The Greatest Thing...

The Greatest Thing…

Linda Penninga

AuthorHouse™ LLC

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2014 Linda Penninga. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/27/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7357-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7356-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014904928

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

Chapter One

My life fell away before me like the rush of a torrential river. It had ebbed and flowed, sometimes smoothly, sometimes over rocks and pitfalls. But here I was at eighty-five years old, and I was barely able to heave myself out of bed. Was it fragile bones and weak muscles, or simply a lack of will? A profound weariness encompassed my entire body and soul. Was this how it was to die, to simply fall away from one’s self layer upon layer until nothing was left but a hallow shell? Or did one fight, thrashing and gnashing of teeth, resisting until the bitter end? Perhaps everyone experienced something different and profound. Perhaps one’s eyes were able to shed the scales of constraint and be opened to all truths of life; to the true meaning that caused each one of us to continually move forward seeking fulfillment.

As I look back at my life, I wondered at my own purpose. Had I done anything remarkable? Had I made this a better world in which to live? Does anyone ever know the true impact one has on another’s life? There must be some who do, such as Mother Teresa or Gandhi. But what of an everyday individual, an inconspicuous C.P.A., a banker, janitor, or homemaker? Do they too, feel they have a responsibility to leave something behind, an imprint that will last an eternity like fossils in stone?

Of late, so many memories flooded my mind like flashes of light on a movie screen. Perhaps it was something that needed to be done, to revisit the past in order to put my mind and body to rest.

My beginnings were certainly nothing extraordinary. I had not been born into wealth nor were my parents of nobility or notoriety. It was 1942, a year of unworthy note, at least for my unassuming parents, Frank and Paula Crandell who had been married a scant nine months when I made my appearance. Judging only on certain references, I can only surmise it was a blow to my father’s ego to have spawned a female. They both had been young when they stood before the elderly Methodist pastor and recited their vows, barely eighteen each. Later, I would wonder what had drawn them to each other; a passionate love, or simply passion?

The three of us were settled into a small two bedroom bungalow, complete with white picket fence in the middle of Cleveland, Ohio. All around us were similar type houses differing only in the color of paint and lawn ornamentation. My father kept his simple, a bit of grass and colorful pansies in the front window box. A few of our neighbors were more creative, however, filling their yards with broken engine parts, old tires, and rusted beer cans.

My father Frank worked in a factory to put food on the table and pay the rent, while mother did what she could to clean house and care for me. Later I recalled the way he smelled when he came home, of grease and oil, his clothing soiled, his face and hair dirty. He would yell at my mother in his gruff, loud voice, demanding his supper and inquiring as to why the laundry wasn’t ironed or the yellowed linoleum floor hadn’t been washed. He would go to take his shower in the bathroom with the blue cracked tiles while mother cooked on the porcelain black and white gas stove, her lips tight, one hand on her hip.

The two of them could have been strangers dining separately in a restaurant for all they spoke to one another. Occasionally my father would tell my mother the food was disgusting or what needed to be done, or some errand he had on his mind. Mealtimes were not meant to be vehicles to discovering one another’s experiences of the day, or even meaningless conversation, which led to an evening of my father reading the paper while mother finished up chores of sewing or washing dishes. Of course I was not aware of these nuances between my parents at the time. It was only later I learned of the shallowness of their relationship because of the things my mother told me and my own observations.

When I was only a year old, my father went off to fight in the war. Grandmother told me later mother had cried and held onto his arm, pleading with him not to go. He had stood stoically, telling her it was his duty to help rid the world of the Nazi oppression. He had given her a quick kiss, pried her hands from his arm and was gone, walking through the white picket fence without a backward glance. Mother had stood on the front stoop, sobbing, her shoulders shaking with her tears. Perhaps she did love him, or perhaps she was more afraid of being alone.

During the time of his absence my maternal grandmother, Emma Chapman, who lived only three blocks away, was recruited to care for me while my mother worked at the local five and dime. The money my father sent home was sporadic and not nearly enough to cover expenses.

I remember those times with my grandmother as happy ones. In summer she would take me to the park and push me on the swings. In colder weather she read to me and spawned in me a love for the written word. Books were like magic, taking me to different times and worlds.

In one so young I regarded my grandmother as old, but at that time in my life, she was only in her forties, her blonde hair not yet streaked with gray and her body slim and strong. She had been widowed young when her handsome husband Timothy, (that’s how she would always refer to him, My handsome husband) had died in a mining accident in the hills of West Virginia. Having no family there and not able to stay in the town where her husband had died, she moved herself and her young daughter, looking for work until she finally found employment as a domestic and settled into Cleveland, Ohio. The work was hard and the pay low, but I never heard her complain.

