Letters: April 18, 1951

        I’m bitching again--no mail for some time--and you promised you’d write more often. There’s a guy coming over from Japan today and maybe he’s bringing some mail. I hope so. Yeah, I’m in Korea now and, as far as I know, I should be home for Xmas. So say a prayer for me, maybe two.
        I had a set of pearl earrings on order up in Yokohama but they weren’t ready by the time I left. So I’m not sure just when I’ll be able to get them. Have patience, baby, have patience.
        How’s school these days? Here it is almost May and then another school year is finished. I keep forgetting whether you are graduating this time or you’ll be a senior or just what--
        I still haven’t any good pictures of me (sans bathing suit) that I could send to you. I sent a couple to Mom but I didn’t think they were too hot. Maybe you saw them. Incidentally, have you been down to San Jose yet? It may seem like I’m trying to push things but honest Barb you will enjoy it. I know.
    So until I hear from you--Bye for now. Please write soon and real often. Be a morale builder, huh? To me I mean…

Pick Up The Pieces

Shellshocked. Dispirited. A gnawing gloom like after a bitter romantic breakup that saps your natural, even mundane, enthusiasm for life. Like many others, especially here in blue Sonoma County, I climbed into bed November 2nd worried but falling into dreaming hope we could wake to a beautiful morning. Dawn’s rosy fingers did not gently summon, but clawed a stranglehold. And those who once denounced, raced loyally to support. The Tao Te Ching sang it thousands of years ago: “And when the country is in chaos, loyal ministers appear.”

I feared it would go badly, but not horrendously so. And it was Wednesday, the day the Oliver’s Market checker dreads (my job and place of work). Senior discount day, when the elderly citizens of Santa Rosa and surrounding locales descend on the market to do their week’s shop and get their ten percent off. Walker Wednesday, we call it; Day of the zombies; Wednesday Depends Day… From the Sonoma Valley retirement community of Oakmont (“Croakmont” as one grinning gray-haired offered), shuttle buses dislodge the elderly late mornings. Seniors pack the checkstands wielding checkbooks. They pettily demand refunds, like a $5.99 plastic container of watermelon chunks they bought in early May, complaining that “it wasn’t sweet” as though it was our responsibility to ensure sweetness in fruit bought out of season. It was rounding out to be a depressing day.

Dragging the gloom into lunch, I hoped for solace on a bench along Ducker Creek trail, a one and a half-minute bike ride from work. Lining the creek and shading the path are maple, willow, ash, live oak, white adler, and buckeye, and squirrels scurry across branches weaving their canopy. While munching my sandwich of despair, a lone dog trotted by. Giving me scarcely a nod, he seemed intent on sniffing the leaves beneath the tree against which my rickety bench leaned. I had the feeling he knew this trail, so I waited for his person to follow. No one for a few minutes, but the dog didn’t act like an escaped pet, more like one familiar with the route and checking for variations. Still no owner. The dog then squatted intently on a carpet of leaves, and did his business. 

I made sure to spy the drop location, to inform the owner if and when s/he showed. We keep hearing we’re divided as a country, entrenched more like it. But we can easily reach across the chasm and locate comrades, whether liberal or conservative, as we who see our country made up of two groups: people who pick up their dogs’ poop, and those who don’t. The first group does its civic duty; the others are assholes, and they range across the political spectrum.  

A few minutes later two smaller dogs wandered onto the trail from where the first dog came, and momentarily a large, older man shuffled slowly and carefully behind them. He moved stiffly rather than walking, edging his steps forward, a doubtful faith in balance. The two other dogs hovered around the man’s legs, not thirty feet from me.

Protective of my solitude when my job is dealing face to face with long lines of people, and Tuesday’s horror still simmering in my skull, I immediately tagged him as intruder and enemy, who was probably celebrating what will be a Pyrrhic victory. Without patience, I called over to him, informing him of his dog’s leavings. Didn’t quite hear me, so I repeated, implying his responsibility. Mumbling understanding, he then turned and shuffled away, noting he needed a bag. Would he dutifully return?

When he emerged onto the path a few minutes later, and I saw his unsteady gait, felt contrite for my ill assessment, and approached him, saying I’d pick up the poop. When I reached for the bag, he light-heartedly brushed away my attempts. 

“No, I’ll do it, it’s okay. I just need to go slowly.”

But I could get it, I offered, I knew the exact spot.

“It’s good for me to walk. Exercise. Just had a knee operation, this’ll be good.”

I fell into step with him, sharing my own knee weaknesses, pointing to support sleeves on both knees. Why I deigned to take a job standing all day, at my age, I’ll never know.

Pointing to my lunch bag on the bench and bike, I explained this was my spot away from Oliver’s. He waved a hand over his shoulder and said he lived “right back there”, the house hidden by overgrown tan and pale green brush rising along the tree trunks above thin wire city fencing bulging and dipping along its route lining the properties. 

