You Are Cordially Invited to War

By Tommye Hamilton Wright

Its 1942 and the United States is deep into World War II. At home, amid adjustments to the hardships and heartaches of war, Kay Ann Franklin is losing a lonely battle caring for her terminally ill mother and her five-year-old twins, one stricken with polio and the other with chicken pox. Worried and exhausted, she has little left to give her baby daughter and her war-absorbed husband. When a colored girl appears at her back door offering to help, Kay Ann welcomes her but holds slight hope that the tiny, crippled Say can make a difference in their situation.

To her surprise, the teenager brings reinforcements for the battle and lightness to their burdens. The family also discovers Says exceptional musical talent and begins to envision more than the girl can grasp. Kay Anns dream of a college education for Say is sidetracked by a brutal attack and malicious opposition from neighbors, friends, and Says preacher.

In this historical tale, Kay Ann and an unlikely group of lady warriors embark on an unforgettable journey during the chaos of a world war endeavoring to help an underprivileged teenager achieve more than she ever imagined, and, most importantly, to believe in herself.

Wright does an excellent job of re-creating the feel of the homefront during WWII Its an important, engaging story thats been neglected by other authors. Kirkus

Tommye Hamilton Wright offers a wise insiders look into small-town life during World War II This well-structured story offers interesting plot threads and well-drawn characters that maintain tension from the first chapter to the last. You Are Cordially Invited to War will interest those who enjoy good fiction set during a pivotal time in American history. Clarion

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491774571

Tommye Hamilton Wright

Tommye Hamilton Wright was born in Alabama and graduated from Brenau College with a degree in speech and dramatics. She has spent most of her adult life in north Georgia where she and her physician husband enjoy lakeside living with their family.

Book preview

You Are

Cordially

Invited

to War

A HISTORICAL NOVEL

Tommye Hamilton Wright

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YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO WAR

A HISTORICAL NOVEL

Copyright © 2015 Tommye Hamilton Wright.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7456-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7457-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922226

iUniverse rev. date: 8/27/2015

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Summer 1942

CHAPTER 1 Volunteer

CHAPTER 2 Never Give Up

CHAPTER 3 Invasion

CHAPTER 4 Secret Weapon

CHAPTER 5 Training

CHAPTER 6 Rations

Fall 1942

CHAPTER 7 Wounded

CHAPTER 8 Combat

CHAPTER 9 Communications

CHAPTER 10 Parachutes

CHAPTER 11 Blackout Curtains

CHAPTER 12 Storm Troopers

CHAPTER 13 KP

CHAPTER 14 Promotions and Discharges

CHAPTER 15 Weather Observers

CHAPTER 16 Bivouac

CHAPTER 17 Missing

CHAPTER 18 Surveillance

Winter 1942–1943

CHAPTER 19 Morale

CHAPTER 20 Informant

CHAPTER 21 Friendly Fire

CHAPTER 22 Sniper

CHAPTER 23 Ambushed

CHAPTER 24 Packages from Home

CHAPTER 25 Outnumbered

CHAPTER 26 A Victory

CHAPTER 27 Special Forces

CHAPTER 28 Undercover Operations

CHAPTER 29 Christmas Ceasefire

CHAPTER 30 Surprise Attack

CHAPTER 31 Advance

CHAPTER 32 Troop Train

CHAPTER 33 Hospital

CHAPTER 34 USO

CHAPTER 35 Return to Active Duty

CHAPTER 36 Fallen Warrior

CHAPTER 37 Memorial

CHAPTER 38 Spoils

CHAPTER 39 The Home Front

Spring 1943

CHAPTER 40 Bombshell

CHAPTER 41 Bushwhacked

CHAPTER 42 Subterfuge

CHAPTER 43 Reenlistment and Reinforcement

CHAPTER 44 News Report

CHAPTER 45 Mess Food

Summer 1943

CHAPTER 46 Bombarded

CHAPTER 47 Enemy and Ally

CHAPTER 48 Stakeout

CHAPTER 49 Propaganda

CHAPTER 50 Tacticians

CHAPTER 51 Recruited

CHAPTER 52 Inducted

CHAPTER 53 In the Trenches

CHAPTER 54 Establishing a Beachhead

CHAPTER 55 Hero

CHAPTER 56 Recognition

CHAPTER 57 Sabotage

CHAPTER 58 Retreat

CHAPTER 59 Strategy

CHAPTER 60 Shipping Out

Epilogue R & R

Author’s Notes

More Notes

Bibliography

Dedicated with much love

to

Bobby

And so wearily and little by little, but surely and steadily on the whole, was brought home to the young boy, for the first time, the meaning of his life; that it was no fool’s or sluggard’s paradise into which he had wandered by chance, but a battlefield ordained from of old, where there are no spectators, but the youngest must take his side, and the stakes are life and death.

