tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50349983847999208842012-02-29T19:24:08.717-08:00Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.comBlogger2981100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-65896694690888075602012-02-29T02:55:00.021-08:002012-02-29T02:55:00.322-08:00

Only five weeks after losing her husband, on March 12, 1966, Frank Stevens’ widow writes a long letter to her mother-in-law Agnes Tully Stevens in Chicago. As far as calendars go, five weeks can be a substantial chunk of time. When talking about a loss as sudden and significant this, it is as if the unendurable becomes immovable. And yet, life goes on. News gets out, spreading ever farther as

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-23032620732572979882012-02-28T02:57:00.026-08:002012-02-28T02:57:00.469-08:00

Alongside the pain of sudden loss come many friends and neighbors, each in his or her own way seeking to somehow make things better. Frank Stevens’ neighbors in Albuquerque were just that way—showering the Stevens family with love and support once the news got out about the horrible wreck. Frank’s oldest brother, John Kelly, shared some of that scene in his letter home to their mother in Chicago.

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-31295542685758458892012-02-27T02:49:00.013-08:002012-02-27T02:49:00.059-08:00

Once the news was out about the unexpected loss of Frank Stevens—husband, father, brother—family started heading from all points to Albuquerque. Funerals are always painful times, but somehow in the misery of the loss, there is a sweetness in the supportive camaraderie of family and close friends. We often think of funerals as unwanted events, something to avoid—and yet, it is at those specific

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-84153972870615979412012-02-26T02:50:00.005-08:002012-02-26T02:50:00.802-08:00

Back home in Chicago, Agnes Tully Stevens—the mom whose lifelong habit of saving family documents provided me with the material to start recording these stories—received the news of Frank’s passing as only a heart-broken mother could. I have heard mothers assert that it is harder to lose a child than it is to lose even a spouse. At this point, Frank’s mother was approaching seventy-eight years of

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-56769685502269366942012-02-25T02:50:00.003-08:002012-02-25T02:50:00.600-08:00

That Friday night in early February, Frank Stevens stopped on the long drive home after work to put in a call to his wife, Norma. He was on his way, he told her. It was just a matter of that three hour stretch of highway. But he’d be there. Another week was over. How the next call came in at the Stevens household in Albuquerque, I don’t know, but it was from a stranger somewhere near Alamogordo,

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-82133346516617113282012-02-24T02:57:00.016-08:002012-02-24T02:57:00.484-08:00

It was a typical newspaper article, the kind you’d likely see any day of the week, glance at, then move on to more compelling headlines. Following after yet another Friday night, it was all the more mundane. Besides, the state had had a rash of highway collisions, and this only added more statistics to an already-unaddressed pile of government data. But there was someone out there who wouldn’t

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-12848890531353179242012-02-23T02:48:00.032-08:002012-02-23T02:48:00.525-08:00

Twenty one years signifies coming of age, at least as far as birthdays go. Perhaps it is the same with careers. Frank Stevens’ military career began with the World War II training that led up to “entrance upon active duty” on February 24, 1942. By the twenty-one-year mark in February of 1963, that career must have borne the feeling of coming of age, for it was a bare four months afterwards when

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-9890445810237539562012-02-22T02:52:00.003-08:002012-02-22T02:52:00.623-08:00

Having completed the last transfer of his Air Force career, Frank Stevens arrives at his new post in time for the arrival of his and Norma’s fourth child. The hospital at Holloman Air Force Base serves as scenery for this occasion—the very place of Frank’s current duty assignment. Coming up on twenty years of combined service, Navy and Air Force, shortly after this point, Frank is thinking about

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-68925595186555844042012-02-21T02:53:00.000-08:002012-02-21T02:53:00.156-08:00

Bit by bit, those mystery men from my father-in-law’s Navy training company photograph are taking on clearer identities. Of course, this may be the most tenuous link to date, as the veteran I’m seeking now is one whose signature was not so clear. Reading it first as “Fred Q. LaNorci,” I’ve since reconsidered and wondered if it might be “Fred R. LaForce.” If this World War II vet from Winter

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-6038598938813656682012-02-20T02:56:00.007-08:002012-02-20T02:56:00.265-08:00

I’ve always loved getting mail, and that enthusiasm is in no way diminished by the fact that, some days, that loveable mail shows up in digital form. My faith in those Random Acts of Genealogical Kindness still lives: a greatly-appreciated volunteer responded to one of my forum queries about our initials-only mystery man, D. R. Rickard of Rockford, Illinois, who was part of the boot camp company

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-80433546255936971052012-02-19T02:59:00.018-08:002012-02-19T02:59:00.216-08:00

People in the past were not any less intelligent than people today. In 300 years, schoolchildren everywhere will laugh at the stupidity and ignorance of the inhabitants of 2012. You cannot judge people of the past by modern standards, values or ideas, you can only try to understand them through the lens of the time period in which they lived.                                      ~in "There's

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-90620149964736769792012-02-18T02:50:00.000-08:002012-02-18T02:50:00.643-08:00

While Frank Stevens and his family jet from one side of the world to another in pursuit of the next military career assignment, back in Chicago, Frank’s mother is still steadily plodding away at life. No longer getting the flood of letters from her homesick boy in the Navy, Agnes Tully Stevens is nonetheless still saving every paper scrap of significance. And to my benefit, I might add. This

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-89744462901243128402012-02-17T02:56:00.000-08:002012-02-17T02:56:00.689-08:00

Runways from around the world seem to feature prominently now in the lives of the Francis X. Stevens family. Last we heard from them, Frank and Norma and their three children were headed to Japan while Frank attended to his official duties with the United States Air Force there. Now, they are coming home again. Well, not nearly as “home” as they would hope. This time, they are headed to a town

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-52149762069134639282012-02-16T02:56:00.000-08:002012-02-16T02:56:00.390-08:00

The Internet is sometimes an amazing place. It seems that, with just the right terms and a compatible search engine, you can find almost anything. Almost, I say, because there are still large swaths of this world that have yet to be digitized. Everything from older obituaries to military records is among those huge stacks of information yet to be transformed to a publicly-accessible form online.

