Interrupted Journeys: A Memoir of an Army Brat

Table of Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Table of Contents

1. Journeys Abroad

2. About Birthdays

3. Saying Good-Bye To Friends

4. Children Are Supposed To Be Seen And Not Heard

5. Problems With Mothering And Feelings Of Abandonment

6. Sibiling Rivalry And Dance Lessons

7. Whose Bottle Is That In The Linen Closet?

8. Where Are You, God?

9. Fears Of The Dark And Other Phobias

10. Does This Money Belong To You?

11. Good Friends, Bad Friends

12. Strange Events On Foreign Excursions

13. Giddyup!

14. Misplaced Pets And Rochester Adventures

15. The Facts Of Life

16. Fishing And Grandpa Freddie

17. Thar She Blows!

18. Ymca Camp, Girl Scouts, And The Good Samaritan

19. Dancing

20. The Army Brats Society

21. A Most Unusual Hardship Tour

22 - Don't Get Burned!

23. Taking Pictures

24. Mom And Me And Home Economics

25. A Lost Suitcase And A Young People's Convention

26. Summer At Grandma Towers' House

27. Sit-In At The Beach

28. First Love And Who Are You Taking To The Prom?

29. My First Jobs

30. Playing With Puppets

31. Class Trips And Carnon Monoxide Fumes

32. Presley, John Raitt and Rip Torn, Oh My!

33. Concerts Here And Abroad

34. Holidays

35. Adusting To Life As A Civilian

36. A New Chapter Begins

37. The Past Revisited And Lessons Learned

Postscript

COVER PICTURE: Our maid, Eliska, with my Sister Marilyn,

our dog, Jakub, and myself, in Heidelberg, Germany, 1953.

©2016 Barbara Fifield. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-48357-965-8 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-48357-966-5 (ebook)

This is a work of creative nonfiction based on the author’s

memories of the events.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Journeys Abroad

About Birthdays

Saying Good-Bye To Friends

Children Are Supposed To Be Seen And Not Heard

Problems With Mothering And Feelings Of Abandonment

Sibling Rivalry And Dance Lessons

Whose Bottle Is That In The Linen Closet?

Where Are You, God?

Fears Of The Dark And Other Phobias

Does This Money Belong To You?

Good Friends, Bad Friends

Strange Events On Foreign Excursions

Giddyup!

Misplaced Pets And Rochester Adventures

The Facts Of Life

Fishing And Grandpa Freddie

Thar She Blows!

Ymca Camp, Girl Scouts, And The Good Samaritan

Dancing

The Army Brats Society

A Most Unusual Hardship Tour

Don’t Get Burned!

Taking Pictures

Mom And Me And Home Economics

A Lost Suitcase And A Young People’s Convention

Summer At Grandma Towers’ House

Sit-In At The Beach

First Love And Who Are You Taking To The Prom?

My First Jobs

Playing With Puppets

Class Trips And Carbon Monoxide Fumes

Presley, John Raitt And Rip Torn, Oh My!

Concerts Here And Abroad

Holidays

Adjusting To Life As A Civilian

A New Chapter Begins

The Past Revisted And Lessons Learned

Postscript

1954

Our maid Eliska gazed at me with large brown eyes. " Babala , she told me with tears streaming down her cheeks, You will write? Right? Promise me you’ll contact me after you return to the States." ( Babala was how Germans pronounced my name at the time). Eliska was my mentor, the one I told all my problems to. Without Eliska, I don’t know how I’d survive moving from school to school, changing friends and dealing with German boys who beat up American kids at the school bus stop.

I nodded my head in reply for what else could I do? I was only nine years old at the time.

I once traveled with Eliska by train to Cologne where her family lived on a farm. On her mother’s sideboard inside her bedroom lay a half-dozen multi-layered cakes and strudels. Yum! During Coffee Hour at 5:00 o’clock, her family and I dined on two of these cakes. I was delighted to be invited.

