Dad Takes a Bath and Other Observations

Dad Takes a Bath and Other Observations

In a letter to my mom, dated nearly 75 years ago, my dad describes a long overdue bath.
I may never take hot water for granted again. But good to know when severe water rationing comes our way.

“The Island of Sardinia
November 22, 1943
Must tell you about my newest method for heating water. I took a gallon can last night, and set it on a grate affair, and lit four candles under it, so the flame hit the can. In about ten minutes I had a can of good hot water, so I kept this up until I had shaved, washed my hair and took a complete bath. It surely felt fine too, as I haven’t had a bath since the one at the Navy in North Africa.”
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California Dreamin’
Buried on page two in a long letter from my mother to my father - as he trained half way across the country at an army camp in Riverside County - my mother, who was teaching in Mankato, Minnesota, suggested the following:
March 2, 1943
“Nothing much happened today, except that our temperature dropped to ten below again this morning. I’m so tired of winter, and this one has seemed like such a long, dragged out one. From all that you’ve said about California, I think I’d love it. How about you picking out a nice spot for you and me to live some day?”
They did move to California within a couple of years of my father coming back from the war.
My father often took us on Sunday drives out to that old abandoned army camp - where it kind of all began.
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My dad liked to hitchhike around Southern California when he had a pass and write a short note to my mom when he got his hands on free stationary.  Note his mention of the word ‘davenport’ here.  Growing up I thought davenport was the proper name for any couch.  Friends not from the Midwest never knew what I was talking about when I used the word.

“January 4, 1943

My Own Darling Vi –

Am in the USO here in L.A.  Had a pass for today and with nothing better to do, I came over to L.A.

Do I look like an Italian?  Some Italians picked me up & said I did!

There’s the cutest little sailor sleeping in the davenport alongside me.  He doesn’t even have any beard yet – just peach fuzz!

Just finished four sandwiches & two cups of coffee – I didn’t have any dinner yet.

Think I’ll be on my way back for camp soon.

It’s been a lot of fun just bumming around.

I love you!

Bob”

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A constant lament in much of the correspondence written by my folks to one another during WWII was their struggling through a day without receiving a letter from the other.  I see it thru both their eyes as my mom fought loneliness living and teaching in small Minnesota towns, while my father, as he  trained first in California,  then departed by troop carrier from New York,  spent hot days and cold nights in North Africa,  Sardinia, France, Luxemburg, and Germany.  Letters were their lifeline as noted here in one from my mom early on in their war-torn separation:

“I was afraid I wasn’t going to get a letter from you today, but I found one waiting for me when I came home before supper.  It was an extra nice one, too, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without them.  This is our tenth month wedding anniversary.  A year ago today we were only talking about getting married, and the war, as far as we were concerned, was quite remote.  I wonder what another year will bring us??  I shall keep on hoping that you will come back the same crazy Bob I’ve always loved.  Don’t let anything spoil your sense of humor and your nice grin.”

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March 1943
"I doubt if the letters I write you are of enough value to warrant your keeping them, Bob. Yours are daily reports from the army, but I don't believe mine have anything that need be saved for posterity ."

Seems mom got that one wrong, but in a good way.
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Been reading a letter from my dad, where he's thanking my mom for the cribbage board she'd sent him. My dad was crazy about cribbage, so I went looking for his old set - not the one from the war - but the one I always remember him using. When I opened the box, here was the unopened deck of cards within.
Jeez, one can't seem to escape this Joker ...
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Correspondence from the farm. Frank was my dad's nephew - my cousin. In a separate letter from Frank's mom, she too was pretty excited about finally having running water in the house.
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I am reading a passage in a typed letter my dad sent my mom where he is gripping about military censors.
An unfamiliar, scrawled, hand-written note just below that typed line reads: "Poor censors, they always catch it - the censor."
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Up In Smoke

In a letter from my dad to my mother, written in the fall of 1943, my father describes going to his first Ramadan celebration while in North Africa (he was stationed along the Mediterranean coast in Tunisia). He had befriended a “nice Arab fellow,” according to dad, and was invited to his house after sunset to eat, drink, talk, dance, and smoke “keef” (he meant kief - hashish).

My dad wrote about the “keefers” in several letters, saying they weren’t like the “dope addicts in America – they would just take a few puffs from the pipe, pass it around the room, and become very relaxed.” When the pipe came his way, my dad would always “pass” and say he preferred his own smoke, lighting up an American cigarette – even though he was a non-smoker. He said he was glad he brought several packs with him that night.

Instruments were then brought forth and men (“only men were invited,” he wrote - “there were about twenty present in the small room that night”) began to dance. They talked my father into dancing so he did an impromptu “foxtrot/Indian war dance,” as he put it – to great acclaim, he added.

My dad ended that letter by saying what a great time he had and how impressed he was for being invited and treated like a long lost friend by complete strangers. I contend that it was the keef.

In another letter, dad mentioned how he wanted to get his hands on a keef pipe to bring home.

He later got a German luger, a fancy SS knife, and some old fashioned hand-carved Bavarian tobacco pipes, but I’ll be damned if I ever saw one that smelled of old hashish.

Wish I had. I would have put it back in use.

Anyway, here’s a faint sketch of the keef pipe drawn during that Ramadan celebration 75 years ago. I am guessing that pipe must have been about seven inches long.

That would have fit in his duffle bag quite easily.