Globe Beach Ball

Experts, Testing, and Misdiagnosis

Warning: by nature I am a skeptic and a heretic who hasn't forgotten her radical pacifist youth. Joan of Arc is my patron saint. I birthed two children at home, nursed them for years, sent them to a hippy school of 50 kids from 5 to 18. But I am not an ignorant nutcase grandma, ignorant of the "magnificent" advancements in child psychiatry. Before children, I edited psychiatry books for 7 years; our authors were world-famous psychiatrists who knew how to heal people without drugs. I have a master's degree in library science and a master's degree in social work, specializing in mental illness and families.

As the oldest of 6, the mother of 4, the oldest cousin of 45, a children's librarian, a playgroup coordinator, a breastfeeding counselor, a nursery school membership coordinator, a school volunteer, a family therapist, I have known many hundreds of young children. I have reassured countless mothers that their different child just seems a creative divergent thinker, not a psychiatric case or a potential psychopath; I have often been thanked for my sane, helpful advice.

This week buy a copy of: For Her Own Good: Two Centuries of Expect Advice to Women by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English. I am baffled that this generation of young parents, the most high educated parents in history, are sometimes willing to trust their young children to so-called experts, testing, possible medication. When I was worried about my preschool kids, I called my mother or mother-in-law who had raised 11 kids between them. I asked my grandmother with 7 kids and 31 grandkids whether I should be worried. I went to the library and read all I could about creative children. I researched my worries.I had honest discussions with other mothers and teachers who knew them. Twice I switched nursery schools. I did not take them to a psychiatrist or psychologist. I already knew that my pediatrician's childrearing advice was misguided; I learned not to ask them questions when I was probably going to disagree with his answers.

Twenty-two years ago, at the age of 40, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. The diagnosis hasn't exactly improved my life. I spent ten years taking horrible meds that felt like they were lowering my IQ by 40 points when they weren't producing physical side effects. I met any number of unhelpful, even destructive, psychiatrists. But far worse were the tremendous stigma and discrimination I encountered in both social work and librarianship. Once anyone knows your diagnosis, you have to be a perfect employee, or people fear you will go postal at any moment. My only dangerous weapons have always been my tongue and my pen.

If a young child is diagnosed autistic, or bipolar, or ADHD as a preschoolers, that diagnosis will affect his entire life. Even his loving parents, aunts, uncles, siblings will regard him differently. When I was in social work school in 1993, it was psychiatric dogma that bipolar disorder could not be diagnosed until late adolescence. Now kids are being diagnosed as preschoolers and treated with antipsychotics, which are only approved for chronic schizophrenics. Psychiatrists seem reluctant to prescribe traditional mood stabilizers because, after all, they are generic now. They can't be much good, can they? Some antipsychotics cause tremendous weight gain and are implicated in childhood diabetes. Before medicating their child, perhaps parents should take the meds themselves and experience their effects. Most college students know ritalin will improve their performance on the SATs or final exams.

I am skeptical about the usefulness of testing young children. We endlessly agonized over subjecting our kids to an IQ test to get them into the only public school in Manhattan for gifted children. Anne, my oldest, was a bit too creative for her own good. When asked to complete figure drawings, she ignored the missing eyes or ears to adorn the figure with gorgeous hats featuring birds on top and with princess gowns. Some kids won't talk to their parents' friends upon command. Why would they open up to a stranger?

Little kids are not fooled by being told the nice lady is going to play games with them. They sense they are falling short, that they might not be good enough, that their parents are worried. That must affect their behavior during the test, at preschool, at home.

We had created a very hostile world for children. Far too many experts seem interested in labeling and drugging children so they fit into that world, rather than reforming society so children's amazing creativity and individuality can flourish. I am not denying that some troubled children could benefit from professional evaluation and help. Certainly parents can research and implement some of the stimulation suggested for certain learning difficulties. But how can an expert spend a few hours dealing with a possibly uncooperative child and convince you that they "know" what is wrong with them? When I was growing up, the diagnosis "brat" was used freely, but you were expected to outgrow brattyness. "Oppositional defiant disorder" can sometimes sound like the same thing.

I have gone to psychiatric lectures on childhood mental illness where home, parental work hours, school, neighborhood are never mentioned. The assumption is the child has a lifelong biological brain disorder. even though no physical test can validate that diagnosis. I suspect 100 years from now current psychiatric treatment of children will be seen as a disgraceful episode in medical history, one more flagrant example of experts giving mothers destructive advice "for their own good."

Hair

From the beginning, Nate has enjoyed my hair. For the past few weeks, he has loved it when Vanessa and I swung our hair back and forth. He is particularly delighted when we blow on our bangs to make them dance. Occasionally he has managed to grab my hair, but his grabbing never seemed deliberate. This morning was a big step in his rapid evolution from an observer to a doer. Repeatedly he grabbed hold of my hair and got very excited shaking it. He has learned how to capture me!

Grandma Mary

My mother was only 52 when my oldest Anne was born. I had to wait until 62 to become a grandmother. Look how young she looks. She was an incredibly energetic grandmother, the kind who takes their grandchildren to Europe. Teenage Anne once commented: "I could even visualize you and dad dying, but grandma is immortal." Sadly, she didn't live to meet her two great grandsons and her great-daughter. By year's end, there will be six great grandchildren.

The downside of women's having children after they are settled in their careers is that their parents are older. Their children might not be grown when the parents have to confront the dilemmas of elder care. My grandmother was 47 when I was born. She lived long enough to meet 23 great grandchildren. Of course, her children had their children much younger as well.

My mother, my aunts, and their friends had their children young, then went back to school and embarked on a new career in their forties. For the most part, they did well. My Aunt Rosemarie went to law school at age 40, and went on to be chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook University.

Becoming a Grandmother

My first grandchild Michael was born May 9. 2007 to my oldest daughter Anne. Anne and her husband live in New York City, only a 38-minute train ride away.

Because I am so close and because Anne has given me the incredible gift of welcoming my company, I have seen Michael almost every weekday since he was born, I have felt absolute joy getting to know him and watching my daughter and son-in-law blossom into wonderful parents.

My Grandma

My grandmother, Mary Catherine , born in 1898, left school after eighth grade. One of her first jobs was to mount women's combs on cards. She married my grandfather, a widowed lawyer with a toddler son, at age 22. She had seven children, four sons and three daughters; she raised her stepson as her own. Tragically one daughter died before she was two. Her husband died when she was 40; her children ranged from 17 to 2. She had lost her parents the year before. There was no social security, no pension, very little insurance. She collected rent from three small apartments in Brooklyn, but the apartments were the source of endless headaches. She worked part-time in a laundromat.

