Where forgotten words, now remembered, should be placed

This is a story about how the words of a young girl were forgotten, saved from obliteration, and ultimately took their place among my most cherished possessions.

One of the challenges of uniformed service is continuous movement. As I was coming to the end of my time in the #marinecorps my family was all over the place. We shifted gears to focus on my wife's career goals, and in doing so, were made to divide the forces. She packed up her Jeep and drove from #camplejeune to the #pnw to run an explosives detection canine for the TSA, and the kids and I stayed in #northcarolina until I received orders to Camp Pendleton for my twilight tour in #socal. With our entire house packed up, again, I made do with what I could scrounge, acquire, or buy.

I was visiting with my wife in kids over one of the 96-hour liberty periods which occurred shortly after my #pcs and found myself in need of an extension ladder. I have a nice one, but it was (and as I write this, is still) in non-temp government storage, so I needed a one-time use ladder. I looked for yard sales in the area, and as it turned out, that search would be more fruitful than I could have ever imagined.

I did find a few yard sales but none of them had what I needed. I was heading to a hardware store to begrudgingly purchase another extension ladder when I saw a sign for an estate sale. "One more stop won't get me in too much trouble," I said to myself, "so long as I don't come home with a piano, or anything too crazy." I had been to one estate sale before in North Carolina, and it was packed with tools, so I decided to make a brief detour. Once I found the house, I walked around to the outside of the garage, and sure enough, there was an extension ladder hanging from the wall. $20 for a one-time use ladder was a score and this particular ladder was in great shape (in fact, it's been hauled all over the country since and just helped me hang a large wreath over our garage for Christmas). A serious score.

I took the tag off of the ladder and went inside to pay for it. As soon as I walked through the door, I knew these folks were a #veteran family. We were close to #jblm, so I assumed the deceased owner was an #army dog or an #usaf fly-boy, but the decor of the house was such that I leaned towards the widow, or widower, being a #soldier.

Every inch of the place was covered with artifacts of service in Germany. Based on the amber shade that the items had adopted, presumably with age, my guess was that they were old— early 20th century old, with some mid-century items peppered throughout the estate's catalog. I realized almost immediately that I stood in the home of a G.I. and his war-bride, and that I looked at a combination of German decor, nostalgic "treasures," and I think yes, even some war trophies. I wish now that I paid more attention to episodes of, The Antique Roadshow, so that my vocabulary could accurately describe what I saw (and, so I could have known what items were more valuable at the time, but more on that in a minute). Alas, I have not paid attention, so I cannot. You will have to use your imagination and accept this description of the items; they were eclectic, they were old, and they?were German-ish looking.

The home itself reminded me of a style typical in the 1960's or 70's. It had red shag carpet (one of only two things I saw in the house which were of a primary color) and tinge colored furniture and walls that resembled grotesque cousins of the fairer pastels. There were olive greens and sour yellows and an apocalyptic orange which is possible in only three environments: this home, by way of a wildfire's smoke masking all sunlight, and of course, an apocalypse. There were shelves everywhere with the treasures & trophies, all of which, covered and aligned. I am not sure who preceded who in death, but whether it was our G.I. or our war-bride, it was clear that military precision and attention to detail was shared in equal measure between them both. I found myself in a uniform inspection state-of-mind. A feeling of consternation almost overcame me as a sea of price tags attracted my attention. These little squares of neon yellow, green, and orange, so haphazardly taped to all the treasures, twirled and flapped like discarded tassels from a carnival burlesque show. Why didn't they just say, "small items $5, medium items $10, and large items $20." It felt disrespectful and annoyed me beyond measure. I left the living room and decided to look through the other rooms for anything interesting.

The house was laid out pretty typically. There was small entry way with Parkay floors and a half-wall on the immediate left. It had banister railing that extended from its top to the ceiling, which created a visual barrier without stifling the room. The entry way opened into a living room on your left that was one step lower than the rest of the house. A rustic brick wall and fireplace covered the largest wall from floor to ceiling, and the shag carpet was everywhere except for a semi-circle of Linoleum, contained within a thin piece of brass transition. They were a disciplined couple. I could see where the carpet remained fresh on either side of the semi-circle, only worn at the 12 o'clock position, indicating to me that they followed the natural order of things and remained obedient to intended purpose.