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-77885879917344518462012-02-15T02:52:00.000-08:002012-02-15T02:52:00.102-08:00

While I can sit here and write complaint after complaint about the difficulties of researching the history of a man who gives merely his initials in a signature, you would think, once receiving a fully complete name, I’d be satisfied. But, no. I am, once again, going to regale you with grumblings. Take Robert James Stafford of Janesville,Wisconsin, one of the twelve friends of my father-in-law,

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-76987312747455203572012-02-14T02:50:00.000-08:002012-02-14T15:54:32.378-08:00

Tackling initials can be difficult. I cut my genealogical teeth on that hopeless task years ago, when I opened my grandmother’s “little black book” and tried to glean more family facts on her married female relatives. That southern lady was quite taken with the de rigueur format of addressing a woman by the initials of her husband’s given names in combination with the anonymous “Mrs.” One day, I

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-89796585242360329862012-02-13T02:58:00.000-08:002012-02-13T02:58:00.405-08:00

Anyone remember seeing this photograph?  It’s been nearly five months since I blogged about the mysterious subject of a Cabinet card on loan to me at that time. This photo came to me via the Minnesota family of my husband’s grandmother’s cousin, Edna Tully McCaughey. Since we were heading back east to visit family at the time this photo collection came to me, the hope was that someone in our

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-70420075512751263212012-02-12T02:56:00.000-08:002012-02-12T02:56:00.057-08:00

When I first told you about finding my father-in-law’s 1942 photograph of his company at boot camp, I mentioned starting to research the men who signed the back of his copy of that picture. The first signature on Frank Stevens’ photograph was that of a Rockford, Illinois, man named Sherwood J. Hanford. With a name like that, surely I’d find quite a bit of information online. That would be easy

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-70236918618245877332012-02-11T02:53:00.000-08:002012-02-11T02:53:00.347-08:00

Oh, how I thought I’d be able to find significant mentions of the young men serving in the military during World War II who had trained at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center with my father-in-law, Frank Stevens. It just isn’t turning out to be so. With all the resources at my disposal, from Ancestry to ZabaSearch, you would think there would be some mention of these men. But, in many cases, I

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-75880336120033411492012-02-10T02:57:00.000-08:002012-02-10T02:57:00.362-08:00

With the help of “Intense Guy,” (whom we all prefer to call, simply, “Iggy”), the stories of some of Frank Stevens’ Navy boot camp companions start to take shape. While I don’t have any “orphan photos” to send to long-lost family members of these guys, I still feel this need to connect with the people who were important to my family. For what it’s worth, here are a few more links that tell the

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-67133579201180903932012-02-09T02:56:00.000-08:002012-02-09T02:56:00.656-08:00

The other day, I mentioned our impromptu project using the Flip Pal Mobile Scanner to conquer a seventy-year-old rolled-up photograph of my father-in-law’s boot camp company. I say “conquer” because the thirty-two-inch photo would have been a bear to replicate any other way. I had also mentioned that we discovered several signatures on the back of the far end of the photo. I’m thinking now would

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-85398543118693898412012-02-08T02:54:00.000-08:002012-02-08T02:54:00.652-08:00

John T. and Sophie Laskowski McCann As they used to say in the days of limited info/edu/entertainment media access, “We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to bring you this important announcement:” It’s someone’s birthday today. Well, it is—and it isn’t. First of all, if my father were alive today, he would be celebrating his 107th birthday. Or not. It all depends on where you hang your

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-28350439178708507192012-02-07T02:46:00.000-08:002012-02-07T02:46:00.775-08:00

If you can recall the state the Geneablogging world was in during the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving last year, perhaps you’ll remember the craze over who was going to be awarded the coveted opportunity to receive a free Flip Pal Mobile Scanner. There were actually seven bloggers selected for participation in what was dubbed Simple Gifts—A Blog Hop. The idea was that each blogger would find

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-81376096284715026082012-02-06T02:58:00.000-08:002012-02-06T02:58:00.378-08:00

It’s been barely two days since we submitted a request to the National Personnel Records Center for Frank Stevens’ military records from his pre-1950 service in the Navy. Although we were warned up front about the length of time a response will take, I’ve already noted how trigger-happy their auto-responder seems to be. And we’ve just received another auto-generated message, once again warning us

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-65470488285141799292012-02-05T02:53:00.000-08:002012-02-05T02:53:00.168-08:00

After spending time at the Air Force base in South Carolina from the end of 1952 through at least mid-1956, Frank Stevens must have been transferred to a base in Japan. I have only one bit of evidence to lead me to that conclusion: a post card featuring a view of Mount Fuji, from Frank to his mom, Agnes Tully Stevens (who now sports another new address in Chicago). Seeing how Frank and his wife,

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-14601634219596236952012-02-04T02:55:00.000-08:002012-02-04T02:55:00.634-08:00

