Joy Neal Kidney's Blog, page 88

Violet Hill Cemetery, Perry, Iowa

Some readers of Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II have asked how to find the Wilson stones in Violet Hill Cemetery.

They are in the east section. As you turn north on the street that divides the cemetery, take the first right, through the arch with the name.

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Take the first left, follow that north to where the street divides. Stay to the right.

[image error]The three stones are near the largest evergreen tree here.
[image error]You’ll enter Violet Hill from the right, take the first left and follow around the curve to the right. The Wilson stones are among those evergreens at the left in the photo.
[image error]A closer view, among the evergreens in the middle.
[image error]The three stones are underlined in blue.
[image error]Leora Wilson arranging flowers at the family stones for Memorial Day. The one to the right is a cenotaph for her sons Dale and Daniel, who both lost their lives in combat during WWII. Danny is buried at the Lorraine American Cemetery, St. Avold, France. Only God knows where Dale’s remains lie His name is memorialized on the Wall of the Missing at the Manila American Cemetery in the Philippines..
[image error]Junior Wilson was killed in training when the engine of his P-40 threw a rod during formation training. He was the first in the family to be buried in Perry’s Violet Hill Cemetery.
[image error]Updated information on the cenotaph for Dale and Daniel Wilson, making clear that they were both combat casualties.
[image error]The back of the tombstone of Clabe and Leora Wilson. When Doris and Darlene added information to their brothers’ stones, they also added the name of the ten Wilson children to the back of their parents’ stone. The oldest seven grew up together. Jack, Jean, and Marilyn died as children. They are buried at Union Cemetery, Guthrie Center, Iowa, in the Goff burial plot.

 

Clabe and Leora: Spring 1945

How does a couple cope when two of their sons are missing in action?

If you’re a farm couple who’ve recently bought a little house on your own acreage, and, if you’re Clabe and Leora Wilson, you’re going to stay busy. Busyness helps somewhat to think about something besides the worry of Dale (missing in New Guinea since November 1943) and Danny (MIA in Austria since February).

The buildings on the acreage near Perry, Iowa, needed painting, so Clabe set out to do that, using 20 gallons of white paint on the barn, the other out buildings, and the house–into July. He also hired out to help a neighbor make hay a couple of times.

Leora’s 200 White Rocks and 174 Barred Rock baby chicks had arrive in early April, causing her to awake at least twice during the night to check that they were okay.

They’d also set out 75 strawberry plants, grapes, raspberries, cleaned out the henhouse, and sowed grass seed.

Leora wrote letters–to Donald in the Pacific, Don’s wife Rose on the West Coast, Delbert and Evelyn on the East Coast, and Junior in Texas.

And President Franklin Roosevelt died, the only president the Wilson siblings had ever known. Harry Truman became the new president.

Robert Scar born, another Grandchild for Wilsons

Sam and Darlene and little Richard came for Sunday dinner every other week. At the end of April, Sam and Darlene left Richard with his grandparents. Robert Edward Scar was born May 2. Darlene said that a lot of his babyhood was lost in the fog of having two brothers missing in action.

Richard stayed with his grandparents through May, but by then their daughter Doris could help watch him, and she had moved in with her toddler. Her husband Warren was in heavy training to fly the B-17, then later was the commander of the B-29 Superfortress. The towns where the pilots were sent next were so small that there was no room for families.

The week after Robert was born, Germany surrendered and the country celebrated VE-Day (Victory in Europe). Surely now Danny Wilson would come out of hiding or maybe out of a hospital somewhere. Surely they’d hear from him any day, as other families had heard from their boys.

[image error]Sam Scar holding Robert. Richard in front of Darlene.

Days were celebrated, or at least observed. Mother’s Day was May 13th, also the 24th birthday of Dale and Darlene. Danny would have turned 22 on May 21.

[image error]How I kept track of where everyone was, logged their letters, activities

A bittersweet spring. Wilsons owned their very first property. Even the 1942 Plymouth was paid for. By then they had four grandchildren–two grandsons and two granddaughters, with another due that fall.

What blessings!

Richard Scar               Joy Neal                 Leora Darlene Wilson          Robert Scar

But one son, Donald, was still in combat in the Pacific aboard an aircraft carrier. And those two cherished younger sons missing in action.

