I’LL
BE SEEING YOU
“Ladies and
Gentlemen,” announced the captain, “in approximately five minutes, we will begin
our descent into Liberal Mid America Regional Airport where the weather is
slightly windy and 78̊. At this time
make sure your trays are clear and in their upright position. Please, fasten your seat belts and remain in your
seats until we are safely at the arrival gate.
Thank you for flying with us today.”
Just as I fastened
my seat belt, the plane tilted slightly to the left and began a slow, steady
turn. I looked out my window; the ground
below looked like square plots on a huge map of some kind. Gradually, the Kansas prairie came into view
with its wheat fields waving as if to welcome me home. As the plane neared the ground, small cars
heading down long highways of black ribbon appeared, as well as homes of
different sizes and shapes.
Then a sudden bump—I
jumped slightly as the landing gear was released. Trees and rooftops whizzed by as the aircraft
made its final turn toward the waiting runway and ended with a mild rumbling as
the tires kissed the tarmac. Once the
plane taxied to a halt, I was the only passenger who walked through the
fuselage door onto the jetway bridge disembarking into the airport.
Once inside the
airport, I found it virtually empty—still with anticipation with a tinge of
sadness in the air. As I made my way
toward baggage claim, the floor beneath my feet creaked with the voices of the
pilots and soldiers who once worked at this airfield during World War II. I glanced out the huge plate-glass windows
and spotted the deserted AAF classroom buildings, abandoned hanger, and empty
storage facilities. I fought back the
tears wondering “Why did I expect this place to remain the same when nothing
else does?”
At baggage claim
the skycap handed me my luggage. “If you
hurry, you can catch the cabbie before he leaves for town.”
So, I scurried
through the lobby toward the automatic sliding doors, stepped outside, and
stood at the crosswalk waiting until the cab appeared. “Let me help you with your luggage,
ma’am.” I watched as the young cabbie
easily lifted my two large suitcases into the trunk of his vehicle. He opened my door and said, “My name’s
Tom. Where ya headed today?”
“I’m
heading into town….734 North Webster Avenue.
Do you know where that is?”
“Certainly
do, ma’am.” Tell me...,” he paused, “are
you from around here or just visitin’?”
“Both. I grew up in Liberal. During the war I worked as a clerk at the
Liberal Army Airfield. Then when my
parents moved to Missouri in 1943, I moved into my Uncle Claude’s house on
North Webster Avenue. He recently passed
away so I’m here for his funeral.”
I looked out the
window as the cabbie turned onto 8th Street heading west past the
fairgrounds and Bluebonnet Park. The
cabbie turned right onto North Webster and said, “Here we are ma’am…734 North
Webster Avenue. I’ll pull into the
driveway.”
Before getting out
of the cab, I stared at the vacant, old house not knowing what to expect. Although it looked familiar, the paint was
weathered and peeling off in spots; the slats in the shutters on the upstairs
windows were mostly broken out. A slight
breeze made the shutters tap against the house, and the hinges squeaked. Despite ivy clinging to the outer walls of
the house, I could see inside the front door into the house past the banister
and stairway that led upstairs.
“From those second
story windows, I watched as the airport, hangars, and runways were
constructed. From there I also watched
the military parade march through downtown Liberal the day many of the soldiers
and pilots arrived at the airfield for their training.”
“A parade during
war time must have been moving,” he commented.
“Yes, it was,
Tom. Those parades kept us all—civilians
and military—motivated and focused on the war effort. That parade convinced me that I somehow
needed to join in the war effort.”
“So, what did you
decide to do?” he asked.
“I took a job
working as a clerk at the new airfield.
When not working, I tended to our Victory Garden.” I pointed to the vine-covered backyard. “As a matter of fact, my Aunt Jean and I
planted it back there.”
“A Victory
Garden?” he raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“What was that?”
“Because sacrifice
was part of the war effort, the government rationed foods like sugar, butter,
milk, cheese, eggs, coffee, meat, and canned goods. So—like many other women—we planted a garden
so we’d have our own fruits and vegetables.
At some point we canned our fruits and vegetables leaving commercial
canned goods for the troops. Later, I
built nest boxes for eggs and raised chickens just so we’d have eggs for eating
and cooking.”
“Must’ve been hard
to make those sacrifices,” he said.
“Like most
Americans I didn’t feel like I was making a sacrifice at all. I felt patriotic doing my part—however
small—to insure America’s victory.” I
opened the car door. “Tom, would you
mind waiting for me while I go inside?”
“Sure thing,
ma’am. I’ll wait as long as you need me
to. Take your time.”
I stepped onto the
gravel driveway and gingerly climbed the rickety steps onto the porch. Using my antique skeleton key, I turned the
rusty lock and opened the front door fully expecting Uncle Claude and Aunt Jean
to greet me. As I entered the house, the
sun—now low in the sky—illuminated the downstairs rooms.
Although the old
house was decaying, the floors inside were not rotten and looked sturdy enough
to bear my weight. As I walked through
the entryway, I found the grandfather clock had long since stopped. I closed my eyes and imaged myself in another
time altogether when blackout curtains hung over the windows and I sat in the
living room listening to radio shows like “Amos ‘n Andy,” Bing Crosby,” and
“The Green Hornet.” I even thought I
heard the old phonograph playing songs from big band leaders like Duke
Ellington and Glenn Miller.
I opened my eyes
and discovered the chandelier that once shone upon the piano was now covered in
cobwebs and dust. I headed toward the
kitchen; looked back; and caught a glimpse of Aunt Jean—her hands dancing
across the keyboard—playing her favorite wartime song, “I’ll Be Seeing
You.” The buffet and china cabinet were
just as she’d left them; but mold from damp nights had seeped into the walls
making gray streaks across my aunt’s favorite wall paper. In the kitchen I found an empty teakettle
sitting on the stove patiently waiting for Aunt Jean’s return.
Soon, ribbons of
moonlight drifted through the kitchen window and shimmered across the kitchen
table where I often drank coffee and talked with Uncle Claude about the
war. At this table, my future husband—a
mechanic on the flight line—asked Uncle Claude for my hand in marriage. Despite the war, the old house was alive and
always full of people—a sort of wartime oasis for soldiers, pilots, and locals
that my uncle invited to his home.
Now, though, the
old house—hallow and lifeless—echoed with memories. Although the night was new, darkness soon
forced me to say goodbye to the old house.
So I walked through the moonlight down the driveway turning back as
though summoned and drinking in the sights—relishing the flood of
memories. I stared up at the moon. Then something caught my eye. On the second floor, the curtain moved; and I
saw the woman I used to be—an innocent, patriotic wartime bride full of hope
and anticipation about her future.
Just
as we pulled out of the driveway, I thought heard my aunt playing her piano and
singing her favorite song to me:
“I’ll
be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces
all day through. In that small café, the
park across the way, the children’s carousel, the chestnut tree, the wishing
well.
I’ll be seeing you in every
lovely, summer’s day; and everything that’s bright and gay; I’ll always think
of you that way. I’ll find you in the
morning sun; and when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll
be seeing you.”
**Written in honor of my mother, Winifred
Christine Stainbrook-Etgen as I imagined her returning to Liberal, Kansas,
where her married life with my father began.
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