Without Frank Stevens’ regular letters home to his mother in Chicago, I have precious little to go by in determining his whereabouts and life circumstances past the date of his marriage. Oh, I do have that option of sending for his military records, which I am in the process of doing. In the meantime, I’m succumbing to the temptation to speculate. After all, Frank spent his first years after

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-28366592391416019532012-02-03T02:57:00.000-08:002012-02-03T02:57:00.063-08:00

When Frank Stevens decided to stay in the military because that was the only way he could afford to travel and seek adventure, perhaps the idea of the Southern Gentleman’s lifestyle was not exactly what he had in mind. Yet, when his two year stint in England with the Air Force was over, his next step evidently was to transfer to a base in South Carolina. It is at this chapter in Frank and Norma

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-88809527125858335242012-02-02T02:58:00.000-08:002012-02-02T02:58:00.193-08:00

Yesterday, I mentioned that Norma Flowers Stevens and her two young children arrived from Southampton, England, in the New York City port on Christmas Eve, 1952. I still have no idea where Frank is at this point, nor where Norma is headed, but I have some guesses, based on family stories. Being in this predicament of flying by the seat of my, er, undocumented self, I thought this might be the

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-91734551302944498502012-02-01T02:56:00.000-08:002012-02-01T02:56:00.233-08:00

When Frank Stevens sailed for England in December, 1949, to report for his post-war duties at RAF station Burtonwood, I was able to find him on passenger lists, but not his wife, Norma, who evidently followed him in April. Two babies later, and with orders to report back to the States, Frank somehow returned without leaving any trace of a passenger record. At least I can’t find any passenger

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-48201842436388407442012-01-31T02:47:00.000-08:002012-01-31T02:47:00.904-08:00

While Frank Stevens was ever the consummate letter writer—and his mother the consummate letter saver—the constant stream of letters seems to have dwindled to a mere trickle. Now that Frank has the love of his life right at his side, and a young one to monopolize his attention, he doesn’t seem to have quite the same amount of time to write home to Chicago. So what is Agnes Tully Stevens up to, now

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-59127658369625292352012-01-30T02:56:00.000-08:002012-01-30T02:56:00.661-08:00

While this family seems to have so many John Kellys in its genealogy, it is actually the story of this John Kelly’s life that is the point behind my taking the time to write up so much of our Stevens family history in blog form. You see, this John Kelly Stevens—the family always called him, simply, Kelly—was the impetus for a story that someone else has being telling now, and has been sharing for

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-23311878118470274722012-01-29T02:54:00.000-08:002012-01-29T02:54:00.804-08:00

Now that Frank and Norma Stevens are both on the same side of the Atlantic at the same time, and now that they’ve already taken their honeymoon to some undisclosed location, they are busy setting up housekeeping in a little town outside Liverpool in England. I imagine that this housekeeping project is being embarked on in earnest, for it isn’t long until Frank’s mother, Agnes Tully Stevens,

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-24757569863206321722012-01-28T02:51:00.000-08:002012-01-28T02:51:00.165-08:00

It hit me Wednesday night, and I just have to talk about it. I woke up Thursday morning and thought, “If I don’t say anything about it, I’m just not being honest.” So, as much as I’m dragging my feet (it is starting to drift into that late night ambience at this point), I’m making myself say something. Perhaps you’ve heard of Schrodinger’s Cat? (Clue: this is a stalling tactic; you see this in

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-26931803190281485492012-01-27T02:53:00.000-08:002012-01-27T02:53:00.249-08:00

It isn’t until nearly four months after Frank Stevens heads to New York City to sail for England that I find any record of his bride. Norma Flowers Stevens has made it to Southampton! I wouldn’t exactly call that “accompanying” her husband, but who’s squabbling over the small stuff at this point? At least they’re together again, for the moment. Once again, Frank’s mother, Agnes Tully Stevens,

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-1566479313879681612012-01-26T02:59:00.000-08:002012-01-26T02:59:00.085-08:00

The question is: how fast can you take a honeymoon? If you have other pressing matters (like a monolithic employer with an immovable schedule), you may escape with a token weekend getaway, and let it suffice at that. Or promise yourself to schedule that dream trip for a more convenient time. The key is: when is Frank Stevens due back on duty in his new role as an Air Force enlistee? Of course, to

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-13977204821557921412012-01-25T02:50:00.000-08:002012-01-25T02:50:00.344-08:00

Before taking our last detour upon the occasion of discovering yet another misfiled letter, we had left Frank on the Chicago doorstep of Agnes Tully Stevens, arm in arm with his bride, the former Norma Jean Flowers of New Lexington, Ohio. They were about to embark on their honeymoon. Here’s the bad news: I have no idea where they went on their honeymoon. Methinks a call to the Stevens family

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-24778949625762784092012-01-24T02:51:00.000-08:002012-01-24T02:51:00.640-08:00

Another telegram, once again from Frank Stevens, once again to his mother, Agnes Tully Stevens in Chicago, brings up a question. The telegram is dated June 21, 1946, just past her birthday, which is June 12. And Frank is evidently still in Mexico, though promising to come home soon. It brings up this question: Where was Frank only one month prior? Was he still in Mexico, working with the medical

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-31185702999283579102012-01-23T02:55:00.000-08:002012-01-23T02:55:00.786-08:00