Conversation then narrowed to finding poop. With brown and grayish green leaves blanketing the edge of the trail, locating the pile proved difficult. Autumn leaves camouflage dog poop maddeningly well. Finally found it, and he scooped it up. He said his larger dog just takes himself out, he knows this trail so well. 

He pointed again to the house. “I’ve lived in that same house for fifty years! I grew up in that house.” There were photos of him, he added, as a teenager with his brother inside the foundation of the house his father was building right there on the property. “My father ran a sheep ranch. We had thirty-five acres. Our property stretched to Brush Creek!” I’d ridden the Brush Creek trail bike trail that morning, like most workdays. “There was a time,” he continued, pointing east to the hills and mountains over which a half hour away lays a long, fertile valley named Napa, “when our place and the house across the street--well, not those, those are newer--our two houses were the only ones in this area. There’s a photo of me and my brother on the road there, and there’s nothing but pasture between us all the way to Calistoga Road.” 

My lunch hour was nearing the end. As I piled my book and toiletry kit and ravaged lunch sack into my bike bag, our conversation dwindled, then amicably petered out. He shuffled back up the trail, dogs weaving around his legs, and the family disappeared behind the wild-haired, leafy thicket.

Seven or so days later… 

A shorter work schedule today, my lunchtime cut to half an hour, I raced to my creekside bench. Proving that canines and humans alike thrive inside routines, onto the trail ambles the same big furry dog, tail like a wide fan swishing and feathering the sun-dappled breeze, nose-down and forward-sniffing the fallen bronze leaves. He again tosses only a half-second sideways glance, reading me as no threat. But I could tell: he was on the search, scouting for the right patch to do his business. No sign of the man, or his smaller companions. Then he adopted the squat a little farther on, same side of the trail. I see another guy coming from up the trail, little dog on leash. The first dog finished, sniffed around to file his daily reports in the evening, then passed the other guy, his dog, and me, got to the sidewalk, then ran up his driveway. Still, no one emerged. 

Passing slowly, the man paused. “Is that your dog?”

Eager to disclaim responsibility, I offered a full explanation of the owner’s house, the owner who came out to do his duty at my request at our  meeting, and kept pointing to the house that once headed a thirty-five acre sheep ranch that stretched from this rickety bench along a Ducker Creek tributary to Brush Creek, a half mile away. 

“Mellow dog,” he said, and walked on.

The dog’s drop was still nestled in the leaves. I wandered up the trail looking for a random littered bag of any kind, but avid stewards must patrol and keep this wild and bushy haven clean, bless them.

I finally found a clear plastic wrapper the size of a small envelope, partially hidden in wet leaves. Approaching the few yards where I saw the act, I bent over and stepped lightly while scanning closely an endless tapestry of leaves. There they were, only a few slender rolls to scoop. I walked over to the trash bin and dropped the bag.

A good thing done for our common ground, and it didn’t cost a penny.

Letters: April 12, 1951

        I’ve received two letters from you in the last few days so I had better get on the ol’ spherical. Fact is: I just returned from a few days' visit to my old station in Sapporo and now I’m getting ready to leave tomorrow for the Empire of Korea. Sapporo was really drunk out--wow--the boys up there gave me a send off to end all send offs. Three days cost me a little over a hundred bucks [$1,023.02 in 2017 USD--compiler’s note] and I didn’t eat much so I guess most of it went for liquor. Had a real Japanese party complete with Geisha girls (dancers) and Japanese food (I’m not sure what all was in it) eaten with chopsticks.
        A letter today from you was, as you put it, real messy. But I haven’t the vaguest idea who those people are you talk about. Reminds me of the time a friend wrote and told me about a couple who were married but he said he guessed I didn’t give a damn as I didn’t know them. Well, I like to hear what you’re doing, but, as I said, I don’t know the people you talk about so it doesn’t register too much with me. If you find it hard to think of what to write about then write a love letter--I can really appreciate that type.
        Your phone line slays me, and probably Mom also. Only talked about twenty dollars worth to her. She said you had written so I guess by this time it’s all taken care of. I hope you have gone down there--I really do.
        If I remember correctly you had a pretty nice shape and the picture you sent bears me out. Tis a very cute picture Baby and thanks alot. But you going up to 118 lbs shouldn’t be too bad but 150--Ha! The only thing I’m sweating out are these gray hairs. They’re quite numerous, but distingué. [French for “distinguished”--impressed compiler’s note; didn’t know my Dad knew French]

        Your last letter only took five days. I wish it would only take five days for you to get over here for a weekend or so. Oh well.
        My next letter will be from Frozen Choson somewhere. Don’t forget--don’t tell Mom.

        Write soon hon - pretty please.

