OCR Text |
Show Kathleen Norris Says: When Johnny Comes Home Bell Syndicate. WNU Features. fmMm If WMwm "They make such a fuss over me at home that it makes me feel embarrassed ; J haven't done anything yet that I wasn't told to do. I haven't done anything j heroic or dramatic." By KATHLEEN NORRIS HERE is a letter from a soldier. An American soldier who has been in uniform for fourteen months, without ever leaving his own country. He was for eight months in Alaska, was sent to officers' training camp in the middle west six months ago; has since been moved to an air base in Florida. During that time Andy has been home for three leaves, and now he expects a fourth leave before being finally assigned. "I wish the family at home would get onto the fact that I'm not a hero, and that my tastes haven't changed in all these months," writes Andy. "It would be ridiculous to say that I don't look forward to leave, because I love my home, and those months In Alaska were the longest and dullest dull-est I ever lived through. But they make such a fuss over me at home that it makes me feel embarrassed; I haven't done anything yet that I wasn't told to do; I haven't done anything heroic or dramatic. Mom was terribly pleased when I was sent to officers' training, but so were a lot of other fellows, and It isn't anything to get chesty about. "Next month I'll probably be sent overseas, and if I am I'll certainly do my best to show how ready I am to fight But meanwhile why don't they let me alone? Over-Supply of Welcome. "Look," the letter continues youthfully. youth-fully. "The whole family gathers 'round the minute I get home, and they listen to every word I say as if it was Gospel. Aunts and uncles that I didn't see three times a year come in to meals. People whose houses I never dined In, people I actually don't like, telephone Mom and ask If Andy will come to dinner, and exactly what I'd like. My aunt brings in doughnuts and cookies every ev-ery day, 'the kind you always were crazy about, dearie.' My sister makes batches of fudge and expects me to be eating it practically all the time. I tell Mom some silly thing about army meals or something, and she wants me to repeat it to everyone; 'tell them about that time you were shelling peas,' 'tell them what the mess-sergeant said about your doing the dishes." "Evenings are the worst. Dad won't let my younger sister or brother broth-er out of the house while I'm there, and my other sister comes over with her husband and more fudge, and often my cousin "and his wife come in; they live next door. They all want to sit around in a ring and make much of me; Mom picks up everything I say and repeats it to the others; I'm not allowed any more to have the kind of evening I used to like. I mean radio, and a book, and maybe a movie, or going around with some boy I know. And then when I've got to go they all cry for two days; gosh, you can't blame Mom for that, but the others don't do anything to buck her up. Forced Appreciation. "There are two other fellows at camp who told me they left home three days before their leave was up because they were fed and petted and quoted too much," the letter goes on. "One of them had ten days on his first leave and his mother he's an only child took him out to dinner with people he hardly knew every one of the ten nights. He said she liked it; lots of them were people peo-ple she hadn't known at all before. The other one says he always gets sick at home, and so dog-tired he bas to go to a hotel for a few days before he can come back to camp. "I think 50 people asked me, last NO HEROICS, PLEASE Don't be too indulgent when that soldier-boy son of yours comes home on leave! An over-supply over-supply of welcome becomes tiresome to the extreme. The average man is embarrassed when his family, relatives, friends and even chance acquaintances ac-quaintances make a great fuss over him. Few men in service look upon themselves as heroesand he-roesand they don't want others to take that attitude. They know they have a job to do, and they would sooner skip the heroics. Another warning: A gloom-laden, unhappy un-happy sounding letter to a boy in service is worse than no letter let-ter at all. It shouldn't be necessary nec-essary to force yourself to be cheerful in writing. And fill your letters with even unimportant unim-portant news about the home town! leave, if I got the sweater Mom made me, the cards, cigarettes, candy, can-dy, soap. It is darned tiresome saying say-ing 'you bet I did, and it went right to the spot,' or 'it was just what I needed.' Then some of these old girls grin and say 'I'll bet some of the boys envy you, Andy,' and over and over again I grin back and say, 'And how!' "H you knew my folks," he says In conclusion, "I'd ask you to go have a talk with them before I get home, and tell them that what I want is a little neglect!" Is it possible that in our anxiety to show these boys how deeply we appreciate what they are doing for us, how eager we are to make them happy, we are In danger of fussing them into a state of impatience and irritation? Another soldier sent me from Honolulu two letters from home. These were written by a widowed mother and a young married sister. Instead of sending Gordon, as intelligent in-telligent mothers and sisters do, brief cheerful notes with all the good news they could muster and a joke or two put in, these two women wrote extensively of each other's health. Helen was having another baby, and considering the dangerous illness and disappointment she went through when last she expected a baby. Mama was miserable with anxiety about it. Carroll might be called at any time, so they were living with Mama, and Mama and Helen "wish they could stop crying, but really, with everything so horrible, hor-rible, It was Impossible." Mama's sacro-iliac trouble had started up all over again; she had slipped on the cellar stairs; they'd had no help that winter, and she and Helen had to do everything. Mama was limping around again, but now poor Helen's "hour of peril" was close. Carroll was having his bad sinus trouble and that might save his being taken. The weather was terribly w-et Mama had taken down Gordy's picture because it broke her heart to see it, "Well, this is an awful war, and we will be glad when it was over," Mama wrote. "But that is not likely to be soon. There is no news. Town is very quiet. Please be careful about catching colds as we have all had them. Lovingly, Mama." That's a real letter, and I hope the woman who wrote it chances to see this article. If you know any mother who is capable of writing that sort of thing to an absent, homesick home-sick boy, you might cut it out and mail it to her. We musn't do anything, any-thing, when the boys are far away, except to cheer them, send them good news and assure them that we are with them heart and souL |