Sometime just after Frank Stevens left home again to head to Mexico—or perhaps even before he left Chicago—an official-looking document was delivered to the Stevens household. The letter was sent from the office of the Secretary of the Navy, then under the direction of James Forrestal. While I’m sure this was, in essence, a form letter, it attempted to bring a fitting closure to the rugged war

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-6702778323175393442012-01-22T02:58:00.000-08:002012-01-22T02:58:00.296-08:00

Judging from the rest of Frank Stevens’ letter home to his parents in Chicago, his trip occasioned some of the customary discomforts suffered by many travelers. This clue also leads me to surmise that Frank and his medical team must have recently arrived in Mexico and are at the beginning of their mission there. Besides this typical travelers’ ailment, Frank seems to have been left high and dry

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-61313353827138490492012-01-21T02:56:00.000-08:002012-01-21T02:56:00.487-08:00

Writing from his post in Mexico, Frank Stevens (now alias Señor Francisco) continues his letter to his folks in Chicago with some housekeeping items. Evidently, after arriving home from his service in the Navy, Frank had some repair work to do, possibly on the car which he groused about his sister abusing. I have no idea who “Zerkle” might have been. There are several of that surname including

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-91260631950928998272012-01-20T02:56:00.000-08:002012-01-20T02:56:00.274-08:00

While Frank Stevens and his bride, the former Norma Flowers of New Lexington, Ohio, embark from his mother’s home in Chicago for their honeymoon trip to some undisclosed destination, we’ll take our own detour to catch up on another letter from Frank that I just found. Coming from Mexico and addressed—appropriately—from “Senior Francisco X. Stevens,” the letter fills in the details from the point

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-6863745449477447092012-01-19T02:56:00.000-08:002012-01-19T02:56:00.492-08:00

With a lovely wedding and reception behind them in New Lexington, Ohio, newlyweds Frank and Norma Stevens head up north to Frank’s lifelong home town, Chicago, where undoubtedly the two of them spend a few days with Frank's now-widowed mother, Agnes Tully Stevens, and arrange to meet with the many more relatives who were unable to make the long trip to central Ohio. As you will soon see, this "

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-63707703661941507462012-01-18T02:58:00.000-08:002012-01-18T02:58:00.257-08:00

It is not customary in our times to have a wedding ceremony so early in the day as to be concluded with a celebration designated as “breakfast,” but following the lead of her matron of honor (and fourth cousin) Madonna Fisher Winegardner, Norma Flowers Stevens chooses to do so for her own special day. Maybe it was just a custom of that region of the country—a relic of the area's German Catholic

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-74462283306334747742012-01-17T02:54:00.000-08:002012-01-17T02:54:00.390-08:00

As you have been forewarned, this week will bring a few more details regarding the wedding of Francis X. Stevens and Norma Flowers in New Lexington, Ohio. The main reason I’d like to take this review of the newspaper article slowly is not merely to correct the few errors (my corrections appear within brackets where necessary), but to explain the incredibly dense relationship network among those

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-82196134927837052772012-01-16T02:57:00.000-08:002012-01-16T02:57:00.185-08:00

Guy Alert: this post (and several more which will follow) will include those tedious, boring descriptions known in the vernacular as girly-girl details. After all, this is a wedding we are talking about. With an editorially-bracketed nod to the propensity of newspapers to report erroneously, I’ll cut straight to the chase: the wedding of Francis Xavier Stevens of Chicago and Norma Jean Flowers of

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-20757330886875982202012-01-15T02:51:00.000-08:002012-01-15T02:51:00.149-08:00

How many times do you recall being party to an announcement to be printed in your local newspaper, only to be disappointed that those bastions of “just the facts, ma’am” have somehow gotten something wrong? Even wedding announcements are not immune to that quirk of the information industry. Witness this clipping from a—thankfully— unidentified Ohio newspaper, found among Agnes Tully Stevens’

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-15597843056002983832012-01-14T02:52:00.000-08:002012-01-14T02:52:00.439-08:00

I have no idea whether Frank Stevens ever was able to bring Norma, his fiancée, home with him during his most recent visit to Chicago as he had mentioned to his mother. However, barely a month after his last letter home, it was no surprise for Agnes Tully Stevens to receive a special invitation from a certain John A. Flowers family of New Lexington, Ohio.    Mr. and Mrs. John A. Flowersrequest

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-21733495818837093072012-01-13T02:55:00.000-08:002012-01-13T02:55:00.543-08:00

Finishing his letter home to his mom, Frank Stevens provides more information on his current status in the Air Force. For some reason, he sure sounds like he is giving it his best salesman's spin.              This new pay bill really takes care of the troops Mom and it’s based on giving incentive toward making new stripes, the best grade you can get is warrant officer and that’s what I’m

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-48482404752073178292012-01-12T02:49:00.000-08:002012-01-12T02:49:00.449-08:00

Now that you know a bit of the background, we may safely proceed with our story.             Enuf of this foolishness for now, so for the straight dope.            I shall probably be home for a last bit of home cooking within two weeks Mom, needless to say I’ll be stopping in Ohio on the way and I’ll try to bring Norma on with me so you can meet her, I’m sure you are going to think almost as

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-35114210375460368422012-01-11T02:50:00.000-08:002012-01-11T02:50:00.614-08:00

A little explanation is in order before I post the rest of Frank's letter home to his mom, Agnes Tully Stevens. I suppose I should insert a spoiler alert here, so be forewarned. To explain, I need to take a detour from the chronology of Frank's letter-writing years to the time when his mother was a young girl, herself. There, on the south side of Chicago and not too many doors down from their