If you walked straight past the living room, you would run into a small dining area with a large window that looked into the back yard. Turning left at the dining room would guide you through a shot-gun style kitchen where the checkered design Parkay floor ended, and the Linoleum resumed its protective mission before passing through a series of doors. The first of which, allowed access to a small utility room, and the second, to a large garage which bookended the house in that direction.

If, instead of entering the dining room you turned right, you would take up a narrow hallway with the same shag carpet as the living room and an unusually long attic ladder cord that would strike an average heighted person in the mouth. The hospital-bright ceiling lights reflected off of the red carpet and tinted the walls an abnormal pink. The tented base vanished seamlessly into the walls which were painted an organic hue much like the failing green color of a mid-fall leaf. There was a small bathroom on the right. It had a tiled floor, a tiled-in cast-iron and porcelain veneered tub, and tiled walls two thirds of the way to the ceiling. The hallway paint was contrasted by the sterile white tile and appeared more vibrant in the small bathroom than in the hall. Just beyond the bathroom were two rooms opposite of each other. One was a small master bedroom, and the other a smaller guest bedroom. I didn't go into either of these. It felt too personal, and many of their clothes were laid on the beds, which felt like an insult to their relationship and the wife's virtue. At the end of the hallway was the smallest of the rooms, probably intended to be a study. There was a small organ, and a bookshelf, and an electronic word processing typewriter, much like the one my own grandmother when I was a child.

Let me step back for a second. In the garage, I had seen a few boxes of German books. They appeared to be copies of plays, poetry or music, and a few short stories. Being the book-nut that I am, I grabbed some of them to put on my own bookshelf. In the music room, I noticed a few more on the tiny bookshelf, and grabbed them as well. I would be pushing my luck with my wife if I returned much later than I was already going to be, so I didn't pay attention to them. I just grabbed three or four and went back to the living room to pay the lady managing the estate sale. She struggled to open her gray cash box and made change from her own wallet, after which I headed to the house happy to have scored the ladder and a few books.

When my roof project was complete and I had put my new-old ladder away, I thought about the books and sat down to examine them. One of them was a small, green and white and red and pink, diamond striped notebook. Its purpose was embosomed in gold in the lower right corner and alluded to the secrets hidden behind its tiny brass clasp— Poesie. When I opened it, I was surprised to find it full of beautifully, almost calligraphical, handwritten script. The first entry was dated February 7th, 1930. I couldn't read it of course, but I knew it was special, so I showed my wife and let her know that I'd be going back in the morning to look for more.

I was there early in the morning waiting on the estate sale manger to show up so I could get a jump on more books. Shortly after her arrival, but before she opened the house, a large construction dumpster was delivered and dropped in the driveway. My initial thought was that they were going to have the roof replaced prior to selling the home. Moss is a common issue with roofs in the PNW, and this house had a relatively serious moss problem. I met the manager in the yard, eager to beat the hordes of people (that weren't there) to the bookshelf. We had already acknowledged each other; me with a smile, and she with a less welcoming grin, allowing for only one corner of her mouth to rise and expressing plainly, albeit without words, "Ugh. Come on man, already? I'm just getting here."

I read this and thought to myself, "I guess we can forgo the good mornings since we were clearly past salutations." I chose instead, to confirm my suspicion about the dumpster. I half-nodded in the direction of the driveway.

"For the roof?"

"No sir. The sale closes today at 2 o'clock."

I looked at the roof, and then the dumpster, and then at her. She realized I was confused and looking even more irked by my ignorance than my presence, continued curtly.

"What's left at 2 is going to the landfill come morning."

I was disgusted. Trash, really? But then I was just sad. Everything can't go to someone else, I realized, and it was clear that there wasn't family around, or some of the items I saw the day before would not have been put up for sale— and certainly not thrown in a dumpster and sent to a landfill. I thought about the couple for a minute and was pacified with the knowledge that at least one of their handwritten artifacts would be saved from decomposition, and maybe some more if I, no, if we were lucky. I went in and pushed my way through the horde (which by the way, never arrived) and made my way to the music room. Relief! It didn't appear anyone who showed up after I left the day before cared about German books.

I sat on the organ chair in the small room and started looking through the books on the shelf. Many were pamphlets, or electronic service manuals, but there were a few that stood out. There was an old composition notebook; a small cloth book, which was padded and had a tasseled bookmark; a faded green notebook; a small leather book with gold designs intricately embossed on its cover— more Poesie; and a textured red leather book (the second primary colored item I saw in the house).

