Tag Archives: Henry S Campbell

After: the Pull of Family, Redefined

Circa 1960 - Dean, Scott, Betsy, BruceJust before flying to Washington DC for the burial, I laughed when my son and I passed through the New Age vortex that is City of Mt. Shasta on our drive with his belongings back to college. “Amorandre’a” promised “evolutionary transformation sessions and workshops transforming the Body Mind to the level of the Atom.”

I’m remembering the “stick and ball” model of a testosterone molecule that my son had to create in 7th grade. The atoms (balls) of the model had to be connected with bonds (toothpicks) that shaped them into the angles dictated by nature: straight lines, angles and tetrahedrals. The shapes aren’t created by logic; the atoms are propelled and repelled into relationship with one another.

In the absence of Mom and Dad, we are forming new bonds across family units, relationships that seem to have an agency of their own.

After Dad died, one of the big questions that seemed to float in space before me was, “Who is my family now?” The phrase, “Friends are the family you choose,” implied to me a corollary: that family was something I could choose to define. I now think that was too simplistic.

My brothers and I are very different. We look different, we have different temperaments and we grew up in different eras. Mom and Dad’s life experience changed the way that they parented by the time my youngest brother and I entered the picture, so effectively we grew up with different parents.

In the months that have followed Dad’s death, I have increasingly felt that my brothers and I belong together, that they belong in my life and I in theirs. In the Marine Corps, you receive your “standard issue,” the equipment that you are expected to maintain. Take care of your equipment and it will take care of you. My brothers are my “issue.” I am theirs. We don’t get to exchange. We have to discover and value each other as we are.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about our weekend in D.C. – with 20 of us present – was the way that new relationships took shape.

Some of us were just plain new to each other. My nephew remarried and the weekend was the first opportunity his spouse and step-children to meet our clan. My brother’s fairly recently adopted teenage son is finding his way into the family, something that’s new to him after spending most of his life with foster families.

Family members’ messages popped up on Facebook:

The only thing I regret about my life is not having all the people I love in one place. Goodbyes are hard, so …let’s just say see you later.

one thing i hate: one day your having fun with family the next day you have to enter reality again grrrrr 

finally home whoooooo!!!!!!!! happy but sad to leave family 

At Washington National Cathedral Sunday, the jumping-off point for the sermon was a discussion of family. The Dean of the Cathedral, Dean Hall, said he was skeptical about the nuclear family; the Hebrew Bible, after all, unfolds like a dysfunctional family Thanksgiving dinner (remember Cain and Abel?). Though the family is the structure we’ve developed for mutual support and nurture, it “contains all of the contradictions of what it means to be human.” He went on to say that family alone cannot sustain us, that Jesus alone offers us a community, “a table where all are welcome and equal.”

Mom and Dad left us all a legacy, a multi-faceted legacy of the things they so obviously believed in, through their actions. One of the most important things they stood for was family.

They felt present to me throughout the long weekend that followed the burial on Thursday. I felt their smile as they watched us stumble our way toward one another.

This message, from my niece, said it best:

A wise man once gave me advice that changed the way I thought about life. He told me that family is the meaning of life. He said to me that try as we might, most of us will never do the sort of things about which great books are written. In time, the world will forget all but a very few of us. But in the hearts of those we love, lies our chance to be remembered. 

The wise man was my grandfather. I thought of his words today as I watched the faces of my family gathered to remember. I can’t help thinking that my grandparents’ story isn’t over. They may be laid to rest among heroes, but theirs was not a war story. It was a love story, and it’s one that is still being written.

The pen is in our hands now. Let us remember well, and may we never stop writing. 

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Photo cityoflennoxsd

I’m in a time warp. Everything at home is just as I left it, last Sunday’s paper mostly unread, the Sunday NYTimes Magazine still open to an article about the mid-career time out, cat toys on the coffee table. But the shriveled tomatoes and brown mangoes on the counter remind me that I’ve been gone for a week, as does the cat who won’t let me out of his sight.

When I see the souvenirs on my desk from a July trip to Japan, I expect to see dust. How could that have been just three weeks ago?

It feels as if I’ve been gone longer. I feel… different.

I didn’t expect to experience a greater sense of finality by burying Mom and Dad at Arlington last Thursday. “There’s a sense of closure,” a family member suggested before I left Washington, D.C.

No, that’s not it. Not it at all. Nothing felt unclosed.

This feels more like coming to the end of an enthralling book series that, in its coda, left me with certainty that my favorite characters could not return. There will be more books, but the plot will move on. New characters will be introduced. But the new protagonists will never quite equal that first story and I will not forget.

This feels final.

My role was final. At Washington National Cathedral yesterday, the second reading had this phrase: “…let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us…” (from Hebrews 11:29-12:2)

God knows Dad ran his race with perseverance, caring about all of us, and for us, to the end.

We persevered, too.

I finished what I promised Mom when she thought she was dying in the hospital: I took care of Dad.

I finished gathering the family for this final event.

My brothers and I finished the final task set for us: Mom and Dad’s wish to be buried next to Midge at Arlington.

We did it.

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A Wish and a Dream Fulfilled

Fiftieth anniversary, 1991

In 1953, when my then-three-year-old sister died of leukemia, my mother and father buried her at Arlington National Cemetery, promising to join her after the two of them had seen their lives through.

Sixty years later, my family and I have now fulfilled that wish.

I don’t know quite how to explain the power of the past two days. It’s 1:15 in the morning, here in the nation’s capital, but I can’t sleep. Not yet. Not without telling a little bit of this story.

On Thursday, we gathered in the family greeting area in the Administration building at Arlington and were met by two representatives of the Marines, part of my parents’ honor burial. “Your father was a national treasure,” Colonel Steve Neary told us. He went on to recognize not only my father’s service, but my mother’s sacrifice as well.

The beautiful companion urn crafted by my brother Scott gleamed in the sunlight that cascaded through the windows, the grain dancing when you looked at it from different angles. The plaque read, “In our hearts and minds always, Scott, Bruce, Midge, Dean, Betsy.”

companion urn for Eileen and Henry

Arlington’s representative, Mr. Dixon, led us to the transfer point where a company of Marines, a contingent from the USMC Band, and a caisson awaited, drawn by six horses.

Two Marines moved toward the cemetery vehicle in such slow motion that time felt suspended. Fluid step by fluid step, they approached the drawer in the flag-draped coffin, and gently placed the urn inside. Because we created a companion urn for them, Mom joined Dad on the stately march to to grave site.

Drums led the way, followed by a company of Marines in lock step. Then the caisson, and then those family members who chose to follow the caisson on foot. We sat within view of Midge’s grave stone while the urn was placed on the pedestal. To our left, Col. Cabaniss, Commanding Officer of Marine Barracks, commanded the Marines.

The Chaplain’s remarks reflected his understanding of my parents’ story. He spoke of Dad’s valor in Saipan, Tinian, and Iwo Jima. He acknowledged Mom’s sacrifices, and the value of their service to their country. In his prayers, he spoke of them being joined with Midge for eternity.

Seven rifles fired three shots each, a 21 gun salute. Taps played. I lost it.

Agonizingly slowly in the glaring mid-day sun, the Marines folded the flag, and presented it to my brother, who passed it to me. I held the perfectly folded triangle against my stomach, like a child.

One by one, the officers dropped a knee and extended their condolences to we four siblings, we adult children who carried through the wishes of our parents.

That night, the family gathered at Siroc Restaurant on McPherson Square. Food, family and wine: all the ingredients we needed to honor my parents’ legacy.

If yesterday was the fulfillment of a wish, then tonight was the fulfillment of a dream – a chance to viscerally demonstrate my parent’s legacy of love and service by attending the Marine Baracks’ evening parade as guests of its executive officer, LtC. Tom Garnett.

“It’s not a Disney parade,” I told the grandchildren and great grandchildren in attendance. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

Two hours of riveting ritual, unfolding at a stately pace, performed perfectly under the watch of Major Sarah Armstrong, Parade Commander, and directed by Sgt. Major Angie Maness. Dad and Mom, I’m sure, were smiling, to see two such accomplished women in these roles.

The graciousness of the Barracks, in inviting us – all of us – to attend the parade as their guests, moves me  beyond words.

And if that weren’t enough, we happened to attend the annual parade hosted by the Commandant and honoring the chiefs of all of the armed forces, and were introduced by Col. Cabaniss to the Commandant, Gen. James Amos.

Though I would do anything to change the reality of losing Mom and Dad, I know that celebrating their lives has brought us together. Some branches of the family had never met before this week. We experienced something rare, together. A dream fulfilled.


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A Brave New Life After the USMC, Part One

(Sixth in a family legacy series)

I ended the fourth post of this family legacy series by describing our family as “walking wounded” when we sailed to the West Coast months after the massive heart attack that forced Dad’s early retirement from the US Marine Corps in 1963.

This is where the family story is also part-memoir. From the period of Dad’s career in the Marines, I have only flashes of brief memories. My memories really begin in Seattle.

As we moved into our Seattle home at 2701 11th Avenue East, a brick Tudor house reached by ascending 42 steps, I felt unsettled. I think we all did. Even the welcome addition of a dog – a black mutt Dean named Laddie – didn’t change that.

