Italian Butter

We never used real butter in our family. Mom always bought margarine. She considered real butter too expensive, a luxury we didn't need and couldn't afford. I also think her memories of food rationing during World War II played a part in the fact that we never had real butter available. Mom usually purchased sticks of Blue Bonnet and any number of different varieties of the soft margarine in a tub. But no matter what type of margarine she had, we always called it butter.

One of our family traditions was that mom would make your favorite meal on your birthday. Dad usually liked any kind of meat with “home fries” – potato wedges fried in vegetable oil with lots of onions mixed in. My brother always asked for meatloaf and Brussels sprouts and I always asked for lasagna. When it came time for mom’s birthday, we took her out to dinner.

We hardly ever went out to dinner, maybe just a few times a year, so it was a treat for all of us. Mom’s favorite food was Italian and her favorite restaurant was Colacci's, an old-timey Italian restaurant located in a small community between Denver and Boulder. You know the kind of place, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, great big jugs of Chianti on the table, homemade spaghetti noodles so thick you could not possibly eat an entire plateful, and lots of freshly baked bread.

One time during mom’s annual birthday dinner at Colacci’s, my brother asked if someone would “Please pass the Italian butter.” This confused everyone! After questioning, it turned out that Ted was just asking for one of the little individual servings of real butter. Since we never had it in our house, the only place he experienced real butter was in this restaurant. Naturally, he assumed that made it “Italian” butter.

To this day our family teases my brother about Italian butter. Tomorrow I’m having Thanksgiving dinner at Ted’s house with his family. And most likely when it’s our turn, each of us will say, “Please pass the Italian butter!”

A Mother's Touch

I’ve been lost in the past lately, missing my parents and feeling nostalgic about my childhood. It seemed chaotic at times. Mom and dad argued so much, I remember being deeply affected by the arguments and the seeming instability of our family life. It wasn’t until I was an adult and watched them interact as old people that I realized the arguments had grown into nothing more than their customary way of communicating. I always thought they didn’t like each other very much, when in reality they loved each other. As I write this and compare my childhood to my mother’s, my life was far from chaotic. It was a walk in the park compared to hers.

Mom was one of five children born into an extremely poor family, three girls and two boys. The second girl died of pneumonia at age 5. Grampa always felt guilty about her death because she had been outside with him in the cold weather and never recovered. Grampa was also an alcoholic, shunned by his own family due to the fact that his mother was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Mom’s earliest memories of her father’s family were unpleasant. Apparently they considered themselves an enlightened group but could find no room in their hearts for those who strayed beyond their narrow and rigid view of righteousness.

During the Depression, my grandmother took in other people’s laundry to help support the family. For this she was labeled a “dirty old wash woman.” Because they lived in such poverty, the remaining children were scattered to the four winds, sent to live with relatives. Mom earned her keep at an uncle’s house, babysitting his children at a home where she was subject to any number of abuses. Eventually the family reunited and lived together in tenement housing. Twice they lost their home to fire, and later relocated from Connecticut to New Jersey.

When my mother was 18 years old, grandmother met an untimely death from a ruptured appendix. She was only 52, the age I am now. The family could not afford hospitals or proper medical care. A doctor visited but dismissed grandmother’s symptoms as nothing more than the typical complaints of a middle-aged woman. She didn’t stand a chance.

Left with an alcoholic father, two wild brothers, and a cold, distant sister, mom was lost without her mother. She described grandmother as a sweet, loving, affectionate woman, always quick to give a kiss and a hug or to stroke your hair and comfort you. Yet I often pointed out that grandmother lived on, because those qualities were passed on to her daughter.

Mom was my best friend, my biggest fan. She too was a sweet, loving, affectionate woman. I recall sitting at the kitchen table and whenever mom passed by she always reached out to me, touched my hair, ran her fingers along my shoulder, kissed the top of my head. In the evening she would sit on the couch and invite me to lay my head in her lap, where she would stroke my hair and listen to whatever petty grievance I might have to share from that particular day. She always had time for us, always had advice for us, and always defended us no matter what. She cherished bedtime with her children, tucking us in at night and giving a kiss before the lights went out. It was a final chance to say, “I’m sorry” or to put to rest whatever problems had plagued us during the day.

Even as an adult, when I returned home to spend the night on Christmas Eve or other special occasions, mom would come into the spare bedroom at night and tuck me in, giving a kiss and a stroke of the hair before retiring to her own room. As a grown woman in my twenties and thirties, it still made me feel safe and loved. I never left my parents' house without sharing a hug and a kiss, even though I lived only five miles away and was sure to see them again in a few days’ time.

