Dear Bob

PROLOGUE

This is a story of a life; actually, it’s the story of multiple lives. To truly understand each tale, you have to go back to the beginning. And that beginning takes you to Iron Mountain, Michigan, where I was born on December 20th, 1924, the second son of Clyde and Permele Luke. The Bob in the letters is my older brother, Dr. Robert C. Luke. Two years older than me and twice as cocky, Bob and I had a love-hate relationship. Writing to him as I did was my way of telling him about the things that were happening in my life, but also a way to reminisce about the things that I experienced and wished to remember. Much of the book centers around the events leading up to my wedding. Meeting my wife of 63 years, our courtship, the wedding from hell, the years in between, and ending with our separation in 2012 when Beverly passed on, is the cornerstone of my life story. But there is so much more, so much that happened before Bev flipped off the big black bear (read on!), so much that occurred prior to our having to deal with Bridgers and red necks in Florida. World War 2 had a profound impact on my life, as it did on every American who is part of the Greatest Generation. Putting my recollection of my time on the island of Samar in the South Pacific on paper has allowed me to contribute to our country’s story. My history is the history of thousands of other sailors who were tens of thousands of miles from home, fighting a war and wondering when we’d get to go back home. My wish is for everyone who reads this book to smile, and remember their own life story, and enjoy mine.

HOW DEAR BOB CAME ABOUT

Dear Bob,

Did I ever tell you how this all came about? You can thank Libby Dale—Bev’s baby sister—for coining the phrase. It happened in Chicago. Libby Dale invited Bev and I, and Nicky and Soogie (Bev’s older sister and her Swede husband) to a dinner party. We were all sitting around the table talking, enjoying a few cocktails, waiting for dinner to be served. It was great conversation, as we all hadn’t seen each other for several years. Now, Bob, no one knew I was planning to compile all of my correspondence with you into a book that everyone can relate to and enjoy (hehe). I was forming my thoughts in my head when the conversation swung around and I was suddenly in the spotlight. I had always been known for reading some sort of book—a novel, a juicy biography, something was always being read by me all the time. Nicky, being a former school teacher and librarian, asked me what book I was currently reading. Everyone paused their conversations to hear me. Well, I’m not really reading anything right now. In fact, I was thinking of writing a book. Silence. You could have heard a rabbit fart. Everyone just stared, waiting for more information. So I began explaining how I had been writing to you for years, telling the tales of the happenings in my life, and over 20 odd years, those tales really started to mount up! I continued, explaining how my adventures were some pretty funny shit that might make for a fun book. Now the silence was broken, and everyone excitedly began chattering at once. Naturally, everyone at the table wondered if they would have any place among those funny-ass tales I was telling, and everyone started bombarding me with incidents that had happened to us over the years. Some of the shit they were throwing at me I had not thought of in decades. This went on for several minutes as we all reminisced, and then the question was asked. What are you calling your book? It was Nicky who asked the question. I stopped talking. I hadn’t even given it much thought. I realized then that naming a book is actually a pretty big deal. The title has to be interesting enough to grab a potential reader who is just browsing through a bookstore or library, mindlessly looking at the thousands of titles in front of them. Again, the table fell silent. I could tell that everyone was searching through their heads for the perfect title. After about 30 silent seconds, a voice from the kitchen chimed in. It was Libby Dale. Why don’t you call it Dear Bob? she asked. Even though she had been in the kitchen, she still had been listening intently to the conversation, and her contribution was the cherry on top of the ice cream cone! Perfect! Dear Bob! I shouted. What a great name! Everyone seemed to agree. It summed up exactly what the reader would experience—my letters to you, big brother. Now maybe all this hard work will pay off and become a best seller! Weirder shit has happened!

Write back—I need more content for the second book!

Bill

BURN BABY BURN

Dear Bob,

How long has it been since I last wrote? I guess it doesn’t matter, since you never reply. Bernadette called and told me you sent her one of my letters, so at least I know you are receiving them and you are reading them. Anyway, this is a fun way for me to remember all the stupid shit we did as kids.

I was thinking about one particular incident. I must have been about five or six years old at the time. I don’t even think the Stock Market had crashed yet, so I guess it had to be before October 1929. That would have made me almost five years old. Damn! I was a little hell raiser! Anyway, like most little boys, fire fascinated me. But what I really loved were the fire trucks. Whenever I would hear the clanging bells of the trucks, I always wondered what was burning and was I close enough to watch the firemen put out the blaze. Clyde was always in the woods, working at the lumber mill. One day, I tagged along with him. I know you used to come out there on occasion, too. Growing up when we did was so different than how kids are growing up today, isn’t it? Kids today have so many dangerous things to deal with. Seems like child molesters are lurking behind every tree and bush, and something simple, like playing in the woods, is a health hazard these days. We had it easy. It wasn’t unusual for us to leave the house right after breakfast and only reappear for lunch and supper. We didn’t have cell phones—if Mother wanted us home, she’d just holler out the back door. Someone would hear her and relay the message. Can you imagine a mother these days allowing a small four or five year old child that much freedom? She’d be locked up immediately! But here I was, a very small kid, tagging along with Dad to his job in the swampy woods. I do remember this so vividly, though. It was a warm summer day, and I decided I wanted to see the fire trucks. Problem was, there wasn’t a fire that needed to be put out. So, even at that tender age, I used a kind of half-assed logic. I realized that if I wanted to see a fire and watch the firemen put it out, I needed to start a fire. Seemed perfectly logical to me, at the time at least. Clyde was busy with the mill, so I dashed back home to grab a few matches. We always had a box of wooden matches in the kitchen, so Mother could light the stove and cook. She was in the kitchen at the sink, her back turned away from me. She barely acknowledged I had returned and I was already back out the door with a few matchsticks clutched in my fist before she turned around. Off I went to the swampy woods behind the house. This was the house on Hemlock Street. Do you remember it, Bob? Clyde built it with his bare hands from the ground up. Amazing. Anyway, I was making my way through the swamp, oblivious to the true dangers that lurked there—snakes, water, wild dogs. I was too preoccupied with my plan to start a fire. I knew enough even at the age of four or five to find a dry area. Soon, I located the perfect spot! It was dry enough to burn but still vey accessible for the fire trucks. So I took a match and struck it against a piece of wood, then tossed it into the dry tinder. It caught! The smoke quickly turned into a nice, crackling little blaze. I scrambled up to the top of a nearby hill and waited. Within a few moments, I heard the clanging of the bells on the fire trucks! This was great! The truck screeched close to the growing blaze. The firemen jumped off, barking orders at each other and unraveling what looked to me like miles of hose. I was so excited I literally was hopping up and down as I watched. I suppose all this movement drew some attention to where I was because a fireman spotted me and started climbing the hill. Shit! What to do? The entire time they were working on putting out the fire, they were wondering out loud who set the fire. They realized it was not a natural occurrence and that someone must have intentionally set it. The fireman who spotted me was now standing directly in front of me, hands on his hips, sweat dripping from his sooty face. He did not look happy to see me. Kid, did you see who set this fire? he asked. Aha! I thought. He doesn’t think I did it! I quickly thought of a plausible lie. No, I said. The fireman must have read my mind. He said, out loud, hoboes, then shook his head and started back down the hill. I ran all the way home. When I got to the back door, word of the incident had already reached Mother. This time, when I went inside, she was waiting for me. Hands on her hips she asked, Billy, do you know anything about the fire in the swamp? I knew that she knew I had something to do with it, but I lied again. No, I said, shaking my head. But unlike the fireman, Mother was not so easily conned.