Not only our family had changed. The world as we knew it was changing. In the summer of 1963, the Beatles had launched the “British Invasion,” the American Heart Association began its campaign to eradicate smoking, the Equal Pay Act was signed to outlaw wage discrimination based on gender, the race to put a man on the moon was in full swing with both American and Soviet teams successfully orbiting the Earth, Kennedy made his famous Ich bin ein Berliner speech to a crowd of 450,000 in West Berlin not far from the recently-erected Berlin Wall, the nation increasingly moved to a war footing for Vietnam, 23 people were arrested at a civil rights sit-in at Seattle’s City Hall, and hundreds of thousands marched on Washington in support of racial equality and jobs, stirred as Martin Luther King told the assembly, “I have a dream.”

What a time. The house was a little scary to me. The blue curtains with the kokechi doll print that kept my room cool in Honolulu made it dark in Seattle’s rainy climate. I was convinced that the sealed opaque glass window on the stairwell led to a hidden attic where – surely – something lurked. The downstairs basement was cold (and it didn’t add to my feeling of safety the next year when my mother chased us out of the house during aftershocks from the 9.2 magnitude Great Alaskan earthquake).

It was time for me to start growing up. I learned to ride my bike right there by Devil’s Dip, the nickname of the precipitously steep slope in the next block of 11th Avenue East. And Mom insisted on making sure I learned how to swim, which somehow didn’t happen while in Hawaii. I hated undressing in the damp, chlorine-smelling women’s dressing room at the UW; Mom said I was “nasty nice” for being too modest. I tended to get worked up when I was upset and could wail like a fire engine, which I soon learned would result in a dose of discipline with Dad’s belt. (Though Dad gave up using the belt soon thereafter, we all knew and dreaded the swish-snap sound as Dad whipped his belt out of his trousers.)

I felt out of place, happiest spying on passers-by in nearby Roanoke Park from my hidden eyrie in a tree. I bird-dogged my brother Dean wherever he went, including his visits to Robbie Racz, the neighbor boy across the street. Until I was chased by the boys downstairs, I’d loiter in the hallway while Robbie played Dean the new Beatles album on his record player. I had begun to hone my little sister strategy while we lived in Seattle; I couldn’t compete on size, ability or knowledge, but I had annoyance down pat. Dean ignored me at his peril; I could sing the nonsensical Japanese nursery song lyrics ad nausem: “Moshi, moshi anone, anone, anone… Moshi, moshi anone, ah so desu-ka.” When we moved to Seattle, I imagined myself an expert at surreptitious surveillance. Unbeknown to me, Dean and his friends were on to me. They first ditched me while spying on the overgrown mansion at the top of Devil’s Dip, which we imagined was inhabited by ghosts rather than the two old sisters who actually lived there (still, reminiscent of “Arsenic and Old Lace”). Another time, I tracked them all the way down to the overpass that led to the floating bridge; several years later, Police found the remains of 4 year-old Heidi Peterson near the embankment there, ending forever the period of innocence when parents could tell their children to just go outside and play until dinner.

Dean, Robbie and me (of course)

Dean, Robbie and me (of course)

It was a rough introduction to our civilian life.

Dad told me in recent years that he was disabled for two years as he recovered from his heart attack. He re-entered UW’s law school, the program he interrupted in 1941 when he joined the Marines. But he concluded what he suspected before; he simply didn’t like law.

Like many vets he counseled in later years, he had to figure out how to translate his experience in the Corps to fit the requirements of civilian posts. He eventually went to work for Weyerhaeuser, hoping to apply his experience managing officer assignments to manpower planning and human resources in the corporate environment. Though he never complained, he came to have little respect for the politics of a major corporation. The Marine Corps was a meritocracy; advancement depended on successful performance in a range of settings, from staff to operations. Dad was to learn how staff was regarded in an operationally-driven lumber company like Weyco. Pretty expendable. After years of sporting a regulation Marine Corps buzz cut, Mom had to nudge Dad to loosen up his look a bit and wear his hair longer, at least on the sides.

They had four children to put through college, and there was never any question as to Mom and Dad’s priority when it came to education. Scott headed back to college at the University of Washington, Bruce enrolled at Lincoln High School, and Dean and I walked through Roanoke Park across the freeway to ancient Seward Elementary School, built between 1893 and 1917.

Screen Shot 2013-06-24 at 8.18.41 PM

It was there, sitting in my first grade classroom on November 22, 1963, that my Principal came on the speaker to announce that the President of the United States had been killed.

As disappointing as it was to be shoved out of his Marine career, Dad seemed to embrace being back in the Pacific Northwest. Ski clothing and equipment was acquired for all of us – bulky boots and skis that reached to the wrist when your arm was fully extended. I remember walking up and down the concrete aisles in the REI warehouse, which looked the part of a 60s sportsman’s co-op, with fascinating curiosities like freeze-dried food and mountaineer’s gear.

Dean remembers getting in to the family’s little yellow rubber raft and fishing among the lily pads of Portage Bay for bass. He taught Dean how to use a bait casting rod to toss bass plugs and pork frogs right up against the old pilings at the south end of the bay. About that time, Dad also resumed hunting, heading east of the mountains to Uncle Bill and Aunt Louise’s house in Wenatchee. “The first time out or two I was just a retriever,” Dean wrote to Dad, “but the next year I got to shoot a little bit.”

Skiing at Mt. Pilchuck

Skiing at Mt. Pilchuck

Dad did his best to help all of us find our footing. He led Dean’s Scout troop, assisting the boys with pursuit of merit badges and introducing them to fishing. One casting lesson ended with a hook firmly embedded in Dean’s scalp. I desperately wanted to be a Boy Scout. Not a Girl Scout, not a Camp Fire Girl, but a Boy Scout. I settled for participation in Camp Fire Girls and tried to content myself with our crafts-oriented curriculum, embossing copper, tooling leather, weaving hotpads and blanket-stitching red felt “wallets” to hold a selection of sewing needles. Not only was I prohibited from joining the Boy Scouts, but I had to endure being around obnoxious 4th grade boys when they came to our house for weenie roasts (one tossed up his masticated food on my shoe in an act I took to be hostile). When my first grade teacher reported that I was a fast reader but had poor retention, Dad led the charge to get me to read and summarize passages of the Frank L. Baum Oz books.

Mom, too, reconnected with old friends from the University of Washington. I remember accompanying her to visit Dr. Wagner, her former signing coach. At 46, she was soon back to practicing arias she hadn’t sung in over 20 years. She acquired season tickets to Seattle Opera and reveled in its repertoire, favoring classics by Verdi, Mozart and Puccini, while Dad leaned toward Wagner. When Aida came around, I accompanied her to what was my first opera, dressed in my Sunday finest, awed by the magic of the sets and the music, and thrilled by the pomp of the attendees as they walked up the grand staircase.

At St. Mark’s Cathedral, the giant though still unfinished Episcopal Cathedral atop Capitol Hill, Mom sang in the choir while Dean and I attended Sunday School.

On the homefront, Mom adjusted the family’s diet to accommodate Dad’s low-salt, low-fat, low-cholesterol diet, although when I look back at my favorite dinners from that period, I can’t imagine how these were healthy choices: chicken tetrazzini (made with 9 tbs. of butter), Chinese hamburger hash (seasoned with soy sauce), and shrimp creole (featuring a tomato sauce base). To compensate, perhaps, there were also plenty of roasted chickens, Cornish game hens and cubed steak – all purchased from the Sand Point Naval Air Station PX, which made a huge difference in stretching our family budget. To keep our bones strong, we were encouraged to drink milk at every seating. Facing the challenge of keeping a family of six in milk, Mom economized by training us to drink reconstituted powdered skim milk.

Dinner was always a sit-down affair, usually all together under the glittering prisms of the dusty crystal chandelier. (Yet another strange thing about the house: the previous owners had tiled over the dining room window with 12×12 black veined mirror tiles, perhaps for privacy from the neighbors. Mom, who intensely disliked dark rooms, quickly removed them.) With times as volatile as they were, there was plenty to discuss at the table. I remember one conversation that revolved around the mystery of that day’s missing newspaper – and the discovery later of a front page picture in which Scott was front and center in a protest against US involvement in Vietnam war. Children weren’t expected to be seen and not heard, as had been the case in Dad’s childhood home. If we didn’t understand a word and asked for its definition, we were promptly told to fetch the dictionary.


We all developed friends, and friendships with other families. Soon I was invited to join other neighbor kids as they watched “Saturday Afternoon at the Movies” on TV (with fare like “Creature from the Black Lagoon”). In Washington DC, Mom and Dad had become acquainted with the Lukens family. Fred, his wife, Patsy, and their large and lively branch of the family moved West a few years before we arrived in Seattle. It was natural for the families to reconnect. Though we occasionally visited Mom’s cousin Harriet’s family in Los Banos, and our Uncle Ed and Aunt Letty Ann’s and their sons in Yakima, we didn’t have family nearby. Having the Lukens family was like having loaner cousins.

For every one of us four, there was an “opposite number” of similar age, with a few spares. Paddy was Scott’s peer, Molly was friends with Bruce (out of which Mom expected a romance to blossom), Dean could choose from Peggy or Rick, and I generally played with Ricky (my age) or Tommy. (Kimberly was a later addition, just as I had been to my family.) At their rambling house on Capitol Hill, the younger set played tag, hide-and-seek, and, if I had my way, “Kingie,” a made-up game that inevitably involved a royal Queen or King being waited upon by his or her subjects.

Being back in the Pacific Northwest gave us the opportunity to return to a special place in Mom’s memory, Payette Lake, in McCall, Idaho. Each summer, we piled into the car and drove the 500 miles (sans air conditioning) to the Ponderosa Pine-forested summer retreat owned by Mom’s uncle on Wagon Wheel Bay. When we started to feel we’d worn out our welcome – Uncle Lynn could be pretty intimidating – we started staying at Lena Lukens’ cabin across the bay.