Times when both she and my mother had to work, Grandmum would take me with her. I remember being awestruck at the grandeur and resplendent homes of her employers. There was the beauty of sparkling chandeliers, fabulous furnishings, wood floors my grandmother kept gleaming, and kitchens so large, you could have fit my entire house in one of them. While the owners were away and Grandmum was cleaning, she allowed me to eat from the abundant supply of food in the pantries. I had never known anyone could acquire such a vast amount of food.

On some occasions she would allow me to help her dust. She would always say, Take care not to break anything little Rose. Be extra gentle, and she would smile her beautiful smile. Taking her caution I would carefully move my cloth across the fine wood surfaces without touching any of the objects on top, quite an accomplishment for a two or three year old.

Grandmum truly was a handsome woman with golden blonde hair and the most beautiful blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled. I could see my mother had gotten her beauty from her, although Grandmum would insist it came from her handsome husband. I had only seen a few photographs of him, tall, with dark wavy hair and brooding piercing eyes. Grandmum would run her finger over the picture, caressingly and whisper, He was a good man; such a good man, and I loved him very much. Sometimes tears would come to her eyes and I could tell she still missed him very much, even after all these years.

She could have remarried. I’m sure there must have been any number of men to woo her had she chosen, but she remained ever faithful to her handsome husband. At these times I would place my small child hand on hers, and not knowing what else to say, would simply implore, Please don’t cry, Grandmum.

She would smile with those sparkling blue eyes and say, Don’t fret love; after all, I have my Rose, don’t I

One year later with the war still raging on, my mother had the opportunity for new employment. The factory where my father had worked was hiring and women at that, because there was a shortage of men. The pay was much better than at the five and dime, so she accepted it.

Early mornings she would get us both up and fix a quick breakfast of Malt O’ Meal and toast, put on her coveralls, ( she told me it was the first time she had worn pants), and hustled me off to Grandmum’s.

During the time my mother worked at the factory, (I learned later she worked on an assembly line making parts for airplanes), she blossomed. Her confidence increased twofold, and she became more outgoing. Her smile brightened her face more frequently and now at times, instead of silence at the dinner table, she would talk to me about her day at the factory, the new friends she had made, and the things she wanted to buy with her earnings.

You just wait little Rose, she would say. I’m gonna buy you the prettiest dresses you ever did see. And how would my baby girl like to have a new big girl bed? Would you like that punkin’ pie?

Of course in those days everything was rationed. You couldn’t get gas, so everyone rode the bus. We didn’t have a car anyway, but Grandmum did and even she rode the bus. Mama couldn’t get nylons, and lots of things like sugar had been rationed. If you had enough stamps, you could get some, but we lived a simple life anyway. At that time there was no T.V., video games, or computers to entertain us.

I didn’t always understand everything Mama told me, but I did know I liked my Mama happier. Looking back I realized the independence she had discovered was heady indeed. There was no one to tell her what to do or where she could go. She had learned valuable skills, and the money was hers to do with as she pleased. On occasion she would drop me off at Grandmum’s and go out with her friends to the movies and the following day she would tell me all about it, using hand gestures and acting out certain parts, which made me laugh. Other times she and her friends would go to a malt shop and sip on root beer floats. They discussed the war and when, or if, their husbands would come home.

There were other times when Mama would experience profound loneliness. Then the silence would come back and she would sit in her chair in our small living room, staring at the picture of papa in his uniform she had taken with her Brownie camera, the tears streaming down her face.

I put my small hands on her cheeks and implored her, Mama, don’t cry.

And she would cry harder, sobbing, He might not come home. It’s war and men die every day!

I had not understood about the ravages of war, but her hysterical emotions frightened me. Papa not ever come home? What would that mean for us?

Most of the time she was happy and for those years, she seemed a different person. She started wearing her beautiful blonde hair in soft curls as was all the style then. She bought herself new clothing, skirts and soft sweaters that hugged her trim figure. She had even started wearing makeup which she had never done before. I believe she had begun to like herself for I would see her admiring her reflection in the mirror and smiling.

Mama wrote to Papa nearly every week telling him what was happening in our town and how lonely she was without him. I don’t think, however, she told him about her new found freedom.

Then one evening in 1944, it was summer and warm, the stars twinkling overhead, Mama came home with something in a big box. It was a radio.

