Operation Dear Abby

Have twenty years really passed? Nobody today even remembers “Dear Abby!” Now it is “Ask Amy,” which if you ask me, just doesn’t sound nearly as interesting.

It was my first year as a “regular” third grade teacher, after many happy years as a special education teacher. Of course, anyone who has ever taught knows there is no such thing as a “regular” class. Twenty- some unique souls and one experienced, but new teacher. So when I saw a request in the paper around Thanksgiving time for children to write to soldiers via “Operation Dear Abby,” I decided that it would be a good idea for our class to participate. I wouldn’t have to plan much, and it was a nice thing to do.

We began our letters: Dear Serviceperson, having no idea who, if anyone, would receive it. Our country was on the brink of war. Even twenty years ago, kids knew too much and they had lots of questions about what was happening. We were supposed to bring some hope and home to our soldier. So I got them to write about the upcoming holidays, family, pets, friends, favorite foods, and everyday life in Kent, Washington and our school, Cedar Valley. Of course, no third grade letter is complete without artwork, and there was plenty of that. The girls drew Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas trees, houses, hearts and flowers, but I’m sure the boys drew weapons. You just can’t stop that! I checked the letters, making sure no one said anything discouraging or spelled too many words wrong. Our letters were tucked into a big envelope with our class picture and sent to the Operation Dear Abby address. We waited anxiously for a reply.

A Response!

One day, not long before the war began, we received a manila envelope from Sgt. Pat Langan, USAF. I thought that there would be a single letter to the class. Much to my surprise, there was a letter for every child! The children were delighted to receive their very own, very personal letter. There was one for me, and a picture too. Pat couldn’t us where he was, but he did tell us that he was a mechanic on the Stealth. My boys were ecstatic! I could tell by his words and his attention to each child that someone very special chose our envelope full of home, love, pictures and misspelled words. He chose us because his Dad lived in Washington, and we would be a little taste of home. Another writing period and off went our second packet of letters. But now we had a picture and name of a real person in the Gulf. Now, there isn’t prayer in the public schools, but I know each one of those kids held Sgt. Langan in their hearts and prayers every day. You can’t stop that either! The impending war just got a whole lot more personal.

January 17, 1991: “Do you think he’s alive?”

Operation Desert Storm began at 3 a.m. Baghdad time. Given the time difference, all the live coverage and video of the war was all over Seattle news long before school started that day. Our classroom door opened to the playground. The children lined up outside the door every morning until the bell rang. I was pretty upset but tried to put on a good face for the kids. I took a deep breath and opened the door. The first words I heard were, “Do you think he’s alive?” Steven always said whatever popped into his head, like, “Whadya do to your hair?” This time it wasn’t so funny. I made a weak reply that I was sure he was OK. That was a lie. I wasn’t the least bit sure at all.

My Baggage

I wanted to be sure he was OK. Chances were, he was. But this is the part that I never told Pat. I thought if I did it would be bad luck. Because I had bad luck before when it came to this war thing.

Of course it isn’t luck at all. Things just happen in war. But it is different when they happen to you. It isn’t just a story, or a news report, or an interesting movie about a time in history. It’s your life, and the scar it leaves on your soul does not go away. Every time I hear a story of a soldier killed in Iraq or Afghanistan, the pit in my stomach returns.

In 1966, I was 10 years old. In July, we had a goodbye picnic for my cousin Jim, an Army Ranger, who was headed for Vietnam. He was like the big brother I always wanted—fun loving, daring, and handsome. He was playful and funny that day. I’m glad he was. He showed all of us younger cousins his muscles. We were very impressed! But I wonder how he felt on the inside? I promised to write to him. As we drove away, I remember looking forever through the back window until he was a tiny dot on the hill.

I didn’t write a single letter to Jim. That’s because he was killed by a sniper on August 8th. It’s one of those moments that I will always remember, or maybe that I just can’t forget—my Mom getting the phone call, my dad being out of town, her scream, then mine, and my crying reflection in my bedroom window, in my nightgown with pink and purple circles.