Grandma was a very loving, giving single mother; all her children turned out well--two lawyers, two teachers, a nurse, a social worker, a computer programmer. She was unavailingly there to help out when babies were born, when someone was sick, when someone was in crisis. A very religious women, she was empowered by her deep faith. When she died at age 86, she had 31 grandchildren and 23 great grandchildren; most of them attended her funeral because they had loved her so much. She is my inspiration and role model.

Importance of Funerals

My godfather, Jim, who served on the USS Biloxi during World War II

I am in the process of transferring a blog from a former site. I wrote this in March 2004; I left it as is, so as not to detract from the immediacy of it.

I haven't written this week. My uncle/godfather died and I was busy with wakes, funerals, memories. When I was younger, I was freaked out by funerals. Now I welcome the opportunity to see aunts, uncles, cousins I see too rarely. My uncle was 87, had been sick for a long time. He died peacefully, telling his family he "was going to see his bride," his wife who died ten years ago. So his funeral was more a mellow celebration of his life, very different from the wrenching heartbreak of four years ago, when my 64-year-old uncle succumbed to a four-month battle with cancer. Uncle Jim's four children and twelve grandchildren were all there. I feel strongly that people should go to their grandparents', aunts' and uncles' funerals. Two of my cousins brought their four month and seven month babies, which added to the celebration of my uncle's life.

My cousin, Jim's oldest son, gave a touching eulogy. I particularly liked this: "I would argue that Dad's secret was that he knew how to like people. There may be someone in this world who has met my father and who does not like him. However, with absolulute certainty, I can tell you that there is no one, whom my father has met, in whom my father did not immediately see the good and with whom my father would not immediately share his humor....Everyone who came into his presence met a warm smiling face and a friendly voice, which comjunicated immediately that one was accepted and loved."

My uncle was a wonderful storyteller who loved telling jokes. My cousin concluded: "I hope God likes to listen to jokes." My mother died three weeks after her older brother. We wondered if she liked Jim's jokes that much! It was the last time her brothers, nieces, and nephews saw her. She was in good form, admiring the family babies, obviously happy to see everyone. If her family had missed seeing her that last time, they would have always regretted it.

Warren's Tribute to Mom

April 11, 2004

MY SISTER, MARIE

She was one of the brightest stars of our generation, World War II bride, mother of six, grandmother of fifteen, community activist, teacher, founding pillar of St. Martha's Church in Uniondale, L.I., and finally, a volunteer lobbyist for the Alzheimer's Association in Albany and Washington.

She was my big sister. For us, her five brothers and her sister, Joan, she was always, "Marie".

In my first memory of her she is crying, doubtless frustrated by the antics of her three rambunctious younger brothers, Warren, Frank and Ken. We were eleven, thirteen and fifteen years younger than Marie.

Though she was an accomplished scholar at Our Lady of Wisdom Academy in Ozone Park, our father's death in 1939 made it impossible for her to consider college. She went to work, helping to support her widowed mother and five younger siblings. In the evening, she took courses, eventually overburdening herself and suffering some health setbacks.

A young man she dated in 1940 had a car with a rumble seat. Before we knew what cool meant, it was cool to go to the World's Fair in Flushing Meadow in the rumble seat of a coupe. The Trylon and Perisphere were enduring symbols of our youth. The young man did not survive the war which began for the U.S. in December, 1941.

At some point we learned tha Marie had met Joe Koch while on a summer vacation in the Adirondacks. Then he was in the Army and there were endless letters back and forth. Suddenly, he was coming home on furlough and she was to be married. It was March 6, 1944. She was just twenty-two. He called her Mary.

Joe Koch had four sisters, Mary, Jane, Agnes and Peggy. They descended upon our simple 220th Street home in Queens Village and transformed it into a wedding palace. As there was rationing, and meat was scarce, we younger ones were sent out to canvass the neighborhood for red coupons which, with a bit of money, and some luck, would provision the wedding feast. With certainty there were also preserved vegetables and fruits from our previous summer's victorygarden.

My memory is of a bright, sunny day with a distinct chill in the air. My brother Robert, 17, handsome in his blue Xavier uniform with white gloves, standing in for James who was aboard the USS Biloxi in the Pacific, escorted the beautiful bride down the aisle of SS. Joachim and Anne Church. Later, in our backyard, I recall seeing our white haired pastor, Father Herchenroder. He had been a poker playing pal of my father, and knew many of the Nolans from the Brooklyn days. As the celebration dwindled down, a few of us with more serious
purpose adjourned across the street to engage the Gallic boys in a game of marbles. Which reminds me that one of the Gallics, Denny, had a serious crush on my sister and would come calling for her. He was about ten at the time of her wedding.

As Joe went back to his military duties, Marie continued to live with us. We younger ones learned that the great mystery of life was unfolding, and that there was to be a baby in the summer of 1945. For some reason we had a piano in our living room. Maybe James played a little, and Aunt Anna some, but there were no virtuosos in our family. Soon my big sister, awaiting her first born, began to play over, and over and over again, "Meet me in St. Louis, Looie, meet me at the Fair", from the popular 1944 movie of that name. Hers was a
small repertoire. We never heard "The Trolley Song", "The Boy Next Door", or "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" from the same film.

In May of 1945. Jim and Kay were married. At the reception in the Belmont Plaza hotel on Lexington Avenue, a family picture was taken. My very pregnant "big" sister hid behind her little brothers.

Mary Jo arrived on July 17, 1945. I believe by this time her Dad was in Europe, probably beginning his hunt for "Bambi" in Paris. And we had a little sister. Can boys thirteen, eleven and nine really be uncles? As I made my way through eighth grade at SS. Joachim and Anne in 1945-46, it was my morning ritual to spend time playing with Mary Jo before heading off to school. She was pretty cute.

When the war ended in August, 1945, Joe did not return as quickly as other soldiers. Most of his service had been stateside, and he had not accumulated as many points as others who had been in combat zones. When he did come home, he squeezed into our family abode at 220th Street, living there throughout 1946 and into 1947, commuting to his job wiith the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Manhattan via bus and subway.

Housing was scarce after the war. Early in 1947, Joe and Marie found a prewar Cape Cod style house in a place called Uniondale on the Nassau frontier. For us New York City sophisticates, anything east of Belmont Park was the habitat of potato farmers and clamdiggers. Both Joe and Marie began to exhibit some of those Long Island farming and gardening instincts, so it was great that they had purchased an oversized lot which brought them much happiness over the
years, and provided ample room for large family gatherings. The address was827 Henry Street.

