She is 85 years old, a widow living alone in Grand Rapids. She saw the discussion in this space a week ago about war, and specifically about the Ken Burns' television documentary on World War II.
"After reading your column on Ken Burns' documentary, I sat and cried," the woman wrote in blue ink on a sheet of green stationery. "I am 85 years old and still feel the sorrow, worry and fear of being the 'home wife with child' whose 'da-da' gets drafted and they cannot say where he is."
The woman's name is Denise Krueger. Along with her personal note, she sent copies of a few stories she had written over the past four or five years. They were neatly typed, three stories in all.
"When you live alone, you think about things," Krueger said when I called to speak with her. "I had the time. Everyone has the stories, but not everyone has the time to write them down."
Everyone from Krueger's generation has the stories. Those who served. Those who worked in the factories. Those who tried to hold families together on rations and coupons.
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Krueger wrote about taking her husband, Elmer, to the train station in Chicago after his leave was up during the war.
"It was difficult," she wrote. "Our toddler wasn't sure what was happening, and we didn't want to upset her and tried to keep it light."
Krueger's brother-in-law was driving the car to the station. When they neared it, Krueger wrote, "My husband kissed me good-bye as the car stopped to let him off. A traffic policeman saw him and held up his hand and stopped traffic both ways. As daddy got out of the car and started up the stairs, his baby girl called, 'Daddy! Daddy, kiss! Daddy, kiss!'
"He wheeled around, came back and kissed and hugged her. That policeman continued to hold up all traffic until daddy was gone.
"No one blew his horn -- impatience on hold.
"A poignant tribute; a silent salute."
When Krueger's husband sent letters home, the government had cut out parts that might indicate to the enemy where he was.
"Often I cried and tried not to in front of our 3-year-old," Krueger wrote in her letter.
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Krueger wrote another piece she calls "The Cabbie" about going to pick up her husband when he returned from the war.
"MEET ME AT UNION STATION," the telegram had said.
"Baby and I dressed our best and called a cab," Krueger wrote. "The cabbie drove us through the crowded city while I worried about his fare. But I couldn't contain my excitement and said, 'My husband's coming home from the South Pacific!' to the cabbie. He said, 'I guessed.'
"And when we got there, he refused to accept the cab fare. A tough Chicago cabbie."
As Krueger says, everyone from her generation has stories.
Some of them never get told.
SAM COOK is a News Tribune columnist and outdoors writer. Reach him at (218) 723-5332 or scook@duluthnews.com .