What worries.

 

 

Check Six: A Thunderbolt Pilot’s War Across the Pacific

The Book

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“Makes you proud to be an American . . . a wonderful, fast-paced read, and I highly recommend it for any World War II aviation enthusiast” (Military Review).

There were no mission limits for a pilot in the Pacific during World War II; unlike in Europe, you flew until it was time to go home. So it was for James “Jug” Curran, all the way from New Guinea to the Philippines with the 348th Fighter Group, the first P-47 Thunderbolt outfit in the Pacific.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Curran volunteered to try flying in the blue yonder and trained as an Army fighter pilot. He got his wish to fly the P-47 in the Pacific, going into combat in August 1943, in New Guinea, and later helping start the “Black Rams” fighter squadron. The heavy US Thunderbolts were at first curious to encounter the nimble, battle-hardened Japanese in aerial combat, but soon, the American pilots gained skill of their own and their planes proved superior. Bombers on both sides could fall to fighters, but the fighters themselves were eyeball to eyeball, best man win.

[image error]P-47 Thunderbolt. USAAF photo (cropped) via the National Archives.

Check Six! is an aviation chronicle that brings the reader into flight, then into the fight, throughout the Pacific War and back. This work, from someone who was there, captures the combat experience of our aviators in the Pacific, aided by pertinent excerpts from the official histories of units that “Jug” Curran flew with.

“Jim Curran is not afraid to share his moments of fear and emotions during the air battles with his readers which gives the book an extra dimension.” —AviationBookReviews.com

The Authors

James C. Curran, born in Chicago, joined the Army Air Corps in 1942. He became a fighter pilot and flew the P-47 Thunderbolt in the Pacific between 1943 and 1945. After the war, he worked in sales, then as a pipefitter in the Chicago area, retiring in 1987.

Terrance G. Popravak, Jr., also born in Chicago, served in the U.S. Air Force for nearly 24 years, retiring in 2010. He is a volunteer historian with the Oregon Air National Guard’s 142nd Fighter Wing and frequently writes on the unit’s history, in addition to writing several aviation/military history blogs.

LinkedIn for Popravak.

[image error]Terry Popravak

My Thoughts

Combining the combat veteran James Curran’s memoirs with missions reports and other research, Terrence Popravak has written a very thorough book about what it was like to be a fighter pilot in the Pacific between 1943 in New Guinea to 1945 in the Philippines. Mr. Curran logged an amazing 221 missions flying the P-47 Thunderbolt with the 348th Fighter Group.

The detailed chronicle includes several pages of photos, extensive footnotes, and several appendices.

James Curran still owned the chair he was sitting in when he heard the news that Pearl Harbor had been attacked. He joined the Army Air Force right away.

These young pilots lived in all sorts of conditions and sometimes ate what they could, all the while flying missions. One amazing episode in New Guinea told about a couple of very nervous pet dogs at night, leading to the discovery of a huge python which was 30 feet long and a foot wide, and whose meal (300 pounds of it) it became the next day.

National Defense Student Loan

What did it cost to attend the State College of Iowa back in the 1960s? As I remember, it was about $1000, including room and board.

I was the first in my family to get to go to college. My first year was paid for, thanks to a small scholarship and my grandmother, who cashed in some bonds and split the money among her four surviving children.

Grandma Leora lost three sons during World War II. I wonder if that treasure was what she had received from their military life insurance policies.

I began working in the SCI library, in Cedar Falls, Iowa, the summer after my freshman year, to guarantee a job that fall. Before the semester began, the new Donald O. Rod Library opened. I had never been in such an awesome library, but my earnings there plus the scholarship weren’t going to keep me in school.

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The student aid office helped me with a National Defense Student Aid Loan and two more part-time jobs, both in that wonderful library–working for Dr. Rod’s secretary, and in acquisitions. I still had to carry full-time hours in order to keep the scholarship.

Working summers at the library, sharing basement room with a friend, I was able to pay for the other three years of college.

How much was that loan? Just $710, but my only full year of teaching was while Guy was in Vietnam–salary $6500. That loan sure seemed like a huge burden back then!

