Dear Papa Page 7
This is a picture of Ian dropping an oar in the middle of Rabbit Lake. The other boat is Mr. Finley from the next cabin over rowing to our rescue.
Your camper,
Isabelle
August 28, 1944
Dear Aunt Izzy,
Hello from the North! We are at Rabbit Lake Resort. Ian has poison ivy on his legs. Mr. Right would love it here. There are mice in all the cabins. You would like it, too. There is lots of time for games. I have been playing whist with some kids at the lodge. Being Catholic still applies on vacation, but fish does taste better when you catch it yourself. Maybe next year you could come with us!
Love,
Isabelle
August 29, 1944
Dear Papa,
Hello again from Rabbit Lake!
I’ve been thinking about what I have told you so far about Mr. Frank. Maybe I have given you a bad impression. Since he never knew you, he couldn’t have meant to actually steal your family. I am looking out for the Lutheran Church, though.
I learned to fish! I caught four yesterday, a new family record. Maybe they’ll put my big one on the wall next to the deer head in the lodge.
Love from your girl,
Isabelle
August 30, 1944
Dear Papa,
Mama and I sat under the willow today while the rest of them fished. Turns out Mama was joking with Mr. Frank about turning Catholic.
“You have to laugh or you’ll fall apart,” Mama says. And listening in on conversations is eavesdropping. Even if it was done from the stairs and not from the eaves it will get you in trouble every time, she says. But this is the first time it has gotten me in trouble. More often it is very informational.
Mama thinks I will have the most talent to help with the baby. I was hoping for talent to play the piano, but everyone has to start somewhere. At least she’ll need me around.
Love,
Isabelle
August 31, 1944
Dear Papa,
We have to leave Rabbit Lake tomorrow. I am polka-dotted with mosquito bites. I have picked wild mint. I have caught 12 or more fish since my last letter. I will miss eating meals at long tables in the lodge.
Did you know that Mr. Frank’s father died when he was eight? Just like me. His mother got married again and that is the father I met in St. Cloud. I did not even know that Mr. Frank was a stepchild himself. You’d never know it to look at him.
Love to you from me,
Isabelle
September 2, 1944
Dear Papa,
We are back home. On the drive to St. Paul, we gave ideas for naming the baby. Mama and Mr. Frank said we could choose the name!
I put Nils on the boy’s list but Ian’s name is really Nils and his middle name is Ian. Of course you know that but why didn’t I? We should call him Nils if that is his name. Mama said the baby doesn’t have to have an “I” name like the rest of us. Good thing. How many other good “I” names are there? Ichabod, Ivy (I like that one), Irwin . . . It will be easier to branch out. It does have to be a saint’s name, though. Where do you find those?
Was your favorite color blue or red?
Isabelle
September 5, 1944
Dear Papa,
Today was the first day of fifth grade. My teacher is Miss Green. We had to write a paragraph to introduce ourselves. I watched her eyes when she read I was a stepdaughter but she didn’t so much as blink.
“Is your dad Dr. Colletti?” she said.
Well, I didn’t know what to say.
“He was a classmate of my brother’s,” she said and went right on to James’s desk.
No one must have remembered our fights from last year because I found three girls to eat with at lunch.
On to homework.
Isabelle
P. S. What do they feed you in heaven? Do you have to cook? I hope not. Heaven just wouldn’t be eternal bliss with toast for every meal. (Not that your toast was bad, of course.)
September 19, 1944
Dear Papa,
Happy Birthday to You! It was handy for you to be born in the first year of the century because I will always know your age. Just think, if you’d lived to be 100, you would have been 100 in 2000!
I knew right when I woke up today that it was your birthday. I looked at everyone’s face at breakfast to see if they remembered. Mama was rubbing her forehead and her belly. Ian was picking a scab and Ida was counting everything square in the kitchen trying to get to 50. Mr. Frank was already at work.
“September 19 and sunny!” I said, just to open the subject.
Mama looked cross at me and asked Ian if he’d finished his homework.
“September 19 is a big day in this family,” I said.
“What!” Ida squealed. “Is it my birthday?”
“No, it is your Papa’s birthday,” I told her.
“But we just got him a pipe in the summer,” Ida said.
“She means your other Papa,” Ian said. “The one who’s gone.”
“That’s enough, Isabelle,” Mama said. “We all loved your father very much. But we are not going to celebrate his birthdays anymore. We don’t want to hurt Papa Frank’s feelings, now do we?”
On the way to school, I invited Ian to come to my room for a party after school. We snuck up some crackers and milk and taped paper candles to the crackers. (Only six, though, not the full 44.) We told 44 things we remember about you.
“Papa’s laugh didn’t have any sound. His mouth opened wide wide and his shoulders shook,” I said.
“Papa was a good drawer. He could draw every kind of car,” said Ian. “Papa yelled loud when he was mad.”
“Papa didn’t get mad very much,” I said.
There are 40 more, but now my hand is tired.
