Page 84 of Iron Heart
He smiles. “We did. This was Mom and Dad’s first and only house. They bought it right when they got married, nineteen forty-seven. Mom lived here for seventy-two years, if you can believe that. Dad died five years ago. Mom refused to move to an apartment, even then. She said all her memories would never fit into a smaller place.”
I laugh. “I like that. So, let’s start at the beginning of your mother’s story.”
Don nods and leans back in his chair. “Well, Mom was apparently always the adventurous type, by her own admission. Even when she was a little kid, she was a tomboy. Always climbing trees, always wanting to do the boys one better. Stuff like that. From what she used to tell us kids, she always dreamt of doing something big with her life.
“So, as luck would have it, Mom graduated high school in the spring of 1943. The United States had entered the war the year before, and there was a severe shortage of pilots. So leaders came up with an experimental program, to train women to fly military aircraft so male pilots could be released for duty overseas.”
“The WASPs,” I murmur. “Women Airforce Service Pilots.”
“That’s right,” he smiles. “My mom heard about the program when she saw aLifemagazine cover story about it. Right then and there, she decided she was going to do it, come hell or high water. She managed to beg, borrow and steal — well, not steal,” he chuckles, “but she scraped up all her savings and begged the rest from her parents, until she had the five-hundred dollars she needed for a pilot’s license.”
“Wow,” I marvel. “She was determined.”
“She sure was. Mom never let anything stop her once she made up her mind to do something.” Don speaks with obvious pride. “She ferried aircraft cross-country for almost two years, full-time, until the war was over. She was considered the best pilot in her cohort, too. Not only that, but she was a pretty fair mechanic, to boot.”
I listen, rapt, as Don tells us tales of his mother’s exploits: how she almost had to bail out of a plane one time when it was smoking, until she figured out the problem was a burned-out instrument. How when one of the other female pilots died in a crash, that woman didn’t get an American flag draped over her coffin because she wasn’t military. On the coffee table in front of us are a stack of photo albums, and a worn-looking scrapbook. Don takes them out and shows me pictures of his mom in her uniform. The whole time, Jake is snapping photos.
“What happened at the end of the war?” I ask eventually. “Did she keep flying?”
But Don shakes his head. “When the war ended, she was dismissed from her base in California. Just like that. The men were coming back, and it was out of the question to have women taking men’s jobs. So, that was that. Mom came back home she went on with her life. She met my dad a couple years later.” He gestures around the room. “The rest is history. Marriage, kids, family.”
“Wow,” I say again. “That’s quite a story.” Pausing, I hesitate to ask the question that’s on my mind. “Do you think she was happy? I mean, after such an exciting time, to come back to a traditional life… do you think it ever bothered her?”
Don nods. “I’ve wondered that, too, sometimes. But honestly? I think she was happy. Dad and Mom… I never saw two people as happily married as them.” He pulls out another photo album, and flips to a page. “That’s them on their fiftieth wedding anniversary.”
I slide over to take a look. The couple in the photo is beaming, holding hands. They look to be in their mid-seventies. Mavis, Don’s mother, radiates a kind of beauty and contentment that’s ageless.
My eyes glisten. “I see what you mean,” I say, my voice a little wobbly. “They look amazingly happy. We should all be so lucky.”
“We should,” he agrees. “Love conquers all, as they say. My parents had a lot of ups and downs in their lives, but the one thing they always had was each other. All three of us kids were lucky to have that marriage as a model to strive for.”
I think of my own mom and dad. How when I was growing up, I saw them more as two separate entities than as a couple. How my mom always seemed to be slightly fed up with my dad, even when they weren’t fighting.
“Yes, you were,” I smile. “Very lucky.”
We stay at the little house for longer than planned. By the time Jake has finished up with some more photos of Don holding up a framed picture of his mom in her pilot’s uniform next to her plane, it’s late afternoon. I decide to call it a day, and ask Jake to drop me off back home instead of at the office.
“This is going to be a good story,” Jake remarks as we pull away.
I give Don a final wave out the window.
“Yes, it is,” I say with pride. And I mean it. This piece is going to be as good as I can make it. Don’s mother deserves it. And everyone in Ironwood deserves to know about her amazing life. Suddenly, this story feels like the most important one I could possibly write.
I’m smiling to myself, looking out the window and daydreaming about what the story will look like in print, when Jake pulls into my street.
“Looks like you’ve got company,” he murmurs.
“Huh?” I jolt out of my thoughts and follow his gaze.
There’s a motorcycle parked in the street in front of my house.
On the front porch, a familiar figure rocks slowly back and forth on the swing.
“That guy looks familiar,” Jake says. “Have I met him?”
“Yeah. Remember the people who had the picture of Jesus in their lawn? He’s the guy who lives next door.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jake looks at me quizzically. “Why’s he on your front porch?”