There it sits, brass gleaming and polished for the first time in many years, dented in several place, a Japanese bugle from the Second World War.
My father-in-law, Jim Gillet, served in the Army in the Pacific during the war and afterwards in the occupation forces of Japan. Whether Jim picked the bugle up in a trade with another G.I. or from some field of conflict I do not know, but this beaten-up convoluted bit of brass is one of the haunted objects in my apartment. Some Japanese soldier used this bugle to rouse his comrades from sleep, call them to meals, and signal an attack. The bugle brings to mind battles forgotten by many younger Americans—Guadalcanal, Midway, Tarawa, Rabul, Leyte, Iwo Jima, Okinawa—engagements that determined the outcome of that brutal conflict.
My father-in-law, Jim Gillet, served in the Army in the Pacific during the war and afterwards in the occupation forces of Japan. Whether Jim picked the bugle up in a trade with another G.I. or from some field of conflict I do not know, but this beaten-up convoluted bit of brass is one of the haunted objects in my apartment. Some Japanese soldier used this bugle to rouse his comrades from sleep, call them to meals, and signal an attack. The bugle brings to mind battles forgotten by many younger Americans—Guadalcanal, Midway, Tarawa, Rabul, Leyte, Iwo Jima, Okinawa—engagements that determined the outcome of that brutal conflict.
Most of the time, however, this instrument brings to mind neither Japanese soldiers nor the Pacific war, but my in-laws, Jim and Dorothy, what they meant to Kris and me, and the funniest trip I ever took in my life.
When he returned from Japan, Jim married Dorothy, whom he had met when staying with her family on a farm in Wisconsin while teaching in a nearby school. After the war he remained in education, first as a teacher and later as a guidance counselor. Dorothy became a nurse, then the mother of three daughters. The family lived in a modest house on Milwaukee’s North 89th Street until Jim’s death almost twenty-five years ago.
The Gillets practiced frugality, living simply, going on inexpensive vacations, and taking on extra jobs—Jim, for example, remained an Army Reservist, worked the State Fair, and taught tennis in the summer. He built some extra rooms in the house and took immaculate care of the yard and the exterior of the home while Dorothy handled the duties of cooking, housecleaning, and childcare. They saved their money, investing some of it profitably in stocks.
Though thrifty in regard to their own wants, Jim and Dorothy were lavish in what they spent on their grandchildren. In the case of my own family, they paid for our children’s braces, lent or gave us money several times when we fell behind on various debts, and filled the living room of the Palmer House with gifts at Christmas. After Kris’s death—Jim had died eleven years earlier—Dorothy was extremely generous in her financial gifts both to me and to my children.
When I married Kris, I often wondered what they thought of me as a son-in-law. I wanted to be a writer and was, for the most part, working minimum wage jobs. At one point I spent a year writing while Kris worked. Certainly I was not the most promising of husbands.
Jim was a quiet man of simple pleasures. In the evening, for example, he enjoyed watching “Wheel of Fortune,” eating an orange, and drinking a single beer. He rarely spoke of his past or questioned me about my plans for the future, and when he offered any sort of critique, he did so in a kindly, removed way. As for Dorothy, who was sharp with finances, she surely regarded me at times as a fool. Looking back at some of my mistakes, I can hardly blame her.
But then Kris died, and with her death Dorothy and I grew close. When she visited me that summer, we had long conversations, mostly about Kris, and comforted each other in our grief. She gave me sage financial direction, advising me, for instance, to set up an education fund for my children for those who might want to donate money in memory of Kris. She warned me to beware of the “casserole brigade.” When I asked her what she meant by the casserole brigade, she explained single women bearing food and looking for marriage would visit me. I laughed and said, “Mom, the only women I know are home school mothers and they’re all married,” which was true. We began talking by phone every couple of weeks, during which time I updated her about her grandchildren and their various activities.
As she got older, Dorothy—I sometimes called her Mom, but will use her name here to avoid confusion—began suffering memory loss. Hers was a slow-acting dementia, where she first occasionally forgot the names of friends or grandchildren, then began misplacing her keys or sending out checks with the wrong name or amount.