We Nolans no longer owned a car so it was a two bus trip to Uniondale, first via Bee Line to Hempstead, and then by some Okielike conveyance along Front Street to Uniondale Avenue. I recall being pressed into service to scrape and paint the bathroom before they moved in. Looking out that bathroom window at night, you could see a few lights twinkling on far off Front Street. There seemed nothing in between. It was a pretty desolate place, but it was connected to civilization via telephone, IV6-5607. Over the years, I must have called
that number a thousand times.

By the early 1950s my three oldest siblings were contributing mightily to the postwar baby boom. Their progeny was color coded by family: blondes, brunettes and redheads. My wife Marie and I produced twins in the biggest baby boom year, 1957. With the marriages of Joan and Peter, Frank and Rosemarie, and Ken and Marie swelling the total, Mother soon had thirty-one grandchildren.

In the 1950s and 1960s our family celebrations were still focused on 220th Street. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, we would arrive in relays. It was on these occasions that James would put together family entertainments featuring the grandchildren. After Mother sold the old homestead in 1969 and moved to a Uniondale apartment, Joe and Marie began to host the family gatherings on the holidays and for special events during the summer. My sister had an amazing ability to bring together large numbers of people with little pretense or fuss,
creating a joyous, happy, relaxed time for all. These gatherings continued through the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s. Her organization of the 1998 one hundreth anniversary celebration of Mother's birthday topped all her parties and had to be held on the grounds of a local church to accomodate all the Nolans and related families. The one dotter, two dotter, three dotter terminology that we use to distinguish the generations was a product of that happy family event.

In the 1960s Marie graduated from Nassau Community College and continued on for her Hofstra degree. She told me that she was considering becoming an elementary teacher. With apology to all elementary teachers, I told my sister that she needed to be teaching at the secondary level. With her deep and diverse intellectual interests that was clearly the place for her. She went on to her master's degree at Hofstra University and began to teach social studies at Uniondale High School. Some years later, she invited me to speak to her colleagues at Uniondale on the subject of a school-within-a-school project they were organizing. I had done an evaluation of a similar community school at Herricks High School. It was hard to tell if she was more proud of me or I of her. It was amusing to see two of my Regis teachers, her Uniondale colleagues, in the group.

Mother was always amazed at having produced children who were so widely distributed across the political spectrum in their views. Marie, Frank and I were the liberal caucus, sometimes referred to as "Commonweal Catholics". I still read Commonweal, but now I stand alone, Have mercy, Ken.

In the late 1970s, the time came when Mother could no longer function on her own. Marie and Joe took her into their home. While carrying on an amazing variety of social, community and church related activities, Marie was able to provide our Mother with the best possible quality of life until her death in January, 1985. Perhaps it was her involvement in Mother's care that made her slow to recognize the changes that were taking place in her husband, Joe. He was
exhibiting symptoms later diagnosed as Alzheimer's disease, and so she entered upon another period of devoted care for a loved one, this time her life's partner.

From their earliest days in Uniondale, Marie and Joe had been part of the Catholic community which founded St. Martha's parish. Relations were not always smooth. There came a time when she was part of a group locking horns with the then pastor who wanted to knock down the old church and build something grander. Her group was successful. My sister was deeply involved in all aspects of her parish, serving as a lector and as a member of the parish council among
other activities. At various times of her life she was a daily communicant, walking the five or six blocks to the church. On the half-dozen or more occasions when my wife and I attended Mass with her there, she seemed to be greeted by half the congregation. As the community changed, St. Martha's served a more diverse population. Both in her church and community activities my sister was dedicated to maintaining Uniondale as a balanced, integrated community.

After Joe's death in 1987, Marie became a leader in the fight against Alzheimer's disease, serving as a member of the board of the Long Island Alzheimer's Association, conducting support groups, gathering her clan to participate in the annual march, and lobbying for funds each year in both Albany and Washington. Even after we moved from West Islip to Otisco Lake in 1994, she would summon us each fall to participate in the Alzheimer's march. My daughter Eileen remembers that about the time the cherry blossoms were blooming around the Tidal
Basin in Washington, her Aunt Marie would sweep into town to lobby for Congressional support to fund Alzheimer's research, bunk with her for one night, and share a meal at some ethnic restaurant with Eileen and my son Chris. Marie sensitized me to the Alzheimer's problem. Last summer I became a participant in a national study to determine the possible effectiveness of anti-inflammatory drugs in inpeding the progress of Alzheimer's disease.

About two years ago we took Marie to visit James at his home in Ridge. They sat opposite each other, holding hands. I do not recall any verbal communication between them, but who can know what is passing through the minds of a brother and sister who, after eighty years of shared family life, are meeting for the last time.

As her health declined Marie benefitted from the wonderful care given her by her family caregivers. Michael, Sherry and Willa live about forty minutes east of us so while my sister was with them we were able to visit her and see the loving care which they provided. Willa, about five at the time, was in a role reversal with her grandmother, watching over her and cautioning her when necessary.

My sister would often joke about a paper she had written at Hofstra, "I Lived  with Twelve Men". She meant her five brothers, her five sons, her father and her husband. With Mary Jo's recent marriage, a thirteenth man came into my sister's life, Andy Graves. As Marie became less mobile, and less and less able to communicate, Andy and Mary Jo devoted all their energies to her care. All of us in her widely extended family are deeply grateful to them for their extraordinary efforts in caring for the person we all loved so much.

When we saw Marie two weeks ago at Jim's wake, we were elated at her response to Eileen's baby. Her eyes sparkled, and she seemed thrilled to see little Andrew, making the kind of cooing sounds adults use to communicate with infants. It gave us hope that she would be with us a while more, but it was not to be.

To Mary Jo and Richard, Stephen and Michael, Peter and Mark, let me say, in my brother Bob's words, your mother was an extraordinary woman. She was a  teacher and model for us all, the exemplar of a modern, educated, Christian woman who was a great mother and grandmother, an accomplished professional educator, and a spirited activist and leader in the affairs of her church and community.

And to you, dear sister, your lively voice is quieted, and your exciting life's journey has come to an end. Leave it to you to pick Good Friday for a dramatic exit. You will live on in the hearts and minds of all of us who have loved you so dearly. Hopefully, you will light the way for us to follow in your heavenly path when we are called.

Love to all our family,
Warren

Maiden Names

Both my parents are buried a Calverton, a military cemetery, on Eastern Long Island. My dad was a World War II veteran. When I was at Calverton for my aunts funeral, I visited my mom's and dad's graves. I was perturbed to see mom's inscribed as Mary Nolan, because I had misremembered that she wanted Mary Nolan Koch.