Guy’s father had died the month before, so he was back from Vietnam, helping his mother on the farm at Glidden. I finished paying off my student loan May 9, 1970, four years after college graduation.

By then, State College of Iowa had become the University of Northern Iowa.

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Thankful to have that debt taken care of!

 

Grandma Leora’s Crocheted Roses

Sometimes the memories that bless us the longest begin as small episodes. Every Mother’s Day I am reminded of one small moment that still heartens me.

Our young son Dan ran a fever, had chills, and dozed a lot that day. He missed church and a soccer game. But that’s not why I remember the day.

My mother and sister came for Mother’s Day dinner. My husband’s mother, also. Three generations, but that isn’t why either.

Grandma Leora Wilson also came. She is the reason I remember.

This snowy-haired grandma was 96 then and not quite five feet tall. She didn’t hear so well anymore, she tired more easily, and her quick steps had slowed a little.

But Grandma still had a lively laugh, her eyes–dark with tawny flecks in them–would light up when she got tickled about something, which she did that day.

Guthrie Center

She still lived alone in her Guthrie Center home, where I’d gone to visit her through four decades. When I was in grade school, I spent some of my summer vacation there on North Fourth Street, where she also made a home then for her own elderly mother.

In one corner of Grandma’s bedroom in the small white house stood a chest of drawers with photos of her family on it–two daughters and five sons. I would sometimes slip in to look at those five boys in their uniforms, especially the three who never came home.

Because of the hardships and heartaches in her life, Grandma could have been a sad and bitter soul. Instead, she was active in her town, church, and neighborhood. And a treasure of a grandmother.

She bought me my first strawberry soda (which she called a “sodie”) in downtown Guthrie, taught me to crochet, attended my piano recitals and graduation. She wrote me letters in college and watched me get married. Grandma sent us letters in Idaho, where the Air Force sent my new husband, and to my husband when he served in Vietnam. She even came to Colorado with my parents to see my new baby son.

Late one fall, after my family returned to Iowa, Mom and I drove up to Guthrie Center to visit with her. Grandma was in her 90s then and wanted help picking out Christmas gifts for family members, especially her nine grandchildren.

I remembered all the lace doilies she’d made, and her teaching me to crochet when I was a girl.

“Something I’d enjoy is a piece of your crocheting,” I suggested.

“Really?” Her eyes brightened.

“Grandma, I’d love one.”

Christmas day I unwrapped a “Home Sweet Home” antimacassar. Grandma’s eyes danced at my delight.

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Crocheted Tablecloth

Later, Mom remembered that she had a small rectangular tablecloth that Grandma had made. It was tucked in a drawer, so she passed it on to me. What a lovely labyrinth of threads, forming roses in the lace, but it didn’t fit any table in the house.

I also stored in a drawer.

But when I learned that Grandma could come to my house that Mother’s Day, I decided to try to use her fancywork somehow.

I don’t remember what we ate that day, but I do remember the table. Grandma’s ecru lace was arranged over a plain rose-colored cloth. Then set with dishes like my mother’s, Desert Rose, remindful of the wild roses in the ditches near the farm where I grew up.

We all sat around the table, Grandma to my right. My husband asked the blessing on us all.

Then Grandma’s soft white hairdo leaned jauntily toward me. With a glint in her eyes, she asked, “Do I recognize something?”

[image error]Grandma Leora Wilson, probably enjoying a mug of Sanka

Lump in throat.

Lace and pink roses will always remind me of that precious four generations Mother’s Day.

It turned out to be Grandma’s last. Her pleasure that I had used that handmade masterpiece still cheers my soul.

This was written in 1995. Now my husband’s mother is 96, the age that Grandma Wilson was that day. And that young son is married and they have a three-year-old daughter.

 

 

On VE-Day, Two Sons Missing in Action

By the time Victory in Europe was declared May 8, 1945, their rural mailman had delivered a telegram to the Wilson home. Clabe in overalls and Leora in a house dress and apron opened it to discover that a second son was missing in action.

When all five sons left to serve, one by one, Clabe and Leora gave up tenant farming near Minburn, and had bought their very first home on an acreage near Perry six months earlier. Delbert and Donald were in the Navy, Donald in the Pacific on the crew of an aircraft carrier, temporarily in for repairs after being rammed by a kamikaze.