After three years, Dad announced that we would be moving to nearby Everett where he would become Personnel Director of Weyco’s large lumber operation. Though the chaotic family gatherings with the Lukens wouldn’t end, they became less frequent when we were 30 miles away. Although we were used to moving about every three years, I had come to like my school – especially my beloved third grade teacher, Mrs. Dingley. Seward was an inner city school and my friends and acquaintances reflected the diversity of Capitol Hill: African-American Cecilia Lee, second generation Japanese American Julie Aoki, and my Scandinavian-American best friend, Lisa Frolund, who had the added attraction of owning a Barbie Dream House and actually living in a house that kind of looked like it on Boyer Avenue overlooking Portage Bay.

Oh how I loved Lisa Frolund's Barbie Dream House

Oh how I loved Lisa Frolund’s Barbie Dream House

We moved to 2507 Helena Lane in Eastmont in 1967, a suburban community south of Everett and north of Seattle. We acquired a new dog, a moose of a Springer Spaniel named “Boot” with whom Dad planned to hunt upland game in Eastern Washington. (Sadly, Laddie disappeared with a bunch of other neighborhood dogs, victim of a dognapping ring.)

A lot of kids our age lived on the new block, including Shari Schoonover. Shari – who I called “Shoutz” – was as uncool as I was; we were perfect for each other. By this time, my mother had let me stop wearing my hair pulled straight back from my face secured by a giant bow that looked like a propeller, but I still looked fully the part of dork next to sophisticated young gamines with popular names like Keely or Kelly or Kerry (so much cooler to have a “K” name). My crooked overbite didn’t help, although that was soon to be attacked by a Seattle based orthodontist, Dr. Leslie Erickson, who was always delighted to listen to my constant attempts at poetry. At least, he convinced me he was. I turned out to be a six year customer of poor Dr. Erickson’s and I rarely showed up for my monthly appointment without something for him to appreciate.

The family adventures in hunting quickly resumed. Dean remembers pheasant hunting in the Ephrata area with the old “White Trail Grange” association. Quentin and Mike Schoonover (Shari’s father and brother) joined Dad and Dean for an pheasant shoot that turned out to be more like visiting a chicken ranch than hunting in rural farm country. On opening day, at least 15-20 pheasants were just milling around the willows in the middle of an alfalfa field. They stopped the car, lined up, and at noon pushed them across the road and up to an elevated ditch bank, where they started flushing in flocks. Dean emptied his old 16 gauge Browning A-5, reloaded and shot again, without raising a feather. None of the party hit birds; the birds unexpectedly all flushed almost straight up.

Eastmont was surrounded by a lot of undeveloped property, and people on nearby farms often had horses, which fed an obsession. By the time we moved to Everett, I had moved on from reading the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle and Pippi Longstocking series. I inhaled every Marguerite Henry book and imagined myself atop Phantom (Misty of Chincoteague) or Sham (King of the Wind). I really wanted a horse. And a cat. I got the cat (the diabolical Tuffy), and a few riding lessons at a nearby stable. With matters left to me, I talked my classmate’s parents into letting me clean stables on their “Funny Farm” (its real name) in exchange for free rides on their mean-tempered Shetland ponies. They got the better end of that deal.

Looking back, Eastmont was probably chosen for its modest home prices and decent schools. Things were tight financially and soon grew tighter. It was the only time I knew my parents to argue – really argue – and once I heard Mom fling the word I feared most into the conversation: divorce. Women’s liberation, besides opening career possibilities for women, brought with it a rise in divorce. I had heard of kids whose parents divorced. And then there was that friend of Mom and Dad’s who wore caftans and announced that she had freed herself and graffitied obscenities on her bathroom walls. Would my Mom be liberated? Would she start using the F-word? Could my parents split?

Scott had finished college and was drafted into the Army in January 1967. Fortunately, his first tour was in Germany. I was pretty shocked when he called with the news that he would soon marry Jody, daughter of an Army general, in Karlsruhe, Germany. Their honeymoon getaway car? An Army tanker.

Mom did what she always did, setting up familiar activities in a new town and establishing new social connections. She joined St. Patrick’s Episcopal Church and soon our home was filled with the smell of ironing as she brought home a weekly load of altar linens. She sang in the choir, and I (ever clingy) insisted on sitting next to her, singing along. Shari and I completed confirmation classes, donned our virginal white dresses and pinned circular lace doilies to our head for the big moment. I still remember Bishop Ivol Curtis greeting me with a handshake so firm that his Bishop’s ring nearly crushed my finger joints.

Mom arranged bridge foursomes and small cocktail parties featuring pu-pu’s she learned to make in Hawaii: teriyaki mock drumsticks, rumakis, sliced pork tenderloin with hot chinese mustard and sesame seeds. When fondue became popular, a bubbly pot of melted cheese was added to the buffet table.


For the first time, Dean and I weren’t attending the same school; I was at Jefferson Elementary while he moved on to junior high. He continued to move up the ranks of Boy Scouts, while Dad stepped up to Scout Master.

With me more at a more independent age, Mom began to have a little more time for herself. She resumed golfing after a hiatus stretching back to college, always walking the course in her Bermuda shorts and sleeveless blouse, and poured, sanded and glazed ceramics with me at a small studio. After the house was quiet each night, evenings would find her quietly smoking in the kitchen until around midnight, when she went to bed.

Then Bruce, a sophomore at Western Washington State College, came home with a bombshell. He was going to be a father.

Mom did what she always did: she rolled with it. I’m sure they discussed the options, but very soon I learned I was about to be a sister-in-law, and an aunt, before I turned 10. And, as it turned out, a Godmother.

1968 - (from right to left) - Hank, Eileen, Camille (Bruce's

I moved out of my comfortable upstairs room within ear shot of the living room and my parents’ room to a windowless bedroom in the basement down the hall from my brother Dean. Smelly boy territory, as far as I was concerned. But it was worth it, as Cassandra Eileen Campbell, Bruce and Camille moved in with us after Sandy’s birth on February 26, 1968.

And a year later, on March 23, I became an aunt again, with the birth of Marc Christopher Campbell to Scott and Jody.

1969 - Marc, about 6 mos

I had hit that gangly stage that follows childhood and precedes young woman hood.

Betsy - 5th & 6th grades

That summer, we headed to Eastern Washington to visit Mom’s childhood friend, Barb Kidder Ringrose, and her family in Colville, WA. On July 20, it was blisteringly hot. I felt a little awkward in my cotton two piece bathing suit; whatever fit my top at that age didn’t fit my bottom. But the curving water slide that landed in the Ringrose’ pool, with periodic diving exhibitions by their older kids, helped to pass the time while we waited, and waited, and waited. About 1 p.m. we learned that Apollo 11 had landed on the moon. Almost five hours later, Neil Armstrong was heard through the static to say: “one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

That fall, I made the move to 7th grade, joining the 8th and 9th graders on a campus that seemed huge after my small elementary school. But before I adjusted, we learned that Dad was being promoted and transferred to a position at Weyerhaueser’s corporate headquarters in Tacoma, WA.

Tacoma was best known in the Seattle-Everett area for its aroma, due to the pulp mill in Commencement Bay and Tacoma Smelter around the corner. The house hunt extended from Dash Point to the north, to as far south as Lakewood. Finally, the family settled on 8601 43rd Street West in suburban University Place, spending the most it had ever spent on a house, $42,500.

In December 1969, just in time for Christmas, the family moved.

Next: Home in Tacoma


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Dad’s Origins: Both A Storied and Broken Past

(Fifth in a family legacy series. As before, when I write Dad’s story I switch to third person, since he was Henry long before he was Dad. Unlike the post about Eileen’s beginnings, I had a transcript of a first-hand interview with Henry and relied on that for much of this piece.)

As my father told it, his mother was as kind as his father was tough.

Campbell origins

On his maternal side, Henry came from a family that was obsessed with family lineage; his mother and aunt traced it back to the pre-Revolutionary War period to Ninian Beall, who was given a land grant from the Crown where Georgetown (in Washington, D.C.) resides today. On his paternal side, he came from a situation so dire that his father ran away at 13.

Henry’s father, Admiral Franklin (A.F.) Campbell, never talked about his Campbell family background. Family records indicate that his father, Frank Campbell, was his mother Mary Baker’s second husband. When Mary Baker died, her obituary listed two surviving children and four stepchildren, but Henry never met his grandparents.

In an interview in 2000 with Betsy, Henry shared what he knew:

He grew up on a dirt poor, hard scrabble farm. But he was under a very severe father, which explains some of the harshness with which he treated us. He always wanted to be a loving father, but he couldn’t bring himself to all the way.

When he was 13, he ran away from home. He went to Chicago where he picked up bottles on the street and washed them and turned them over to bottlers to make enough money to eat. He was very much living on the street. Somehow he got a job on floor of the Chicago grain exchange when he was 17.  When was 18 or 19, he caught the eye one of the traders on the floor who made him his assistant. By the time he was 23, he had made $100,000. This was in the 1890s. The crash of 1898 came along and he lost most of it, but he’d saved enough to go to dental school. I think it was a two-year course in those days. After the first year, he was made an assistant to one of the professors, which paid his tuition and board the second year. He left there and came West, went to Seattle.