I opened them carefully, remembering the date of the inscription I read in the first book of poetry. I was blown away. With the exception of an additional book of poetry, they were all journals. February 1930, December 1931, June 1933... on and one they went into the mid-1940s. In all, I saved four journals and two collections of poetry, each of which was written by hand. They were amazing. In fact, they were gorgeous. Although I couldn't decipher them, I knew at that moment that each of them was a small time-machines just waiting to be unlocked.

With my 96-hour liberty concluded, I reluctantly returned to Camp Pendleton. I mentioned the discovery after a meeting with my staff, and one of them said he might be able to help. He had served on embassy duty in Germany a few years before and was married to a German woman. He thought that she might be willing to take a look at them for me. Thrilled, I entrusted them to his wife's care.

Many of the journal entries were written in what his wife referred to as "old German." Those she couldn't read, but her grandfather was also German, naturally, and she thought he might enjoy the project as well. Over the next year and a half, she worked with her grandfather to translate the journals. Time machines, indeed!

I was transported to a pre-WWII Germany, and through the eyes of a Fr?ulein, no less. The journals described young love, patriotism, natural concerns as the war began and prolonged, questions about American intervention, descriptions of significant war-time events, accounts of illness within the family, birthday celebrations for the Führer, and mournful tales of sacrifices made by the neighborhood boys for their Vaterland— Deutschland. They offered an absolutely enthralling story, but also served as wonderful primary source artifacts from a bygone time and place which influenced the trajectory of the world and the human race.

I asked my Marine to have his wife transcribe the material chronologically into two notebooks that I provided. I wanted to be able to cross reference the translation with the primary source material. His wife did an amazing job, and with the aid of her grandfather, was able to add anecdotes which provided context to certain phrases or places and organizations mentioned by the young author. The transcriptions are beautiful in and of themselves and only surpassed in impressiveness by the journals.

During the project, my Marine's wife received the most unfortunate news. Her grandfather had passed away. She continued to translate the journals for me, however, without his help the "old German" portions could not be read, and the project stalled. Working with her grandfather had been a great bonding experience, but she was now understandably pained to continue without him, so she returned the journals with the translations she had completed to date.

I thought that they would remain un-translated for the foreseeable future, but then remembered that one of my #philosophy professors at St. Mary's University , Dr. Andrew Brei, Ph.D. , said that he studied German in college. He wanted a project that would help to revitalize his German language proficiency. Maybe there was more immediate hope, after all. I set a meeting to discuss the project over breakfast, and collected the journals, and some of the other books that I thought he might find interesting. In addition to the journals and poetry collections, I rescued about two dozen literary works, a small portfolio with a map, a pocket world atlas, a German-to-Korean dictionary, and two small anthologies of art (one of paintings and the other of sculptures). When we met, I showed him what I brought, and he seemed eager to read through them and exercise his German. Dr. Brei agreed to give it a shot, so I left him with the journals and some of the books, and for only the fourth time in nearly 100 years, they had exchanged hands.

Dr. Brei and I, have a plan to meet later this semester and see how things are going with the project. However, I must confess that I'm not sure what I will do with them once complete. Some people have suggested that I #write a #book, but if I do that, I will want it to be about the couple, and I'm not sure there is enough information for that. To be more accurate, I don't know that I'll have the time to commit to a project of that size or scope any time soon. I think I'm leaning towards letting the real story from the journals sit in my mind and inspire a #fictional work. I'm not sure at this point.

There is also a lingering thought that this is their story, and although I don't feel bad for having it, or find it inappropriate to be let in on it (they were already forgotten after all, destined for the landfill, and only saved by my interest), it does seem a little strange to completely pull back the curtain on her most intimate thoughts and share them with the world. Will that change after a century has passed? We are close, still, I don't know. I know that things written in private, find themselves released to us years after their composition, and we end up loving them. We are made better by reading them.

Again, I don't know, and continue to sort these thoughts and feelings out. I can tell you this; they are cherished now, as they were in years past. The fact that I share no relations with the author, and little connection, other than military service, doesn't diminish their significance for me. We will see where things lead, but you can bet that in time they will be back on my shelf and in their new home. Words once forgotten, now remembered, are placed in our hearts and minds, and we are better for it— the world is better for it. They have a place.