Junior, the youngest, had just earned his pilot’s wings. By the time he came home on furlough to celebrate, his parents had gotten the news about Danny.

This latest telegram revealed that Danny Wilson, a P-38 pilot, was missing in Austria. Dale Wilson, the copilot on a B-25, and his crew had been lost nearly a year and a half earlier, off the coast of New Guinea.

Brothers Dale and Danny had loved hunting in the Dallas County timber with their dad, brothers, and their Fig Newton-loving dog named Spats.

Europe Liberated

Redwing blackbirds and meadowlarks brightened Iowa’s spring green landscape as radio news filtered in from Europe that POWs were being freed from German camps. Allies were locating and liberating victims from horrendous concentration camps. Americans in the European Theater of Operations (ETO) began streaming home, some to stay, some to join the still ongoing fight in the Pacific.

Perhaps son Danny been rescued by an Austrian family and was hiding out with them. He still might make his way to the victorious Allies. Maybe he was recovering in a hospital, unable yet to write home. Clabe and Leora hoped that Danny would just coming walking home from the train and surprise them, as they’d heard that other young men had done.

Wilsons wouldn’t know until early 1946 that Lt. Daniel S. Wilson had been killed in action the day he was listed as missing. By then Wilsons had lost a third son, who was the first in the family to be buried at Perry’s Violet Hill Cemetery.

Clabe died of a stroke that fall. Leora decided not to have Danny’s remains returned to Iowa. She just couldn’t handle another funeral that soon, and there never would be one for son Dale.

That one central Iowa family had lost three sons was largely forgotten after the war. Americans wanted to get on with their lives, and they really didn’t know what had happened anyway.

Dale Wilson                                   Danny Wilson                              Junior Wilson

After Leora (who was my delightful grandmother) died in 1987, I needed to learn what had befallen Dale and Danny, and I requested their casualty files, MACRs (Missing Aircraft Reports), and combat records.

Dan Wilson’s casualty file revealed that a British Registration Team had located his grave in the tiny Alpine village of Schwanberg, Austria. They’d turned over their findings to the Americans who later returned to Schwanberg to make official records about the lost of the plane and pilot.

I learned that a graveside service had been held for Dan Wilson back in February of 1945. It was carried out secretly, according to the casualty records, by the village priest, with only the bergermeister, the police chief, and the grave digger present. Yes, I cried. No one in the family had ever learned these details.

The documents also demonstrated the care that went into the discovery, identification, recovery, and relocation of Danny’s remains.

This information eventually led Dan’s sisters, Doris and Darlene, to visit his grave the fall of 1997 in the Lorraine American Cemetery at St. Avold, France, where over 10,000 young Americans are buried. Both sisters, Iowa farm women, were nearly 80 years old when they made the trip, the first in the family to do so.

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All five Wilson brothers enlisted. Only two came home.

The 75th Anniversary of VE-Day brings back that great loss to the Wilson family of central Iowa, largely forgotten until last year. The Dallas County Freedom Rock, dedicated last fall at Minburn, features all five brothers.

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I’m thankful they are being remembered in such a public way.

 Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II by Joy Neal Kidney, with Robin Grunder. 

http://bit.ly/LeorasLetters #wilsonbrothersofdallascountyiowa #dallascountyfreedomrock #freedomrock #minburniowa #dallascountyiowa #iowahistory #authorsofinstagram #amwriting #adelquiltinganddrygoods #beaverdalebooks

 

A Little News for the Month

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Motherline

[image error]Doris Wilson Neal. Top: Leora Goff Wilson, then Laura Jordan Goff, Emelia Ann Moore Jordan

Mother Doris

Born on her uncles’ Guthrie County

popcorn farm the sultry

fly-haunted August

while those uncles were

called to the Great War.

 

During the Great Depression

this oldest daughter worried

whether the four younger

siblings got enough to eat.

 

WWII, married Warren Neal, a local farmer

who’d become a pilot. Daughter born

two days before D-Day. All five

brothers served. Only two came home.

 

Farmwife, famous for caramel pecan rolls

expected at every family gathering.

Lived to age 97.

 

[image error]90th birthday party

Grandmother Leora

Born in Guthrie County, firstborn of eleven.

