During World War II, when I was 13 years old, my brother Alvie “Pinky” Bledsoe joined the Navy to fight for our country. I cried for days after he left. He was my hero, my buddy. Growing up on our grandparents’ Cleveland County farm, I followed him around while he did the chores and I rode the horse while he plowed the fields. Being born in a girl suit did not deter me one bit from trying to be like him. I learned to whistle because he whistled. When he outgrew his overalls, I cut the legs off and wore them until they were threadbare. I tried to walk like him, talk like him and did a pretty fair job of it.
When he left for the Navy, I was devastated. I wrote letters and dreamed of the day when he would come home to us. After 17 months on an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific, he did come home. But he was different. He left home a boy and came home a man who bore marks of seeing young men die and suffering injuries of his own. He didn’t whistle like he used to and sometimes he woke up screaming in the night.
Some 60-plus years have passed since Pinky went away to war. He has long since made a good life for himself and his family. Recently when I visited them in their Texas home, we shared photos and memories of our Cleveland County home and his war years. I can’t whistle anymore and I don’t wear cut-off overalls, but Pinky is still my hero and I have volumes of memories in my heart to prove it.
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During World War II, when I was 13 years old, my brother Alvie “Pinky” Bledsoe joined the Navy to fight for our country. I cried for days after he left. He was my hero, my buddy. Growing up on our grandparents’ Cleveland County farm, I followed him around while he did the chores and I rode the horse while he plowed the fields. Being born in a girl suit did not deter me one bit from trying to be like him. I learned to whistle because he whistled. When he outgrew his overalls, I cut the legs off and wore them until they were threadbare. I tried to walk like him, talk like him and did a pretty fair job of it.
When he left for the Navy, I was devastated. I wrote letters and dreamed of the day when he would come home to us. After 17 months on an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific, he did come home. But he was different. He left home a boy and came home a man who bore marks of seeing young men die and suffering injuries of his own. He didn’t whistle like he used to and sometimes he woke up screaming in the night.
Some 60-plus years have passed since Pinky went away to war. He has long since made a good life for himself and his family. Recently when I visited them in their Texas home, we shared photos and memories of our Cleveland County home and his war years. I can’t whistle anymore and I don’t wear cut-off overalls, but Pinky is still my hero and I have volumes of memories in my heart to prove it.
