Code Girls: the Book and the Mom

My brother highly recommended that I read Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers of World War II, by Liza Mundy. He suggested this as a must-read shortly after it was published in 2017. I'm finally listening to it now, in 2021. It's a good thing that books wait for me.

This historical account is at times enthralling and at times tedious. We're talking about codes, and the details are difficult to absorb on the fly. But the real point of the book for my brother and now for me is that our mother volunteered for service during WWII, and she revealed many years later that she was part of a group that cracked the Japanese weather code. Whaaa? She suddenly announced this sometime in the 1960s, a good twenty years after the fact. We knew she had joined the WAVES during the early part of the war, and gone to basic training in Cedar Falls, Iowa, before taking a post in Norfolk, Virginia.

My memories of my mom are clouded by time and by the disability brought on by her stroke. She loved to bake bread and wild blackberry pies, lived each week by a strict schedule (Monday washing, Tuesday ironing, etc.), enjoyed writing letters, and had a positive outlook on life. Not very exciting, right? Except she was also a college graduate who decided to take the opportunity to get away from home by joining the Navy. Wild!

I wish that I had asked her to tell me all about her wartime experiences. Our dad didn't want to talk about his time in the Army, and maybe this made me assume that Mom didn't want to talk about her history. But, wow, if we could have read this book together, and looked at her old photos... or pondered which club she visited on this public transit route:

Mom's notes, written on envelope from a Tacoma photo shop

Well, the opportunity to talk with her is long past, but this book (and others) is right here. As always, Polo is listening with me. He didn't care much about sniffing these photos, but it always warms my heart to see Mom when she was young and happy.

Polo's review: Many people moved away from homes. Very crowded dormitories. They could have used the love of a few good dogs back there.

Days of Well-Spent Youth

I never considered us "weekenders". Sure, we mostly visited our cabin on summer weekends, but we owned that piece of paradise. Owned it. Every tree, every rock, every high and low tide.

My grandparents bought a derelict farm, acres of woods, and several beach lots on lower Puget Sound back in the 1950s. They fixed up the house, tried their hands at raising a steer, and cursed the deer that kept eating Gramma's roses. All my aunts and uncles had a beach lot, and a couple of my dad's cousins came along and built nice cabins there, too. If anything, it was the non-family full-time residents down the road who were "outsiders".

I spent many, many happy hours combing the beach, digging clay and making tiny pots, walking in the woods, hanging out with my cousins, eating hotcakes cooked on an outdoor griddle, and digging clams. Oh, and watching Dad and my brothers fix the tractor. There was always a project to be done, and the machinery was never ready to run immediately. For me, this place and time were idyllic. (For my brothers, perhaps not so much. The benefit of being the much younger sister.)

Many years later, after most of the property had passed out of the family, my Aunt Margret said that she hoped all of us could hold some woods and beach in our hearts where it wouldn't go away. I think this is why I crave quiet, natural places and wild flora. I'm always going back there, to where life was gentle and the silences were companionable.

Following are a few photos from the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge. I had a wonderful, quiet, spectacular day there yesterday, and I'll be going back again and again in my mind. Hope you enjoy these little glimpses of our temporary home.

Looking to Sea

Olympic Mountains

THE Mountain

Little Singer

Narrows Bridge from Nisqually

Code Talker -- Book Review or Vicarious Experience?

My father volunteered in the Army during World War II, serving in the South Pacific. My mother was an Aerographer's Mate in the Navy and helped crack an enemy weather code. Those two sentences sum up almost everything I know about their experiences. I'm very grateful for their service, but wish I had a better understanding of what they did and what it was like.

Chester Nez grew up in the Checkerboard area of New Mexico, herding sheep and goats, living a pretty traditional Navajo life in the 1920's and 1930's. No electricity, no running water, sleeping under the stars while roaming with the grazing animals, he appreciated life and honored his elders. Then came boarding school.

Because it was deemed necessary for Navajo kids to learn English, Chester and his siblings ended up having to leave the sheep and goats and the secure familiarity of the hogan for the alien discomforts of live-in elementary and secondary schools. Nothing in his life seemed easy, but Chester held firmly to the values and beliefs taught by his father and grandmother. He learned to remember the small joys and look for beauty wherever it might be found.

During the beginning stages of WWII, it was realized that a super-sophisticated code might be created using the unwritten and little-known language of the Navajo nation. Chester and many other young men volunteered for a "special project" in the Marine Corps, and the Code Talkers were born.

Chester was involved in the battles of Guadalcanal, Guam, Peleiu, Bougainville, and Angaur. The conditions were awful and even horrific. The odds were often significantly against the US troops. Although most (if not all) of the other Marines got occasional R&R away from the front lines, the Code Talkers were an absolutely vital piece of our strategic success and could not be spared for even a few days' respite. Those hard times back on the Checkerboard, sleeping on the ground and going for days without fresh food or any comforts of home, made the Navajos able to be survivors.

I listened to this book as an audio, and the reader (David Colacci) became Chester Nez for me. His pronunciations of Navajo names and words, as well as his careful use of emotional voice, brought the story to life. Although it was difficult to hear accounts of the treatment of Native Americans of that time, I appreciated their resiliency of spirit and commitment to their family values. Survivors.

Code Talker -- the First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Code Talkers of WWII (link to library catalog)

Happy Birthday, Gramma (shhh!)

Today would be my Gramma's 120th birthday, but it's a good thing she didn't hear me say that. Being the center of attention for any reason -- especially advanced age -- was never her thing.

Gramma enjoyed talking politics, although I seem to recall that only her view was right. She knew about plants and trees and could identify all sorts of native species by their common names. She loved her family, but was never mushy about it. Gramma was an independent woman, driving her car well into her 80's. It would be nice to place her photograph at the top of this post, but she didn't like cameras and they didn't like her. Although she smiled regularly in real life, that image was rarely caught on film.

Gramma grew up in Nebraska. Her father was a railroad station agent, and her mother's health necessitated at least one move to a gentler climate. Around the age of 13, Gramma lost her mother. A few years later, six tornadoes in a single day made Gramma decide to head West. She arrived in California just in time for an earthquake. She married a distant relative (but that's another story) and eventually moved to Washington State.

Gramma sometimes spent a weekend or holiday at our house, attending church and visiting. One time, driving me to an orthodontic appointment, she was yelled at by a man who felt she was driving too slowly. "He called me Grandma. Is that that nice man from your church? He always calls me that." It's not a bad thing to be slightly hard of hearing.

My parents had heard of an ointment to soothe tired feet. It was a white cream infused with menthol, and reeked to high heaven. Gramma must have been poking around in the bathroom before bed, and decided that was just the thing to put on her nose. How she closed her eyes with that stuff on her face (the fumes should have blown her eyelashes off!) was beyond our understanding, but she reported the next morning that she had slept well.

My Gramma taught me how to sew and embroider. She appreciated music and kept a piano in her home, and gave me a piano so I could take lessons. When I spent weekends with her, we'd go out to eat at Woolworth's lunch counter or El Toro at the mall. Breakfast was Corn Flakes, apple juice, and powdered milk. I suppose I could have learned from her how to make prune duff, but believe me, I never asked. I did ask about plant identification, and learned a little. Maybe the best thing I learned from Gramma was wonder. Wonder at nature, and wonder at human nature. People are, after all, complex and amusing creatures.

Happy Birthday, Gramma.