I hunted through her correspondence and found the following letter sent to the Veterans Administration in Washington, a year after my father's death.:

Feb. 5, 1988
Dear Sir,

On May 11, 1987, my husband, Joseph J. Koch, an Army veteran of World War II, was buried in the Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island, NY, gravesite 8179.

It is my understanding that gravesite 8180 has been reserved for me, his wife. When I recently visited the cemetery I was disturbed to note that the wives of veterans were only identified by their first name. To me that is sex discrimination.

Although I accepted my husband's name at marriage, I still consider myself as Mary Nolan and would wish to be so identified on a name plaque making my grave. Is there any reason why your policy could not be updated?

Yours truly,
Mary Nolan Koch

Subsequent correspondence showed the VA changed their policy and accepted her wishes. I feel rather sheepish about my first reaction. Bravo, Mary Nolan, a feminist ahead of her time! We were allowed to add an additional line, so we added mother, teacher, activist.

Family decisions on maiden names fascinate me. The one daughter who kept her maiden name insists that the waspish name trumps. Without violating my daughters' privacy and revelaing their names, you will have to take my word for it. After much inner turmoil, I took my husband's name when I married in 1968. It was an English name; Koch lent itself to too many embarrassisng mispronounciations. When I went back to school and work in 1987, I reverted to my maiden name. My master's degrees in library science and social work are under Koch.

Partly to disassociate myself from my past indiscretions, I took my husband's name when I remarried in 2001. Two daugthters, successful professional women, surprised us by taking their husbands' more Waspish names when they married. The one whose husband's name was not Waspish kept her original Waspish name.

Three of my sisters-in-law kept the maiden's name. One brother and his former wife made up a new name that combined elements of both their names.

What did you or your spouse decide?

Giving Her Children Wings

Her combination of fearlessness, faith in God, and experience with five brothers made my mother a wonderful mother of boys. She didn't worry; she didn't clip any wings. She didn't let little things like sons on the roof or a son out of touch hiking the Appalachian trail for months upset her. Richard and Stephen look so pleased with themselves without any fear they might fall off or get in trouble. Her shy, timid, anxious daughter was a mystery to her:)

Joe: New Year's Day, 1943

After making our beds and cleaning up the barracks, you can well realize why we don’t have to report for calisthenics until 8 o clock. The exercises are given out on the drill field and it certainly is cold out there because the sun has not cleared the mountains that early. For the first few days calisthenics were easy because the corporals giving the exercise would tire soon and we’d be through. Today, however, a new system was inaugurated--a shuft of four corporals put us through our paces. After briskly running about a hundred yards we then have to “police up” the company area (It’s now seven minutes to nine so this epistle will have to be continued tomorrow since we have lights out at nine. Oh well early to bed and early to....!)

Policing up consists of spreading out in a line and marching forward picking up stray bits of paper cigarettes etc. from the ground--street cleaning in other words. That is the theoretical aspect. Actually you walk along with your hands in your pockets studiously avoiding looking at the ground....

Joe: Army Life

I recall that on one Sunday afternoon, about five hundred years ago, someone told me how the army made a friend of theirs so much bolder. I hope you're not drawing a parallel. If you had higher mathematics at Queens college, you show know that, according to Riemannian geometry, there are no parallels. It's not the army, Mary; it's the fountain pen for a mighty man with pen and ink, am I. In all these years it's been a hidden talent.

Since one Nolan at least is interested in the army, I should begin by describing the process of Uptonizing. The prospective soldiers arrive in Camp Upton (I can't tell you how since that is a troop movement and troop movements are military secrets) late in the afternoon , and the balance of the day and night is spent in being acclimated. This involves standing out in the open, swept by cold winds (and rain if there is any) until the body temperature is about 40 degrees, and then marched into a building to thaw out. Just so this time is not wasted, they dish out either a meal or a test.

I was lucky because my first day ended at 11 pm; if my name began with a "z" it probably would have concluded at about 4 am. The next day the process is repeated beginning at 5 am--it is dark at this unearthly hour . However, after breakfast and after the inevitable standing around being counted and recounted , we were marched into the processing unit. I entered one door as a civilian and came out a fully uniformed soldier (in fact, carrying three other complete uniforms in a large canvas bag), possessing an insurance policy, and bearing the imprints of typhoid, anti-tetanus, and smallpox innoculations. After that the entire group is marched to the cinema to see a double feature entitled, "What Every Young Soldier Should Know." Thus ends the process and the solider is usually sent to some other camp for basic training.

But you are probably saying to yourself, Joe must be still at Camp Upton because the envelope says so. Yes I am still out here in the woods. It seems that I'm on a special detail; the requirements for which seem to (1) that you wear glasses, and (2) that you pass the intelligence test (I got 151 but I always knew I was a genius). After working for a week I don't think the second requirement is at all necessary. On the whole work is rather easy--just routine clerical work handling the records of the incoming soldiers ,but there is certainly enough of it.

Because of our work we live in a special row of tents. I'm sleeping in a 6 man tent and believe it or not, my principal complaint is that it is too hot. One of the soldiers in my tent was formerly a fireman on a Coast Guard rum chaser during prohibition days: he has appinted himself chief of the tent stove and he keeps it red hot night and day. Even on the windiest days the temperature inside our tent is about 85. We use coal so we're not affected by oil rationing. Heh, Heh.

Joe: December 25, 1942

The eastern skies are golden ocean that stretches from purple mountain to purple mountain. Over this glowing ocean, a halo of pale yellow reaches up until it is transmuted into the deepest blue. The shores of the golden sea are white sand, of course, but as they recede from the molten surf they become darker and grayer until a dull green color predominates. The cactus and yucca-studded beach stretches all the way to the brown mountains of the west which are roofed by the western sky trying to show that the Occident too is a colorful panorama. The blue-gray western clouds are blushing a genteel pink. Is it because they have seen the sun still beneath the eastern horizon or are they showing their anticipation of the home-coming moon--in all its white fullness sailing slowly serenely towards its western moorings?

The description is not so hot but it is an attempt to show that despite the radio and the jukebox, a white Christmas is not the only kind. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the first Christmas was more like our New Mexico one than the wintry Christmases of Queens Village and points north. All right, the fact that I’m writing letters on Christmas shows which kind I prefer. I think that all twelve of us who came down from Camp Upton feel quite lonely and homesick today.

I myself can’t conceive of being 2800 miles away from you and the Koches. Next door the bugler is practicing, outside cactus is growing, and if I look out the window I can see the desert all around and yet I still think that all I have to do is catch that next bus at Parsons Blvd and have you help me play with the various games and toys of the Nolan younger trio until Frank says, “Whose Christmas presents do you think these are anyway?”