Love,
Isabelle
September 28, 1944
Dear Aunt Izzy,
None of the Chatty Pigtails go to church. Sylvia says it is what we feel in our hearts that counts. Her dad says enjoying nature is getting as close to God as he needs. If I wanted to go to the Lutheran Church, I’d have to go alone now. Mama goes to Mass sometimes with Mr. Frank, and once she took the two little kids, but usually he goes alone and we stay home. Mama feels no more need for organized religion. What do you think?
I am writing a report about Minnesota for school. It takes a lot of my time. If the penmanship isn’t perfect, Miss Green will return it, she says.
Love,
Isabelle
October 20, 1944
Dear Papa,
I have a new best friend. Her name is Mary and we both like peas but not beets. We are the exact same height and neither of us has a father. (Hers died in the war, of course.) Roller skating is our favorite sport. We are going to skate every day until it snows. Mary lives three blocks closer to school than we do so I pick her up on the way. She sings where I do not, but we are both Lutheran. She is in the choir at Our Savior’s and has invited me to join her. Thanks all the same, I told her, but I am not currently attending services. She said I could just come to practice. Maybe I will.
Bye!
Isabelle
November 12, 1944
Dear Papa,
Irma has had word from Stuart. He is still alive. No one has heard from Charlie, though. If there really is such a thing as guardian angels, could you send one out to look for him?
Mama’s baby is going to be big, judging from the size of her dresses. There are more Responsibilities around here for everyone now.
From,
Isabelle
December 18, 1944
Dear Papa,
Christmas vacation at last! Mary and I plan to ice-skate every day with the Chatty Pigtails.
Everyone is watching Mama now. When she coughs, Mr. Frank jumps. When she sighs, we all put our forks down.
“I’ve done this before, everyone,” Mama says. “Watching me won’t make it happen any quicker.”
We try to act like we aren’t watc
hing, but we are. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s born!
Love,
Isabelle
December 25, 1944
Dear Papa,
Ian got a brother! (The rest of us, too.) Franklin Delano Colletti was born today along with Jesus. (Did you know that there is a town in Minnesota named Delano?) Mama is fine and Mr. Frank says we can all go to the hospital tomorrow to see them both. Ida moved into my room and we made her room all over for Franklin. We’ll call him Frankie, I think. (Or we could call him Mr. President!)
I embroidered a towel for him to be a baby blanket. I’m going to wrap him all up and rock him back and forth and tell him stories of his step-papa Nils.
Merry Christmas!
Love,
Isabelle
January 6, 1945
Dear Aunt Izzy,
Thank you for the Christmas presents for all of us. Frankie will love his teddy bear. For now, Ida is sleeping with it. I love the blouse you sewed me but I will have to wait a while to wear it. We wear long sleeves in Minnesota nearly until June, at least until May.
This is a drawing of little Frankie. He is about as light to hold as a slice of toast. Well, maybe a whole sandwich, but light.
Love,
Isabelle
January 18, 1945
Dear Papa,
I am finding that I do not have such a talent for babies. Frankie cries when I hold him and I stuck him with a diaper pin twice. He makes me impatient with all his sleeping. Ian hopes he grows up fast. Mama says we cried in the night, too. Is that true? Frankie does not look much like the rest of us. His hair is black. His eyes are brown.
More soon,
Isabelle
P. S. I’m wondering if Frankie is Catholic. Isn’t it about time for a baptism?
February 12, 1945
Dear Papa,
Mama does not want me calling Mr. Frank “Mr. Frank” anymore. She says it embarrasses her in public. She says it hurts Mr. Frank’s feelings because Ida and Ian call him “Papa Frank” and sometimes just plain “Papa.” I’ve heard them. She thinks it is high time I do that, too.
“I can’t change history,” I told her. She sent me to my room for the duration of the evening. Don’t worry, I’ll stick by you no matter what.
For the duration. For the duration — everyone says that about the war. I think it must be heaven to be in peace and not lick one war stamp or savings stamp into a book ever again.
Your girl,
Isabelle
February 26, 1945
Dear Papa,
Frankie is Catholic! We went to Mass! In the Catholic Church!
Mama signed a paper when the priest blessed them that said all the children they have together would be Catholic. That showed no foresight, which she is always saying I need to have.
The Mass was for Frankie’s baptism. All Mr. Frank’s family was there from the picnic last summer. We were the only ones from our family there. They had to call Frankie “Francis” just for the baptism because all Catholics have to have a saint’s name and “Franklin” isn’t a saint. “What about the president?” I asked. “He’s Franklin.”
“He’s not Catholic, and besides, there’s more to it,” Mr. Frank said. “For one thing, you have to be dead to be a saint.” I hope there is no Saint Isabelle so I don’t have to worry about the Catholics wanting me for their church.
I do kind of like Frankie even with the crying and messes. I feel bad that I won’t see him in heaven. Irma told me so. At least he’ll have Mr. Frank.
From the Lutheran side of the house,
Isabelle
P. S. I can see why the Catholics like to go to church, though. They have lots of little candles that anyone can light and ceilings nearly to heaven and colored windows. Those women who decorate our church should peek in for ideas.