Though our phone conversations made me aware of the slips and holes in her memory, only when the two of us make a trip together did I better understand her condition. It was July, and my son Jon Pat was marrying Emily. That summer I also planned to attend a conference in Rockford, Illinois, the week before the wedding, and so offered to bring Dorothy from Milwaukee to Virginia on my return trip. I made the arrangements, attended the conference, and called her on Friday to tell her that I would, as planned, arrive at her house on Sunday.
“I thought you were coming on Saturday and we were leaving on Sunday.”
“No, Mom, I’m coming on Sunday.”
“But I’m already packed.”
“All right,” I said, without irritation. The conference was winding down anyway. “I’ll drive up tomorrow and we’ll leave early Sunday morning.”
Early Saturday afternoon, she greeted me with a hug, and we walked into the living room of her apartment. Two sofas, one long, one short, were covered with toiletries, suitcases, clothes, and shoes. It looked as if she had removed everything from her bathroom and her bedroom closet, and stacked them on those sofas.
We visited for a couple of hours, and Dorothy kept fussing with all the things on the sofas, but she did no packing. I kept waiting for her to load up a box or a suitcase, but she just kept going over the items, taking inventory. Every once in a while she would disappear into her bedroom or bath to retrieve some item she’d forgotten.
Because we were driving all day Sunday, I had hopes that evening of attending the Saturday Vigil Mass. Dorothy started to give me directions to the church—“It’s only a few blocks away”—but then changed her mind. “It will be easier if I take you,” she said. “I know right where the church is. I’ll drop you there and pick you up.”
About 4:30 we set out in her car for church. We drove. And drove. And drove. Dorothy couldn’t find the church and we kept passing up and down the same streets, and she looked as if she might weep from frustration. Finally I said, “Mom, it’s okay. We gave it a shot. I’m sure God will understand.”
Thankfully she knew the way home, because by that point I was completely lost.
Now throughout that evening I kept expecting her to pack, but Dorothy just kept taking inventory. Two or three times, I offered to help her load up a suitcase, but she brushed me away. As the minutes and hours piled up, I grew more and more exasperated. Patience is not one of my strong points; I possess a Type A personality—no, better make that a Type A+. We were supposed to be on the road by dawn, and I wanted to moving.
Then came one of those moments of revelation when the Powers-That-Be snag your chin between thumb and forefinger, force you to look them, in the eye, and whisper a few well-chosen words of wisdom. This woman had on occasion saved our family from financial ruin. She was the mother of my wife and grandmother of my children. She was aged and increasingly confused. And if she wanted to putter around with packing, then putter she would. For the next few days, I realized, I was sitting in a classroom, the instructor was Patience, and I was damn well going to learn the lessons she had to teach me.
When he returned from Japan, Jim married Dorothy, whom he had met when staying with her family on a farm in Wisconsin while teaching in a nearby school. After the war he remained in education, first as a teacher and later as a guidance counselor. Dorothy became a nurse, then the mother of three daughters. The family lived in a modest house on Milwaukee’s North 89th Street until Jim’s death almost twenty-five years ago.
The Gillets practiced frugality, living simply, going on inexpensive vacations, and taking on extra jobs—Jim, for example, remained an Army Reservist, worked the State Fair, and taught tennis in the summer. He built some extra rooms in the house and took immaculate care of the yard and the exterior of the home while Dorothy handled the duties of cooking, housecleaning, and childcare. They saved their money, investing some of it profitably in stocks.
Though thrifty in regard to their own wants, Jim and Dorothy were lavish in what they spent on their grandchildren. In the case of my own family, they paid for our children’s braces, lent or gave us money several times when we fell behind on various debts, and filled the living room of the Palmer House with gifts at Christmas. After Kris’s death—Jim had died eleven years earlier—Dorothy was extremely generous in her financial gifts both to me and to my children.
When I married Kris, I often wondered what they thought of me as a son-in-law. I wanted to be a writer and was, for the most part, working minimum wage jobs. At one point I spent a year writing while Kris worked. Certainly I was not the most promising of husbands.
