Air Mail

The year was 1943 or possibly, 1944, and the wars in Europe and the Pacific were raging. Multiplied millions of young men heeded the call to military service, and millions more civilians, men and women, labored in thousands of factories, research laboratories, and ship building facilities across the land.

My grandparents, Ernest and Lillie Ring, and future mother, Erma Ring, and her siblings lived in south Georgia at the time, and were traveling somewhere on some road in some non-descript automobile one day when they chanced upon a car by the side of the road. As a result, my grandfather pulled over to see if he could help. (A similar scenario once managed to get him arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, but that is an entirely different story, and one which will have to wait).

I can just imagine the conversation between the older and younger man.

“Well, hello there, stranger. Anything I can do to help?”

To which the Army Air Corps officer responded,

“Hi. Mighty nice of you to pull over,” (and he seemed to be searching for a moniker with which to end his sentence).

“Oh, sorry. I’m Ernest Ring. And you are?”

“Lieutenant Lewis. Earl Lewis, Sir.”

“Good to meet you, Lieutenant.”

“My pleasure, Sir. Actually, I could use a lift into town to buy a spare tire for this rim.”

My granddad indicated that the Air Corps officer might ride up front with him, while my grandmother, mother and aunts waited with the airman’s wife and son. And just before leaving, introductions were made all around. The duo returned a half hour later with a new tire, and promptly installed it.

“Well, Lieutenant that should get you going again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ring. Sorry, you told me to call you ‘Earnest.’”

As they prepared to depart the two men exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and determined to stay in touch; which I’m glad to say, they did.

The location of Lt. Lewis’ duty station has been lost to posterity, but he was apparently a flight training officer or trainee at the time; most likely, the latter. At any rate, the two men were true to their word, and the families occasionally dined together in my grandparent’s home. And as Paul Harvey might well have said, 

“And now the rest of the story.” (For there is a “rest of the story.”)

It seems Lt. Lewis broke with protocol on a recurring basis; for he would sometimes pilot his aircraft towards my granddad’s home, suddenly dip low, waggle his wings, and drop something from the plane, tied to a tiny parachute, or a rock.

Of course, the lieutenant’s arrival was all too apparent, as the drone of those mighty engines might have easily woke the dead. (Well, almost). And it seems Lt. Lewis’ aim never failed. The falling object landed perfectly in the field behind the old frame house, and was quickly retrieved by my mother, or one of her sisters.

And upon opening the little box, or paper sack, Erma, (or Nita or Olline) would discover a message; which they hastily delivered to their father. Of course, with numerous fly overs there were any number of “air mail” messages which fell from that South Georgia sky.

“Ernest, we won’t be able to have dinner with you, and your family Friday evening. Sorry. I just found out we’ll be doing night training every evening this week.”

(or)

“Mr. Ring. I mean, ‘Ernest,’ is there anything you want Natalie to cook for the picnic we’ve planned Sunday?”

(or)

“Well, hello again! Brent just got his first tooth in, so we’ve been kinda excited about that. Hope things are good with you and yours today.”

The two families enjoyed many happy hours together, until the word came down that the lieutenant had received orders to ship out to France, (or Italy or Hawaii, or some such place). And as the story has been told to me, it was about this time that all contact was lost between Earl and Ernest, their wives, and children.

And I think my mother was forever impacted by this chance meeting, and the relationships which sprang out of it, since not only did she name her youngest son after that military officer’s baby boy, but my mother has never ceased to reflect on the gravity of that friendship, and has done everything humanly possible to renew contact with Earl and/or his now grown son, Brent.

Why, only today I posted an ad in one of those reminisce-type magazines with a few succinct details; of which I have just described at length here. 

I think there are some people in this life whom we are meant to meet, and, no doubt, people who we should avoid at all costs. And then again, there are folks who come into our lives, and with whom we lose contact, and we regret it the entire rest of our lives.

There’s a poignant scene in the novel “Jane Eyre” in which the main character’s employer and friend speaks of their upcoming departure from one another.

“Jane, I fear when you leave, and travel across that great body of water some invisible string which joins us will be stretched, and will snap, and we shall both begin to bleed inwardly.”

I think it’s that way when valued relationships come to a conclusion, as the result of time, geographics or emotions. And sadly, there seems to be nothing we can do about it. And yet perhaps in the minority of these circumstances that invisible string that joins us one to another has only been stretched, and has never snapped at all; since it was Providence which strengthened the cords, and it was Providence which knit us together in the first place.

Note:

Interestingly enough, even in her old age my mother never relinquished the hope that she might renew contact with either Earl, or his son, Brent. I placed a couple of ads in veteran's and reminiscence type magazines, but received no response. My mom passed away this week without ever having received any word of the lieutenant's whereabouts or wherewithal.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 34. Copyright pending

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