Look what I bought us little Rose, she told me. Now we can listen to beautiful music and hear stories. We had plugged it in right then and there. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in my young life. From then on, for one glorious summer, we would listen to the radio after supper, my Mama and I. Sometimes we heard lovely symphonies and other times we would listen to comedy shows and we would laugh and laugh, even if I didn’t always understand why we were laughing.

I would look over at her and see how her blue eyes sparkled, her cheeks rosy, and I would think her the most beautiful mama in the world. The love would simply swell inside of me for her.

In April of 1945, we heard that President Roosevelt had died and Harry Truman had become the president. And then one warm evening May 8th of ’45, we heard on the radio that the war in Europe was over and Mama told me she hoped Papa would be coming home. To me it had seemed a very long time before we finally got word that Papa’s transport ship had come to New York and he would be coming home to Cleveland by train. Because the war against Japan had still been going on, the soldiers couldn’t come home until that conflict ended in August after the Atom bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

It was now fall, and the air had turned chilly. The leaves on the trees displayed their brilliant colors of yellow, red, and orange, and the wind held the promise of winter.

Mama dressed in one of her new skirts and sweaters for Papa and put me in a pretty pink dress I usually wore only to church, but Mama said we must look our best for Papa. It had been two and a half years since we had seen him and I could tell Mama was nervous; her hands were trembling as she brushed my hair and tied it up with a pink ribbon to match my dress.

My hair isn’t pretty like yours, I had said looking into the bathroom mirror.

What are you saying? she replied. Of course your hair is beautiful.

No it isn’t. It’s not blonde. In fact my hair was the color of my father’s, dark auburn.

Mama had bent down then so that her face was next to mine, the two faces peering back at us in the mirror. Look at this, she said touching the hair framing my face. Your hair has gold dust in it like the fairies.

It does? I had looked hard, trying to find the magic.

See? See how the light shines off the gold? And when she said it, I could see it too, reddish gold highlights reflected from the bare blub above the mirror. After that, whenever I would have a bad hair day, I would tell myself, No, Rose, your hair shines with fairy dust. And I would feel better.

I can still remember that clear, crisp day so vividly. Grandmum had lent us her car so that we could pick Papa up from the train station. Mama had even gotten the day off work. As we drove through the city streets, I remember the sun glinting off the chrome of the winged ornament on the hood of the car, and how blue the sky was. Mama was smiling, but her hands were gripped tightly on the steering wheel. She sensed me looking at her and turned to touch my leg.

Papa’s comin’ home, Rose. Papa’s coming home from the war. But there was a touch of anxiety in her voice. I couldn’t remember what he looked like. I could only visualize the flat photograph sitting on top of the radio at home.

When we arrived at the train station, many others were there as well, waiting for the train that would bring their loved ones home. Mama found a place to park the car and we walked towards the long, flat roofed structure that ran parallel to the tracks.

Hold tight to my hand, Rose, Mama instructed me. There are so many people, and we don’t want you to get lost.

Until she had mentioned it, I hadn’t thought of being lost, but looking up into the mass of swirling humanity, I clasped her hand more tightly. I could see many had dressed especially for this occasion, ladies in pretty floral dresses, hats on elaborately coiffed hair. Men wore dress shirts or suits and some with smart, small brimmed hats with a crease down the center. Children were being pulled along by the adults, and babies cried in their mother’s arms. If listened to as a whole, the cacophony of voices sounded like the loud buzzing of a bee hive. But if you tuned out the larger noise and directed your ear towards those nearest, you could pick out individual conversations.

Oh, it’s been so long, one said. I’ve missed him so very much. And another, The war was so terrible. Do you think he’s changed?

Changed? I hadn’t thought of Papa changing. What would he have changed into?

And still another, Did you hear about Alice’s husband Bill? Didn’t make it. He was killed over in France.

A sudden knotting of my stomach had gripped me. What was this awful thing called war that kept loved ones gone for so long and killed others? I suddenly realized what a wonderful thing it was to be having my Papa come home.

We could suddenly detect a change in the crowd standing out on the covered platform. Excitement rippled through them like waves on the sand. Was the train coming? And then everyone heard it; the long shrill whistle of the steam engine, while heads craned to peer down the tracks. The sound of the chugging, steaming train was loud and frightening to me. I held my mother’s one hand with both of my small ones, and hid behind her as much as possible and still peer around her to watch the huge lumbering locomotive as it pulled into the station. It finally came to rest with a long hiss of steam, scaring the smallest children until they screamed.