Eliska, I begged. Let’s stay here. I don’t wish to go back home. Mom and Dad won’t miss me. They’ve got Marilyn (my younger sister and whom I always considered my parents’ favorite). They don’t need me.

Eliska pressed her warm hands on my shoulders. Ba-ba-la, we have to return. We can’t stay here. Your mother will want you back.

I folded my arms and moaned. Please don’t send me home. I want to stay with you in Germany.

You can’t! she cried. The U.S. Army has already assigned me to another family after you leave.

Another family? But you’ll never enjoy working with them like you have with us, I replied.

Eliska spread her long strong arms around my back and hugged. I love you, Babala. I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you.

I hugged her back. And I’d never love anyone as much as I loved Eliska.

Relocations in military families usually take place very year or two. Even living in one country, such as Germany, a family can be transferred from one post to another two or three times in four years. In 1950, after staying at Erlangen, Germany, for a few months, my family moved to Darmstadt, near Frankfurt, and a year later, to Heidelberg, in Southern Germany.

The constant changes in schools, friends and homes took a toll on us. Both Marilyn and I suffered nightmares every night. My mother began drinking in secret while Dad was at work and my grades at four different elementary schools I attended went down.

I don’t know why you can’t pass math, my mother told me. When I attended school, I got all A’s and even skipped third grade. My mother, however, wasn’t a military brat. She lived in the same house for fourteen years in New Jersey and never changed schools. Stability in a kid’s life can make a remarkable difference in how a child copes with life’s stressors.

Continuity in friendships is also a stabilizer. As soon as I made friends at school, their families would be transferred to another State or country. The constant changes in friends led to shallow relationships as I was afraid of investing myself in someone if the person should move away two months later. I envied my mother’s childhood where she developed friendships which lasted throughout her school years and beyond.

As a trained Army brat I learned to stuff my feelings when it was time to move as this wouldn’t be the first or last move our family would make. If I became too attached to friends or classmates at whichever location we stayed at, I could break down emotionally. It was part of the military ethic to be independent.

On our last morning in Germany, Dad walked out to our gray Plymouth with our suitcases. Barbara, Eliska’s calling you, he said to me. "Go say Good-Bye as we have to leave."

I dashed out to our car to climb next to my sister. I didn’t wish to face our maid’s tear-strewn face. It was easier for me – to leave dry-eyed rather than upset. Military brats are taught to be brave, to keep stiff upper lips, to never cry. And being the oldest child, I had learned after nine years always to maintain self-control.

"Eliska’s calling you. Aren’t you going to say Good-Bye? We have to leave, now," he repeated.

I wiped away a tear which had escaped the edge of my eye. Okay, Dad. I will. Might as well make this quick!

Leaving Eliska was parting with my best friend and I knew I probably would never see her, again. Eliska was more than a friend. She was the mother I never really had, the one who listened to my problems. My support against Mom when Dad wasn’t around, which was often since he sometimes worked overtime at the Army post.

Eliska stood in the doorway with her hand on my suitcase. Here, don’t forget this.

Thanks. I fumbled for the bag. Bye! I waved my hand and turned to run outside.

As I started to leave, she clutched me by my upper arm. Her deep brown eyes I’d never forget met mine. Aren’t you going to hug me, at least?

Okay, Eliska. Dad’s in a hurry. You know how my father is.

She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a hanky. You are going to write, aren’t you? Let me know how you’re doing. She sniffled.

I looked away, afraid of answering. Write? I hadn’t thought I’d write. After all, we’d never see each other again. Why try? I never wrote my friends after we moved as I felt it was useless. I’d be making friends at the next base we moved to. This time our family would be living in Rochester, New York – an ocean apart. An entire ocean would separate us and letters would cost a lot to mail. I remembered how my mother behaved when I once wished to send a letter to Santa.

You can’t post that letter, she told me. It cost too many stamps.

Why not? I asked. How’s Santa to know what I want for Christmas unless I write him?

Her hazel eyes flashed. There’s no such thing as Santa. Being nine years old, you should know that. You’re not a little kid, anymore, Barbara.

