![]() ![]() My friends and I dug foxholes and played War complete with an arsenal of cap guns, jack knives, and hand grenades (empty soup cans.) We all knew whose uncle hadn’t returned from the war, whose father was having a problem with alcohol, and which families had broken from the strain of battle fatigue-the yet unrecognized post-traumatic stress disorder. Steel helmets, scratchy army blankets, and canvas cots were common in most homes in my neighborhood as were foreign coins, German buttons, and military patches. My many uncles had served on battleships and overseas, and pictures of them in uniform serving in faraway places were carefully preserved in albums. My mother was trained as a nurse, and though she never worked outside the home, she was the “go to” person in the neighborhood when someone needed patching up. My grandfather and grandmother were nurses. ![]() I grew up in the post World War II years. The class was 3 credits and cost $11 per credit hour, and that gives a clue to how old I am. Deciding to finish my truncated education, I took a creative writing class at the junior collage. But, I was in my thirties with a husband and three young children before I discovered how much fun writing can be. I had a knack for putting my thoughts on paper, if not elegantly, then, at least, understandably. ![]() As a student, I seldom took an essay test I didn’t ace. ![]()
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