My Mother's Three Unanswered Questions. Part 1

(Originally written on 4-23-16. My late mother’s 86^th birthday)

*What became of that beloved pilot whom my family met during the war?

I have previously written about this episode in my mother’s life in a story I refer to as “Air Mail.”

However, to recount that story, my grandparents, and their children happened to be driving down a country highway in South Georgia one day during WWII, when they happened upon a car stranded along the roadside. Next to the vehicle stood a man, and a woman; a baby in her arms.

Well, at that time of the century virtually everyone was friendly to everyone else, and tried to help a “neighbor” in any way they could. As a result, my granddaddy Ring pulled over on the right shoulder of the road, and got out. Earnest Ring reached out and shook the man’s hand, and inquired about their problem. The young fella, obviously an Army Air Corps officer, given his uniform and insignia, smiled and made my grandfather aware of his flat tire, and his need for a “lift” to a service station; to have it pumped and patched.

And thus began a friendship which would last throughout the remainder of “The Second War to End All Wars.” My terminology. (It definitely was, and it definitely didn’t).

The two families developed such a close friendship that when Lt. Earl Lewis flew whatever aircraft he flew near the Ring family residence, he ignored Air Corps altitude requirements, and flew his plane low enough to drop a message-laden rock out the window.

The messages varied depending on whatever was occurring in a given week:

“Would you and your family like to meet up for dinner at our house this weekend?”

(or)

“Sorry. I have a training mission scheduled for Saturday evening. We’ll have to cancel our plans.”

(or)

“I’m headed for temporary duty to another base. We won’t be seeing you for a while.”

But without fail, rain or shine, if and when the Ring children heard the familiar drone of Lt. Earl’s aircraft, Erma, Juanita and Olline would run out the door, remain under the shelter of the back porch ‘til the hapless rock plummeted to the earth, and race one another to its place of impact.

The Ring and Lewis families shared many enjoyable meals together. And it seems my mother absolutely loved their infant son, Brent. (So much so that, ultimately, she named her youngest son after him).

Sadly, after the war ended in ‘45, the two families managed to lose contact with one another. Mama was approaching young adulthood by this time, and as the “40’s” gave way to the “50’s” she married a former sailor named “Henry”; (the namesake of a former soldier, his great uncle, who served the Confederacy during the Civil War).

As the decades dropped like the proverbial sand in an hour glass, my mother never ceased to think about Lt. Lewis. Many times during her latter years, I wrote letters on her behalf; forwarding them to veteran’s organizations, or placing the text in magazines such as, “Reminisce” or “Good Ole Days.”

…To no avail.

Never so much as a word or a whimper from Lt. Earl, or his son, Brent.

My mother departed this “mortal strand” last week, and renewed her love for, and commitment to her beloved husband; who preceded her in death four years earlier.

I have pondered whether to allow this seventy year old quandary to die a well-deserved death, since after all what good thing may come of it at this “stage of the game?”

For there is every reason to believe, the somewhat older, former Army Air Corps pilot preceded my mother to heaven’s shores. And by now my mother will not only have enjoyed a reunion with her parents, Earnest and Lillie, but with the lieutenant whom she idolized as an adolescent girl. (And per chance the aged pilot still moves, and breathes, and lives and loves on this side of heaven’s gates, no doubt our Lord will have already been gracious to solve that belated riddle for her).

Granted, if at some time in the waning years of my life, I happened to make contact with the eldest son of Earl and Annie Lewis, I might be given the distinct pleasure of recounting my mother’s story. But would Master Brent simply “throw it over his shoulder,” (as another son of a good man once did, when I shared an old story involving his father and myself)?

Perhaps I’ll never know.

For I suppose, this far along, I’m inclined to step away from my mother’s ancient quest; having done, as I suppose, everything I possibly could to answer my mother’s lingering question.

Speaking of that myriad of messages which once plummeted to the South Georgia earth, a fictional movie character of our time once mused, 

“Sometimes I guess there’s just not enough rocks!”

Well, I think sometimes

…there’s just not enough answers.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 28. Copyright pending

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