Mom never turned her back on her errant family. Grampa came to live with us before he died. A quiet man, he really was good to all of us and didn’t drink much by then. Both of mom’s brothers also became alcoholics. One was killed at age 47, beaten to death in New Orleans. Most likely he was drunk. Yet my brother Ted was named after him, and to the end mom loved her brother dearly. Then her youngest brother died at age 53 of cirrhosis. He also lived with us for nearly a year before he died. Yes, he was often drunk. He was also a kind-hearted soul.

Embarrassed by her own family, mom’s sister chose the high road. She actually admired her father’s family, the ones who repeatedly turned their backs on them. They were educated, well-to-do, important, and that was the life she wanted. Over the years, she was always bothered by the fact that her nieces and nephews were more attached to the alcoholics than to her. It was really an easy choice for me. My grampa and my uncles were completely flawed, imperfect human beings but their love was palpable. Unfortunately, I could never say that about my aunt.

Today I was scanning photos from my childhood, including many pictures of my mother. Mom never liked to have her picture taken, especially as she grew older. In most of those photos I now see a hint of sadness that lurked in her eyes. It was probably always there, maybe I never noticed because all I could see in her eyes was love.

I inherited much from my mother, including the touch of sadness that I often find stalking me at the most inopportune times. Mom also left me with a full measure of affection to share. Since I never had children, I can only hope my husband, my friends, and my dogs are as grateful for that affection as I was.

A Generation of Veterans

The Brothers Thompson: Bill, Jim, Dick, George, and Joe
(photo from some time in the 1980s, the last time they were together).

While digging through my father’s old photos, I discovered a letter my brother and I wrote to the American Battle Monuments Commission at the time the World War II Memorial on the National Mall was in its planning stages. Even though I grew up in this family and the stories were well known, I still find myself amazed at the dedication, service, and sacrifice made by this generation of veterans.

On both sides of our family, a total of eight men fought for and served their country during World War II, six brothers in my father’s family and two brothers in my mother’s family. These men were in every branch of the armed forces, in regions all around the world. Similar to the fictional family in the movie Saving Private Ryan, they all served at the same time. Here are their stories:

Corporal James Thompson

James Thompson, Corporal, U.S. Army. Served in the Army medical corps throughout the South Pacific, first with an engineer battalion and then with the 108th Station Hospital.

Sergeant Richard Thompson

Richard Thompson (my father), Sergeant, U.S. Army. Anti-Aircraft Artillery, automatic weapons battalion. Fought in the Southwest Pacific on Guadalcanal, the Solomon Islands, Tulagi, Emirau, Florida Island, Hollandia, New Guinea, and Bougainville. Suffered broken vertebrae. Recovered in a field hospital and voluntarily returned to action in the liberation of the Philippine Islands on Luzon, the battle for Manila and Clark Field.

Seaman Joseph Thompson

Joseph Thompson, Seaman 1st Class, U.S. Navy. Numerous convoys across the North Atlantic, serving as armed guard on merchant ships. Ship was torpedoed by German U-boat and sunk off the coast of Scotland. Suffered broken vertebrae. Spent weeks in a lifeboat before being rescued by a British destroyer. Recovered in a Scottish hospital.

Private Harold Thompson

Harold Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Anti-Aircraft Artillery gunner. Landed on the beaches of Normandy, France in the first days of the European invasion. Killed in action shortly after D-Day at the battle of St. Lo, in Normandy, France on July 13, 1944.

Private William Thompson

William Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Served in Army artillery. Suffered ruptured eardrums resulting in permanent hearing loss. Medically discharged from duty.

Private George Thompson

George Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Infantry scout. Fought in the liberation of Europe, including the Battle of the Bulge, the Ruhr Valley, and eventually crossed the Elbe River as part of the first U.S. Army contingent to link up with Russian troops immediately before Germany surrendered. Awarded both the Bronze Star and the Silver Star for meritorious service.

Torpedoman Theodore Creer

Theodore Creer, Torpedoman 1st Class, U.S. Navy. U.S. Navy Submarine Service. Served aboard the USS Finback in the Western Pacific. Recipient of the Purple Heart for wounds suffered in action from a surface attack by Japanese Zero aircraft. Aboard the USS Finback on September 2, 1944, during the rescue at sea near ChiChi Jima of a Navy Avenger pilot from the carrier USS San Jacinto. The young pilot was none other than Lt. George Bush, who later became President of the United States.