Yes there is. Dad says there is. Dad told me this morning that Santa’s bringing us an electric train.

She placed thin hands on skinny hips. No, there isn’t. Santa doesn’t exist.

He doesn’t exist? My face dropped and body crumpled under her glare. My heart felt like it would drop out of my chest and sink into the floor. Hope didn’t exist without Santa. He was the one who made life worth living when everything in this world was dark and ugly. I had to believe in Santa. Santa was like Jesus, one to pray to when life became hopeless and dreary. I dashed out of the bathroom to my room, flopped unto into my bed, and then sobbed into mypillow. Mom was wrong. Santa did exist. It’s just she didn’t believe.

Turning back to Eliska, I lied. Yes, I’ll write, knowing well I wouldn’t.

She bent down and hugged me. Thanks, Babala. I’ll look forward to receiving your letters.

I embraced her back. Bye, I’ll miss you.

So will I.

Dad honked his car, outside. Hurry up! We’re waiting.

I’ve got to go, I said.

She still held on. Let them wait.

We embraced in silence. Bye! I said and then waved as I walked backwards out the door. I would never see the inside of this house, again.

Once I got outside, I stumbled down the steps until I reached the car and jumped inside.

What took you so long? Mom asked.

"Eliska and I were saying Good-bye." Eliska’s soulful eyes will always remain in my heart.

Of course, I didn’t write. As soon as our plane landed, Mom said I would stay with my Aunt Phyllis for six weeks in Elizabeth, New Jersey, until my parents found a place for us to live. Marilyn, being only five, would remain with them. I attended fourth grade with my cousin Carol, who was six months older than I, and we visited with her friends, Vivien and Gloria. We all walked to the ice skating rink together in January on weekends. As I never learned how to ice skate, I watched them from the sidelines.

School was a battered 1920’s wooden structure which smelled of mildew and rot. It was also drafty and poorly insulated. Even the brick building where I attended elementary school in Heidelberg was far warmer. In New Jersey, I shivered during a sleety, cold winter in my thin red cardigan and pleated skirt.

As there was no cafeteria, we brought bag lunches to school, which Aunt Phyllis made. They consisted of soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made with Wonder Bread. Having three children plus me, she couldn’t afford to buy luncheon meat or tuna fish. Barbara, I have to make lunches for four kids, including you. Uncle Eddie’s wages as a security guard barely covers our expenses each month. And with your Cousin Brian still at home, how can I go out and get a job?

How I longed for an occasional hot meal as I had in my school cafeteria in Germany! Often I wished to rejoin my parents and sister in Rochester and resented them for leaving me here. Were my parents’ plans for me to stay here, forever? I asked myself. Six weeks can seem like a long time to a nine-year-old. Maybe they lied and weren’t coming back. How many weeks would I have to wait for them? Sometimes I felt abandoned. The winter, here, seemed to drag on forever. Besides my family, I also missed Eliska. In my loneliness, I daydreamed about her and my Army Brat friends whom I’d never see again. How lucky they were not to return as soon as I had! My friends would be sledding down the hill next to my old house and I would be having a lot of fun with them, now. The school boys, including my neighbor, Jimmy McGuiness, who lived across the street from my old house, would be throwing snow balls at each other. Here, I had no friends, other than my cousin and her pals. Patiently I waited for spring to arrive and my parents’ return.

However, television fascinated me. I had never seen it in Germany as no one had TV sets in Germany in the early 1950s. But in the United States there were programs such as Dragnet, Ed Sullivan, Howdy Doody, Rin Tin Tin, I Love Lucy, and The Lone Ranger. Every Saturday morning, I’d watch these shows with my cousins Carol, Dennis and Brian in front of the family room TV. Every evening, Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Eddie joined us.

Aunt Phyllis always showed a ready grin on her face and a friendly attitude. It must have been a long trip for you, Barbara, traveling all the way from Germany. Also, it must be difficult adjusting to a new school.