Early 20th century Yakima

A potlatch party at Fort Simcoe on July 4, 1894 - HJ is in the chair behind the man lying down and Lizzie is behind

A potlatch party at Fort Simcoe on July 4, 1894 – HJ is in the chair behind the man lying down and Lizzie is behind

Henry often shared this story as a way of explaining what Yakima was like at the turn of the 20th century:

It was still a little bit of the wild west. Dad was an expert card player, so he used to spend some time in the back room of the Old Pastime, which was a saloon in those days, before he was married. He would go in there after work, play cards. He was very good at it. The Pastime Saloon was between Front and First Street on Yakima Avenue, in the middle of the block. Long narrow room. The front end was given over, in my day, to a soda fountain. In the back room, they had card games, with a bead curtain in between the front and the rear, much like you saw in the old movies. There used to be a man in town named Jake Cottrell, known as Uncle Jake, with no visible means of support. He’d be around for a while, and then he’d disappear, and later come back, pretty well off again.

The story came out that he was a horse trader. He would steal the horses on the east side of the mountain, run them over to the west coast, sell them, and come back to Yakima. The local sheriff said, “Okay, you can be here if you want to, but keep your nose clean and we won’t bother you.” He loved to watch my Dad play cards. Dad would be in the back of the room, against the south wall, in a corner table. Uncle Jake used to sit behind him, up against the wall, in the corner, and watch him play. Uncle Jake was something of a dude, a striking figure. He had quite a reputation as a gentleman. It seems there had been a local bravo who came into town and breezed around saying that he was the Montana Kid. He borrowed $50 from Uncle Jake. The kid comes back into town a month or two later and spreads it around town that he owed Uncle Jake $50 but he wasn’t going to pay it, and if Uncle Jake didn’t like it, he knew what he could do. On this particular day, Uncle Jake was sitting in the back watching Dad play cards. The Montana Kid comes in and orders a whiskey. The game went on. The kid had his second drink. Dad said, “I see that’s Montana Kid at the bar.” “Ya, I seen him when he come in,” Uncle Jake said.

Dad was waiting for fireworks but nothing happened. The kid was well into his third drink when Uncle Jake said, “Gentleman, excuse me.” He walked into the front room, behind the bar. He reached around in front of the kid, took the diamond stick pin out of the Montana Kid’s cravat and threw it down on the counter. The kid started to turn around and Uncle Jake stuck a gun in his back and said, “Now, put your hands up on the bar. We’re all gentlemen here. I understand that you decided would not pay me that $50. I’ll keep your diamond stick pin and we’re all even, if that’s okay. And if that’s not okay, you and I will go out in the back alley, and I’ll give you the first shot, and I’ll bet you drinks on the house I’ll hit you five times before I go down.” The Kid turned to his friend and said, “Look in my pocket and pull out that roll of bills and give Uncle Jake $50.” And he picked up his stick pin and walked out, and was never seen in town again.

The Snivelys

Jessie Harrison Snively (along with her sister Janie and her brother Harry) was the child of Elizabeth Harrison Martin Snively (1858-1937) and H.J. Snively (1856-1930), or as Henry called him, “the Grand Old Man.” H.J. served as district attorney, legislator, and was a Democratic candidate for governor and prominent attorney. Among other cases, he defended a “negro murderer” at a time when blacks were presumed guilty of any crime involving a white victim. The Yakima Herald carried this front-page news story:

The negro’s face grew almost pale as the clerk approached the words which would determine his fate, and as they were passed and the verdict was only manslaughter instead of the harsher one that was expected, he turned toward Mr. Snively with a look of gratitude on his face. Well might he do so, for there were few men in the courtroom who believed, after hearing the sentence, that anything else but the masterly handling of the case by the local attorney had saved the black criminal…. Whitley was charged with the murder of Edward Curtis, a white man at Toppenish, and it was alleged that he shot (Edward) Curtis down in cold blood for the simple reason that the latter called him ‘shine.'”… The feeling at Toppenish ran very high at the time and Whitley would surely have been lynched if there had been any one who was capable of leading a party for such a purpose.”

Henry described his grandmother and grandfather and their home in the 2000 interview. Although Henry didn’t mention it, a 1970s Yakima newspaper column noted that H.J. brought a bear from a circus as a pet for his son, Harry; after neighborhood children teased it, it became a problem and H.J. had to get rid of it.

He was as far as I know much an influence on my family, but also very much the preeminent figure in town. He was a very successful criminal lawyer with an enormous reputation for effective defense of criminals. Criminal law was a big deal in those days, and he was very effective at it and very effective in front of a jury. Not that I ever heard him. In fact that’s one of the things I wish he had thought to do and taken the time to do, was invite me, as his grandson who was nominated by the rest of the family to be his successor in the law, to see what he did in preparation and watch him do his job in a court. It would have made a big difference to me I’m sure. He was a big figure in town, but as far as his family and his daughters were concerned, he was god.

The family homestead was on more than a city block at 16th and Yakima Avenue, the block between 16th on the east end and Uppers Ditch on the west end, halfway up the hill, opposite Park Avenue [the current site of the Central Lutheran Church].  The family home burned before I saw it and was replaced by the house I knew, which was a three-story frame structure. The bottom floor was strictly laundry room and all that stuff. The second floor was the living room, dining room and a big kitchen, with a big pantry. There was a big display cabinet – 10’ long, chest high, with all kinds of Indian artifacts. My grandfather was at that time a strong voice for the Yakima Indians. He represented them in court when need be, and was very much involved in tribal affairs, and used to spend a lot of time down on the reservation near White Swan, just south of Union Gap. As a result of gifts from those contacts, he acquired a lot of artifacts. I don’t know what ever happened to them.

Elizabeth, H.J.’s wife was quite the Virginia woman. The origin of the Martin family was Tidewater Virginia, which was a plantation area with magnificent homes. A slave area, I’m sure, to maintain those places. Eventually we visited the region where the Martins originated. Martinsville is 40 miles north of the North Carolina border and that is apparently where Grandmother’s family came from.

Jessie was particularly close to her sister, Janie, who remained in Yakima throughout her life. Harry, the brother, died many years ago; his wife, Pearl, brought several of the family antiques to Henry’s home in Tacoma – including the four poster bed that once belonged to Thomas Harrison and was used by him in the Naval Observatory where he lived and served as its clerk. “Uncle Thomas,” who began working for the federal government in 1848, when John Quincy Adams was President, had at the age of 95 racked up the longest continuous service of any federal employee in one branch of government (the Interior Department). Over the years, friends continually tried to secure a retirement pension of $100 a month; he received a pension – finally – on August 20, 1920. By then he had voluntarily demoted himself (and his pay) from senior clerk to second class clerk, feeling that age was interfering with the efficiency of his work.

Janie and Jessie were raised to be modest and refined young ladies. Though they were young women during the final efforts to grant the vote to women in Washington state (which passed in 1910), it is unlikely that the family approved of suffragettes. We have no records of their education, but most likely they attended finishing school. They engaged in the expected pastimes of the day, such as embroidery and painting of china. In a letter immediately following the war, Janie made it clear that she disapproved of “Mrs. D.” and that Eileen would do well to emulate her more demure sisters-in-law, Louise and Letty Ann.

Jessie and Janie were so proud of their heritage that they secured membership in the Colonial Dames of America. These days, the C.D.A. is a little obtuse about its aims, but its early membership materials made it clear that it was a society for “gentlewomen.” A letter written by Mrs. Joseph Rucker Lamar, the former national president of the organization in the 1960 proceedings of the Washington state chapter of the National Society read:

“We insist that the descendant shall have inherited and have exemplified in her life the qualities that made her ancestor eligible, that she shall (in other words) have kept alive the traditions of her race, that she shall not only be patriotic, but that she shall bring to her patriotism the influence and force that spring from a life devoted to noble ends; that, in short, she shall be be truly representative of the best in American life.”

Jessie and Janie collected a trove of books with pictures of historic homes and monuments in Virginia and Tidewater Maryland, marking those with family connections like these (click to enlarge):

Jessie and A.F.

Jessie and Admiral (A.F.) were not a love match. Jessie was unusually tall for the time – 5’8″ – and, while the prettier of the two sisters, probably not considered classically attractive. According to cousin Louise, Grandmother Jessie was warned that A.F. had a relationship with a woman named Erma when he began courting Jessie. (Jessie would eventually divorce A.F. after tolerating the alliance for nearly 50 years, when he was involved in a car accident with her. A.F. is buried with Erma.) He plainly thought that he would be marrying money if he could secure Jessie as his wife; however, most of the family’s wealth was expended on Harry’s failed ventures, including what is still labeled Snively Ranch on the Hanford Nuclear Site. Henry explained in 2000:

Janie and Jessie were the daughters of the big wheel in town. My speculation was that one of the reasons he married my mother was for exactly that fact. He figured that the day would come when he would come into a sum of money left by my grandfather Snively to his granddaughter. But the old man died broke, trying to keep his son in business. Uncle Harry, my mother’s brother, lost at least two fortunes in sheep ranching.

The way it came down to me was that Mom knew my Uncle Ed, who was a surgeon (and a very good one). Apparently he attempted to court Mother but Grandmother Snively would not permit it until the elder sister was married, so he wound up marrying Janie, his second choice.

I don’t know how my mother and Dad met – probably in church. He was a very handsome young man. Dad was very much the dude around town. He had a matched pair of trotting horses and a carriage. I’m talking about somewhere in the early 1900s. I saw pictures of him – he used to have these sealskin gauntlets he used in the winter time that went up to the elbows, and a big seal hat. It could be really cold in Yakima.  I remember walking to school with snow up to my knees. Zero to ten below was normal in the winter time. Really cold.