My Dad Describes Proscrastination

It was my intent to begin this letter with a lecture on procrastination delivered in Prof. Koch's inimitable style. This is how I used to work it. In those days I got off at 4:30 so I would be home considerably before 6.

Since dinner would be ready at 6 it was hardly worthwhile to begin studying. So I would start reading the LI Daily Press. After supper it would be only a few minutes till Lowell Thomas comes on so I might as well wait. (Please excuse the shift of tenses to the narrative present.) Well, a fellow needs some amusement and what's fifteen minutes; so to WEAF for the Chesterfield program with Fred Waring. Time out to rest so now it's 7:30. The half hour from 7:30 to 8:00 was really the difficult time to waste. I usually couldn't think of a valid excuse for not studying. Since I wasn't a lawyer, I usually got by without one.

Of course, everyone knows that the good radio programs come on a 8 o'clock so I was saved. This was good for Monday and Tuesday nights. Wednesday was a tougher struggle for I knew if I could get by Wednesday, I was saved for the rest of the week. What would be the use of studying for the last two days of the week? Occasionally, though, I would lose on Wednesday nights and I would have to make some attempt at getting to work. I usually got seated at my desk about 9 but I was still struggling. I could rearrange the papers on my desk for ten or fifteen minutes ,but finally I would have to pick up my book. However, there was still life in the old procrastinator: instead of opening the textbook at the assigned chapter, I could skip a hundred pages or so and then begin reading there. If I was near the end of the book, there were always other ones to look over. At approximately 10:30 the struggle would be over. It always puzzled me why I felt so tired after studying for only three hours.

Little Brother

I have always loved this picture taken in the fall of 1947. First, I have been amused by how blonde I am. More importantly, this might have been the last time I had the advantage over Richard. In my baby book Mom claims that "Mary Jo and Richard were always ahead of mother. Often though she forgot he was so small and played rough." I am dubious; he does not look intimidated. Richard was always a far bolder spirit than his timid sister; he resembles Mom much more. All our lives, I have never been sure when he is pulling my leg. For many years Richard made me feel guilty for pushing him down the cellar stairs in his walker; then Mom explained that the culprit was Lorraine Larsen. Significantly, I thought I might have wanted to eliminate him.:)

Mary Jo, Richard, Stephen, 1949

This was taken in the summer of 1949. I am just turning four; Richard is two and one half; Stephen is about 7 months. I do have some vague memories of Stephen as a baby, but they are not specific. Stephen and I were blondes to begin with; my hair is already turning dark. Richard always had dark hair; I think he has changed the least over the years.

Joe Meets Mary

Her name was Mary, of course. She was a blue-eyed, smiling, long-legged, cool looking girl--a trifle naive. A girl with class he thought when he first saw her,but young. A bus seems an awful place for things to start, but there was she on a bus going to church and planning to have a chocolate ice cream cone with sprinkelettes. He was going to church too, but she sat in back of him and that was that.

He said hello to her that afternoon or more likely she said hello to him. Again nothing happened--there are lots of shapely girls in blue bathing suits at a lake summer resort. The summer resort was one of those let’s-be-one’big-happy-family sort of places--it even had a social director and a social directrix. Naturally one afternoon there was a baseball game in which all the boys and girls (in those places they’re all boys and girls even if the boys and girls have big boys and girls of their own) were to participate. Well this particular boy and girl were antisocial or mutually social. They sat out the ball game on a raft. Long afterward he learned her reason why she was there but being a romantic still doesn’t believe it.

They talked about prosaic things--families and schools; after all he was a shy young man. She wasn’t. Maybe that is why he was sure it happened then. That’s the trouble with shy young men: they are not used to openhearted friendliness. He never knew what she saw in him, but for the rest of the week they were summer friends. He struggled a little bit--an inherent male instinct. Why one rainy afternoon they went to a Bing Crosby movie in separate groups. They had only a week, not even a full one.

However, this time it did happen on a bus. They had made some sort of plan to ride back to New York on the same bus. He from the summer resort, she from Albany where she was visiting. He was positive. She says it couldn’t haven happened then--that soon.

He didn’t know the proper method of courting a girl, not a beautiful one like her. Oh he was quite proper. The movies he took her to were always approved for adults and children. A baseball game, a few football games, a little bowling--that was about all. He didn’t have much time, altogether three months. He then went away as did twelve million other men young and old. Oh yes, he finally kissed her once. He was very proper and very shy and afraid she would say no.

In My Grandmother's House

My daughter Katherine wrote this about the wartime letters:

In my grandmother's house, past a stone Mexican statue named Harry, up the front stairs and to the right there is a bedroom. In this bedroom there are a pea green carpet, a bed with yellow and orange flowered sheets, and a cracked blue dresser. This dresser, unlike every other bureau and closet in this house, does not contain any seventies-style ties, old scarves, or early feminist t-shirts. Instead every drawer is filled with letters.

Joe lived in Jamaica, Queens, with his parents and six younger sisters and brothers. His college yearbook said of him, "Even his own brilliance could not fathom the enigma that is Joe." Mary lived in Queens Village. She was the second child, and the oldest girl, in a family of seven. Her high school yearbook described her as, "Sincerity coupled with bubbling vivacity, scholastic excellence with literary talents, athletic prowess, sparkling wit." She would not have a college yearbook until many years later, because her father had died without much life insurance when she was seventeen years old. Her father's brother squeezed together the money for her older brother to continue school at St. John's, but Mary was just a girl.

Mary and Joe had met the summer of 1942, on a raft at Loon Lake in the Adirondacks. He was 28, she was 21. A week later, back in Queens, he took her to see Bambi. They saw each other often in the three months after Bambi became Prince of the forest, and before Joe was drafted. He kissed her for the first time on the day he left for the army.

They will get engaged the night before her 22nd birthday in August 1943 and will marry the next March. The wedding will not be fancy, since it was planned in about four days and no one had much money anyway. The reception will be in Mary's backyard. Joe will go off to war in Europe, though his bad vision will ensure that he never faces combat. They will have their first child while he is away. There will be short letters to Baby Mary Jo, my mother, enclosed with the longer ones to Mary. Then in 1946, when Mary Jo is eight months old, Joe will finally come home and the letters will end.

They will have five more children, and the children will have fourteen kids of their own. Joe will die of Alzheimer's disease in May of 1987. Mary will become a lobbyist and counselor for victims of the disease and their families. She will become even more involved with her church,and even more of a rock for her distressingly heathen children and grandchildren. Mary will die in April 2004 of Progressive Supranuclear Palsy.