Men in uniforms were packed close to the windows, waving and calling out. I tried to see if Papa was one of them, but with the press of people, I couldn’t see anything except for the backs of everyone in front of me.

Soldiers began pouring from the train like ants from an ant hill. Squeals and cries could be heard as loved ones greeted their husbands and sons gone for so long. As more and more men disembarked from the train, Mama pressed in closer trying to catch a glimpse of Papa, pulling me along as she went.

Suddenly she wrenched her hand from mine, causing extreme panic on my part, thinking I was going to lose her forever in the mad press of humanity. I grabbed her skirt with both hands and felt no one would be able to pry my fingers away.

Mama had put both arms into the air, waving frantically and calling Papa’s name. Frank! Oh, Frank! Here we are!

The crowd seemed to part suddenly and then, there was Papa hugging Mama tight and kissing her. They held each other for a long time and I could tell Mama was crying.

Finally, Papa looked down at me and I saw the face from the photo. He kneeled down beside me and gave me a hug. I felt shy, not knowing what to say to my own Papa. I couldn’t even remember him.

Here’s my little Rose, he said to me. You’ve grown so big.

I could only nod as I seemed unable to speak. Look at you, wearing such a pretty dress. He looked away from me and up at Mama. How were you able to afford such fancy clothes he asked her.

Oh, Frank, I got the best job working in your factory. They pay really well, she said excitedly. She was so proud of her new job.

We got a radio, I said suddenly, having found my tongue.

Papa stood up, not responding to my announcement. Well, it sounds as if the two of you have been doing quite well for yourselves while I was off fightin’ in the mud and cold against the damn Nazis. His tone held a sharp edge to it.

Mama didn’t respond to his comment and began to pull him along towards where the car was parked. I’ve got my mother’s car, Frank, she told him, so you can ride home in style. No busses for my Frank.

Wait! Papa called out resisting against Mama’s hand. My duffel. He went back to where we had been standing to gather up the bag sitting on the floor of the station. I hadn’t even noticed it before in my excitement at seeing Papa. He lifted the strap and hefted it over his shoulder. We then proceeded to where we had left the car. I kept close to Papa. I remember wanting to hold his hand, but he never reached out to me, so I held onto the strap of his bag instead. Mama had hold of his other arm and kept looking raptly up into his face.

Papa insisted on driving, saying with a wave of his hand, that it had been so long and he needed the practice. I sat between them on the bench, but Mama kept touching his arm and leg. Most of the ride was in silence. I guess it had been so long, they didn’t quite know what to say to one another.

When we arrived home, parking in front of the little white house, Papa got out retrieving his bag from the rear seat, and we all walked up the front steps together. Papa made a comment about how the lawn looked brown, and why hadn’t Mama painted the fence the whole time he had been gone? She mumbled something about working a lot and I noticed how her eyes were looking down.

It was late afternoon when we arrived home and Papa was hungry, so Mama went about making supper. While she worked in the kitchen, Papa fiddled with the radio. There was a frown between his eyebrows and he mumbled under his breath.

Don’t know where she gets off spending so much money, he said. I’m off nearly getting’ killed and she’s living the high life. The rest of it I wasn’t able to discern, but I knew he was upset about that radio.

Supper started out with an awkward silence, but Mama finally asked him a question. Was the war very bad, Frank? I didn’t get too many letters, and the ones I did get didn’t tell me much about what was happening. I knew she had written him every week, but she had not told him about her new job. The letters from him had been sporadic and averaged about one a month.

He didn’t answer right away, then slowly put down his fork and looked her directly in the eyes. Did you want me to tell you the hell I was in? His voice was low, controlled at first. Did you want to hear about how the Germans brought in their tanks to a city where we were and just started blowin’ up everything in their path? Maybe I should have written about what your buddy looks like in little pieces, his guts hangin’ out, his blood all over your hands? Or maybe you wanted to hear about how it felt to hide like a rat in a foxhole while them damn Gerries hurled grenades at your head? His voice had risen with every sentence until he was shouting at Mama.

I felt afraid. My heart was thudding hard in my chest and there was a knot in my throat. I didn’t know why Papa was yelling at Mama, but it scared me.

No, no Frank, Mama said quietly. I just wanted to know you were safe. I worried so about you.

It ain’t easy finding paper and pencil when you’re lying in the mud with bullets whizzin’ over your head.

I’m sorry, Frank, Mama told him. I’m sorry it was so awful for you. But you’re safe now and you’re home. Now you can put it all behind you.

It was hell Paula, and I’ll never forget it, never. Then, more to himself than Mama, Never.

