February 26, 1946
Hey, Dad.
The letters you mailed home to Grandma from Brussels were painful for me to read. She was in trouble. This is the first and probably the only time you have ever talked about your dad. Even then, it is abstract.
Well, you know that Grandma didn't have to go to Denver and live with Dorothy; she grew old in that house on Rt. 1. Someone must have gotten "him" out and Grandma got to stay there.
That house is still there although it is in quite the disrepair.
You were never like your dad, ever.
I'm sorry that you were so far away and knowing your family needed you. Right now, you are so far away from me and I need you, but there will not be a happy homecoming for us. This time it's forever.
Dad, I found a box on the shelf of the extra bedroom closet today when I went in - determined to clean and fix that bedroom up a bit. I couldn't remember what was in it, so I pulled it down and sat at my desk (where I'm sitting now) with the small worn cardboard box. Inside, among other things was your camera.
Inside the very worn leather camera case you had written 1946 Leonard Lapp. So that explains this letter I've just read that says you are going to mail to Grandma several hundred pictures! A new camera.
I love that camera, Dad. If there was any way I could remember seeing you it is with that camera in your hands. You taught me how to take pictures with that camera and to this day, I cannot use an automatic one!
Looking at the camera itself, I noticed that it needs cleaned, but that also is part of you. You always told me that I had to "get into" whatever I was doing, if I meant to do it right. I started to wipe the dust and grime away, but I just can't. If I cleaned it up, it would be my camera and I'd rather it stay yours.
Love you and miss you,
Patti
Hey, Dad.
The letters you mailed home to Grandma from Brussels were painful for me to read. She was in trouble. This is the first and probably the only time you have ever talked about your dad. Even then, it is abstract.
Well, you know that Grandma didn't have to go to Denver and live with Dorothy; she grew old in that house on Rt. 1. Someone must have gotten "him" out and Grandma got to stay there.
That house is still there although it is in quite the disrepair.
You were never like your dad, ever.
I'm sorry that you were so far away and knowing your family needed you. Right now, you are so far away from me and I need you, but there will not be a happy homecoming for us. This time it's forever.
Dad, I found a box on the shelf of the extra bedroom closet today when I went in - determined to clean and fix that bedroom up a bit. I couldn't remember what was in it, so I pulled it down and sat at my desk (where I'm sitting now) with the small worn cardboard box. Inside, among other things was your camera.
Inside the very worn leather camera case you had written 1946 Leonard Lapp. So that explains this letter I've just read that says you are going to mail to Grandma several hundred pictures! A new camera.
I love that camera, Dad. If there was any way I could remember seeing you it is with that camera in your hands. You taught me how to take pictures with that camera and to this day, I cannot use an automatic one!
Looking at the camera itself, I noticed that it needs cleaned, but that also is part of you. You always told me that I had to "get into" whatever I was doing, if I meant to do it right. I started to wipe the dust and grime away, but I just can't. If I cleaned it up, it would be my camera and I'd rather it stay yours.
Love you and miss you,
Patti
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