My grandparents' generation has been called "The Greatest Generation." They survived the depression, they fought Hitler. Yes, they did, but many of them also contributed to horrible racial inustice, and a few of them dropped the bomb. I suppose that talking about our parents' and grandparents' moral superiority is an improvement over not trusting them because they're over forty, but it's not much of an improvement. It would be far more honest to say that they did some very good things, and some very bad things. They had fewer toys, and certainly they wrote better love letters, but they were more or less just like us.

To put it another way, generation schmeneration. I'm not going to even try to judge. Instead I will sit here and read these letters. I will learn that my mother's mother is more than the grandma who babysat for us almost every week for ten years, and who is always inappropriately freezing things. I will learn that my mother's father was far more than the sick, confused old man I remember.

Who Am I

I am the oldest daughter of Mary and Joe; that's why they named me Mary Jo. I was born at the end of World War II, July 17, 1945. My father was in France and did not see me until the following February.

I have always been fascinated by my parents' wartime love letters. I have many boxes of them, all in their original envelopes, all in careful chronological order. Now that they are both dead, I want to bring them to life again in this blog.

Book Worm

This picture was taken at Grandma Nolan's house, February 1, 1947, the day before Richard was born. I was 18 months old. Patricia was three when she read regularly to her kitten. In my baby book Mom wrote: "A book worm--she loved all books. At 2 years her favorites were Dumbo, Children's Garden of Verses, Alice in Wonderland. Was always eager for Cinderella, Goldilocks, etc." Under my favorite books, she listed Daddy's and Uncle George's yearbook, Mother Goose, all magazines, ABC book. Later I wrote in Nancy Drew.

Are book worms made or born? Mom and Dad were consummate book worms. People who say they don't have time to read baffle me. How do they stay sane? How do they escape? How do they figure out stuff? My first library card seemed magical. Jacqui Blackstone once paid me the supreme compliment: "Your idea of domesticity is putting your books in alphabetical order." Reading always took precedence over housework in my family. I was enchanted when three -year-old Elizabeth crooned to her doll: "Don't cry baby; mommy will read to you."

Mom introduced me to my favorite author, Jane Austen, when I was 12. Jane Austen introduced me to Andy Graves. I made a Austen literary allusion on an internet support group, and Andy made a witty comeback. I was instantly smitten. Little did I know how much reading about green cards awaited me.

Penguins

This picture brings back many memories, whether fond or not I have to puzzle out. From first grade through high school, I was taught by the Dominican Sisters of Amityville. Richard was in St. Martha's first graduating class, and all my brothers graduated from St. Martha's; I was too old. I went to Holy Redeemer in Freeport for first and second grade and then Queen of the Most Holy Rosary in Roosevelt for third through eighth grade. Richard and I both went to St. Agnes High School in Rockville Centre; Stephen went to St. Mary's in Manhasset. Peter, Michael, and Mark went to Maria Regina in Uniondale.

The tall nun on the right was Sister Miriam Francis; she was the principal at both Holy Redeember and the Queen. She died last year at age 93, having worked well into her 80's. I wasn't surprised; in retrospect she was an amazing educator. A tall, elegant woman, she effortlessly ruled her 800 students with a clicker; she never had to raise her voice. One click, and we were instantly silent and attentive. She knew the name and the history of every student in the school. We all both feared and admired her, were willing to work hard for her praise.

I was a very good girl. In seventh grade Sister Miriam Francis told me I could not have had a more perfect record. So I was never the victim of a nun's wrath, never had an eraser hurled at me, never was hit by a pointer, never had to stay after school to clean the blackboards. My innate shyness was reinforced, however. Good students only answered questions; they never asked them.

The nuns were very young; many had not yet been to college but were expected to teach classes of over sixty students. Everything I know about English grammar I learned from the nuns; we must have diagrammed a thousand sentences. As I get older, my memories get better; I had more good teachers than dismal ones.

Koch Hair

These pictures beg to be shared with everyone. The top one of Mark, Stephen, and Michael was taken June 16, 1974 at Peter's wedding to Merce's mother, Jacquelyn Blackstone. They got married at the New York University Chapel; Jacquie had just graduated from NYU. Mark was almost 15; Michael was 18; Stephen was 25. Richard has rejoiced in his good fortune at not being able to come and be included in this lineup. The family first met Michelle at this wedding.

Thankfully, the groom had cleaned up for the wedding. This picture of Peter and Vanessa had been taken only six months previously.

Politics

This is a picture of Robert Kennedy speaking at my graduation from Fordham University in 1967. Do I have to explain who he is? The younger brother of President John Kennedy, he served as Attorney General, then became Senator from New York. He was running for president in 1998 when he was assassinated June 5, ten days before my wedding to Chris Hawkins. I remember I had a final wedding dress fitting the day after the assassination, and I was in tears most of the time.

In the midst of a heated debate between Uncle Ken and the younger generation, I posted this account of my political evolution. I would love to hear everyone else's stories.

My first specific political memory centered around the duck and cover, hide under our desks, exercises that were a regular feature of my early school life from age 5 on. I knew enough about nuclear war to be terrified. We lived near to an air force base and I used to go out to the backyard, look up at the planes, and try to determine if they were American or Russian. I remember getting a book out of the library on aircraft identification. When I heard Joseph Stalin died, I remember asking if that meant no one would drop bombs on us.

In 1954 I had a severe case of the measles and Grandma Nolan came to help nurse me. She was listening to the Joseph McCarthy army hearings. Hatred of McCarthy's voice
might have shaped my entire political development. The other determining force was my obsession with John F. Kennedy. I first took an interest in political conventions in 1956, when I was 11. Kennedy made a brief try for the vice presidential nomination, and my mom mentioned he was Catholic, that there had never been a Catholic president. From 1956 to 1963, I read everything I could about Kennedy. When I was 15 I did volunteer work for his presidential campaign.

In high school we had political debates to imitate the famous Kennedy/Nixon debates and I represented Kennedy. What he believed in, I believed in. Gradually I moved to the left of his pragmatic liberalism. Certainly Kennedy was responsible for my decision to major in political science in college.

I cannot precisely date my interest in and commitment to civil rights. When I was a freshman, I joined my college's Interracial Understanding Group. I was envious of those college students who have the affluence to spend the summer down south registering voters and didn't have to worry about money to pay their tuition. Kennedy's assassination, occurring in the fall of my freshman year in college, devastated me. I felt like there had been a death in my immediate family. I quickly translated my political allegiance to Bobby Kennedy.