Chicken-raiser from age five. Rode a horse to town

to take piano lessons, Audubon, Iowa.

Certificate from Mrs. Connrardy’s Sewing School.

 

Married Clabe Wilson, mother of ten children,

moved often during the Great Depression.

Lost baby twins to whooping cough, plus another infant.

WWII farmwife. All five sons served. Within three years

she lost three sons and was widowed.

 

Made a home for her own mother in Guthrie Center,

active in church, Rebekkas, patched at the hospital.

Lived to age 97.

 

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Great Grandmother Laura

Born in a log cabin just west of Monteith

three years after the end of the Civil War.

Firstborn of eleven. Taught country school

until marrying Sherd Goff.

 

Bore eleven children, moved thirteen times

in twenty-one years, pregnant every time.

Perhaps that was the plan.

 

Three sons served in the Great War,

first woman in motherline to vote,

WWII – two sons served, plus six grandsons.

 

Widowhood spent with a son, then daughter Leora.

First plane ride to visit sons in California,

for her 90th birthday.

Lived to age 94.

 

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Great Great Grandmother Emilia Ann

Born in Ohio, she came to Iowa

as an eight-year-old with her five siblings

in two wagons, her mother pregnant at the time.

Perhaps that was the plan.

 

Father Ephraim Moore homesteaded

in the pleasant undulating hills of Guthrie County, Iowa.

 

Married Davy Jordan, a predestinarian Baptist preacher,

became the mother of ten children. Three

of her young are buried in Monteith Cemetery,

north side of the road, among ancient pines.

Lived to age 67.

A May Day Tragedy in 1892

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Using old plat maps, Mom and I think we’ve found where the old Patterson ford used to be. A bridge crosses the South Beaver now. We try to imagine it with no gravel road. And water rising in the dark. Her beau probably urging his reluctant team into the water. I probably happened so quickly.

It’s a century-old May Day tragedy. It’s the poignant tale itself. . . but there’s also a beguiling link to my childhood.

“Just who was it that drowned in the Nishnabotna?” was my question that eventually lead to the soft red gravel of Guthrie County, Iowa’s back roads.

“Minnie Goff,” Mom replied. “My grandfather’s only sister.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Well, Minnie’s beau–as they called it back then–was taking her back to where she boarded while teaching country school. For some reason, her parents didn’t approve of this young man. When Minnie didn’t arrive, they began to search for them because there had been flooding. They found a horse’s leg sticking up out of the river that led to Minnie’s body, and I suppose the boyfriend’s, too. That’s all I remember my mother telling about it. I have Minnie’s autograph book around here somewhere.”

She brought out a small black leather book, with “Autographs” artfully swirled in silver on the cover.

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“You can have it if you want it.”

That’s how I came to be the caretaker of Millie Bell Goff’s history, her tragedy from a long-ago May Day. 1892. She was almost 22.

I seem to be the one in the family who ends up with family tidbits that aren’t valuable. . . but sometimes are the only mementos validating a life here on earth. . . making the trinkets impossible to throw out.

Carefully I turn the pages. “Mom, listen. Here’s one written by Great Grandmother.”

“Monteith, Io[w]a, Sept. 29, ’88

Dear friend Minnie B-,

As the sunshine comes and goes,

And gives life to the blooming rose,

So may you through all your life

Pass with joy and as little strife

And when called from the world of woe

May you be prepared and willing to go.

Laura Jordan.”

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Why did my great grandmother choose for a friend a poem with such a gloomy ending? Minnie would be “called from the world of woe” before either of them could have anticipated.

Another entry beginning “My Dear girl,” is signed, “Your Mother/Mrs. J.B. Goff.” Minnie’s mother. Florence Ione Goff, on my own genealogy chart–the one who said that if your initials spell a word, you’d be rich and famous, and she wondered why she wasn’t.

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Florence Goff’s oldest son married Laura Jordan, friend and fellow teacher of his sister, Minnie. But just over two years later, Minnie was gone.

The story haunts me. I hunt through told newspapers on microfilm until I find where her 1892 drowning was reported. To my disappointment, the scene was Beaver Creek instead of the Nishnabotna, but now the young man of Minnie Belle’s affections has a name: Charles Van Harten. He was not from the area and, even according to the article, her family disapproved of their friendship.