The A.F. Campbell family’s resources came from his dental franchise operation. Because A.F. was a dentist, the household was among the first in the area to get a telephone; the phone number was 547. Henry described his father as the “Painless Parker” of the west, with several “dental parlors” in Washington state including Yakima Dental Parlors and Florence Dental Parlor in Seattle. Eventually A.F. limited his practice to Yakima and focused on cosmetic dentistry; his clientele included Spring Byington, a 1920s actress of some fame. A.F. kept an exhaustive scrapbook of advertisements for his dental parlors and those of competitors. In one ad, he argued why it was ethical for dentists to advertise: “If a dental company have offices magnificently fitted up, with all the modern appliances for dental work, have competent and courteous workmen, and make reasonable charges, there is just as much reason for the public knowing these things as there is for knowing that John Wanamaker is conducting his summer furniture sale…”


Henry was born October 24, 1916, a middle child between his older brother William Franklin Campbell (“Big Bill”) and Edmund West Campbell, Sr., M.D. In family lore, Bill was “the handsome one,” Ed “the sweet one,” and Henry “the smart one.” In photos, however, it is Henry who looks to be “the sweet one,” throwing his arms around his big brother Bill in one photo (prior to Ed’s birth).

Henry around 1920

Henry’s earliest memory was having to wear short pants at an age that he thought deserved long “big boy” pants: I remember we got invited to a party at the Yakima Country Club. Dad didn’t belong to it but Uncle Ed  did. I was six years old and I was supposed to come to where the party was. I went out and hid in the shrubbery because I had a pantywaist on. It’s kind of like a garter around your middle and you button your pants to it. I had no hips so it kept your pants from falling down. But mostly, I was embarrassed because I had short pants on. Any boy who was any boy at all at six had long pants. Don’t think this isn’t a big deal. Your honor depends on it. I was in a pantywaist. It was so humiliating.

102 Park Avenue in 2000

102 Park Avenue in 2000

Bill and Hank with their dog, Rock, in front of Aunt Janie's house

Bill and Hank with their dog, Rock, in front of Aunt Janie’s house

Henry and his brothers grew up in a large (4,000 square foot) home built on nearly 2 acres not long after Jessie and A.F. were married in 1911. The white wood-frame home at 102 Park Avenue had three bedrooms and a three-sided sleeping porch with huge sash windows that nested completely flush with the upper and lower window casements, designed to catch any breath of a breeze during the long, hot Yakima summer nights. Outside, it was embellished with a trellis, which Henry used to sneak out at night. The yard had a big expanse of grass which the boys would have helped to mow; they were also responsible for helping to maintain the many fruit trees:

The hardest thing I did was having to thin the pear trees or peach trees out in back, in mid summer. The fruit grew in clusters. Instead of six or eight in a cluster, you’d remove some so they would grow bigger. Hot! Sweaty! Peach fuzz all down your back! Miserable.

I also took out the clinkers in the winter. We used to shovel the coal, get up in the morning, shake the coal down. When I was about 10, Dad bought an iron fireman. What an iron fireman does is automatically feed the fine pea-coal into the furnace. Overnight the cinders would clinkerize, build up a hard, foamy detritus cinder or ash. I’d take those out every morning before I went to school.

Henry’s relationship with his older brother, Bill, and other boys, was sometimes contentious. Slight for his age, he was determined to build up strength, which he did by swimming in the open irrigation ditch that ran along Park Avenue with a current about the speed of a brisk walk:

I started swimming in the ditch, which had several benefits. One thing it did for me was it made me refine my style, using a flutter kick instead of a scissors kick, because it works better. I switched from kind of a half side stroke to a straight crawl. At first, I would swim up from the swimming hole to the bridge across the ditch at the Parson’s house, which was probably 50 yards, against a 3 or 3 ½ mile current, and then I’d drift back down. And then I started going to the Park Lane bridge, another 50 yard stretch. And then finally up to the siphon at Summit View. After a couple of years I would do that three or four times – swim out and drift back. That did a lot to build up my muscular strength in my shoulders.

Henry remembered life at home in a 2000 interview:

I remember Sarah, the black cook, a fine woman. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. She was a very affable person. This was before the Depression, which hit us about 1930 or ‘31. There was also a woman, Hallie, of indeterminate Nordic ancestry. Big woman, somewhat plump. Dad fired her because a man stayed one night in the basement with her.

Dad would get home from the office about 5. He was a dentist. He would mix himself a mint julep with nothing but the best straight bourbon whiskey. I asked him once, ‘What do you think about Scotch whiskey?’ He said, ‘Son there’s only one thing worse than Scotch whiskey and that’s Irish whiskey.’ He would have one or at most two, and dinner would be served promptly at six. We all sat at this big table; I sat on the west side, Dad was on my right at the south end of the room. Then Bill, then Ed, then Mom. We all had dinner. Everybody talked but the kids.

Henry, who maintained a life-long love of hunting and fishing, was exposed to both by his Dad, although he wistfully wondered, late in life, why his father did not seem to want to spend time with his sons engaged in these pursuits. A.F. was often in the Yakima paper for his outdoor sports accomplishments — breaking 96% of 1,125 targets in a trap-shooting tournament, capturing the record for the largest fish taken with tackle in Lake Keechelus (a 29″ Dolly Varden trout weighing 10 lbs.), catching the largest Chinook salmon in the Tieton River (40 1/4″) — and his expertise in bridge.

I must have been 6 or 7 when my Dad bought me a BB gun. I would get up in the morning very early, 3:30 in the morning. I’d walk up our backyard through the Howard place behind us and into the Gibson’s orchard, and hunt sparrows. English Sparrows were anathema in an orchard. Then I graduated to bigger birds; if it moved, I shot it. I could injure a Robin but I couldn’t kill it because they were too big. We had a big wisteria over our back porch, gorgeous in the summer time. In the winter, of course, it was just a bare framework. Mother’s bedroom overlooked that on the second floor. So I could get up there, open the window, and get the juncos that would roost up there.

One of the most embarrassing, even shameful, occurrences when I was 13 and I went duck hunting for the first time, down in the lower valley, below Toppenish, just off the highway that goes over the hill to Goldendale. Dad belonged to a duck club there with maybe 8 or 10 members. There were two big ponds. The big one was maybe half a mile long and a third as wide. So there was room for a number of duck blinds. Dad liked to hunt on the upper, smaller pond because there was usually no one there. He never gave me instruction on how to shoot. He just gave me the gun and turned me loose. The shame of my early period was shooting some ruddy ducks. They flew in and sat down out there and my Dad told me to shoot them. “What do you mean shoot ‘em? Dad, they’re out in the water, they’re sitting.” He said, “I know that. Go ahead and shoot ‘em!” I didn’t want to do that because it wasn’t sportsmanlike, I’d read that in a magazine. You only shot birds on the wing. So finally he urged me and I did it, and I killed one. When I went to pick it up I was so shame faced I haven’t forgotten having done that to this day.

I’m guessing I was 10 years old Dad when gave me a 22. The NRA had a junior rifle club. My brother Bill and his running mate Jack Callahan went up to Cowiche Canyon. (Jack’s father had a dry goods store in town; come the crash of ’29, his father killed himself. Apparently he left enough to take care of Jack and his mother.) It’s a narrow cleft. We would get out on the ledge on the shaded side and, looking across at the sunny side, watch for the rock marmots to come out and sit in the sun. It was about 75 yards across, a long shot for a 22. The marmots used to raise hell in the farmers’ alfalfa fields, so they welcomed it. The object was to hit them in the head so they couldn’t crawl down into their burrow. If they crawled down, you lost; if they just laid there and twitched, you won. Very politically incorrect these days. We used to go to a place just south of the duck pond to hunt jack rabbits. You would take a shot at one, and if you missed one, he would run around. But they will circle. So you’d get them when they ran back around. That takes a bit of doing. I once shot a crow down out of the air with a rifle, and a pheasant. That’s instinctive shooting.

1935 was a fabulous year for birds. There was a big drought in the east. I theorized that they came west to get away from it, but I doubt that could be true. One day, early on that season, the limit of ducks was 12.  There were 12 hunters. We went out and we were all back at the clubhouse within one hour with a full limit of ducks. Except for one hen, they were all green mallards. The sky was lousy with birds. I remember shooting two doves, one with each barrel. I took one with a right barrel and one with a left barrel, swinging.

My Dad was an avid sportsman. He was a great fisherman. He would take his buckboard and drive up through the Naches, up into what is now Cliffdale, and fish the Naches River, the American River, the Bumping River, and the Tietan River. He often stopped off at Aunt Nell’s place in the Nile valley. They were pioneer types, fairly elderly. He told the story about getting up one morning and going out to the front porch. By the front door was a rattlesnake lying in the sun, so Dad killed it. Aunt Nell came out a little later, and said, “Oh, doc, what would you do that for? Poor little fella didn’t mean no harm.”

Dad occasionally took me fishing up the Yakima. I was with him when I caught the biggest trout I have ever taken out of the Yakima River. The next day, dressed (de-gutted), it weighed 3 ½ lbs. It had to be a 5 lb. trout.

