Above, about 1952: Me, my brother Dennis, my Mom Vivian, who had been in the
Navy WAVES during the war (and my Dad in the regular Navy), both were
radiomen (Morse code operators), that's how they met, and that's how the GI
loan was obtained to buy our house on Kirby Road in Chesterbrook, Virginia.
Almost everybody in this little housing development that sprang up practically
overnight were veterans.
One of them had a huge sailing ship tatoo'd on his
entire front, with US Navy emblazoned proudly beneath it; the funny
thing was, he had been in the Army.
It seems one night he drank too much and some sailors dropped him off at a
tatoo parlor. Another neighbor was so anxious to fight Fascism that he
couldn't wait for the USA to enter the war and joined the RCAF. Another was
a B29 pilot in the Pacific. Another was a Coast Guard cutter captain
delivering war material and supplies to the Soviet Union in Murmansk up near
the top of the earth. And on and on. So we kids — war babies, and
the early boomers — grew up immersed in WWII lore, artifacts, culture,
habits, and jargon. Color photo by my Dad.