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In a drift along the creek, two men found a buggy cushion and a lady’s handbag. Downstream they found Van Harten’s body. Farther down, the lifeless young teacher lay in mud against the opposite bank. Still farther were the buggy and the team–one horse still alive, just its head sticking out of the stream.

Minnie was twenty.

When I thumb through Minnie’s autograph book again, I recognize another signature: CAVanHarten. Minnie’s beau.

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Minnie’s mother would save the little black and silver book nearly four more decades. I wonder if she realized his signature was in it.

I also find my own autograph book from the 1950s. My great grandmother wrote on one of the pastel pages August 9, 1956:

“As the sunshine comes and goes,

And gives life to the blooming rose,”

. . . . I begin to recognize it. . . .

“So may you thru all your life,

Pass with love and as little strife.

Great Grandma, Laura A. Goff”

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I reach for Minnie’s book again. I catch my breath. It’s the same poem–but without those haunting last two lines. Had Laura, at nearly 88 years of age, just forgotten them? Or was she afraid they had been a premonition of Minnie’s death six decades earlier, and decided not to include them in mine.

After Minnie’s mother died, her sister-in-law Laura Jordan Goff saved Minnie’s keepsakes. Then her daughter, then my mother.

But because I’m the one who wonders, who asks the questions, I became the caretaker of the bits and pieces of Minnie Goff‘s life. . . and of her over 100-year-old tragedy.

And the ponderer of that intriguing link between her autograph book and mine.

—–

Note: Teresa Scar Fuston, a cousin’s daughter, who is a school teacher, now owns Minnie’s autograph book, as well as her “teacher’s watch.”

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First Review of Leora’s Letters from Europe

I usually don’t post someone else’s reviews of Leora’s Letters, but this one was delightful to read. Freelance writer Denzil Walton from Belgium caused tears to well up . . . .

Leora’s front porch in Iowa

I purchased “Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II” after reading a blogger’s highly positive review. I didn’t think I would find it that good. How wrong I was! I found it a gripping, well-written and genuinely moving book. At times I felt I was sitting on a rocking chair on Leora’s front porch in Iowa reading these fascinating family letters.

The book is based around the Wilson family on their farm in Iowa. Mum, Dad, two girls and five boys. As the 1940s progresses, the boys decide to serve their country during World War Two. Two join the Navy; three sign up for the Army Air Corps. But they don’t go all at once, they go one by one. And this is what makes the story almost unbearable. The tension and apprehension mount as one by one the sons leave the family fold to join up. First to their training camps. Then to the front lines of Europe, the Atlantic and the Pacific.

Please Junior, stay!

And with each one departing, the work mounts up for those left at home to run the large farm. 30 acres of hay, 80 of corn, 70 of oats, 30 of soybeans, plus the pigs, cattle, horses and mules. It’s manageable with five boys, but then there are four left, then three, then two. Surely Junior will stay? Please Junior, stay! But no. All five go to serve their country. With the two daughters now married, it’s just Ma and Pa on the farm. I was ready to jump up from that ol’ rocker and leap on a tractor to help gather the harvest.

The letters written by Leora and her two daughters to their sons, but also between the five boys, mount up. And so does the tension. The long waits between letters. The silence that is barely endurable.

Even in the heart of battle, the boys are concerned for their parents back home. How are the pigs? How’s the harvest? Don’t work too hard Pa. Take care of yourself Ma. Here’s some money to help out. Send me a photo of the dogs.

Right alongside these folk

As I say, the book was so vivid that I was right alongside these folk during their torment. I was ready to kick that local postman back to the post office if he ever thought for one minute that he was going to turn up to deliver any fateful “Dear Mr and Mrs Wilson, it is with great regret” telegram.

Read this exceptional book and be moved. I am sure you will then join me with my sincere congratulations both to Joy Neal Kidney and Robin Grunder. They fully deserve as wide an audience as possible. Oh come on, you agents, this is movie material! Can I play the old neighbor sitting on their porch?

Denzil Walton is a freelance journalist, editor, and technical copyrighter with two websites. Professional and also Discovering Belgium.

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Denzil’s well written post called “The Poppies of Flanders Fields” is scheduled for my website May 22.