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-61753763039321242552012-01-10T02:55:00.000-08:002012-01-10T02:55:00.319-08:00

Barely forty days after Agnes Tully Stevens loses one of her two remaining siblings, her son Frank writes a letter home to the Chicago household. If I hadn’t already checked to see the date when Lily Tully had passed away, I would have assumed that the “Crony” meant Aunt Lill—just the twist du jour in Frank’s vernacular for his customary greeting. That’s what he had always meant, for Lill had

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-61745559824742099122012-01-09T02:57:00.000-08:002012-01-09T02:57:00.108-08:00

In 1949, Frank Stevens is still in the Air Force, although the exact location is not certain. On May 8, he sends his mother a telegram. This is not unusual for Frank, who has sent Mother’s Day telegrams from his faraway posts in the past. This particular date, May 8, could very well be a Mother’s Day. There is one thing making me doubt that this is a simple remembrance of Mother for that holiday,

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-75428494779965576352012-01-08T02:44:00.000-08:002012-01-08T02:44:00.678-08:00

Mercurial Frank Stevens is once again swinging from written wishes to be home for Christmas—or just to come home for anything—to insisting that military life is the only life for him. While he’s at it, he jams up his brother Ed for details on their brother Bill’s purchase of a new car. And he’s not beyond snooping for the gossipy details he’s missing by being so far away from home.            

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-7865504661913238542012-01-07T02:51:00.000-08:002012-01-07T02:51:00.342-08:00

Whatever has befallen Frank Stevens during this second tour of duty, now in the Air Force, he is not shy about asking his older brother Ed—or more likely, Ed’s wife—to remedy. The thought of seeing that thick Stevens head of hair nearly all gone is astounding. But as much as Frank asserts he’s worried, too, somehow he has a way of making it seem just a laughing matter…one hopes. Surely he can’t

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-14576273746567884792012-01-06T02:54:00.000-08:002012-01-06T02:54:00.042-08:00

Now a man who’s about to attain the ripe old age of twenty four, Frank Stevens confides in his brother and sister-in-law that the eighteen-year-olds he’s been dating seem so young. It isn’t clear whether he’s teasing his brother about his intentions but I wouldn’t put it past him. What he is more serious about—and here we go again—is getting another chance to come home. Even though he no longer

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-27340993790625647082012-01-05T02:53:00.000-08:002012-01-05T02:53:00.081-08:00

About nine months after his postcard home to his mom, Frank Stevens resurfaces to give us an idea of what life is now like for this military man in the post-World War II world. I have no idea what happened to the letter Frank promised his mom right after that September 1947 post card, but with this note to his brother’s family, we now know that his destination ultimately was an Air Force

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-32760884174187468912012-01-04T02:57:00.000-08:002012-01-04T02:57:00.368-08:00

Now you will understand why I need to send for Frank Stevens’ military records to piece together the rest of the story: the next document I have in our little family archives is a post card, dated December 4, 1947. This is almost two years after Frank’s last letter to his parents, William and Agnes Tully Stevens—you remember: when he tried to cross the continent in four days to make it from San

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-47889630967629841302012-01-03T02:55:00.000-08:002012-01-03T02:55:00.097-08:00

It’s the early 1940s, and like so many other young men of his time, Frank Stevens is making the decision to follow in his father’s footsteps in making his occupational choice. Frank joins William Stevens’ real estate business, becoming one of Chicago’s youngest agents. Frank seems to enjoy the business, and definitely shows signs of being pleased that he can work alongside the man who holds such

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-76494365564751854762012-01-02T02:49:00.000-08:002012-01-02T02:49:00.219-08:00

Despite writing about Frank Stevens’ unexpected decision to leave the military life he had grown accustomed to during a tour of duty in the Pacific at the close of World War II, I’m still not sure how things turned out once he officially separated from Navy life just prior to Christmas, 1945. Frank had insisted so many times to family members that he just couldn’t see himself living any other

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-15866177672093284612012-01-01T02:56:00.000-08:002012-01-01T02:56:00.284-08:00

New Year’s Day can be a melancholy time for me. Celebrations are now all over, leaving one solitary hiatus before the long stream of work weeks stretches out beyond the horizon of our foreseeable future. In that momentary pause, this New Year’s Day, my inclination is to return to a style of celebration more in tune with old-fashioned sensibilities—a time when people went a-calling to the homes of

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-13169273035608946202011-12-31T02:53:00.000-08:002011-12-31T02:53:00.264-08:00

’Tis the time to turn attention to that most traditional of traditions, the making of New Year Resolutions—and yet, I hesitate. I hesitate because, having learnt from experience, I habitually fail to do that for which I put my most earnest energy declaring ’twill be so. And yet, it is admirable to peruse those declarations when coming from the mouths of others. Many write in such glowing terms

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-54000519110663664662011-12-30T02:52:00.000-08:002011-12-30T02:52:00.415-08:00

Sitting here at my keyboard, having just finished the series of World War II era letters from my father-in-law, Francis X. Stevens, I could possibly succumb to a sense of driftlessness. After all, the point of the series has nicely come to a close and, wrapping it up, I now can be permitted to roam through a wide open field of possible next topics. The mood is mellow—after all, it is that

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-68026525204441541322011-12-29T02:52:00.000-08:002011-12-29T02:52:00.169-08:00

Now that Frank Stevens has returned home to Chicago from his tour of duty in the south Pacific during World War II, and before we find out what is to happen to him next, we may as well take a look at a piece of paper that was tucked into the envelope along with the letter to his parents dated March 22, 1945. It is my guess, based on the mismatch of this paper with that of the actual letter, that