—Thomas Hughes (1823–1896)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My sincere gratitude goes to those who read my manuscript in its primitive stages and gave information, helpful criticism, and, most of all, encouragement:

James Robert Wright, MD; James Robert Wright Jr.; William Berry Hamilton Jr.; Madison Hayne Hamilton; Mary Phil Thomas Hamilton; Patti Riley Hoffman; Mignon Franklin Ballard; Constance Witmer Parks; Barbara Wright Cheshire, PhD; and Kya Reeves, PhD.

I am also indebted to those who provided professional or technological help:

Edward Thomas Wright; Julia Hunter Wright; Robert Schaffeld III, mapmaker; Susan Mary Malone, editor; Charles Sides, photographer; Deborah Lilly; Kaitlin Bunch; the staff at iUniverse; and especially Carol Wright Schaffeld, without whom this book would not have made it out of my computer.

I remember and greatly value

Edna Carroll Hamilton, my mother, who gave me love for a tale well told and who could read any old story and make it sound good; Alexander Powers Hamilton, my father, who gave me a deep respect for history, especially for those people whose commitment to duty in their battles shaped my life; my greater family, whose favorite entertainment was sitting around the dinner table telling and retelling their stories; Beeta Mae, my mother’s friend; and Alpharetta Ford, my friend.

My appreciation also extends to many who, in conversation, sparked my war memories or shared their personal experiences which enhanced my story.

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Summer

1942

CHAPTER 1

Volunteer

S he was so welcome, not because of anything promising about her, but because I was so desperate. When she came at seven o’clock that muggy Monday morning, I’d never been so glad to see anyone before, nor have I since.

The young girl standing at my back door shifted her weight from one leg to the other, but she looked me boldly in the eye.

Miz Franklin, my aunt sez you might be needin’ some help with yo’ baby. I never been a nursemaid, but I be good with little ones. I’m called Say.

On that scorching southern summer day in 1942, my mother lay upstairs terminally ill with stomach cancer. A few months before, on my twenty-sixth birthday, as a matter of fact, my five-year-old son Dan had been diagnosed with the dreaded poliomyelitis—some doctors were calling it infantile paralysis—and that morning, his twin brother, Billy, was sporting a full-blown case of chicken pox. Six-month-old Judith had no maternal figure except my harried self, who, aside from giving her a quick bottle and changing a way-past-due messy diaper, kept her at arm’s length. I lived in a state of panic that Judith or Billy would catch Dan’s polio, and now I was fearful that Dan or Judith would catch Billy’s chicken pox.

And our country was at war. A world war.

I considered the childlike colored girl through the screen door. I’d seen her around our small town of Lynton, walking with an awkward limp and her head full of wiry pigtails standing on end. She often straggled behind her aunts and cousins, several of whom worked in the homes of my neighbors. Her aunt Emma ran the house for the Wetherford family, next door to the home where I grew up, and where, along with my mother, I now lived with my husband and children.

The skin-and-bone girl turned as though to leave when I stood in stunned silence at her offer.

Oh, Say. I recovered my voice. We’d be grateful for some help. I fought back tears and the urge to embrace this frail missionary. But are you sure you want to come in our house? Do you know we’ve been under polio quarantine? Does your mama know you’re here? Polio was a possible death sentence; the very word sent parents to their knees.

A quiet Yes’m answered all my questions.

All right then, Say. But … I waited until I was sure I had her attention. "I must forbid you to go near Dan or his room. Polio is very, very serious. The mayor announced this week that picture shows and swimming pools and all places where people gather are closed for the rest of the summer. Many parents have even stopped taking their children to church! It’s my responsibility to wash and sterilize Dan’s dishes and his clothes and anything else he touches. Although Dr. Nowlin has relaxed our quarantine a bit, you are never to have contact with Dan. Do you understand?"

