[Author’s Note 7.13.23: Since the funeral, where I refreshed my memory and heard more complete stories, I came back to edit that which keeps it true to history. Observations are my own.]
I’ve probably manufactured this, over the years, to be the script that is most conveniently told. But it goes something like this.
My mom birthed me when she was divorced from my dad (another story).
Her brothers visited her in the hospital during her lying-in, as was ‘de rigueur’ back in the day.
They asked her my name and she replied, “Pam.” It was immediately rejected.
In my storyline, my mom said they debated names, back and forth, but to no avail. Exasperated, she said, “You wouldn’t like it unless she was named for one of you.”
Being that there was, in birth-order attendance, a Roger, a Gerald (Jerry), and a Charles, the choice was made. There were accomodations for gendered spelling, which did not actually make much difference in elementary school when Jerry Lewis was enough of a star to allow me to be the butt of jokes.
It can be noted that my grandmother on my father’s side never did spell it right: Jerrie, Jerri, Gerri….a protest or a mental block? You decide. You can imagine my dismay when Christmas presents were consistently and continually tagged, well, not to my correct name.
I digress…my Uncle Jerry married a fellow high school student, Barbara Beck, who turned sweetheart after graduation when he returned summers to work on the farm. She was my mom’s friend, even way back then. Their families knew each other. It’s not a stretch to imagine them all in school together, because we have pictures. This is a real blessing and may be one of the best reasons to take pictures today–not for social media, but for your personal history.
My dad played sports with my uncles in high school. He was some sort of athlete, which I knew, but which, unless you see your dad in this light, was not his defining characteristic for me. Still, my uncles knew him through this lens–baseball, I think, being primary. My mom’s family, sports fans, admired his skill and talent. I understand he was also a geniunely nice high school student. This would have made my parents a blue-ribbon couple: he, with the athleticism and charm, she, the valedictorian and cheerleader. (Did I mention my own parent’s were also high school sweethearts? Maybe in a long past post…)
Press Fwd: My uncle and aunt move into base housing, as he began a career in the Air Force. I had, as a child, no idea what this meant, except that we visited them at K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base. And I knew they moved a lot (to me). There were some family reunions back in Ohio. But the next thing I remember, my Uncle Jerry is in the Vietnam War. He’s gone for weeks (months?) on end. He sends letters to my aunt and they have their fourth boy, Jon, while he’s away.
My aunt was living on the farm, locally, at my grandfather’s house, which had enough room because it was the family homestead and had “barracks” sleeping upstairs. My mom drove us out the 10 minutes or so to see them regularly, as Uncle Jerry was away and my dad worked the swing-shift at Plumbrook Nuclear Reactor in Sandusky.
I decided to become his Pen Pal. If you’re not from that era, let me just say this experience is a treasure from the past, but also sort-of present today through social media. You could write someone you didn’t really know and, if they were amenable, they would write you back. But on paper. And with time gaps. Receiving an Air Mail envelope was something quite exotic.
Anyway, there we were, writing to each other. I think I was in the fourth grade…maybe a year or so older (younger?) And he wrote back! Once, he sent me a sterling silver puzzle ring. I loved, loved, loved it. Learned how to solve it. I wish I still had it.
He came home, eventually. But my vision of him shaped how I imagine those serving in the military, today: strong, determined, self-sacrificing, true, and steady. I still think of his family at home, missing him, waiting for his letters or his calls. I don’t really know how those happened, only that they were not like today. I think of a soldier, a pilot, a marine, and of their kids, and of their separation. And the fact that no one took for granted, then, that he would come home. I don’t think there’s anything we can experience, in an everyday work environment, that equals.
When he was home–hooray–and living in Arizona, we drove a late-model Pontiac Bonneville out to see them and rolled it to the ‘000’ odometer setting. We caravanned to Disneyland in those early 1970’s, where we experienced animatronic Mr. Lincoln (and all the presidents), the Haunted Mansion, “It’s a Small World,” and Country Bear Jamboree. Literally gobsmacked. And so happy he was home.
Of course, there’s more after this. (Maybe for another time.) But the person who cried today was completely living within these moments. Uncle Jerry, you were one of my heroes; steady and true. Others will have their version of your story, but you are forever a part of mine.
Love. Jeri Lynn
Two Pairs of Keds 
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