March 5, 1945
Dear Aunt Izzy,
This is a holy card. Remember the sister I told you about with the ears? Well, I saw her again, and the rest of Mr. Frank’s family, because Frankie got baptized. Sister Carmelita gave me a stack of these cards. They are all about saints and I have read them, every one. I don’t think I should throw them away but it can’t be right for me to keep them. Would you please write me what you think I should do? My friend Mary says to keep them would be a sin but to give them back would be impolite. I could take them over to the orphan home or use them in an art project or bring them to Jimmy. Or should I give them back?
Catholics (except Jordahls) seem to have a whole pile of kids in every family. Do you think that Mama will have more babies now that half of her marriage is Catholic?
Wondering and waiting to hear from you,
Isabelle
March 19, 1945
Dear Papa,
Mama won’t give up on the “Papa Frank” thing. Was she this stubborn when you knew her? Mr. Frank has not said anything to me about it. But to do my part for peace, I have found a solution. I will now call Mr. Frank nothing. I won’t call him “Nothing.” I just won’t say anything. There really is no reason to say a name for him at all. “Please pass the butter” (if it weren’t so rationed) works the same as “Please pass the butter, Papa.” No one will notice, even.
Love,
Isabelle
March 22, 1945
Dear Papa,
Three days and my plan is still working! I have not called Mr. Frank anything. I had a close call tonight when I needed to ask him a question and he was reading the paper. I coughed loud, which until this time has worked (he’s a doctor, you’ll remember). I went and stood by the fireplace in front of him. Nothing. I straightened the picture on the mantel rather loudly. Still he held the paper in front of his face. Finally, I walked past the side of his chair and accidentally bumped him. He had fallen asleep reading the paper! He woke up with a jolt and said, “What’s the matter? What’s the matter!” By then I’d forgotten what I was going to ask so I told him Mother needed him and went upstairs and here I am.
From,
Isabelle
April 10, 1945
Dear Papa,
Do you hear everything we say? If so, were you listening today just before dinner? If so, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was so mad about what happened at school today and Mama was busy with Frankie, and Ida and Ian were fighting and then Mr. Frank came home and chose me out of the whole crowd of us to lean his shorter arm on and ask “How’s things?” and then I spilled it all out and told him about getting four wrong on the spelling test and my teacher announcing the scores out loud and the puddle on the way home and I even called him Papa Frank. I didn’t mean to. If I were Catholic, I could go to confession. But I pulled it together by dinner and just told my lost sheep joke and came up here to do my homework.
Good night,
Isabelle
April 12, 1945
Dear Papa,
First you, then LeRoy Pence’s father, then lots more people’s fathers and uncles and brothers and cousins.
And today, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt died. Have you met him yet? If so, tell him that everyone here is sad. His voice has been coming through the radio as long as I’ve been listening. He’s been my only president. What will happen now?
In memory of The President,
Isabelle
April 15, 1945
Dear Papa,
Even before President Roosevelt’s funeral there is a new president. Mr. Harry S. Truman. I hope he knows what he’s doing.
Yours,
Isabelle
April 25, 1945
Dear Papa,
I am in my room until further notice. Disrespect is the charge. I called Mr. Frank “Frank.” How is that disrespectful? It is not like he is a stranger or someone at church or something. Mama was talking at me all the way up the stairs. It was a come-down-when-you-have-a-better-attitude speech. Remember those? It used to be mostly Irma who got them. Now I know how she felt. Maybe if I’d called him “Francis” instead. At least with you it was easy.
Except that one time I called you Pops.
I.V.A.
May 6, 1945
Dear Aunt Izzy,
Thank you for the postcard. Did you hear about President R? At least Mrs. Roosevelt has their dog, Fala.
I still have half of the holy cards. I shared them with my friend Mary. They are under my bed. I suppose you’re right. It hasn’t harmed me so far to keep them. They would be nice to collect, if I weren’t Lutheran. Don’t we have any beads or cards or statues or anything to pass around?
Your niece,
Isabelle
June 2, 1945
Dear Papa,
I am wondering about something. I wish I could see your face because I don’t know what you will feel about this. You are my Papa and will always be my true father. It is just confusing at school and in conversation about Mr. Frank. What if I just called him “Dad”? I looked it up in my dictionary and one meaning is “father” but the other one is “fellow, buddy, pal (usually in addressing a stranger).” So you see, Mr. Frank is not a stranger even, and people know the term and everything. Some people call their fathers “Dad” but we called our father “Papa.” So “Dad” is different. I will think about it some more, but I wanted to try it out on you first.
Wondering,
Isabelle
June 8, 1945
Dear Papa,
I have thought about the “Dad” thing and didn’t get any bad feelings from thinking about it. So I had a talk with Mr. Frank tonight. He thought it would be fine if I called him “Dad.” He got weepy and tried to hug me with his long arm and said he loved me.
I wish I could tell what you think.
Still Your Girl,
Isabelle
August 14, 1945
Dear Papa,
VICTORY! The war is over over over! Can you hear the shouts up there? Everyone is dancing in the street. I’m going out there, too! Thought you’d want to know! Tell Mr. Roosevelt!