With a slight smile and seeming assurance, Say nodded. Having what I hoped was a clear agreement between us, I opened the screen door to let Say into the kitchen, where I’d been struggling to prepare something my patients could and would eat.

It’s already hot as blazes in here, I said. I’ve had the oven on.

Yes’m.

I wiped the sweat and tangled hair away from my eyes, wondering how in the world I appeared to this colored girl whose hodgepodge of clothes were spotless, starched, and ironed. The privileged only child of one of Lynton’s leading families, I had a button missing from my blouse; my face was unwashed; and without looking down, I couldn’t honestly say if I’d put on shoes when I crawled out of bed a few hours earlier. For that matter, when I passed a mirror, I scarcely recognized myself anymore, and I wondered what Grant saw when he kissed me and said a hurried I love you, Kay Ann on his way out the door to work. I sincerely hoped, and was reasonably sure, how I looked was the last thing on his mind, a mind that now had practically every cell’s energy harnessed to serving his country.

The head of our pathetic household, my husband worked at his family’s sheet-metal mill a couple of miles on the other side of town. After the drowning deaths of his parents, Grant was left with the entire responsibility of the business. Having been deemed unfit for military service due to flat feet, he and his plant had adapted to the frenzy of wartime demands for extensive production.

Grant and I, once called the town’s golden couple, had been suddenly cast into a plethora of never-before-experienced difficulties and emotional devastation. The golden couple was fighting two wars, one at home and one on foreign soil—where it would hopefully remain. Unlike Grant, who at least had an engineering degree, I was more unprepared for life than I had ever imagined, but great was the demand to respond when duty called.

Thankfully, friends and family had brought meals, but the quarantine for polio victims was a boundary no one dared or was expected to cross. Yet Say had appeared at my back door with a most surprising and unsolicited offer to come in and share my burden.

Where you want me to wash my hands, Miz Franklin? she asked.

There at the kitchen sink is fine.

Where the clean pots stay? Say was apparently expanding her offer beyond helping with the baby.

When I showed her where to gather what she needed, Say filled a large pot with steaming hot water and vigorously rubbed the bar of soap on the dishcloth, preparing to address a stack of dirty plates.

As I returned from my umpteenth trip up the steps that morning, I observed Say tackling bowls crusted with cold Cream of Wheat, sour-smelling baby bottles, and a roasting pan, its grease hardened from last night’s supper. Those arms had muscles in them somewhere.

Say, I’m embarrassed about the mess. I stay so far behind I probably won’t live long enough to accomplish all there is to do around here.

It’s all the same to me. Work is work. We catch it up.

At that moment, we was the most beautiful word I’d ever heard. I too had an ally in my battle.

Although I was hardly aware when her humming began, Say’s soft, melodious notes soothed me and began lifting me out of a deep pit. At first I thought her presumptuous, coming into a white family’s home and making music. But the shift of my mood and the easing of my tension were undeniable, and before I knew it, all the dishes and pans had been shined with strong cleaner, elbow grease, and humming.

I moved back and forth into sick rooms, changing Mother’s bed, getting Dan up to the bathroom, and trying to cool Billy’s fever. Whenever I returned to the kitchen, I found the things I needed next were already prepared.

Here’s a glass of ice water so yo’ mama can take her medicine. Mother’s breakfast was neatly laid on a bed tray and ready to be served.

When the baby awoke and cried, a bottle of formula was sterilized and cooled to the right temperature. But Say was even more ready. Everything else she’d done in her first hours was just killing time until she could hold that baby girl.

This is Judith, I said to Say. She wakes up wild and woolly and thinks she’s starving to death. Poor little skinny thing. I pushed blonde ringlets out of the little one’s sleep-crusted blue eyes. Judith, this is Say. She’s come to help your mommy. Can you say Say?

Say and I laughed at the repetition, and as I freely handed over my newest treasure to this skinny teenager I’d just met, I realized I had, in fact, laughed. Not an ordinary occurrence.

Come here, you ole sweet fatty pie. Despite her painfully awkward limp when she walked, Say held the baby with a ballerina-like grace. After a moment, she became aware of my staring at her.

She only smiled and said, No way to help myself. I gonna always luv a baby.

Just then a barely awake, chicken-pox-covered Billy staggered down the stairs, his curly blond hair matted from a restless, itchy night and his puffy blue eyes hardly discernible among the lesions on his face. Say gave him a sympathetic smile and time for him to give her a good looking over.