Gradually during college I became a pacifist. Opposition to the Vietnam War right from the beginning was the catalyst. My husband to be, Chris, applied for conscientious objector status and was willing to face jail rather than be inducted. We became very active in the Catholic Peace Fellowship, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, and the War Resister's League, all pacifist organizations. We went on several anti-war demonstrations both in New York and Washington. I briefly attended Stanford University where resistance to the war was at its height. Almost every afternoon, David Harris, Joan Baez's future husband, spoke out eloquently against the war.

My first job after Stanford was as an assistant to Victor Riesel, a labor columnist, who had been blinded by acid thrown in his face by the mob who controlled the waterfront he was exposing. One of my assigments was to read the AP ticker to him every day, clip articles in all the newspapers, labor papers. This was in 1968, when King and Kennedy were assassinated, when anti-war protect was at its height.

Would Size Order Have Helped?

I keep trying to figure out what ordering--height, weight, age, income, or maturity--would have kept Stephen and Peter in check at Vanessa's wedding. Everyone is behaving beautifully in 1961 and 1967. However, if you look closely at the Peter of 1967, you can clearly see he is plotting mischief. After 1967 none of us cut our hair again for almost a decade. Looking at 1961 picture, I wondered if Richard made Stephen kneel down to exaggerate his height advantage, if it even existed.

This is the first Koch wedding since Rose's and Brian's that everyone was able to attend. We have had eight Koch weddings in the last five years: Rose and Brian, 2000; Mary Jo and Andy, 2001; Katherine and Josh, 2002; Patrick and Elizabeth, 2004; Katie and Joe, 2004; Mercedes and Matt, 2005; Elizabeth and Brent, 2005; Vanessa and John, 2005. All the new Koches behave appropriately when their pictures are taken, so the gene pool looks promising:)

Drums and Batons

My mom and dad must have been dedicated to nurturing their children's unique gifts at whatever cost. Otherwise, why allow Santa to bring Joe a drum and me a baton.

We lived in a tiny two bedroom, one-story house. Was Joe allowed to play the drum inside? Joe has always assured me I beat him up regularly when he was too young to fight back. No one has ever verified this accusation, and this picture proves it must be false. If I regularly terrorized my brothers, surely my parents would not have given me such an effective weapon. This picture proves Joe had not a fear in the world that my baton would come in contact with his head or his drum. My frequent confessions that "I hit my brothers" must have been due to an overscrupulous conscience.

On the other hand, I regularly asked forgiveness for hitting my brothers in confession. The priest should have been more skeptical about my resolution of never doing it again. But I used my hairbrush, not my baton.

Memories and Photographs

I have always been intrigued by the relationship between my memories and the photographs I have frequently seen. Immersing myself in the family history for the last four years, I certainly remember much I had forgotten. I hope everyone finds my photo blog equally helpful.

But do I remember the actual event or do I remember the slides of the event? Do I remember clearly what was never photographed? Unquestionably, discussing the picture slides with the whole family did elicit everyone's memories, which then became incorporated into individual memories. I fondly remember countless slide shows with mom and dad, Grandma Nolan, uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters-in-law, and nephews and nieces. There was always screams of laugher and frequent admonitions to the younger Koches to stop standing between the projector and the screen. I recall Mom's telling me Richard and Kathy were watching the family slides. I suspected correctly that she would call back a few hours later to announce their engagement. I encouraged Andy to watch the family slides on his second visit to New York in 1996:) I tend to gauge the seriousness of potential family mates by how immersed they were in the family photos.

Yet the pictures so distort the reality of our everyday life. We got a few toys at Christmas, but we never played with them. We went away on vacation the entire summer. In the summer we lived in the water, either in the pool or at the beach; in the winter there was always abundant snow. We were always outside, never inside. We never played ping pong or knock hockey. We never played board games that ended with some poor sport upsetting the board once his loss became inevitable. (I was always a good sport because I was usually winning.)

But much of our outside play is neglected. We never played badmitten; we never played baseball; we never went ice skating; we never had a sled; we never rode a bicycle. My brothers did play basketball in the driveway unless the next door neighbor was complaining to the cops about evening play. Richard never ran cross country. Several brothers were photographed in football regalia, but there was no proof the Michael actually played on his high school team. Michael's broken leg is honored, but not Peter's broken arm. Richard's missing tooth is noted.

We were very religious; we spent an inordinate amount of time receiving our communion and being confirmed. However, we never went to church at other times. I never wore glasses; that is an outstanding accomplishment given that I got my glasses at 10 and my contact lenses at 19.

We only graduated from school; we never attended it. Except for a picture of Richard's graduating from St. Martha's, there are no pictures of our schools. You would never realize we attended three different high schools and three different grammar schools. According to the pictures, we never studied, never read a book, never went to the library, never participated in any after school activity. Richard was a drummer; I was a baton twirler. Peter started playing the accordion at his second wedding. Our family pets are very neglected. I gave up trying to figure out how many cats we had and what they looked like. Familes who call their cats "cat" don't waste film on them.

Relationships are neglected. Mom and Dad never kissed one another after their wedding or hugged us after babyhood. During our childhood we always wore pajamas for photographs. Dad was rarely there because he was always behind the camera. Mom was never pregnant or nursing, an accomplishment even more amazing than my never wearing glasses. No one was ever filthy, battered, bloody. Anne was only my friend during school graduations. Bob Logan seems to have been Richard's and Stephen's only friend. Jackie only appears once while she and Peter were in high school. The siblings related to each other by lining up in size order.

Christmas Eve at Grandma's House

My daughter the writer wrote this description of a family Christmas Eve as part of a college application essay.

We’re in the midst of our annual Christmas Eve tree-trimming bash at my grandmother’s house. My father and my uncle Gerry are bringing in the tree, and my sisters and I are breathlessly awaiting its unveiling. I’m afraid that the reason is not that we’re waiting for this magical season to weave its spell over us. We get as sentimental as anyone over Christmas, but right now we’re wondering what geometric figure the tree will most closely resemble. My grandmother is very frugal. The result of this is that her trees are always cheap, but they also tend to have rather original shapes.

They bring the tree through the door, set it in the stand, and cut the netting around it. It does not disappoint. It’s, it’s...it’s nearly a perfect cylinder! My sisters and I begin hanging the ornaments. They consist of a few beautiful heirlooms, some traditional Christmas balls, many, many plastic multi-colored plastic disco balls, and a good number of styrofoam-and-yarn-elves which have been mysteriously decapitated over the years.