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-84434678575799668032011-12-28T02:55:00.000-08:002011-12-28T02:55:00.405-08:00

For the last two months, I’ve been working my way through the collection of letters sent during World War II by my father-in-law, Frank Stevens, to his parents, William and Agnes Tully Stevens in Chicago. After the letter dated October 26, 1945, I have no more letters from Frank prior to his arrival home—and not that many letters after that point, either. I did find some documents showing his

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-53535580548627967022011-12-27T02:55:00.000-08:002011-12-27T02:55:00.066-08:00

It appears that Frank Stevens is now asking for additional training in the medical field in which he is already serving—and that his Commanding Officer is endorsing his request. I wonder if he has his cousin Joe McGonagle, fallen with the crew of his Flying Fortress over Germany, in mind as he makes his request.   U.S.S. LCI (R) 707C/o. Fleet Post OfficeSan Francisco, California

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-16173852750646658812011-12-26T02:53:00.000-08:002011-12-26T02:53:00.167-08:00

Sometime after Christmas day, the weather clears up around Kansas City and Frank Stevens is able to finish his long journey from somewhere out in the Pacific to the port of San Francisco and across over half the country to finally arrive at his parents' new home in Chicago. So what brings him home now? To reconstruct what must be happening in Frank's world, I have to rely on some other documents

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-88470864378620518842011-12-25T02:46:00.000-08:002011-12-25T02:46:00.123-08:00

KANSAS CITY MO 25 900A                1945 DEC 25 AM 10 28 MRS W A STEVENS            5949 SOUTH EGGLESTON AVE CHGO AM IN KC   RAIN IN CALIF    SNOW HERE    THE WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY IS WRONG    GIVE ME    E    FOR EFFORT    LOVE                        FRANK.

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-35046151036469224392011-12-24T02:56:00.000-08:002011-12-24T02:56:00.053-08:00

After lots of false starts in the direction of home, after plenty of shattered hopes about being home for his twenty-first birthday or even for Christmas, it looks like Frank Stevens will indeed be able to run up the steps and “plant a smooch” on Will and Agnes Tully Stevens on the front porch of their new home in Chicago. As anyone can imagine, Frank is ecstatic.

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-41119449625503374202011-12-23T02:53:00.000-08:002011-12-23T02:53:00.487-08:00

Always a people person, Frank Stevens rounds out his five page letter to his brother Ed and his young wife in Chicago with comments about their mutual relatives—mostly siblings, especially those whose darling babies are starting to take center stage around the old Stevens household. Frank’s been gone from home so long that he has not actually met these grandchildren of his dad and mom, but he

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-67996654717014267362011-12-22T02:47:00.000-08:002011-12-22T02:47:00.474-08:00

Oh, the many small celebrations of life that keep slipping by, even when big brother is away in the Navy! “The Kid,” as Frank Stevens usually calls his younger brother when he isn’t calling him “Chip,” is actually Gerald Anthony Stevens, the youngest child born to William and Agnes Tully Stevens. Gerry was only eleven years of age when his next-oldest brother left home for the Navy Training

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-22797791782265739842011-12-21T02:49:00.000-08:002011-12-21T02:49:00.135-08:00

When I found the stash of additional letters home from my father-in-law, Frank Stevens, I guess it rattled me so much that I bolted straight into posting those new finds while I was still in the middle of another letter. Since I’ve finished the series on the letters from that third discovery, let’s pick up where we left off: in the middle of a letter from Frank to his brother Ed and his wife.

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-92101028001284788622011-12-20T02:52:00.000-08:002011-12-20T02:52:00.092-08:00

With the battles in the South Pacific behind him, Frank Stevens seems to be fixated on returning to the paradise of his first post after joining the Navy: the Virgin Islands. Hearing from one of the old gang still stationed at St. Thomas, Frank discovers that his friend and his wife are expecting a different type of Christmas gift. Jokingly calling it “D Day,” they are looking forward to the

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-9710523784876876182011-12-19T02:56:00.000-08:002011-12-19T02:56:00.433-08:00

Sending gifts home to his mom in Chicago from the exotic outposts of his tour of duty in the south Pacific, Frank Stevens seems to have finally caught a moment to recuperate with his shipmates from the strains of two of the key battles wrapping up World War II on his side of the world.  How could they help but rest? In this tropical heat, everything—and everyone—seems to be melting!

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-74085866230963694402011-12-18T02:51:00.000-08:002011-12-18T02:51:00.527-08:00

Almost exactly half a year before Christmas, 1945, Frank Stevens mentions in his letter to his folks that he sure would like to be home for the holidays. It’s been a rough three-and-a-half years in the Navy, especially in these last five months out in the South Pacific, and he’s ready to be relieved. But that doesn’t seem to be what’s driving him to want to head home. More than anything, he is

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-6588346699681638732011-12-17T02:50:00.000-08:002011-12-17T02:50:00.522-08:00

After the third week of June, 1945, the battle of Okinawa draws to a close as key islands are declared secured and converted to Allied air bases. The USS LCI(R)-707 and many other amphibious craft remain in the vicinity as part of that occupation. Frank Stevens, now Pharmacist's Mate First Class, snatches a few moments to jot a note to his folks in Chicago, mainly to keep his dad from worrying

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-6628501161464674762011-12-16T02:59:00.000-08:002011-12-16T02:59:00.059-08:00

