A torn Journey

Today marks twenty-two years since Grandpa William left us. He was a World War II veteran and did a lot for all of us. Mother never touched any of his belongings in the years he was gone. His room was left for two decades as if he were still living in it. Only dust and dead insects called the room home. It has been a week since my mother left us too. We find solace in the fact that she’s with Grandpa in a better place. 

My wife, Kath, and I have decided to sell the home that we all lived in. Now, it’s just the two of us and our son, Jesse. The house has too many memories of those pasts, and we could use the money. Everything is almost packed except for my grandfather's room. It feels odd to even step foot in the room since no one opened it at my mother’s request. I think she was never ready to accept that, since Grandpa’s death, none of her parents are alive. Now that she’s gone, I can understand her feelings. Packing away her room was the worst thing I have had to do. 

We enter the room and divide it among Kath and me. She will start with the drawers, and I'll pack up the clothes for donation. As I am going through the closet, I see that Grandpa’s clothes are all dull and dusted. Seeing the flannel shirts brings back so many childhood memories. He used to wear the pale blue one every Tuesday when he’d take us to get ice cream. He would take that shirt out once a week, like it was his prized possession. I always thought it was funny how he refused to get ice cream because he never wanted to spill on the shirt. I feel like I barely knew Grandpa William and why he did the things he did. It never crossed my mind that maybe one day he wouldn’t be here to answer why he treasured that shirt so much. 

 “Daniel, you're going to want to look at this,"  my wife yells across the room.

I pull myself back into reality as I hear Kath. Approaching her, I see a half-ripped photograph in her hand. It is a woman I have never seen before. She has dark blue eyes, short curly hair, and a white ward dress with a nurse cap. She has a sewing needle in her hand, and someone is holding her shoulder. It is the person ripped out of the photograph. He has a watch on and ………….HE HAS A WATCH ON. That’s Grandpa William’s watch. It’s the watch he passed on to me when he knew his time was coming. I can never forget the look of that watch. He wore it every single day until the day he passed it on to me.

 My grandpa is obviously the one missing from the photograph. Judging from the woman’s apparel and the background, it looks like a medical facility. And the color of the photo indicates it has to be extremely old. Maybe this photo was taken when Grandpa served during WWII. I turn it around and see “Bertha, 123 Maple Street, Denver." Grandpa never mentioned anyone named Bertha, and neither did Mom. And why did Grandpa have her photo with her address on the back like that? 

 “Did your grandpa ever mention this woman?” Kath asked. 

 “I don’t know who she is, but I want to know. I feel like I barely knew my grandpa, and if he saved this photograph all these years, then it meant something to him,” I said.  

“Why don’t we go to this address and find out who she was? It’s a 5–6 hour drive. We can go and see her. If she meant something to your grandpa, then you have the right to know who she is," Kath said. 

 “I think you’re right, Kath. Tell Jesse, we are going on an adventure and to pack his games”. 

 It’s the Jesse's vacation, and I want to get to the bottom of this. Grandpa never brought up anyone named Bertha. There’s no diary, no notes—nothing that would explain who Bertha is. But the sparkle in her eyes is the same sparkle I had when I met Kath for the first time. And she became my wife and the mother of my child. 

 I couldn’t contain my thoughts the entire ride. Who could she be? Why did no one ever mention her? 

We walk up to the house with just a photograph, hoping that someone there will have answers. A woman opens the door to greet us, and I show her the photo and ask about Bertha. She tells me that Bertha was her grandmother and passed along thirty years ago. Her name is Rebecca, and her grandmother left this house to her in a will. However, looking at the photo, she had no recollection of it. She is just as curious to know why her grandmother’s photo was with me.

I stand in front of this woman’s doorstep and my hope dwindles a bit. I did not come all this way to leave with no answers. 

 “Wait, Grandma Bertha left this diary that she used to write in. Out of respect for her, we have never opened it. I think that maybe you’ll find your answers there," Rebecca says.

She takes us inside her home and seats us in her living room. She brings out a diary and hands it to me. 

 “I’ll be outside with your family; take your time," she says. 

 When I open the diary, I see what I have survived: a 5-hour trip, multiple nausea fits, and a whining baby to see. It is the other half of the photo with my grandpa. I take the one I have out of my pocket and add it to this new one. It was Grandpa and Bertha sitting on a camp medical facility bed. I turn the page in the diary and see the very thing that would explain my childhood mystery. It lay there like a piece of scrap, but to me, it was part of the treasure that Grandpa had held on to for years.

 It is a piece of the pale blue flannel that Grandpa kept for as long as I knew. Now, it all makes sense. Bertha had made that shirt for Grandpa, and he had taken care of it like she was with him. 

Rebecca graciously lets us take the diary home, as she knows how much it would mean to Bertha. She gives us her number in case either of us ever finds more information. 

 I get in the passenger seat while Kath starts the car to head home. I open the diary again, and there it started, “Bertha and William’s love story.” It takes me 2 hours to get through the entire journal. Bertha explained how she met Grandpa during WWII at her camp. She was a military nurse and treated Grandpa when he came in with a fractured leg. To say the least, it was not love at first sight. Bertha thought Grandpa was a snuck up, and she assumed he didn’t like her. But slowly caring for Grandpa for weeks melted her heart. She learned about his family and his dreams. His injury really brought them together. Slowly, but steadily, they started to fall for each other.

The journal talked about Bertha’s innermost thoughts and her feelings for Grandpa. Then it just ends. It doesn’t say why they didn’t get married or meet after the war. I don’t understand why they didn’t meet if they had each other’s addresses. It makes no sense. I mean, I love my grandmother, but why did Berth and Grandpa William never marry? 

 I call Rebecca to see if maybe she forgot to give me the rest of the diary. She tells me that Bertha divided her belongings and gave them to both of her granddaughters. Her sister Linda got some of their grandma’s diaries as well. Which would explain any dead ends in the story.

 I end the call. I look towards Kath, and I tell her, “I think we have another adventure coming up. The story just doesn’t end here.”

Part 2 coming soon