The traditional meal of tortilla chips and salsa is served. Much to everyone’s chagrin, but to no one’s surprise, Grandma has frozen the salsa. She has a rather touching faith that the best thing to do for any, and I do mean any, food is to stick it in the freezer for six months. Fortunately, the chips escaped unscathed.

My father places the angel on top of the tree, and we step back and admire our handiwork. It’s may not be one of man’s great artistic endeavors, but this tree has character, lots of character.

July 27, 1945

Somewhere in France
Friday, July 27, 1945

Dear George,

Here I thought I was going to surprise you with the news of the arrival of my daughter on the 17th of this month. Instead you and Mark beat me to the punch by announcing your wedding to take place in September.

Congratulations George--after sixteen months and twenty-one days of wedded bliss ,I'm more than ever convinced that marriage is wonderful. My Mary and I are happier than ever be
because of our brand new daughter. According to the latest reports our Mary-Jo looks exactly llke my Mrs and not the least bit like her dad so she is going to be a real pretty little girl.

Again I'm saying am I surprised! So the last of the old yearbook committee is finally taking that step. I'm sure you and Mary will be happy--there's something about being married to a Mary that guarantees it. Even if she is my sister, I think you're a lucky man, George. There won't be a dull moment at your place with Mary around--I know there never was at the Koches. The gal can talk or have you discovered that for yourself? I like them beautiful and talkative myself--I forget you've already met my Mrs. It will be nice having you for a brother-in-law George and I 'm not saying that because we can use a dentist in the family.

Mary tells me you've stationed permanently at Lovell General, you lucky dog. I bet you're glad to exchange Massachusetts for India. How was it there? I'm over here in a "vacation" camp hoping that the Japs decide to give up. On the whole I've had it pretty easy over in the ETO. My only contribution to the war effort was a six week period on d.s. at a PW hospital. Aided by a staff of German PW'S I functioned as a registrar's office. It was nice work but it didn't last long enough. I was lucky enough to get a three-day pass to Paris last week. Paris is really a beautiful city and I was a regular tourist seeing all the sights: Notre Dame, Arc de Triumphe, the Louvre with its Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo, a boat ride on the Seine, a tour of Versailles, the Montmartre, the Folies Bergere, the Opera, the Opera Comique, and a host of other high spots.

I sure would like to get home to your wedding but I'm afraid that the army and the Japanese won't cooperate. I hear the two of you will start housekeeping right away. Although we already have a family, my Mary and I still have that experience in front of us. I'll probably be coming to you or Mary for advice. However you tell Mary that she better not try pulling your rank ton the Joe Koches.

Congratulations again, I say, and mine and Mary's best wishes for lots of happiness to the two of you.

Sincerely,
Joe

Uncle Bob Remembers His Big Sister

Dear Mary Jo,

While I wasn't sure where I stood in the family's IQ department, I knew who number one was. I guess I've told the story a hundred times. When my big sister went to Our Lady of Wisdom Academy, in her first semester, she had the highest grades in the school. She was pretty, had many friends, ever so popular and very smart. Her kid brother stood in awe.

How proud I was to be asked at 17 to act as her Daddy and "give her away." You've seen the pictures. All the young men were in uniforms and I was a 6" Captain in the ROTC, resplendent with a so-called Sam Brown belt.

The wedding, the ceremony itself and reception were put together in great haste since your dad was to be home for only a short time. All the neighbors and relatives were invited, and there was a great spread of home-cooked food at our home-105-11-220 St. Queens Village. The Mass was in the morning and then we walked home, about 1/3 mile. It was a chilly day and I think it was rainy. Your father was talkative! Your mother was radiant, her happiness not to be forgotten.

I didn't know your father very well. I knew the rumors. He too had a great brain. I believe the people who viewed the results of his IQ test upon his induction at Camp Dix were startled. I was not impressed however with the ability of either of your parents to select a vacation location.

I knew they met at Loon Lake but apparently had eyes only for each other. In 1949 Shirley and I took our first vacation and stayed where my big sister fell in love. Was it called the McAvay House? Perhaps it was McDump. No A/C in those days but also no screens and very hot and this tall boy kept hitting his head on the ceiling. We left early. You will remember we had some vacations together. Didn't we spent a week or so in East Marion, L.I.? These many years later our new home is quite near that area.

Your mother is an extraordinary woman; you can be proud to be her daughter as I am to be her brother.

Love, Bob

Army Life

"I recall that on one Sunday afternoon, about five hundred years ago, someone told me how the army made a friend of theirs so much bolder. I hope you're not drawing a parallel. If you had higher mathematics at Queens college, you show know that, according to Riemannian geometry, there are no parallels. It's not the army, Mary; it's the fountain pen for a mighty man with pen and ink, am I. In all these years it's been a hidden talent.

Since one Nolan at least is interested in the army, I should begin by describing the process of Uptonizing. The prospective soldiers arrive in Camp Upton (I can't tell you how since that is a troop movement and troop movements are military secrets) late in the afternoon , and the balance of the day and night is spent in being acclimated. This involves standing out in the open, swept by cold winds (and rain if there is any) until the body temperature is about 40 degrees, and then marched into a building to thaw out. Just so this time is not wasted, they dish out either a meal or a test.

I was lucky because my first day ended at 11 pm; if my name began with a "z" it probably would have concluded at about 4 am. The next day the process is repeated beginning at 5 am--it is dark at this unearthly hour . However, after breakfast and after the inevitable standing around being counted and recounted , we were marched into the processing unit. I entered one door as a civilian and came out a fully uniformed soldier (in fact, carrying three other complete uniforms in a large canvas bag), possessing an insurance policy, and bearing the imprints of typhoid, anti-tetanus, and smallpox innoculations. After that the entire group is marched to the cinema to see a double feature entitled, "What Every Young Soldier Should Know." Thus ends the process and the solider is usually sent to some other camp for basic training.

But you are probably saying to yourself, Joe must be still at Camp Upton because the envelope says so. Yes I am still out here in the woods. It seems that I'm on a special detail; the requirements for which seem to (1) that you wear glasses, and (2) that you pass the intelligence test (I got 151 but I always knew I was a genius). After working for a week I don't think the second requirement is at all necessary. On the whole work is rather easy--just routine clerical work handling the records of the incoming soldiers ,but there is certainly enough of it.

Because of our work we live in a special row of tents. I'm sleeping in a 6 man tent and believe it or not, my principal complaint is that it is too hot. One of the soldiers in my tent was formerly a fireman on a Coast Guard rum chaser during prohibition days: he has appinted himself chief of the tent stove and he keeps it red hot night and day. Even on the windiest days the temperature inside our tent is about 85. We use coal so we're not affected by oil rationing. Heh, Heh."