It’s three weeks into March, 1945, and Frank Stevens is somewhere out in the Pacific between the battle of Iwo Jima and the upcoming attacks on Okinawa—not exactly the time to be in the mood for Christmas. But it’s a Christmas package that finds its way to him at this late date. One quick look at what’s inside turns the festive mood right around, and fast. Never judge a package by its

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-23195518781518493912011-12-15T02:52:00.000-08:002011-12-15T02:52:00.525-08:00

Somewhere between the end of the campaign at Iwo Jima and the LCI(R)-707’s arrival in preparation for the battle at Okinawa, Frank Stevens manages to take enough time to write a two-page letter home to his parents, William and Agnes Tully Stevens, and his family in Chicago that bears little trace of the fierce fighting that is surrounding him. U.S.S. LCI (L) 707C/o. Fleet Post OfficeSan Francisco

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-75772872231202520622011-12-14T02:56:00.000-08:002011-12-14T02:56:00.086-08:00

I am wondering if there might have been some fatherly advice passing from William Stevens in Chicago to his twenty-year-old son Frank, so far away in the Navy—at least concerning the dangers of feminine wiles. Frank seems all too eager in this February, 1945, letter to his dad to press the point that he is still quite interested in playing the field—at least he’s not yet intending to settle down

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-27529725254355242472011-12-13T10:47:00.000-08:002011-12-13T10:46:24.113-08:00

Less than a week prior to what turned out to be the Battle of Iwo Jima, Frank Stevens is using his spare time to write home to his dad, William Stevens, in Chicago. From the sounds of an earlier letter, evidently just after the New Year, Will had been hospitalized for some type of heart trouble. I have no idea how serious the episode was, but for Frank, it was much more of a scare than his jovial

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-29273882047744973962011-12-12T02:58:00.000-08:002011-12-12T02:58:00.310-08:00

In trying to coordinate the timelines of Frank Stevens’ World War II letters found in three different packets, I sometimes feel as if I’ve gotten caught up in the center of some tropical storm: compiling these dates and details seems to get ever more dizzying. In the last few days I’ve been posting from Frank’s letter home to his parents, Will and Agnes Tully Stevens, dated December 15, 1944. I’d

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-26591853566349551372011-12-11T00:24:00.000-08:002011-12-14T10:04:12.250-08:00

When I think of my father-in-law, Frank Stevens, serving far from home during World War II, I imagine writing this letter so close to Christmas must be difficult. Surrounded by the tropical beauty in whatever mysterious South Pacific hideout he and his Navy fellows are secreted, he goes swimming just ten days before Christmas—a novelty, surely, for this Chicago boy, though he barely sounds more

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-69272191748002834212011-12-10T02:44:00.000-08:002011-12-10T02:44:01.214-08:00

It’s December 15, 1944, and young Navy Pharmacist’s Mate Francis X. Stevens is writing another letter home, this time from somewhere in the South Pacific. Though he’s been away from home for nearly three years now, Frank still finds opportunities to be the big brother to his six-years-younger sibling, Chip, back in Chicago. From time to time, he also manages to find a few words to say about the

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-63287039858049750742011-12-09T02:44:00.000-08:002011-12-09T02:44:01.075-08:00

Several of Frank Stevens’ letters home during the war include discussions about the various Chicago properties his father, Will, has for sale. Despite being one of five sons, Frank seems, more than his brothers, to have a keen interest in his father’s business. I thought that somewhat unusual, but chalked it up to a close father-son relationship, nothing more—that is, until I found a newspaper

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-52596666299031784122011-12-08T02:47:00.000-08:002011-12-08T02:47:00.902-08:00

Despite how yesterday’s commemorative ceremonies might have painted the attack on Pearl Harbor seventy years ago, the dawning of that day itself became a rough wake-up call to adulthood for an entire generation coming of age in the early 1940s. High school students left classrooms in droves, young men and women forsook promising career plans in answer to the call to arms when President

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-66416857133950021582011-12-07T02:58:00.000-08:002011-12-07T02:58:00.750-08:00

Anyone who was seventeen years of age or older in 1941 would be at least eighty seven by now—if he or she is alive to tell of it today. My father-in-law, Francis Xavier Stevens, is among those who are not here to reminisce about the impact this day in 1941 had on their lives. I hope to serve as one small voice to pass his experience on to those in the future who still need to remember. Frank

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-7065586150086141992011-12-06T02:55:00.000-08:002011-12-06T02:55:00.303-08:00

Frank Stevens, in this letter home in March of 1944 from the Navy base at St. Thomas, has just seen a World War II film which includes action in the same south Pacific arena where he will shortly be serving. Truth may not be stranger than fiction, but mixing the two doesn’t seem to bother Frank. Thinking his mother will naturally take this same point of view, he recommends the movie heartily to

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-65833227487169542682011-12-05T02:52:00.000-08:002011-12-05T02:52:00.053-08:00

A visit from the President’s wife was indeed something to remember, but in case the sheer impact of the event didn’t have enough staying power, Frank Stevens assures his family that he got pictures. Where those pictures are now, I have no idea, but would love to have the chance to see them! Frank, whose letters have gotten longer and more thoughtful than those first ones just after leaving home

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-78083040322030075882011-12-04T02:42:00.000-08:002011-12-04T02:42:00.806-08:00