I wonder what your brother wants for his breakfast, she said to Judith, still tucked in her arms. Judith laughed and wiggled to get down and greet Billy, but Say put her in her high chair, careful to keep her away from the infected brother.

That boy look lak he might enjoy some of my special toast with cinnamon butter and a glass of orange juice.

Milk, was Billy’s only communication, but he didn’t look as grumpy as when he’d first come into the kitchen. Little by little, Say charmed both children into eating a good breakfast, and before long, she was the recipient of their attention and chatter.

Once the children were fed and I’d gotten Mother cleaned and settled for the day, I invited Say upstairs so Mother could meet her. As was typical with cancer, Mother had her good days and bad ones. This was not a good one. It was difficult to remember that only a year ago she had been so vibrant, the instigator of all things fun and engaging. Today, her head of limp curls was sunk deep into the pillow, and her pale skin blended into the white pillowcase. Being the gracious lady she was, Mother still made an effort to speak a kind word of welcome to Say. It seemed perfectly natural for Say to straighten the covers at the foot of Mother’s bed, and she quickly won Mother’s approval when she was drawn to Mother’s pet canary.

What a beautiful wicker house you live in, pretty bird. Say stood on her tiptoes to look into the cage that hung on a stand close to the bed. It was an uncommon compliment that Buttercup didn’t fuss at her.

On our way back down the hall to the stairs, I pointed out Dan’s room. Say stopped and looked at me as though she expected to meet my other bedridden patient. Without lowering my commitment to protect her, I opened the door just enough for Dan and Say to see each other.

Dan, this is Say. She’s come to help us.

Say drew as near as she could and waved through the small opening. The sick little boy with the sad countenance slowly waved back, only moving his fingers and saying nothing. I closed the door, and a somber Say stood for a long moment just staring at it.

Say and I quickly became efficient coworkers, but we were visually, even comically, bold contrasts: I was tall and fair—fair of skin, pale green eyes, and long, straight blonde hair; Say was small of stature with dark skin and eyes, and a multitude of tightly braided black pigtails tied with colorful strips of rags.

At some point during the day, I told Say how much I appreciated her coming and that she was a great help. No response. She just worked through the day doing whatever was needed, and her exceptionally beautiful humming went on. No space for small talk but very companionable.

For the first time in many days, I combed and pinned up my hair and found a tube of lipstick.

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Oh my! I exclaimed. I never once looked at the clock this whole day. It’s six o’clock. Say, can you come back tomorrow?

You don’ want me to stay and serve supper?

No. It’s all cooked and on the stove, and there’s no telling what time my husband will get home from the plant.

I handed her a generous day’s wage, more than ordinary household help would make. We had received a valuable gift, and I didn’t want any other white family luring this unlikely servant away from us. That happened often when word got around that a good colored worker was helping in the neighborhood.

I can come most days you be wantin’ me, Say said, but I don’ need this much cash money.

When I pressed her for a reason, she confidently said, Say don’ want extra money hanging around. You be there for me someday when I got a need. And Miz Franklin … Waiting until I turned and looked at her, she focused directly on my eyes without blinking. I don’ take totin’ privileges.

We both knew what she meant. Toting privileges was a term used for colored people taking things, without permission, from the homes of white people where they worked. Toting was a way of supplementing income out of whatever was needed and the employer had. If the colored help needed some white thread, a spool from the lady’s sewing basket went home in a pocket. A stick of butter, a roll of toilet paper, a pork chop or two, a can of beans—easy things to tote out in a pocketbook. Toting privileges, not exactly ethical but not stealing, were expected.

Still, white employers were suspicious of big bags that came to work with the help. When the husband’s overcoat or the great-grandmother’s cut-glass water pitcher disappeared, that was stealing. Once the lady of the house realized several valuable things had gone missing, she always assumed it was the colored help who’d taken them. At the end of the next workday she told her help, I won’t be needing you anymore.

The matter of toting settled, Say said good night and slipped out the back door. I watched as she walked toward the service alley that ran through the center of our block, behind the houses on both sides.

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Say never asked what time I wanted her to arrive or what time I wanted her to leave. The hours she set for herself were not questioned: in the back door at seven o’clock sharp in the mornings and out whenever she was satisfied the work was all done. Many times that was long after I urged her to go on home, but occasionally, it was as soon as the lunch dishes were put away and our supper was ready to be served.

