(Written to Honor Lincoln L. Libby on What Would Have Been His 92nd Birthday)
When I arrived on the scene, I had three “big brother protectors”, one 15, one 13, and one
3-and-1/2 years older . Curly-haired, green-eyed,
completely oblivious to how special I was, all the trouble I caused in the
whole family due to my mother’s life being threatened by the pregnancy and my
middle brother Linc’s fear and resentment, it’s a wonder it ever occurred, but
given time and understanding, Linc and I became, not only siblings, but also
friends – really good friends.
Having been born
in September of 1939 meant WW2 came along about the same time as I, although,
given the earlier comments, I must have you understand, I was NOT the cause.
All too soon, the comfortable world I had as a toddler turned topsy-turvy as my
brother next in age started school, and the other two of my big brothers joined
Uncle Sam’s Navy Blue, while my daddy started sleeping days due to working
nights making airplane parts. Gone were the many laps in which I’d sought
comfort when I fell and bumped or when I dropped and broke a favored dolly so
more Sunday movies at a nearby theater that the boys could take me to see even
if it meant traveling through a snowy Sunday afternoon in winter, or a fun ride
high in the air on upright shoulders telling my personal horsey to
“Gitty-up!” until he’d say, “No more, your horsey is tired,” as he’d
slow to a walk. So many “no mores”.
I well know my
brothers were not the only ones who left home with big plans to take care of
the world. Here’s a list from our small Central Maine village, many of whom,
even as a young child I knew personally, because they were friends of my
brothers. As apparently had been the case for months, after getting my brother,
Kent, and me off to bed, my mother would listen to the radio news. Thinking she
had the radio low enough that we’d not hear it in our second-floor bedrooms,
she was startled to hear the barefoot-steps as Kent stomped down the stairs
into the living room, and, hitching up his pajama pants, declared, “I wish I
was old enough! I go over there and we’d get this war over!” I am quite sure
that earned a few lines in one of the many letters to “our boys.”
Thankfully, “The
War” finally did end and “our boys” did come home. We are well aware of those
of their/our friends who did nor and/or those whose lives were forever changed.
It is my belief that any who go into such are forever changed; how can they not
be, but that’s another thinking for another time.
Life didn’t ever
return to what it had been. Our boys had grown up! Linc, who had left school
prior to the end of his junior year, came back to finish his high school years,
go to college, get married, and start a family, all within a few short years.
His college education didn’t give him the satisfaction he desired so after a
short time, he, Fran, his wife, and son, Linc, Jr., took the advice to “Go
West, Young Man” with California and the area where Fran’s family had settled.
Crossing the country in the early 1950s was a different trip then than now but
they were young, determined, and having survived the crib death of a 6-week-old
son less than 2 years prior, they were still learning how to handle challenges,
sudden and expected. When we look at pictures of the faces now, we can see how
very young they were, and perhaps see them in a different light for all they
had already seen of life, but they were made of sterner stuff than to let the
past win. They chose to not look back; they weren’t going that way! (Wise,
don’t you think?)
The years between
my being twelve and my taking our mother into our home nearly forty years later
passed without a whole lot of correspondence between Linc and me. Fran and I
had more communication and particularly lots of messaging flew back and forth
once e-mail was established, but Fran was good to encourage Linc’s visiting
once Mom was with us. After Mom and John had each gone to bed the night of his
first visit in Illinois, he looked at me and said, “You know, you and I don’t
really know each other.” That was the beginning of our taking care of that
situation in a joyful way! We talked
until our tongues fell asleep and woke the following day to start again! That
was the start of infrequent visits by Linc to our home and we were able to go
to Cave Creek to spend some time with them once in 1995.
Here more
recently, with his move to live with his children, in whom he took great pride,
Lance and Elisabeth Libby, in Ft. Worth, they made sure we got several visits.
Our daughter, Kim Middleton, and her husband Don, helped with the
transportation on one occasion, but basically it fell to Elisabeth and she did
yeoman duty! Thank you so much, Elisabeth.
On this last
visit Linc told of his trying to find time in his college years of study and
work, to spend with Fran and toddler Linc, Jr. One of their favorite things to
do was to take Linc, Jr., in a stroller that, to start their trek, required
Fran at handle and Linc at front so they could lift it over a gulley to get out
onto more even ground for a time, although the process had to be repeated from
time to time due to the rough ground. On this one day he was remembering, he
saw a beautiful butterfly he just had to have for his collection, so he and
Fran worked together, not forgetting their parental responsibilities, but
working together they met success.
When he had
finished telling that story of his life, I was really surprised. I said, “You
had a butterfly collection?!” (I didn’t really have to ask, now, did I? He’d
just told me so!
J)
So, I just HAD to tell him that at our maternal grandmother’s request, our
mother spent hours reading, “
A Girl of the
Limberlost” by Gene Stratton Porter while Grammie Glidden tended household
chores. It was one of our grandmother’s favorite stories and since I had the
video, I was eager to share it with Linc, but try as I might, with the
equipment and time that I had, there was no way I could! With his upcoming
birthday scheduled for February 12th, I determined I would either get a copy of
the book so he could read it or a form of the video that he could see and
either enjoy it by himself, or preferably share with Elisabeth and Lance
because I was so sure they, too, would enjoy it. (Pictured is the version I’ve
seen, have, and have shared, and I heartily recommend it.)
Oh, the things we
still had to learn about each other had time allowed!
He told me
stories of his everyday life in California and Arizona that I’d never have known
had we not had these last few months to visit. He told how he treasured the
time he got to spend with lunches with his son, Dan Libby, once Dan had left
school and just the two of them had time to sit and talk. (He was good in
one-on-one, wasn’t he, Dan?) I was able to answer some lifelong questions he’d
had regarding our family as well as he did for me. We grew a bond we’d not
previously owned, not from preconceived ideas planted by forebears of other
generations, but one that comes from being able to see for ourselves the
individuals we are.
I am thankful
that, even though the years in between my teens and taking Mom into our home
were separated by Linc’s and my living basically across the country from one
another, at long last we were able to reunite with more than a few letters,
pictures, and phone calls, although to this day, I treasure the phone calls
that most often ended with, “I love ya, kid.”
“I love you, too, Big
Brother,”
February 12, 2017
