To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere, without moving anything but your heart. - Phyllis Grissim-Theroux
I never met my father-in-law. My husband, Ed, who is named after his father, met him, but he doesn’t remember him. Edmund Palko Sr. died at the age of 27 when my husband was only 11 even month’s old and his older sister was not even three.
We knew some things about his father. He was tall at 6’2” and a good athlete, playing football for Derry High School and appearing in the high school all-star game. He served in the Korean War and met my late mother-in-law at a skating rink after the war, and they married. Also, after the war he was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, which at that time they attributed to a “nervous stomach” from the war. He got seriously sick in April of 1956 and was hospitalized. Peritonitis set in and eventually killed him over the Easter holiday.
We have his letterman jacket, the Bible he carried into war, and the flag that draped his coffin. We know from my husband’s cousin, Rosemarie, who was born on his birthday, that he promised that when she turned 21, he would buy Rosemarie her first drink—something he never lived to fulfill.
We know about my father-in-law, but we don’t know him. That is until recently.
At the annual Palko family reunion this summer, another of my husband’s cousins was cleaning out some of his late mother’s effects and came across some things from my father-in-law that his mom, my husband’s Aunt Emma, had kept. She was one of my father-in-law’s seven older siblings.
Among the things was his first-grade report card, and we discovered that he was quite chatty and got unsatisfactory marks for comportment. But the real treasure was the one letter that was given to us dated February 5, 1951, written while he was in basic training in Fort Knox, Kentucky, and considering becoming a paratrooper.
Hi Em,
I thought I’d say something about the paratroopers. In the first place whoever gave you the idea that it’s dangerous or anything like that? . . . About mom and pop worrying. I don’t see why. I can take care of myself very well and they know it. So, you can tell mom to stop worrying.
Your Brother, Edmund
We have a few photos of him, but this was before the proliferation of home movies and iPhone videos, so we don’t know how he moved, what his mannerisms were, or how his voice sounded. But this one letter gave us a welcomed glimpse into his personality revealed by his own words, and it was given to us 73 years after he wrote it.
And it made me think about how sad it is that no one writes letters anymore. A lot of the things we know from previous wars came to us through letters. Although we have numerous photos and videos today with iPhones, those photos and videos seem to evaporate quickly and exist outside of the material world. A letter is something concrete. It can be kept in a drawer or scrapbook and be taken out and read over and over. You can see the personality in the penmanship and hear the words on the page in your mind and heart, and if it wasn’t for this one missive, my father-in-law would have remained a flat character to us.
But now with this gift of this letter, we have a small glimmer of his personality, what he was thinking, his sarcasm, and how he expressed himself. And as the saying goes - priceless.
This originally appeared in the November issue of Northern Connection magazine.
