San Francisco, California
My father planted the ground cover Pachysandra terminalis (Japanese Surge) through the yard and down the hill of our family home in Rose Valley, Pennsylvania. It’s not a showy plant, but that carpet of rich, dark green said “home” to me so much that I dug some up from Dad’s yard and planted it behind my own house. It grew much more slowly in that Minnesota climate, but I coddled it, and then dug it up again when I moved west. Unfortunately, the transplants did not take root, and I felt the pain of losing that small thread back to my youth. A year or so later, I found a pot of Pachysandra in a local San Francisco nursery and tried again. This time, the plant has stayed healthy but it has stubbornly remained in a patch not much larger than what’s shown in this photograph. It doesn’t matter. Every time I walk past the Pachysandra, I look down and think of Dad.
Today marks the 75th anniversary of WWII's end in Europe, and I had a conversation with son Hans about whether either of us has experienced in our lifetime anything - either emotionally or circumstantially - as traumatic as that war. We talked about America’s reaction to that crisis compared to the situation we’re in now (perhaps we’re not far along enough in this to judge), and about the toll the war took personally on my parents, so young and anxious to start their lives together. After we hung up, I looked through Dad’s war letters and found this one:
May 12, 1945, Frantiskovy Lazne, Czechoslovakia
Dearest Carol,
The tempo of life in general has, I believe, slackened a little in these past few days and naturally enough. It is bound to be a little easier, for a tension has suddenly disappeared and... I believe that a slight change has come over me. Though I continue to be kept busy, I am not so continually tired. It cannot be that I’m getting more sleep than before the fighting ended for, if anything, I am getting less. My feeling better is probably because I am, now that it’s over, working in less strain and my sleep is more restful. And it is much different now. There is, [at least for now], a certain complacency to life which for so long has been wholly undermined by the tension of the fighting. I know that I have lived through it (this half of the war, anyway). I know for sure that I will see tomorrow with no mishap. That may sound strange, perhaps a little frightening, but it is a good feeling. I have a few times been so terribly close to death, Carol — I thought to myself, “I shall be lucky if I live through this night.” Even when you are in a comparatively safe place, although you may not consciously think it, inside you the knowledge is there that you are not completely safe. As long as you are in the range of the enemy’s weapons, there is definitely a tension which suddenly being released from, I now recognize for the first time. …. So these past few days I’ve discovered that I am slowly working back to my old self… On the second floor in this house in which I now reside there is a tiny sun porch where, for the past three nights, I have sat in the cool darkness smoking my last cigarette before I turn in. I lean back in my chair, my feet propped on the railing, and watch the stars. Across the way there is an apartment house, and the brightly lighted windows are good to see. It is peaceful and quiet and I somehow feel closer to you. Last night, sitting in the stillness, I realized why. For the first time in a year and a half, the environment of our lives is comparable….”
… I must say goodnight for now. Always, Lou.