High school

Henry was moved ahead two grades growing up, and lamented that he got nowhere with the girls, not even Suzanne Bartlett, the neighbor across the street, whose mother seemed to have second sight any time he came close to being able to make any kind of amorous advance. Henry described his high school experience:

I was 16 when I graduated in 1933. I entered into senior year at 15, which is much too young. I remember going to the principal’s office for tutoring. The principal used to send for Jack Hollen and I to go up to the top floor for arithmetic tests to see how we would do. We were the whizzes in class at that. If we were to do a sum in our head, Jack was quicker than me by a heartbeat or two. If it was on paper, I was quicker by a heartbeat or two.

He did have a coterie of guys with whom he enjoyed outdoor activities and other pastimes:

Kenny Colvin was a small man but very athletic in nature. One of our classmates, named Jack Hawkins, whose Dad ran a paper supply house providing paper for fruit packers, tackled him on the steps of high school – something like that – and wound up crippling Ken. That pretty well killed his athletic aspirations. 

We used to play a lot of poker with George Crum and George Sears. The Sears family owned a big hardware store in town. George Crum’s family didn’t have a dime. The mother was widowed. They were skinning by the best they could but he was a real bright kid, and a good friend of mine. I was friends with Dick Jacobs, possibly Bob Barks and one or two others on the periphery including Craig Walker. I remember when George Sears got in it for the first time – we were teaching him how to play – and we got into a betting situation. I had folded my hand by this time. Someone was holding a flush. And George, not quite know what he was doing, was betting a buck or so. George called his bet, saw the other guy’s flush, and said, “God, I’ve got nothing but a full house.”

It was with these friends who Henry ventured out after high school graduation to hike the Sand Ridge Trail, starting out from Rimrock Lake —  a 20 mile hike over challenging terrain. When he returned, Henry said that he sat down and polished off an entire loaf of bread and jar of jelly. “Nothing ever tasted so good,” he said.

College years

Henry first attended Yakima Valley Junior College before transferring to the University of Washington. Free from the strictures of home and enjoying his membership in the Alpha Delta Phi fraternity, he apparently did not cover himself in glory academically and came close to being brought home by his father.

Henry begged his father for his indulgence and a second chance to remain at the university:


Dear Dad:

I received your letter.  In answer to it I have no defense, no have I anything I can honestly say in my own defense, except this one thing — if you feel that in the name of whatever faith you have left in me, you will give me the remainder of this quarter, I will prove to you in fact – not words – that that faith is justified.  If I fail to do so, I shall no longer ask for support from you, except such as you, out of charity, extend to me until I can get a job.

Dad, I could write you begging for babying, and give a lot of reasons why I am “different”, “misunderstood”, but whatever seems to me to have gone from my makeup, and whatever my stupidity has merited, at least I have pride enough left – foolish as it may be – to deal honestly with you.  Were you different than you are, I probably would have done just that, but it is impossible in view of the fairness with which you have dealt with me.

Dad, I rather hesitate to write this, because I don’t know whether I can express in words what I feel or whether you will accept it in the objective and impersonal sense in which I mean it.  Nevertheless, it is simply this: that right now there is nothing I want so much in the world as the faith, love and respect of you and Mother.  If I cause you to lose that, then I frankly feel no purpose in pursuit of life, or any further exertion, because when those things go, with them goes my self-respect, and that gone, I should have nothing.  I hope you can understand what I mean, that you don’t consider it simply poor melodrama in an attempt to work on your sympathies, because in that event this were better not written.  In any case, this is the last you will hear of anything of the sort.

May I then repeat that I ask only this next month’s indulgence, and that, if I fail, I shall remove myself as quickly as possible from your responsibility as no longer worthy of your consideration.

Your loving son,


A.F. apparently wrote the Dean of Students, who wrote back saying that, as far as he could tell, Henry was a fine young man, and he should be given the benefit of the doubt. Henry stayed.

Henry’s career goals at the time were not of his own making. His family had determined that he would become an attorney. What he loved was literature. As an adolescent, he had discovered “classics” like the ribald Rabelais. (Though a 16th century writer, its humor was apparently attuned to adolescent boy humor 400 years later.) Henry continued to be amused by this passage about the gigantic baby Gargantua who underwent a process of experimentation to discover a “rumpswab”:

I affirm and maintain that the paragon arsecloth is the neck of a plump downy goose, provided you hold her head between your legs…. You will experience a most marvellously pleasant sensation in the region of your scutnozzle, as much because of the fluffy underplumage as because the bird’s warmth, tempering the bumgut and the rest of the intestines, actually reaches your heart and brain.”

Henry moved on to Shakespeare, developing a particular fondness for Macbeth.  Eventually that love of literature enabled him to cross paths with Eileen during his senior year at the University of Washington. Henry vividly remembered that spring, when co-eds shed their coats and tweeds to wander the Arboretum in their “diaphanous skirts.”

They called Henry “love in bloom.”

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Family Life with the Marine Corps

(Fourth in a family legacy series. Subject to revisions by my brothers!)

After defeating monstrous evil in the world, modern America breathed into being in the last gasps of 1945. As Life magazine noted in its special edition celebrating the 50th anniversary of the war’s end, Bogie married Bacall, Jackie Robinson was hired by the Brooklyn Dodgers and Bess Myerson became the first Jewish Miss America. Detroit wasted no time gearing up, producing 2.1 million cars, a 2,500% increase, in 1946. With a half million people living in quonset huts and many more bunking with relatives, the GI Bill’s mortgage program sent people flocking to newly created suburbs.

Eileen settled in with Hank, Scotty and her mother in Alexandria, VA.

Eileen Campbell and Scott

Eileen – and most likely it was Eileen who set the schedule – gave the couple 18 months before saying “oh what the hell” and conceiving Bruce, who was born June 29, 1947. (An alternative explanation was a miscarriage, which she mentioned she had somewhere along the line.) Although he was a healthy, happy boy, Eileen and Hank must have been concerned for the surgeries he would have to undergo to repair a cleft lip.

Bruce Campbell

Eileen, Madeline, Scotty (now five) and baby Bruce settled in to life as a normal post-war married couple.

Eileen’s photo albums from the late 40s seem to be lost, but she undoubtedly enjoyed the freedom from the many wartime restrictions on the purchase of food, stockings and fabric for dresses.

Hank took up his post in the G-1 Division at Marine Corps Headquarters in March 1946, the group that included the Commandant and various staff functions. He landed at HQ just as a lively discussion began about the possible unification of the four Armed Forces. Perhaps that’s why Henry always corrected someone when they suggested he was in the “military”; as far as Henry was concerned, he was a Marine. In 1945, Adm. William Halsey was quoted as saying, “One might just as well as a committee composed of a Protestant, a Catholic and a Jew to save our national souls by recommending a national church and creed.” The discussion about unification continued into the late 1950s as the cold war raged.

In 1949, the family moved to Worthington, Ohio for just over a year when the Marines sent Henry to the Navy Post Graduate School at Ohio State University in Columbus. By then, Eileen was pregnant, and their daughter Madeline, known as Midge, was born on January 18, 1950.

Madeline Elizabeth Campbell - first year photos

After completing his course work in Ohio in 1950 (personnel administration and training), Henry was assigned to the Office of Manpower Utilization at the Department of Defense, with offices at the Pentagon. Eileen packed up again, and moved the family into 4213 Matthews Lane in Kensington, MD, which had become a commuter suburb for Washington, DC. They jumped back into the fray, getting Scott established in school and signed up for Cub Scouts.  As Den Mother, Eileen led a summer project making “Indian” outfits and war shields (cotton muslin stretched over hoops). Meanwhile, Bruce played cowboy, refusing to take his boots off, even at night.

Bruce's 4th birthday

Bruce’s 4th birthday

It was during Henry’s duty at Department of Defense that the couple suspected something was wrong with little Midge. Henry’s brother, Ed Campbell, a hematologist-oncologist in Boston, diagnosed her as having leukemia. At the time, nearly all children with leukemia died (compared to the current survival rate in excess of 80%). Uncle Ed treated Midge with an experimental regimen of corticosteroids, supervising her care and that of other children at Walter Reed Hospital. Her pictures show her growing progressively heavier as a side effect of the medication.

Uncle Ed with Midge

Uncle Ed with Midge

As Midge became sicker, the family spent as much time together as possible, including treasured days on vacation in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware during the summer of 1953.

1953midgemomdad copy

Henry’s most painful memory wasn’t the war. It was Midge’s final days. After being in remission for a period, she sickened and was in an oxygen tent in the hospital. He remembered her calling out to him, “Daddy, help me.” He could do nothing, he said, and pounded his head against the wall in the hallway in frustration. She died on October 22, 1953, months before her fourth birthday.

In February 1954, having delayed his departure as long as possible, the Marines sent Henry on a solo tour to Gifu, Japan, where he assigned to serve as Division Assistant G-2 for the 3rd Marines. In rapid succession, he became Executive Officer of the 9th Marines and then Commanding Officer of the 2nd Battalion, 9th Marines.

Eileen had learned she was pregnant about the time that Midge’s health deteriorated. Medical officers advised her to abort the baby, suggesting that the stress would be too great for her. She would have none of it.

Henry’s letter to Eileen from Gifu, lost during his move to California, spoke of his agony in not being able to be with her in the period of mourning following Midge’s death. When Dean was born on April 20, 1954, “it was as if the sun came up,” Henry would say later. Within weeks, Dean needed a haircut.