There was silence again as we finished our supper. Afterward I helped Mama clear table while Papa grabbed a beer from the refrigerator that Mama had bought especially for his homecoming. He began fiddling with the radio again while Mama and I washed dishes in the kitchen. At first we could hear him muttering under his breath, but then he got louder, cursing and yelling.

Just a waste of money! he said. You know that? Spendin’ good money on a luxury! Hell, we don’t even have a car of our own; have to borrow one just to get home and have to take a bus to get to work. But we got money to spend on a damn radio! And what about them new clothes? Just had to have all the fancy duds while I’m wearin’ the same shit for months! I don’t suppose you could’ve put the money aside for a new car or house?

I watched the tears come to my Mama’s eyes as she scrubbed the cooking pot. I saw her transform before my eyes, like a shadow covering the sun. Her head was down, her shoulders bent. I clasped her around the waist and looked up into her face.

We love the radio, don’t we Mama? I said quietly, not wanting to be overheard by my Papa. Remember all the fun we have listening to the stories?

She didn’t answer me, but she did look down at me and smile weakly, the tears still shinning in her eyes. All this passing of time, eighty some odd years later, I can still recall the pain on my Mama’s face.

Later that night after I had gone to bed, I remember the yelling coming from Mama’s room. I could hear her pleading with Papa, then the sound of a slap and someone falling on the bed. I heard Mama say, No, Frank, please not now, and then Papa saying it was his right, it had been too long, and after that the squeaking of the bed.

The following morning Papa unpacked his duffel. Besides his clothing were souvenirs of the war, a German swastika, a watch, German money, and a German gun, a Lugar he called it. He put these things away in his dresser and told Mama and me not to touch them. There was a real threat in his voice.

I started kindergarten two years later. I remember approaching it with excitement and trepidation. I had become painfully shy and introverted. My previous exposure to other children had been very limited, having only played with a few at the park with my grandmum. All the other children seemed much more outgoing and self assured. They ran about in their brand new clothes laughing and calling out to one another, while I stood off to one side, an observer, a part of the background. No one really seemed to notice me, and part of me, preferred it that way. The other part desperately wanted to belong, to have friends and be a part of the fun.

And so it went throughout my years in elementary school, this pulling away from others while secretly wanting so much to be like them. I made a couple of friends, other girls who were equally as shy as I. Seldom, if not rarely; I would go to their houses to play. I was not allowed to have friends to my house; it might upset Papa.

Boys, on the other hand, were a marvel to me. They were loud, overly active, and seemed in general, to do whatever they pleased. I admired them and wanted to be like them. I desperately wanted boys to like me, but had no idea how to go about accomplishing this seemingly insurmountable task. I was, however, afraid of them. If one would look at me, I would immediately avert my eyes, and could never find my tongue to speak to one.

I had just been an average student. Most subjects were a challenge, and the pressure at home to do well, increased my anxiety. My saving grace was books. I became a voracious reader. It was my escape, a place I could go to get away.

Things at home never got any better. If anything they worsened. Papa made Mama quit her job, not that she could have hung onto it anyway. The factory let go most of the women they had hired during the war, and Papa was able to get his old job back.

Mama tried applying at the Woolworths store, but with so many people looking for work, they wouldn’t hire her. So she stayed home and grew sadder by the day. I loved having my Mama there when I got home from school. She always had my favorite peanut butter cookies and milk waiting for me. The downside was, I didn’t get to see as much of my grandmum. On occasion she would stop by before Papa came home from work and chat with Mama while I ate my cookies and milk. Grandmum saw the sadness in Mama’s eyes and would talk to her about finding another job.

Do it for yourself, Paula, she said, so you have something of your own, something that can’t be taken away.

And Mama replied, I’m looking, Mama. I’m looking.

Most evenings when Papa came home from work, he was so tired he would eat supper and then fall asleep in his chair while reading the paper. It was those times that Mama and I would listen to the radio and laugh quietly at the comedies.

Other times if he had had a bad day, Papa would come home angry and start a fight with Mama, usually about something small. He would say the dinner wasn’t cooked right or the floor was dirty, or why hadn’t she ironed his shirts. Times like those I would retreat to my room and read, but I could still hear him yelling at her while she apologized and cried. Sometimes too, Papa would have nightmares about the war and I could hear him cry out in his sleep. I began to realize what a profound effect war had on a human being.

The summer after I finished kindergarten, Mama had another baby. I thought it an incredible miracle as I watched her belly grow rounder and