Jumping back in the sequence of Frank Stevens’ World War II letters with this newly-discovered stash, there are still missing parts to the story. Even including these new letters, I have a gap of exactly a year and two days between Frank’s last letter home to Will and Agnes Tully Stevens and the one posted below. Best I can tell, Frank is still stationed at the Naval Operating Base on Saint

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-2506775295339213852011-12-03T02:54:00.000-08:002011-12-03T02:54:00.062-08:00

As I go over this newly-found second batch of letters from Frank Stevens, serving in the Navy during World War II, the news begins to fill in the gaps in the first set of transcriptions already posted. For one thing, I take back every innuendo about the start of his tour of duty, training in the secluded paradise of St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. It was apparently a good thing that Frank wasn’

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-5752398109980404372011-12-02T02:58:00.000-08:002011-12-02T02:58:00.931-08:00

On the fourteenth day of his training at the Naval Station at Great Lakes, Illinois, Frank Stevens receives his first paycheck, which he promptly mails to his Dad, William Stevens, in Chicago. With it comes a number of other issues to think about, and contingency planning for his parents figures in the calculations. Frank sends news about the immediate schedule as well as the anticipated future

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-39089471299694658082011-12-01T02:51:00.000-08:002011-12-01T02:51:00.596-08:00

Though I didn't find it until just a few days ago, it seems that this 1942 letter from Frank Stevens is the first one he’s written home to Will and Agnes Tully Stevens in Chicago since arriving at the Naval Training Station at Great Lakes, Illinois. He’s barely been there for twenty four hours, and though he claims no trace of homesickness yet, it only takes him a few paragraphs to drop the hint

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-21759754347930111562011-11-30T02:51:00.000-08:002011-11-30T02:51:00.959-08:00

I’ve heard it said that trouble comes in threes, but in this case, it has come in fourteen—letters, that is, in a second set which I just uncovered over the holiday weekend while searching for something totally unrelated. I suppose this is actually a blessing—a bonanza of material to help give a clearer picture of the main characters in this family history. I am only dragging my heels on this

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-53283443141420460952011-11-29T02:58:00.000-08:002011-11-29T02:58:00.288-08:00

Even on a tiny piece of V-mail, Frank Stevens manages to squeeze in quite a bit. This Chicago boy is still looking forward to the date when he will get to come home. Even though we’re backtracking in time with the recent discovery of this letter—as we’ve already seen, Frank had yet to participate in the battle at Iwo Jima or head to Okinawa—Frank is so ready to leap up the front steps of 507 West

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-81319279221274903152011-11-28T02:56:00.000-08:002011-11-28T02:56:00.120-08:00

One of the ways of communicating during the second World War was by the use of something I had never heard of before yesterday: V-mail. Just think: instead of transporting 2,575 pounds of letters via the military mail system, that weight could be reduced to only forty-five pounds by transformation into a form of microfilm before delivery. The way it works is this: the serviceman takes a

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-80046697200601318792011-11-27T02:54:00.000-08:002011-11-27T02:54:00.420-08:00

In preparing yesterday’s post, there was something that troubled me about the date of Frank Stevens’ promotions. Even though I assume that there are missing letters in this collection of his family’s papers which I received during our trip to Chicago last summer, my mind wants to proceed as if there were no gaps. Even though I’ve not read through these letters until I actually sit down to

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-57377499408747629622011-11-26T02:48:00.000-08:002011-11-26T02:48:00.646-08:00

I’m not sure where Frank Stevens is as he continues what amounts to a five page letter to his older brother Ed and his wife on July 15, 1945. The Battle of Okinawa lasted until about mid-June, and of what I could find online regarding Frank’s vessel’s history, the USS LCI(R)-707 remains in the area until June 30, 1945. After that, wherever he is, he now has enough time on his hands to snag a

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-16645900888987195662011-11-25T02:49:00.000-08:002011-11-25T02:49:00.872-08:00

It’s been two and a half months since Frank’s last letter—at least according to the collection of family papers we’ve inherited. Besides that, this letter goes not to Frank’s parents, William and Agnes Tully Stevens, but to the new Chicago address of his older brother Ed and his wife. The tone of the letter is much different than what’s been sent already. Of course, keep in mind that not only has

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-57363900862137725212011-11-24T02:47:00.000-08:002011-11-24T02:47:00.903-08:00

The close, yesterday, of Frank Stevens’ letter home from his Navy post somewhere near Okinawa during World War II, marked a turning point in the letters I’ve found in the Tully/Stevens family collection. Whatever happened at this point in Frank’s service—and his life, for that matter—has left no trace among his parents’ belongings that have been passed down to us. The next letter in the

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-15497875623396623642011-11-23T02:59:00.000-08:002011-11-23T02:59:00.502-08:00

Hmmm…if a busy young serviceman during his off hours starts a letter on May 3, then hits several hours of duty where everything is going crazy, is it possible that that four page letter would take him a few more days to complete? That is the question uppermost in my mind as we try to figure out what specific information was snipped out of Frank Stevens’ letter home that he dated May 3, 1945.

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5034998384799920884.post-13128748936500876052011-11-22T02:57:00.000-08:002011-11-22T02:57:00.328-08:00

As Frank Stevens continues what turns out to be an uncustomarily long letter, he realizes that perhaps not all of what he wrote that May in 1945 will make it home to his folks in Chicago. He evokes the specter of the ship’s censor, Ensign Jerome Kaplan, grinding his molars. Whether those molars met such a gnashing fate is unknown; however, the fate of his letter was obvious, once it reached

Jacqihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03471698670217119444noreply@blogger.com2