That first week, she also told me, I’m glad to come early and stay late ’most every day, but I can’t come to work on Sundays. Miz Franklin, you got to partner with Mr. Franklin on his day off, and I got to mind my business on Sundays.

Oh, really? I crossed my arms over my chest. No Sundays, clearly repeated. Indeed! Who was running this show? And what kind of business could she have?

No’m. Can’t come on a Sunday.

Say never volunteered anything about her personal affairs, but her uncle Pete, who worked at Grant’s mill, mentioned that his niece often sang solos at their Sunday morning church service.

Grant chuckled when he repeated to me what Pete had said, trying to imitate his vernacular. That youngun was born with a growed-up voice. Say might be a little squirt, but she make a mighty big sound.

Grant had another good laugh when he teased our newly hired girl about her name. "I never heard the name Say. Your parents must not have known what to say when you were born. Is that why they just called you Say?"

Say spoke respectfully but directly to my husband. I have a fine name, she said. "If Say be a trouble for you, Mr. Franklin, you can call me by my real one. Say is short for Sáruh."

Grant was clearly taken aback at being put in his place by this skinny, lame colored girl.

I slipped into the pantry on the pretense of getting something out for our supper, but actually to hide my amusement at the stunned look on Grant’s usually confident face. No getting around it, Say was an artist with language. Her few words were of perfect clarity and balance, with no suggestion of sassy disrespect or false solicitation.

In the same way, Say’s humming was self-assured but never imposing or offensive. Indeed, it was quite beautiful. Say only sang at one task: when she ironed. Then I heard You Are My Sunshine over and over and over. I often wondered what the country song meant to her, since she didn’t hum it but sang the words softly, almost to herself.

‘You’ll never know, dear, how much I luv you. Please don’ take my sunshine away.’

In addition to her sweet humming and her ironing song, Say occasionally sang a few lines of hymns to encourage Mother, usually behind Mother’s closed bedroom door. The depth and resonance defied her minute stature. Even through the door, I could hear the amazing power and volume that came from her. When Say sang a line from the chorus of Dwelling in Beulah Land, you couldn’t wait to go there.

I just wish she’d sing a whole song, Mother said to me, but I’m afraid if I insist she perform for me, she might become self-conscious and not brighten our world with her music at all.

CHAPTER 2

Never Give Up

I n my mind, Say had come to relieve me of some of the burden of household chores. And she did. But it was becoming clear to me that her intention was always, as she’d offered in the beginning, to be a nursemaid; that is, to take care of the children.

One afternoon while Billy was still in the throes of the chicken pox, I found Say standing at the stove.

I simply cannot imagine why in the world you’re boiling that little basting brush, I said with some annoyance.

Still with her back to me, she nodded and kept right on doing what she was doing with no explanation. As she sterilized the brush in the boiling water, she hummed Standing on the Promises. Before long, Billy was lying on a towel-covered sofa, giggling.

Billy, Say said, standing over him, you the house and Say’s the painter. I’m gonna smear these old chicken pox with oatmeal and maybe they stop itchin’.

Stop! Say, please stop. It tickles!

We don’t mind Mr. Tickle. We gettin’ rid of Mr. Itch.

Say applied the sticky oatmeal paste regularly to avoid the ugly and inflamed lesions from becoming infected, as well as to cool the itching, until the chicken pox finally ran its course.

On another day, I returned from a quick trip to the drugstore to find Say stretched out alongside Dan’s small, immobile body, telling him a story and drawing pictures where he could see them.

Do you like to draw? she asked. I bet you a good drawer. Come on, try. I bet you gonna be a better drawer than Say. She sat up quickly and clapped her hands. You know what else, Dan? We not only the good drawers, we might be the best limpers. She threw back her head and laughed and laughed. But we declarin’ war on limpin’. We gonna win that war together. Okay?

With only a brief hesitation, he replied, Okay.

The silliness of the young girl disappeared as she ran her fingers across his pale forehead, pushing his straight brown hair—so different from his twin brother’s—to the side. She inspected his serious, sunken gray eyes and whispered that one day soon she’d be expecting a smile on his face.

Uh-huh. One day real soon, a sneakin’ ole smile gonna show up and crinkle up those two sad lil’ eyes.