Airman Richard Creer

Richard Creer, Airman 1st Class, U.S. Army Air Force. Aircraft mechanic. Stationed at various air bases in England. Performed ground support on B-17 bombers and other U.S. aircraft. After the war, served in Germany in the U.S. Army of Occupation. Later participated in the Berlin airlift.

We honor their service, and we owe them all a debt of gratitude.

The Cedar Chest

Mom kept the cedar chest in the back basement bedroom. At some point it was probably upstairs but I was too young to remember it being a part of our main living area. As far back as my memory goes, it was always in the basement. Such a lovely piece of furniture, one of only a handful my parents had trucked out to Colorado when they left New Jersey in search of a better future. The cedar chest was stained a dark walnut color, the cover with a beautiful wood grain that was scratched all over, owing to the fact that my brother liked to run his little TootsieToy cars on the lid as if it were his own private interstate.

Lined inside with soft red fabric, the cedar chest always smelled of mothballs. Mom was big on mothballs. Although the rest of us held our noses whenever the lid was opened, mom liked the smell. Amazing things were buried in the bowels of the cedar chest. Occasionally mom would pull out those items and tell a story for each one. The chest also had a narrow top shelf designed to hold smaller mementos. Rolled up tightly on this shelf, held firmly in place with rubber bands, were the pictures. Dad’s war pictures. Mom showed us the pictures occasionally but it was understood that we should never mess with them.

Dad was drafted into the Army in 1942 and served in the South Pacific as a sergeant. He was in charge of a 12-man anti-aircraft artillery gun crew, fighting Japanese forces in the Philippines. He spent nearly three years in combat. While he was away, dad’s first wife gave birth to my oldest brother. Dad returned to the states to meet his two-and-a-half-year old son for the first time, and to discover his wife had taken up with another man.

Situated directly above the basement workroom, my bedroom was the smallest. In the workroom was a giant table that mom used to sew and assemble draperies, a job she took so she could supplement dad’s income and stay home with her kids at the same time. Oftentimes at night I fell asleep to the high-pitched whine of the power machines, knowing that mom was trying to catch up on her drapery orders. But this night I heard a different sound, the sound of crying and wailing.

Mom and dad fought loudly and frequently about issues that were complex and impossible for me to understand. Issues about dad’s first wife and my oldest brother and our relatives, issues about jobs and money. When I heard the crying that night, it was different. I just had to know what it was about, so I crouched down on the floor, ear pressed against the furnace vent, trying desperately to make out something, anything.

It was dad, sobbing like I had never heard. Raised with five brothers, dad had no patience for excessive emotions or girlish crying. He often complained to mom about my tendency to burst into tears. So naturally when I heard my dad crying, it was simply unthinkable. I knew it had to be the end of the world or at least, the end of our world.

Later mom told me that dad had been digging in the cedar chest that night. He spread out the rolled-up pictures on the drapery table and flipped through a handful of individual photos of his Army buddies. He was lost in another time, remembering his buddies and the war that left him struggling for the rest of his life with ghosts and memories. You see, the largest picture showed dad’s original unit at Camp Stewart, Georgia, as they prepared to head overseas, 150 handsome young men standing upright and orderly in their fine new uniforms. The smaller picture showed the same unit, a tired group of men on a jungle airstrip, ready to go home at the end of the war. Only 45 remained.

Over the years this happened again from time to time. Mom always stayed by his side as he cried in the basement over those same ghosts. She tried to keep him from drifting away to the war too often but was never successful. As I grew older, I began to understand how important it was to talk about it. For him, it was clearly the most significant chapter of his life story. I also learned about post traumatic stress disorder. Although it was usually discussed in the context of the Vietnam War, it was not a problem unique to those veterans. Thankfully, the years brought a measure of peace to my father as he became more settled and better able to reconcile the worst of his memories.

For dad's eightieth birthday, my brother gathered all of dad’s medals and paraphernalia and had someone create shadow boxes that told his war story. The rolled-up pictures were dug out of the cedar chest one last time, framed and hung in the upstairs hallway, next to the little bedroom that dad now occupied. Those ghosts were finally out of the cedar chest and displayed proudly for everyone to see. When he first saw the framed pictures, dad wept openly in front of his many birthday guests. No one, especially not the handsome faces on the wall, seemed to mind.