I just smiled. She was right. It certainly was difficult moving from overseas to New Jersey and adjusting to a different school. How were my friends and Eliska doing? I thought. Unfortunately, Eliska didn’t realize I couldn’t write until after I knew where I was eventually going to live as I may never receive her reply, considering how long it took for a letter to go overseas in those days. I could be staying with my aunt for several more weeks. As soon as I moved into my new home in Rochester, I would write, I told myself. But by the time I did move back with my family in February, I had to adapt to yet another, fourth grade class and new neighbors and friends.

Sixty-two years have passed since I moved from Germany. Eliska would be at least ninety by now, maybe in a nursing home, or even have passed away. She wouldn’t even recognize me if we met as I’ve grown older. And if she did, she may say, Barbara, you promised me you would write. But you didn’t. Why didn’t you?

Because of moving a lot as a child, I always had problems with Good-Byes, especially with Eliska.

Birthdays should be celebrated and remembered because they mark milestones in people’s lives. However, because of constant moves our military family endured, mine weren’t always celebrated. On my sixth birthday, we relocated from Oklahoma to Erlangen, Germany, near Frankfurt.

Since we couldn’t celebrate my birthday with a party abroad the military plane we traveled on, I told the family seated in front of us, Today’s my birthday! I just turned six.

The mother in front of our row said, It’s your birthday, today?

Yeah.

Please sit down, Mom said. The plane’s shaking. You can get hurt. She was right. Those early fifties planes flew below the cloud level and could knock a passenger to the ceiling as they rocked and rolled. They definitely weren’t jets.

Still, Mom was not into birthdays. A year earlier, we moved into our first home in Lawton, Oklahoma, outside of Ft. Sill.

When I asked her if we could have a party, she said, I don’t have time to celebrate birthdays, especially when we are moving. Mom shoved another box into the trunk of our ’49 Plymouth.

Can’t we have it later? Karen invited me to hers. I bounced a pink balloon and blew on a pinwheel all afternoon on my return home from Karen’s party. Long did I envision my own party with cake, balloons, horns, and games. Why do other moms have time for parties, but not mine?

After I turned seven, Mom announced her best friend was hosting a party for her twin daughters, Bonnie and Betty, who turned seven a week after me. We were living in Darmstadt, Germany, at the time. "Would you like to celebrate your party with theirs?" she asked. It wasn’t for me, but, at least, it was a birthday party.

The day of the party arrived, held at a five-star hotel in Darmstadt. How amazed was I to see twenty-five kids invited. All the presents I would receive! I jubilated. And the cake created by the hotel baker was a four-tiered concoction with a carrousel on top.

My eyes traveled to the top of the bright, colorful carousel. I had never seen anything as beautiful. Just like a wedding cake! I cried.

Mom stuck long fingers on her skinny hips. That isn’t just for you, you know. The Baker girls are also celebrating their birthdays.

Yeah, I know.

Kids gathered around the table with elaborately-wrapped gifts in bright ribbons and foils. How many presents would I receive? I counted thirty packages on the table.

As children presented their jewels one by one to the smiling Baker girls, my heart fell. I had only received five presents. But, Mom, where are the rest?

Well, they received more gifts because they have more friends than you do. Sorry.

Those are from their friends, not yours. Betty and Bonnie invited more kids than I did.

They had more friends? The words echoed in my mind as I wandered over to the long windows in the grand dining room and wept. How unfair! This party didn’t feel like a real birthday, anymore.

When the party was over, I sat in silence all the way home while the twins seated beside me in the back seat of the cab showed off their gifts.

See what a beautiful doll I received. Bonnie shoved her baby doll in my face.

I got one, too, Betty added. What did you get, Barbara?

I slowly tore open my packages – a hand-held mirror, a kaleidoscope, a red sweater, an Etch-a-Sketch, and handed them over for them to look at.

Is that all? Betty asked. That’s not much.

Suddenly I hated the Baker girls. Why haven’t the others given me gifts, too? I asked myself. I was there as well. They should have given gifts to all the kids, not just to Bonnie and Betty.