Dean's christening

dean's first haircut


Henry’s pictures and stories suggest he did have some light moments in Gifu. He and Cliff Atkins shared a small cottage and had a housemaid named Musemei. “Around that time,” Henry said, “there was a political movement afoot in the Pentagon to try to fashion the Marines, Navy, Army and Air Force into a single armed force.  This led to us receiving a message from the Commandant which read, ‘No longer shine your leather with cordovan polish.  Polish it tan like the Army.’  We handed our shoes and belts to Musemei and asked her to shine them with tan polish instead.  ‘Hai, hai,’ she said.  About a week later, we received another message from the Commandant.  This one said, ‘Disregard former message.  Shine your leather cordovan.’  Henry called Musemei in and told her to change all of the belts and shoes back to cordovan colored polish.  Her response:  ‘Goddam Marine Corps.  All time changie changie.'”


By this time, Henry had been promoted to Major. He acknowledged that he had benefited from rapid transfers during his career and noted that that there were 37,500 men in the Marine Corps before WWII, and well over 500,000 by the end of the war.

With two children, a baby, her mother and Buffy the dog, Eileen was relieved when he returned from Japan in April 1955. She wrote on a picture, “The plane that brought him home.” Soon, however, it was time to pack up again and move the family to Kingston, Ontario, where Henry began a two year assignment as instructor at Canadian Army Staff College.

Eileen and Henry loved being back together and reveled in the camaraderie of the Canadians who were notorious for party games like passing the orange (without the use of hands) and curling (a form of shuffleboard played on an ice rink involving brooms and granite stones).


Scott, at 13, made friends with the locals and skated with them on the St. Lawrence River. Bruce took his turn as a Cub Scout. Dean, meanwhile, bravely set off in the neighborhood at two years old, going door to door. When a nice lady opened the door, he would announce, “I’ve come for my milk and cookies.” “How could I say no,” neighbors would tell Eileen. Henry later said that he used to worry about Dean the most because he was so trusting.

That open-eyed naïveté led to an incident that became family lore. When Dean was about three, Eileen realized that he wasn’t at the house. She immediately began canvassing the neighborhood, learning that another small boy was missing. Eventually their search took them down to the nearby St. Lawrence River, where the ice was begin to break up and ice floes float out into the river. There was Dean and his little friend. Eileen took a two by four and paddled his fanny all the way home.



Dean Campbell

Weeks before returning for Henry’s assignment as Executive Officer, Marine Barracks, Betsy was born (Elizabeth Harrison) on June 15, 1957. The family packed up and settled back in Kensington again, this time at 9916 Old Spring Road.

This would have been the sixth move that Eileen managed. Each time they arrived at a new post, she paid a social visit to the Commanding Officer’s wife, calling card in hand, as expected. She joined the Officers’ Wives Club, and did an exemplary job of supporting their activities. She loved Washington, D.C. and the social whirl that went with an officer’s life in those days.

Henry and the Commanding Officer of Marine Barracks, then-Col. Leonard Chapman, innovated the evening parade a Marine Barracks, a proud tradition that continues today. Within a year, Col. Chapman – who Eileen called “Chappie” – was promoted to Brigadier General. He became the 24th Commandant of the nation’s oldest armed force in 1967.

1959chappie copy 2

Welcoming the Secretary of Defense

Welcoming the Secretary of Defense

In July 1959, Henry received his Colonel’s eagles and was assigned to Headquarters Marine Corps as Head of the Officer Detail Section. In an interview in 2000, he shared this explanation of his role:

“I spent two years as head of officer detail, a high visibility job. I had some very good junior officers and had read all of their fitness reports.  I said, “I have great respect for you, or you wouldn’t be here.  On your integrity relies the efficiency of the Marine Corps.  I will not permit anyone to play favorites or I’ll skin you alive.

“Not long after I joined the Officer of Manpower Utilization, Gen. Jim Masters, head of the intelligence section of Headquarters Marine Corps, called me to his office.  Had a young infantry man with him, a Captain, and told me he felt he was being mis-assigned to a staff job.  I pulled his record – he was a good man.  He’d been in Fleet Marine Force for 7 years, a great job, but he needed to let others have that opportunity.

“I called in Andy Hedish. We agreed the best thing we could do was order him to Marine Corps HQ and get his feet wet. I talked to Gen. Masters and said, ‘His transfer is strictly according to policy.  He needs staff experience.’  He just sat there and looked at me.   I said, ‘I have no doubt that the way to advancement is not by saying no to superior officers.  But I told my men if I caught them playing footsie, I’d skin them alive.  I can do no less.  If you have a problem with that, you should talk to my superior officer.’  I walked out.  The junior officer went to the staff job.  I heard no more about it.  There’s no power involved.  The policies are very carefully thought out.

“There was one exception and it was me.  I’d been in grad school at Ohio State in personnel administration and training.  I’d been assigned to the Military Occupational Project.   The joint staff at the end of WWII recognized there are people with very highly placed skills who end up being misplaced during the war.  They needed more info about what jobs  require people with high level skills and who the people are with those skills.

“They had 300 people working on it, led by Col. Dunn.  Because I’d been to this advanced schooling, I was assigned as the Marine Corps’ representative.  The joker is that I had Marine Corps HQ looking over my shoulder.

“The thing got bent around so that they decided to divide people by intelligence, based on their score on a test.  Navy said, ‘We have all the ships, we should have all of the brightest people.’  Air Force said the same thing.  Army said, ‘Bullshit!’  That’s what pulled the thing apart; they couldn’t agree.

“I convened a meeting with one representative of each force.  The Army guy was completely out of his depth.  Rubens asked, ‘Can we agree to this (I forget the details)?’  The proposal was a ringer.  If we agreed to the principles to take all the bright guys and give them to Navy or Army, what would the consequences be?  It was apparent this was a trap.  I said, ‘I’d like to say a few words.  Recognize that if we agree to this, we have agreed to everything else.’  All realized they needed to confer.  Rubens offered me a job!

“Gen. (David) Shoup (who later was Commandant) wanted to have a presentation made on all of the non-availables.  When you did a plan, you set aside a certain number of people for the “Jesus factor” – on leave, sick, etc.  That number runs about 80% for planning figures.  The meeting was to be a formal briefing in Gen. Larson’s office. ‘Who wants to do it, Gen. Larson asked. I said, ‘General, I’ll do it.’  I was assigned a planning officer to do the legwork.  He and I did our skull practice.  We took three slices of the entire Marine Corps on a given day and looked at where they were, using the latest records.  We counted every one of ‘em.  Not long before, we had instituted a transplacement battalion, which replaced an entire battalion at one shot.  It represented an enormous advance in a battle situation backfilling a battalion with individual replacements, where they don’t know their officers.  Transplacements are intact teams that remain together, and they can fight.  After Iwo Jima, the teams were broken. When a transplacement battalion was placed, you had a big flow of non-availables that week.  We made our presentation to the Commandant.  Then I stood by to take questions.  Gen. Shoup said, ‘Col., that’s an excellent presentation.’  He greeted me by name after that.  You can see why I hated to leave the Marine Corps.  I had an absolute ball.”

The Marines sent Henry for advanced education again in 1961, this time to the Industrial College of the Armed Forces in Washington, D.C., after which he was assigned to Headquarters, Fleet Marine Force, Pacific in Honolulu.

Dean on Old Spring Road

Dean on Old Spring Road

Three months before the family was due to travel to Honolulu, Eileen’s mother died. Betsy remembers being unable to wake her Nana from her nap. At 76 years of age, she had had a heart attack.



Buffy, the family’s beloved cocker spaniel, was deemed too old to make the 5,000 mile trip or survive the required quarantine upon arriving in the islands. Off the family of six headed across the country toward San Francisco with Bruce and Scott driving one, while Henry, Eileen, Dean and Betsy rode in the other.

Driving cross country

Driving cross-country

Although airliners became popular as a model of travel from the mainland to Hawaii in the early 1960s, the Campbell family cruised to Honolulu on the luxury ocean liner, the SS Lurline. As the top-ranking officer on board, the family enjoyed the Admiral’s quarters. The family arrived deeply tanned after their ocean crossing (except for Betsy, who remembered being dosed liberally with Dramamine to prevent seasickness).

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July 24, 1962 - Arriving in Hawaii

As Henry assumed his duties, the family settled into Pearl Harbor’s housing community, Makalapa. In the fall, Bruce attended Punahou, a private high school, Dean entered 3rd grade and Betsy started kindergarden.

Scott and Bruce took surfing lessons from a guy named Rabbit Kekai, a native Hawaiian who was a well-known surfer on Oahu, who worked at the Outrigger Canoe Club on Waikiki. Scott said, “Dad was really great about turning us loose with the family Chevy Corvair, and we’d load our surf boards on the roof and head off to whatever beach had good waves.”

Eileen grew her hair longer and pinned it up in a French twist, donning island muumuus for comfort. With help at home in the form of a Japanese maid, she had time for hobbies and took courses in Japanese flower arranging. Her spare, elegant creations were set in low bowls held by “frogs” that were camouflaged with pastel sea glass she found washed up on the beach. She collected Japanese “mud men” statuettes and sometimes added them to her designs. The family’s furnishings were adapted for the islands, too, with rataan furniture and electrified white ginger jars lamps with illuminated bases. The house smelled of plumeria, Brownie Surfrider suntan lotion and the pungent salt-and-grass smell of tatami mats.


For social events, Eileen learned to make Asian- and Hawaiian-influenced “heavy pupus,” appetizers such as tempura, won tons and teriyaki-marinated chicken mock drumsticks. She even purchased some heavy, red silk brocade with the intention of having a cheongsam dress made for her. While demure at the neckline and buttoned to the throat with frog closures, they often have a dramatic slit in the side seam. While being fitted, Eileen reported that she tried to get the seamstress to make a slit to just above the knee. The seamstress kept pointing to a spot lower on Eileen’s calf, repeating, “Not Chinese lady.”

