You sounded better in your last letter. I know it's tough to go on without knowing about Mike, but you're a fighter and I admire your courage under the circumstances. Just hang tough. It's all you can do.
So, you're going to be stationed at Travis AFB, eh? Busy place. You'll be there for three years and get plenty of opportunity to visit San Francisco-lucky lady! Have a bowl of clam chowder down on Fisherman's Wharf for me, will you? It's one of my favorite places. I like the smells, the color, the people and activity. Quite a place. Take a cable-car ride for me, too. I like that bell they ring. Makes you want to get up and dance up and down the aisle while they're ringing it, ha, ha.
I can't believe you want me to tell the story of my life! Me, of all people! All I do is give you a hard time, lady. So I make you laugh a little. Nothing wrong with that. I figured it out: fifty-two installments, one letter a week to you, three or four pages at a time, and I ought to have my autobiography finished in the forthcoming year. Brother, are you a glutton for punishment, but, if that's what you want as your Christmas present, I'll indulge your whim. Next letter, I'll start. Can you see it now?
"I was born in Sedona, Arizona, to a grocer and his wife. I was red, wrinkled and too long. My mother, upon seeing me for the first time, broke out in tears because I looked so ugly. Of course, she reassures me that as I grew and filled out, I was the cutest kid in Red Rock county."
Whew, that was close! I'm such a handsome devil now that I couldn't let that info slip out to my flying buddies. I'd never hear the end of it.
Is this the kind of thing you're wanting to hear about in my letters? The down-and-dirty life of Kyle Anderson? Ha, ha. I think you're a real masochist, Gale-a new and provocative side to you I never realized existed. Okay, okay, I can hear you nagging me in the next letter to quit quibbling and get on with it.
So-Merry Christmas! You get fifty-two installments over the next year about me and the story behind this fantastic jet jock. It ought to hit the New York Times bestseller list, don't you think? Nah, don't tell me now. Tell me next Christmas, okay?
I know you don't have anyone to go home to for Christmas, and you've already said you'll spend it there at base. I really think you need to get away for a while and get some down time. You've worked yourself to a bone this year, Gale. Even I take time off and go see my folks in Sedona once a year. Why not take the thirty days leave you've got coming and get some R and R? I worry about you, sometimes. You're a strong lady with a warm heart, but stop and smell the flowers, huh?
Merry Christmas, Gale. As I hitch my foot up on the brass rail of the O Club bar, I'll lift a toast to you.
Your special friend, Kyle
December 30, 1975
Dear Kyle,
I can't believe you didn't get the cookies I sent! Are you sure they're missing? Or do you just want two huge batches to hoard? Knowing your love of desserts in general-and cookies specifically-I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you fibbed to get a few extra dozen.
I'm so happy you've decided to send me your autobiography. I'm going to do the same thing. Not that I have had a terribly exciting life, but I think that's only fair. As you get writer's cramp and the next let-ter is hounding you to be written, you can fondly think of me having to write to you, too. Only, I won't see it as a royal pain as perhaps you might as the weeks roll by. Letters have been a life-sustaining source for me, giving me hope and often lifting me out of the depression I allow myself to get into.
Actually this year, I'm doing better. But I want to get on with writing my life story to you, too! I hope you won't be bored to death. I can see you sitting at your desk, feet up on it, letter in hand, snoozing away. Ha, ha.
Okay, here goes nothing. Promise me if you do get bored, tell me. I'll stop my autobiography. As I said before, my life's pretty nonedescript (my opinion).
I was born in Medford, Oregon. Unlike you, I was a pretty baby (according to Mom). She said everyone in the hospital oohed and ahed over me. I don't really remember. However, my star status quickly sank because my older sister, Sandy, really hated me. Sibling rivalry and all that, I suppose. Mom said Sandy (who was four years old when I was born) started having temper tantrums every time Mom picked me up to breast-feed me.
My father, who wasn't long on patience or very tolerant of such childish things, stood about two evenings of Sandy's shrieking and did something about it. He warned her that if she started screaming again, he was going to pick her up by her feet and dip her head in a bucket of water. I guess Sandy believed him because she never ever again had a temper tantrum. I'm not condoning what he did, but I wonder what psychologists would say about it. Sandy is the one who became a hippie in Haight Ashbury. She went to San Francisco when she was eighteen and got into the drugs and flower-children culture. I forget how many times she's been arrested.
I often wonder why she turned out the way she did. Mom said I was the favorite of the family because I was a sweet, quiet baby. Later, I was the "good girl" who did what was expected of her, while Sandy started to rebel. I know this letter is supposed to be about me, but I think every person is somehow fashioned and shaped by those around them. I ache inside because Sandy hates the military and, therefore, hates me.
I just wish she could overlook my job, Kyle, and see me, her sister. We got along well as kids. It's just that in our teenage years, Sandy got wild and had awful fights with Dad. When our parents died in that car crash when Sandy was eighteeen, I think it drove her off the deep end. That's when she took off for San Francisco.
Me? Well, I got shuttled between my father's two brothers and their families for the next four years until I turned eighteen. To this day, Sandy and I have never gotten together to talk about the loss of our parents. It would have been nice if she could have stayed around for the funeral. I really needed to be held. Looking back on it, I'm sure she did, too, but there was no one else who could hold us like our parents. I remember standing in front of the two coffins with my aunt and uncle on either side of me.
I never again felt so alone. Well, I should amend that. I felt that alone when I got the telegram telling me that Mike was shot down. The same kind of awful gutting feeling. Looking back on my short life, I wonder if I'm always destined to lose the people I love.
I don't mean that to sound maudlin. It's just that I see people live their lives in cycles where things get repeated. I hope the cycle changes. I want Mike home, safe and alive.
Your friend, Gale
December 20, 1976
Dearest Gale,
This letter ought to reach you in Medford, Oregon, hopefully before Christmas, not after it.
I was TDY (temporary duty) to Anchorage, Alaska, (where Santa Claus lives) until four days ago. The temperature extreme between Anchorage and Florida is alarming. I'm coming down with a cold. (I can see it now-the next letter I receive from you will tell me to drink lemon juice in hot water, put myself under a lot of blankets, and sweat the cold out of my body. Better yet, I'll probably receive a bottle of vitamin C, along with a finger-shaking letter demanding "why didn't you dress properly so you wouldn't catch a cold?")
This isn't a normal Christmas for me. Usually, I'd be over at the O Club with the rest of the single guys, playing dead bug or something to make the time pass. Getting stuck with duty around here stopped me from going home to Sedona like I wanted to. This year is different. Can't put my finger on it… maybe I'm getting older? Ha, ha. Perish the thought. Older but better-looking. How's that?
I can hear you laughing right now. Did I ever tell you how pretty your laughter is? I like the sound of it.