Treasured memory from Claradell Shedd

Orphaned at six by an Indiana tornado which claimed the lives of both of my parents, I was now nine years old. WWII was requiring all communities, large and small, to contribute all age-eligible males to the war effort. Those boys who normally performed farm chores were swept away from farmlands to the battlefields. Adults reasoned those young men needed frequent encouragement from “back home.” Now living in Lovilia, IA, one Sunday morning after our church service was completed, the minister had all children from eight to teenagers come forward to draw a slip of paper out of a hat. Names of local men and women then serving in the military had been written on these slips of paper. Each child was to draw a slip, and the name on that slip would become “my adopted soldier boy” or “my adopted soldier girl”. I drew the name of a local farmer who was then stationed in the European Theater. I introduced myself by prose to “Steve”, “my adopted soldier boy”.

We communicated often. All WWII correspondence was closely monitored and censored. I would get letters from Steve with large holes in the paper where the military authorities had cut out “potential military sensitive information.” He would receive my grade school photos. I requested a picture of Steve and received a miniscule image of a uniformed man standing in front of a building which appeared to be possibly French.

It was December, 1944, and sharp, cold winds traversed the open fields of the farmlands in the Lovilia, IA vicinity. In September, 1944, I moved from having lived on the farm with my paternal grandmother (no running water or electricity) to living with my father’s sister in the small nearby community of Lovilia, IA (population 872). I enrolled in Lovilia Elementary School. During the Christmas vacation season, unrest was stirring in the beings of myself, my younger sister by 19 months, and my older sister who had been enrolled in a girls’ academy about 50 miles away. The three of us shared feelings of emotional and physical shortcomings in our foster home care. Where could we go? Youngsters that we were, we boarded a Greyhound bus and headed for the big city to the north, Des Moines, IA.

Where would we go? We called a man who had known our late father and told him we were in town. He called several friends and posed, “Can you accommodate an instant family of three youngsters?” A family who had known my late parents answered the challenge, and we became part of the Des Moines population. Christmas came. Steve wrote, “What do you want for Christmas?” A winter favorite was ice skating on the frozen ponds. We were all poor and products of the Depression, so we all used hand-me-down hockey skates. When Steve asked that question, my juvenile response was, “I dream of some day having a pair of figure skates.”

I was overwhelmed with joy when I opened a Christmas package from Steve (who was still stationed somewhere in Europe). Figure skates! A new red sweater! Red skating socks! WOW! Buoyed with these miracles from a stranger, I daily walked down to the local pond and practiced, practiced, practiced. Skating backwards and doing jumps came natural for me. I was floating through the air and actually landing on my feet after these maneuvers. Local competition beckoned for me to perform and be judged. My titles approximated second in the city of Des Moines and first in the state of Iowa. With these achievements, the local Des Moines Register rotogravure and my high school gym teacher insisted my achievements be displayed on its cover. It was now February, 1952. Steve had returned from those war years and was back at his farm in Southern Iowa. We had continued to correspond all of these years (then 8 years), but never ever “met” one another.

I sent Steve a copy of the magazine bearing my image in “his skates.” I said, “You made all of this possible. You befriended a penniless little girl who gratefully responded with application and enthusiasm.” Steve died in 2004. Just before he died, I was able to once again reiterate my gratefulness at his kindness and sensitivity to a little girl who shared a dream. We never met, but our correspondence from that little slip of paper lasted 60 years. The moral? We need not personally know anyone or everyone. By our actions we can bless all strangers. We need not ever have confirmation of a specific recipient who might have flourished from our generosity and caring. We are to give freely and care much. Those efforts will find “just the right person.” The way you live your life is your gift to those who come after. The skates hang in our hallway under a copy of the magazine cover.