Jim was a quiet man of simple pleasures. In the evening, for example, he enjoyed watching “Wheel of Fortune,” eating an orange, and drinking a single beer. He rarely spoke of his past or questioned me about my plans for the future, and when he offered any sort of critique, he did so in a kindly, removed way. As for Dorothy, who was sharp with finances, she surely regarded me at times as a fool. Looking back at some of my mistakes, I can hardly blame her.
But then Kris died, and with her death Dorothy and I grew close. When she visited me that summer, we had long conversations, mostly about Kris, and comforted each other in our grief. She gave me sage financial direction, advising me, for instance, to set up an education fund for my children for those who might want to donate money in memory of Kris. She warned me to beware of the “casserole brigade.” When I asked her what she meant by the casserole brigade, she explained single women bearing food and looking for marriage would visit me. I laughed and said, “Mom, the only women I know are home school mothers and they’re all married,” which was true. We began talking by phone every couple of weeks, during which time I updated her about her grandchildren and their various activities.
As she got older, Dorothy—I sometimes called her Mom, but will use her name here to avoid confusion—began suffering memory loss. Hers was a slow-acting dementia, where she first occasionally forgot the names of friends or grandchildren, then began misplacing her keys or sending out checks with the wrong name or amount.
Though our phone conversations made me aware of the slips and holes in her memory, only when the two of us make a trip together did I better understand her condition. It was July, and my son Jon Pat was marrying Emily. That summer I also planned to attend a conference in Rockford, Illinois, the week before the wedding, and so offered to bring Dorothy from Milwaukee to Virginia on my return trip. I made the arrangements, attended the conference, and called her on Friday to tell her that I would, as planned, arrive at her house on Sunday.
“I thought you were coming on Saturday and we were leaving on Sunday.”
“No, Mom, I’m coming on Sunday.”
“But I’m already packed.”
“All right,” I said, without irritation. The conference was winding down anyway. “I’ll drive up tomorrow and we’ll leave early Sunday morning.”
Early Saturday afternoon, she greeted me with a hug, and we walked into the living room of her apartment. Two sofas, one long, one short, were covered with toiletries, suitcases, clothes, and shoes. It looked as if she had removed everything from her bathroom and her bedroom closet, and stacked them on those sofas.
We visited for a couple of hours, and Dorothy kept fussing with all the things on the sofas, but she did no packing. I kept waiting for her to load up a box or a suitcase, but she just kept going over the items, taking inventory. Every once in a while she would disappear into her bedroom or bath to retrieve some item she’d forgotten.
Because we were driving all day Sunday, I had hopes that evening of attending the Saturday Vigil Mass. Dorothy started to give me directions to the church—“It’s only a few blocks away”—but then changed her mind. “It will be easier if I take you,” she said. “I know right where the church is. I’ll drop you there and pick you up.”
About 4:30 we set out in her car for church. We drove. And drove. And drove. Dorothy couldn’t find the church and we kept passing up and down the same streets, and she looked as if she might weep from frustration. Finally I said, “Mom, it’s okay. We gave it a shot. I’m sure God will understand.”
Thankfully she knew the way home, because by that point I was completely lost.
Now throughout that evening I kept expecting her to pack, but Dorothy just kept taking inventory. Two or three times, I offered to help her load up a suitcase, but she brushed me away. As the minutes and hours piled up, I grew more and more exasperated. Patience is not one of my strong points; I possess a Type A personality—no, better make that a Type A+. We were supposed to be on the road by dawn, and I wanted to moving.
Then came one of those moments of revelation when the Powers-That-Be snag your chin between thumb and forefinger, force you to look them, in the eye, and whisper a few well-chosen words of wisdom. This woman had on occasion saved our family from financial ruin. She was the mother of my wife and grandmother of my children. She was aged and increasingly confused. And if she wanted to putter around with packing, then putter she would. For the next few days, I realized, I was sitting in a classroom, the instructor was Patience, and I was damn well going to learn the lessons she had to teach me.