Say finally looked up and saw me observing from the bedroom door, arms crossed over my chest.

Don’t you remember what we talked about, Say? I asked sternly.

Dan scared he gonna throw up. He had to have help when it came.

The self-appointed volunteer nurse did not appear rebellious or careless. When Dan rang his bell, Say was going to respond if I wasn’t there, and that’s all there was to it.

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Billy got better, but he found scarce contentment while having no contact with his brother. My heart broke seeing the pain in his teary, pleading eyes set in a face marked with nasty drying scabs and bright pink scars.

Please, please, he said to me. Let me see Dan. Just a minute. I’ll not jump on the bed. I promise, Mama. Please. Dr. Nowlin said I’m not ’tagious anymore.

No, Billy. Not yet, I had to answer no matter how earnestly he pled.

In his unaccustomed and disturbing loneliness, Billy lay on the floor at the top of the stairs, where he could get a peek at Dan whenever anyone opened the door to the polio isolation room. He was at his post most of the day, and once Say almost stumbled over him.

Billy, that may be the pitifulest face I ever saw on one lil’ boy. Why you want such a pitiful face? Boy, you gotta get us somethin’ better to look at than that.

Please, Say, I want to play with Dan.

I know and you know that ain’t gonna be happenin’ just yet. But in the meantime, you gotta work on that face! Might not be anybody want to play with a little boy with such a drooped-down look as that.

She lay down on the floor beside the forlorn boy and looked him square in the eye, as only Say could.

You the well one now. You gotta be the strong one too. Haven’t you ever heard of a cheerleader, Billy?

No, he whispered. He kept his head on the floor, eyes focused on the crack under Dan’s closed door.

Well, first, you gotta sing. If you can’t get into full singin’, you start out with a little hum. After awhile, a little hum will work itself around to some nice song, maybe one you and Dan learned in Sunday school. Next thing you know, that song make its way down to yo’ muscles, and yo’ muscles start feelin’ real important. Yo’ chest sticks out, and you gets cocky. Ah, yeah, Billy, you gets real cocky, and Dan gonna love feelin’ some of that cocky ease over on him.

Oh, yes, I assured myself as I stepped over them on my way downstairs, that girl knows about cocky.

But the important thing is this, Say went on. You gotta get yo’self a happy song. Not just any ole song gonna do. Nope, it takes a happy song, a joy song, to get a hold of that cocky.

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Even with all her joy talk to Billy, Say was just as troubled about Dan as Billy was. After she’d broken the barrier into Dan’s room, she seemed to be on the watch for an opportunity to sit near his bed, with or without an emergency. Hardly more than a child herself, she could distract Dan best when the doctor came to examine him and perform painful treatments.

When medical authorities were convinced at last that exercise helped rehabilitate the muscles of polio-affected limbs, Say spent hours moving Dan’s legs. Dr. Nowlin educated us in innovative techniques recommended by an Australian nurse, Sister Kenny, and Say’s effort and cunning worked wonders for the scared five-year-old, who remained baffled why someone else had the job of moving his legs for him.

From Judith’s room, I heard one of those sessions between Say and Dan.

Good mawnin’, Mr. Daniel, suh. Is you ready for Mr. Teddy Bear? He’s lookin’ for yo’ toes. I could imagine Say wiggling the worn button-eyed bear down under the sheet. "Let’s see if we can get lil’ leg up off the covers this mawnin’. He’s a bit sleepy yet, but we keeps on tryin’.

Looky, looky. He’s risin’ from his slumber. I do believe left leg can go higher than yeste’day. Let’s celebrate with a big smile, Dan.

Is this a good smile, Say?

It’s a good smile, but Say want a real live celebration smile. Left leg deserves a Fourth-of-July smile. Ah, yeah, boy. You got the one. The one with fireworks!

Say was a very capable housekeeper and nursemaid, but she was the entertainment committee too. Hopefully the USO wouldn’t hear about her. The next thing we knew she’d be off on the front lines, touring with Bob Hope.

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Just after breakfast on a Monday morning, Say found me in Mother’s room. Miz Franklin, you best get to workin’ on the dirty clothes. It look a lot like a cloud be comin’ up this afternoon. You bought some Octagon soap for the sheets, didn’ ya?

I complied with Say’s request for soap and brought