***The Roots Is The Toots- The Music That Got Them Through The Great Depression And World War II…

 

… and ten thousand tearful partings at the train station, Grand Central, Union, South Station, Adamsville, Podunk, as Jimmy’s number has been called (or fill in that government issue’s, G.I. okay, name who has caused the tearful parting), called to go fight against the night-takers who stalk their world, go to push back against the night of the long knives some maniacs have declared against the commonality. Jimmy and kindred numbers to wade on the dangerous ocean swirled fragile beachheads of Europe, to take guard duty in some frozen lean-to up north near the Arctic Circle, to flame-blow inside some cave on some unnamed, maybe nameless Pacific atoll, to wait, always wait, tented against the China Sea squalls.

She swore she would wait for him, wait for him in lonely home-fire rooms (his picture right next to Christ on that lonely room wall). All the time wondering, fearing whether he has laid his head down on some Italian beach, some frozen tundra, in some watery grave, against some stony bridge, and what will become of her (and the baby). Thinking, thinking too hard for the times that she will get by, get by somehow.

And he, Jimmy (or fill in your named one, okay) now in some landing craft off some foreboding beach, in some woe-begotten lean-to holding off frost-bite, in some water-rat cave, in some make-shift beaten down tent, hoping to high heaven that he will not have to lay down his head so far from home, so far away from her wondering in his lost moments whether she will really wait for him, wait for him alone. Silly boy haven’t you been reading her letters, her every day letters (although usually delivered in bunches, APO hassles- you know snafus), she was built for forty, fifty year Jimmy love, yeah she was built to get by until you return thank you very much.