In his last years, Henry often remembered jumping up and down in the waves at Barber’s Point with Betsy on his shoulders (which they learned later had a notorious riptide). Looking back, it may have been days before the event that changed the family’s life.

Dad near Barber's Point, 1962

1962betsy copy

Henry felt a crushing pain in his chest and asked Scott to take him to the base clinic, where they quickly recognized he was having a heart attack and directed him to go to the hospital. In the 1960s, the chance of dying immediately after a heart attack was 30 to 40%. Even survivors might never be able to work again. For that reason, having a heart attack was cause for automatic and full retirement. Henry’s career in the Marine Corps abruptly ended.

As Henry was recovering, Eileen was hospitalized for emergency gall bladder surgery. Before she came home, Betsy was mauled in the throat and face by a neighbor’s German Shepherd. The family moved off base, to a house on the east side of Diamond Head, several blocks from the beach. The family was walking wounded by the time they sailed to the West Coast to begin a new life in the cooler climes of Western Washington, as suggested by Henry’s physicians.

Next: Civilian life in the Pacific Northwest


Filed under Family history, Uncategorized

My Mother’s War

(Second in a historical series for a family legacy book. Again, I will refer to Mom as Eileen in these years before she was Mom.)

When Eileen and Hank married, just 19 days after Pearl Harbor, the Marines were on full war footing. They found a minister who would marry them at the Post Chapel in Quantico on Dec. 26. No church wedding, no fancy dress, no friends in attendance – just Eileen’s mother and a couple of witnesses. Hank had a full 12 hours leave for his honeymoon.

Life Magazine's Hex Party

It’s hard to imagine the rapid changes that the couple confronted in 1941. A February 1941 copy of Life, the all-photographic news magazine that dominated the weekly news market, was still taking a light hearted tone with headlines like, “Bombed London Railway is Remade as Good as New in Four Hours.” An article explaining the aiming of field artillery boasted, “The gun crew works like a football team.” The rest if the issue was devoted to the belles of President Roosevelt’s birthday balls to raise money to fight “infantile paralysis” (polio), vacationing in Biscayne Bay, and “the blondest of the new crop of New York debbies” (debutantes). In the story, “Life Goes to a Hex Party,” amateur sorcerers in Washington try black magic against Hitler.”

Even though the U.S. was not yet in the war, the seriousness of the situation was already personal to Eileen. Her cousin, John Driscoll, to whom she was very close, was killed in a training accident when his plane collapsed on September 26, 1941, a week before he was to have received his commission in the Air Corps of the Army. Having already lost her father that February, Eileen would have grown up fast.

Then Pearl Harbor was attacked on December 7. The war was no longer “over there.” It was here. Henry later noted that the Marines fully expected at attack up the Potomac River, aimed at the nation’s capital. Immediately, a nation-wide blackout went into effect. Gas masks were distributed. Machine-gun posts were added alongside the White House and U.S. government buildings.

The two set up housekeeping together in married housing in Quantico, VA. In an interview with Betsy in 2000, Henry told her, “Because I was an expert shot, and also a good student, at the end of the ROC class I was selected to go back to Quantico as an instructor, which I did for two years. I went back to the same company I had been officer candidate in.”

Within two months, Eileen was pregnant, like many of the wives. Scott was born on November 13, 1942. With Hank working hard, she and other new mothers supported one another, and likely played occasional hands of bridge while swapping tips about baby care.


Eileen Driscoll Campbell and Scott Campbell

Henry was promoted from second lieutenant to first lieutenant during that first year, and wrote his brother, Ed, that he expected to remain in Quantico with the newly formed G Company until the early part of 1943.

So though Eileen would have known Hank would come safely home each night, at least for a time, they knew many others were in harm’s way. Hank explained later, “The first two years of the war were very tough on my classmates; they were expendable. The casualty rate among second lieutenants was high.”

Within months of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese Imperial Army invaded Wake Island and thousands of American forces surrendered in what would become the Bataan Death March. Corregidor was overrun and the Philippines were surrendered. Things finally turned in November 1942 after a victory at Midway and hard fought land and sea battles for Guadalcanal, which became Japan’s most staggering military defeat. Late in 1943, U.S. military forces deployed new amphibious warfare techniques that aimed to obliterate Japanese defenses. Even with the new strategy a success, U.S. Marine losses were heavy at Tarawa, a small atoll. On the first day of the attack, casualties were 20%. It took 18,000 Marines three days to secure the small island at a cost of 1,300 dead. Hank lost a close friend.

Hank shipped out in the third year of the war for the Pacific with the 23rd Marines, 4th Marine Division. He would have sailed out of Honolulu as part of the “Big Blue Fleet” on January 22, 1944, bound (although he didn’t know it yet) for the Marshall islands where he would join the attack on Roi-Namur.

Henry left with a memento that Eileen’s friend helped her to create: a pin-up style snapshot of her immersed in a bubble bath. The wives conspired to create the images as a way of reminding their men what awaited them at home.


At some point, Eileen went West to stay with Hank’s family in Yakima.

In those years before the 24-hour news cycle, Eileen would have anxiously awaited news reports of actions, which were often delayed for security reasons. Or she might have seen news reels with thrilling images of victories and frightening scenes of destruction. She wouldn’t have known where Hank was until well after the fact, when V-mail arrived. Very likely she would have breathed a sigh of relief after learning he was safe following the victory at Saipan.

The Admiral Campbell home in Yakima settled in to a rhythm, with Scotty enchanting Grandmother Campbell and Aunt Janie. Upon meeting Eileen, Grandfather Campbell was reported to have said, “Son, a pretty face will fade away, but a good pair of legs is a joy forever.” Grandfather Campbell, who ran away from a hard-scrabble Kentucky home at the age of 14, had an eye for such things. He maintained an extra-marital relationship with Erma and retired to her home after dinner to play cards on most evenings; Mom was invited to play bridge with the pair and Grandfather’s friends.

As a mother of a young child, Eileen would have supported the war effort by caring for Scotty. More than two million women worked in war industries and another million as “government girls” in offices, while others plugged the hole in manpower by driving trucks and manufacturing in factories. Everyone pitched in, however, by adhering to wartime rationing, planting victory gardens and salvaging scrap metal, rubber, cooking fat and nylon and silk stockings which were needed for war supplies.

An article saved by Eileen explained how to fill out the consumer application required to obtain Ration Book Number Two.  The application was distributed via newspapers “in recognition of the fact that newspapers reach practically every individual in the United States.” To complete the form, you had to go to your pantry on Feb. 21, 1943 and count all cans, jars and bottles containing 8 ounces or more of store-bought food: canned fruits, vegetables, soups, etc. Coffee (and sugar) rationing had begun in 1942 and all citizens were required to inventory the coffee on their shelves on Nov. 28 of that year. You then calculated the amount of coffee to which you were entitled by stating the pounds of coffee you inventoried in November minus 1 pound for each person 14 or older in the household. Then you counted the units of cans on your shelves and subtracted five cans for every person in the house. Based on the answers provided, you would be issued Ration Book No. 2. If you had coffee or canned food above your allotment on hand, those stamps would be removed from your book. You couldn’t buy items at the grocery books without the appropriate ration stamps.

The Campbells and Eileen also wrote Henry regularly. Victory mail (“V-mail”) was censored, transferred to film, and printed back to paper, saving shipping space for war materials.

Saipan grabbed the U.S. imagination not only for its size and violence – it took 71,000 U.S. troops six weeks, over 3,000 losses and another 10,000 wounded – but for the horror of the mass suicide of roughly 1,000 Japanese women and children who lived on the island. Emperor Hirohito had declared that civilians who died there, rather than surrendering, would have equal spiritual status in the afterlife as soldiers.

Hank went on to Tinian, and then Iwo Jima. By February 15, 1945, a quarter of a million troops were ready to attack the island’s 20,000 Japanese Imperial Army troops, who were well defended by a warren of interlinking caves and tunnels. Iwo Jima’s casualty rate – with 24,000 wounded and 7,000 dead – was the highest in the history of the Marines.

In late March or early April of 1945, Eileen would have gotten word that Hank was safe after the 23rd was pulled back to Maui for R&R, and to reconstitue its ranks after so many were lost.

The atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima in August 1945, and on August 15, WWII was finally over with the surrender of Japan to the Allies.

Between Tinian and Iwo Jima, Hank wrote to Eileen about the effect of the war on who they were as a couple: “I expect we’ve both changed this year—-yet I think we’ll be surprised at the smallness of the change. The part of me that’s fought the war out here—-is NOT the part of me that is the half of ‘us.’—-I feel strongly that it is the mechanical person out here fighting, and that the real person—-the one YOU know—-is in a state of suspended animation.—-Perhaps an accurate explanation of the fact that I never write what I’m thinking about and feeling—-that I neither feel nor think—-and it is as if there is a hard shell around me and that ALL of this present life went on outside me.”

By November, 1945, Hank landed in Southern California where he was reunited with Eileen, Scott, Eileen’s mother, and Hank’s Aunt Janie.

Hank later said he had to fight for his pants at first, with Eileen so competently in charge at home. He and Eileen drove to Washington D.C. with Eileen’s mother and Scotty to find a place to live when Henry began his new assignment at Marine Corps HQ in its Plans and Policies Division.

Next: the post-war years

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