Letters: April 2, 1951

           After reading your letter I have come to the conclusion that you are right, more or less. Maybe it was or seemed sort of quick, although I could give you a good sound argument if given the chance. Something else, too, which I didn’t take into consideration. I’m quite a bit older than you--in a short while I’ll hit the thirty-two mark, which ain’t exactly high-schoolish. So we might as well forget the whole thing and imagine I didn’t even call. When I call again it shall be a normal conversation--of sorts--although I hope to elicit more from you than hello and goodbye.

        My pretty soft living is just about up. I have received my orders for Choson (Korea). I’ve been expecting it for some time so I’m not surprised although I am definitely not eager. One nice thing about it--after six months of combat we are supposed to be rotated back stateside--I hope so. Incidentally, when you see Mom, don’t tell her that I’m in Korea. I’m going to keep on telling her that I’m still in Yokohama for the duration. She worries too much is why--nor my sisters--they may slip and tell Mom.

        Okay Baby, all for now. Keep on writing, and to the same address until I find out what my new one will be. Hope you enjoy the weekend with Mom and Dad. They will like having you down.

Letters: March 24, 1951

         Chapter IX. Continuing the trials and tribulations of Fosdick X. Corrigan in his search for understanding of telephone chatter by redheads who say nothing but: uh-oh-ya-uh-well I don’t gee-but-oh golly-I see-uh-oh-well maybe-heck-gin & tonic, please-uh-uh-uh-hic hic-uh-yaaaa-S.F. State-uh-well gee-uh-be careful-uh-

        For some twenty five or so bucks--ouch--I left the morning after I called from where I called and I’m now just a short hop from Tokyo and I’m socked in by weather. Expect to leave tomorrow morning and I should be back in Yokohama tomorrow night and I hope there’s a letter from you awaitin’ ol’ Fosdick X., better known as the getting to be sad joe.

        It was an interesting conversation nevertheless, and I’m glad I made the call and I’ll call again if you don’t mind although probably at a more decent hour but I had to be sure of catching you at home--not meant as a crack hon.

        I thought you were going to send me some more pictures of one each good looking redhead? Well?

        Okay Baby--I’ll write again when I get back to Yokohama. Give my love to your landlady, who I don’t know but she’s probably a nice woman. Write soon.

    .S. Hi

Letters: March 20, 1951

        There were two letters from you waiting for me when anxious ol’ me got back two days ago. Thanks Baby -- although it seemed to be a hodgepodge of thought--your letters I mean--with no cohesion of sentences or phrases. Which is understandable--you’re not, as yet, having entered the realm of the almighty graduate whose podium consists of irony, and whose knowledge is far beyond the comprehension of mere undergraduates--said knowledge consisting of good taste in liquor, etc. Also redheads--now after digesting all that--How are you?

        As I said--I’m back in Yokohama but tomorrow I leave again on another trip to Frozen Choson, which isn’t frozen so much now, spring having arrived--even in Korea. Here in Yokohama the days are balmy, more or less. I saw a terrific picture this evening--you’ve probably seen it-- “Born Yesterday”. One of the best I’ve seen in a long, long time. -- Just opened a beer, can--Christ, I’m beginning to write like you--oh yes, your description of the date with the eight arms was cute. But you haven’t really been “took” out until I return when it shall be a two week date--with propriety of course--from San Fran to Del Monte to LA to Las Vegas--are you game? I’m serious Baby--it’s not just idle chatter. It sounds real good to me and I’m becoming awfully cynical here lately for no apparent reason.

        Bye for now. Keep on writing like you say you have been--be good hon.

Letters: March 15, 1951

            I believe this makes the third, or maybe it’s the second letter I’ve written you without having heard from you. And I’m bitching like hell. At present I’m on a flight to Korea and had engine trouble in Pusan so I’ve had to stay here four days. There may be a letter from you back in Yokohama--damnit, there had better be one or you should head from the Brea hills--are there any hills in Brea? I’ve forgotten. All in all it makes it kind of hard to write when I don’t hear from you and there’s not a whole lot to write about over here. Anyway I thought it would make for a more interesting talk when I get home. Providing you’re still around the old homestead. As soon as I get back to Yokohama and if I don’t have too many more flights to Korea and if I stay in the Yokohama area which I’m not sure that I will I think I will look into the Army Educational program concerning graduate courses leading to a teaching credential. The U of Calif has set up a program over here with high school and college courses that allow credit to be given. I’m not sure about grad courses but if they have them and they pertain to my subject I might as well utilize the evenings I have because there isn’t a damn thing to do except drink and that gets tiresome after awhile. Good idea, huh? I need a year’s graduate work anyway and if I could get some classes out of the way now I’d be that much ahead. I get older each day and I want to start teaching before I retire on an old age pension. Or you supporting me. -- The weather has changed for the better over here--it’s been awfully nice the last week or so. Bright sunny days and balmy evenings that remind me of Fullerton and Orange County.
            Gee hon - nothing else I can think of at present. How are you doing in school? I hope you’re getting good grades for your own sake--they mean a lot while in school but not a thing after you graduate. Bye for now- Please write soon and often.