How come more kids didn’t come to my party? I asked my mother when we returned home.

Because we’ve just moved here from Erlangen and don’t know as many people. Carol Baker has more friends than I do.

But didn’t they know I was going to be there, that they should give me gifts, too? They should give gifts to all the kids.

These other girls don’t know you. Why should they bring you gifts? she said. That was the end of the discussion.

Two years later, I broached the subject, again. Four kids from my school haven’t asked me to their parties because we haven’t had any parties the past couple of years. Can we just have one party just for me, not one which we share with anyone else? You’ve never held a birthday party just for me.

Parties are a lot of work and I don’t like cleaning up, afterwards. Mom tied on her apron for dinner. Leave me, alone as I have to make dinner, now.

I followed her into the kitchen. What if we have a little one in the dining room and just invite Dianne, Linda, Sharon and Brenda?

Yeah, just a few kids, but no more.

Okay, I’ll help you bake the cake.

I’ll make it, myself. You can hand out invitations. Okay?

Yeah! I shrieked with joy. I’m having a party! My first one just for me.

Now, don’t get excited. We won’t have it unless you promise to clean up the mess, afterwards. You will, won’t you? Her harp eagle eyes stared me down."

I will…I will. I’d vacuum the house, scrub floors and decorate the dining room, alone, anything to please her. But at least I was having a party. My own party just for me, remembering my first one at seven.

"We can hold it Saturday since I don’t have my Bridge group that day."

Okay, Mom! I hugged her real hard. Thank you…Oh, thank you so much. I really appreciate what you’re doing.

It was a party, all right – one without games, prizes or ice cream. Just a lot of noise. Pink and yellow balloons which I’d helped Mom put up hung from the chandelier. The girls wore Happy Birthday hats and tooted horns.

Mom rubbed her tensed forehead with the back of her hand. "Gosh! This noise drives me crazy. Let’s just sing Happy Birthday and get it over with, okay, Girls?" She was getting one of her stress headaches, which she received several times a week.

What about musical chairs? Brenda hollered.

Yeah, I want to win a toy, Linda squealed.

Mrs. Towers, what kind of games are we going to play? Diane asked.

What are we going to play? Mom stomped her little foot inside her worn loafer. We’re not playing any games, Kids. You just came here for cake and then I’m calling up your mothers to pick you up. I have to make dinner for my family.

Groans issued from everyone’s lips.

What kind of party is this? I wondered, No party favors? No games? Didn’t Mom know people have these activities at birthday parties? In disappointment, I slumped into my chair. I’ll be the laughing stock in school. I couldn’t face my friends, ever again.

A party isn’t a party without games, I told my mother after everyone went home. Why didn’t we play any games? Kids play games at parties. Games are fun.

I’m not having any more parties. Mom shoved the vacuum at me. It’s too much work. You can clean up from this one. Okay? Your Dad will be expecting dinner in an hour when he gets home.

My ninth birthday, and the only one I had which I didn’t have to share with other kids. The party had seemed more like a quick bite at a drive-in than a party. I reluctantly grabbed the Hoover from her hand. Why had she considered it drudgery? At other birthday parties I had attended, mothers joyfully helped out with the Pin-the-tail on the Donkey game or turned on the record player for Musical Chairs. I had as much fun at my friends’ parties as at Girl Scout campouts which I also enjoyed. What’s wrong with my mother? I asked myself. Why was she so crabby? Perhaps the stress of cleaning the big two-story house with the large walk-in hallway, dining room, drawing room and study had gotten to her. It was probably more than she could handle, I mused. She had to do it all alone except with occasional help from our maid.

Sometimes, though, I wished I had been born to a different woman, one who took the time to celebrate family members’ birthdays. After all, honoring a family member, in my books, was better than having an immaculately clean house.

Army life affords many adventures. However, the one aspect of it I never relished was leaving friends behind. There was a good chance we would never see each other, again. For