheels I threaded the narrow film. Half afraid I would blow something up I held my breath and turned the projector on. Burned holes of brown and bright white circles flashed across the walls, the reels whirled until the ghosts gave way to living color and I sat mesmerized by the man on the screen.

Lt. Col. Marlin Robert Kopp, my grandfather, stood before me in uniform, smiling and waving. Before I only knew him as an army photograph, two dimensions of black and white, now he was staring back at me, wonderfully alive.  He was taller than I imagined, his uniform was khaki, his glasses were gold, his hair curly auburn, and his eyes were blue like my mom and sister's.

Through the magic of film my grandfather took me on a tour of Guadalcanal. A small Japanese sub sunk on the beach, the barracks with thatched roofs, munitions shops, and his office with plywood walls; I shared it all with him. Images of men stopping to wave like comical characters in an old silent movie filled the room with my laughter. The backdrop for my celluloid feature, a peaceful sky brushed in turquoise blue with hints of bright green. The tropical beauty masking the war that loomed behind the images on the curtain.

The finale of my wonderful journey; my grandfather holding a piece of paper that read, "I love you Babe" as he stood next to a palm tree waving goodbye. It may seem strange but for the first time my grandfather was real. He walked, he smiled and he waved at me. I could see my daughter's smile in his.


When the wall was blank, his image no longer, I paused for a moment to absorb it all. Not yet ready to say goodbye to my grandfather I reached for another film to watch. I noticed sitting next to the canisters was a brown plastic soap container, inside a chain of metal and small seashells. The links untangled themselves as I lifted and watched its secret unfurl; it was my Grandfather's dog tags. Bent and slightly dilapidated it was the most beautiful necklace I had ever seen. I placed the dog tags around my neck, pressed it close to my heart and started the next film, "For Babe."

The poster read, "Happy Anniversary." The camera panned back, my Grandfather once again next to a palm tree.  He laid down the sign, walked onto the beach and positioned his arms as if he was dancing with an imaginary partner. A romantic waltz. His feet moved gracefully, with each turn gently pushing the sand away creating a private dance floor. As he slowly turned I noticed he was singing. I moved closer to the screen trying to read his lips. Tears began to stream down my cheeks, it was Gershwin's "Someone to Watch Over Me."

Now it made sense; my Nana Kay would sing and dance to the lyrics as she cleaned. One rainy summer afternoon I sat watching her and asked why she always sang the same song. She tickled me with the feather duster and scooped me off the couch. We twirled over to the end table where my Grandfather's picture sat. She grabbed it, held it between us and explained it was the first song they ever danced to. It was her love song to Marlin.

Watching him dance I felt his love for my Nana Kay envelop me. His anniversary film for my Nana Kay ended as he waved goodbye and mouthed the words, "I love you Babe."  Love at times unexplainable, was clearly visible and illustrated on 8mm film. My Grandfather was a Lt. Colonel in the army, the commanding officer, yet he loved my Nana Kay so much, he danced a waltz 'with her' on the beaches of Guadalcanal.

Watching the film I suddenly recalled pieces of stories told to me by my Nana Kay. Tales of long ago dances at the Officers' Club before he left for war.  My Grandfather was a talented dancer and was in high demand by the other wives.
He knew how to cha cha, tango, waltz and do the lindy. She was never jealous of the requests, she knew he loved only her. My Grandfather made a promise to my Nana Kay no matter where they were, they would always share the last dance together.

The rest of the afternoon I spent leaned against the wall of the basement reading the love letters from my Grandfather to my Nana Kay. He was her Darling, she was his Babe. The beginning of the war my Grandfather's Quartermaster unit traveled the country collecting scrap metal for the 'cause'. From Montana he confessed he fell in love with her the first time he saw her. It took him weeks to 'muster' up the courage to say hello. He knew God had put him on this earth to be with her. He discovered after they began courting her true beauty was her loving heart; it kept him warm on the loneliest days. He admitted at times life could be taxing but one look at her photograph and he was head over heels in love again. Nothing else mattered, she was his world.

His letters from the Pacific were small microfilmed like postcards intermixed with V-Mail. No matter the size of the correspondence they all started the same, Hello Babe, and always signed; Love your Darling. There were letters reminding Nana Kay to replace the tires, how to store the coal and other mundane household chores. Most of his letters were filled with his love for her.

Upon his arrival at Guadalcanal her wrote he was not afraid to die, he was afraid to lose her. The hardest part of leaving was letting her go, uncertain if he would ever hold her again. War had a way of making a man realize where his heart truly belonged and his was at home in hers.

My Grandfather returned stateside in 1944 to attend General Command School. They were still separated, he was in Kansas, she was at home in Pennsylvania taking care of my mom and Uncle Bill. One of his first letters from Fort Leavenworth, "I am lucky so many men died so far away from home. I am stateside, within a thousand miles of my love. I would be selfish wanting more time than was granted us. I will be on leave and home to you shortly. My heart is already with you. Keep it safely for me until I hold you again."

The war continued to explode in the Pacific after he returned to Guadalcanal. March 1945, "Hello Babe, I won't worry you with the circumstances here. I pray if anything happens to me I have loved you enough to last a lifetime. You have given me more love than I could want. I am luckier than most, I found a gal that makes my heart skip and I get to call her my Babe. Your love is my strength when hell surrounds me. I pray God will bring me home to you. I am saving my last dance for you. Love, your Darling"

My Grandfather made it back home, worked at the Bethlehem Steel Mill behind their house for several months before he was recalled to active duty. He was assigned back to the Quartermaster Corp to be a part of the rebuilding of Germany. He was preparing for deployment at Camp Lee, Virginia while my Nana Kay stayed behind in Lebanon so my Uncle Bill and Mom could finish the semester at school.

The last letter my Grandfather wrote was dated 24 October 1946, "Hello Babe, Not many more days until I will be home to help you pack. Let's be scandalous and put up the tree early. Heck let's do it the first night I'm home. Four Christmases away from you and the kids were almost too much for my heart. This year let's celebrate as long as we can before we depart for Germany. I know you thought being apart was over but the Army does what the Army will do. My duty is still needed. I promise soon instead of words to hug your loneliness, my arms will hold you every night. Love, your darling, Marlin."

Tucked inside the envelope with his last letter was a much smaller envelope from Western Union.  Folded in half a telegram informing Mrs. Kathryn A. Kopp, "Lt. Colonel Marlin Robert Kopp died 2 November 1946 at Camp Lee Virginia of a heart attack." One sentence is how the Army informed my Nana Kay that her Darling, her love, her Marlin had died. There would be would never be another Christmas together, there would be no last dance.

My Nana Kay never remarried, no man could ever replace her Marlin. The years after my Grandfather's death my Nana Kay's diaries affirmed her love for him. She missed him, cherished their memories and held onto his love.

19 December 1971 would have been my grandparent's fortieth wedding anniversary.  She recorded in her journal, "When I close my eyes tonight I will once again be dancing with my darling Marlin. I long to hear him say, I love you Babe."

The summer of 1973, my Nana Kay was dying, her strength waning but her love for Marlin was strong, still as vibrate as their first waltz. Her last entry, "I am ready to hold my Marlin. I miss him so. I have waited a long time for our dance."

As I repacked their memories in the box I was comforted by the fact; they may never have danced in each other's arms again but my Nana Kay danced with him in her heart every day.  Her Marlin had loved her enough.