In 1966, there were no school counselors, or child psychologists. Well, there were, but not in my world. My friends’ well-meaning parents told them not to talk to me about it as it would just make me sad. But I’m still sad! I’m sad that he didn’t even make it to age 20. I’m sad he never got to marry the girl I know he loved. I’m sad he didn’t have kids, because he would have been a great dad. Whenever I have a great life experience, and I’ve had many, I often think of Jim, and what he missed. And yes, more than 40 years later, that makes me sad. Only someone who has lost someone to war understands and believes me when I say not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.

I was worried that if anything did happen to Pat, my students would have that scar too. And I didn’t want that. But now, we were committed to him and I set my fears aside.

The Gifts

The funny thing about a scar like that is that it is also a gift. I was determined that Pat would get those letters that Jim never did. So we continued to write and learn more about each other. We decided to make him a care package. There were a lot of rules about what you could or could not send. There were even rules about the ingredients of cookies. I made a batch of what I think were pretty awful cookies but at least they did not contain any forbidden ingredients! One of the foods Pat missed the most was pizza. The closest we could come to that was pizza flavored Bugles. Whether or not these gifts were any good at all by the time he got them, Pat loved our thoughtfulness and claimed everything was delicious.

Pat sent us some gifts too--Iraqi money and Stealth pictures. His letters to each child continued, and he shared things about his own kids, whom he missed so very much.

Our music teacher had written music to the Pledge of Allegiance. We also learned “Fifty Nifty United States.” I recorded them on videotape, followed by a little message from each child. I was last. Damn, I cried, which is not what Pat needed to see! I think it upset him, and I’m sorry. I hope now he understands more what brought on those tears. Of course, the greatest gift we all received was that of friendship. We made a connection with a soldier fighting for us halfway around the world. My students learned to care about the world beyond our little corner of Washington State, and that one person (and a letter with a picture) can make a difference. During his loneliest times, I hope that Pat knew that we were with him.

A Golden Thread

We kept writing to Pat until he returned home to Arizona. His Dad wrote to us too, thanking us for our support and telling us how precious our friendship was to Pat and how it helped him through the war. About a year and a half later, my husband Greg, our son Jacob, and I were in Phoenix visiting my parents during spring break. I decided to check the phone book to see if I could find Pat. A few phone calls and I found him! His immediate question? “You’re coming over tonight for a barbeque, aren’t you?”

Of course, the answer to that was, “Yes!” We pulled up to the house. What should I say? I didn’t need to worry. We just hugged, like the old friends we were. Our kids played together and we got to know Pat and his family, including his Dad. My favorite moment was when Pat squatted down to Jacob’s level and handed him a framed picture of the Stealth. Jacob kept that up in his room for a long time.

For a few years, we exchanged Christmas cards. In time, we both moved and lost touch. But there are many times I thought of Pat, and that special class and connection we made so long ago.

Long before I met Pat, a colleague who was retiring spoke about our lives as a golden thread. We pass through the lives of many people, and they through ours. Wherever we go, we leave a golden thread. All of those threads together make up our lives, and that is how our lives become things of beauty. The mysterious thing is, we never know for sure exactly what we’ve left behind, or the pattern that others have left for us. I always liked that analogy.

Fast forward twenty years! I’m still teaching third grade, but in a Catholic school in Seattle. One afternoon, about five minutes before dismissal, I check my e-mail to see if there are any last minute messages from parents. “Looking for Stephanie Schuler” appears on one of them. I know I should wait until the kids are gone, but curiosity gets the best of me and I click on it. It’s Pat, wondering if I am the same Stephanie Schuler who taught at Cedar Valley during the first Gulf War. “Oh my GOD!” I say quite loudly!

Of course the entire class heard me. Someone said, “You shouldn’t say God, Mrs. Schuler!” (Could he be a relative of Steven’s?) The truth is, it was a God moment. From the darkness of war came the light of friendship that has not been forgotten.

Once in a while, one of those golden threads comes back to us. Life has gone on and there have been many changes for both of us. But one thing remains. For a few months in our lives, we touched each other in a way that matters. We touched in a way that is lasting, in a way that made a difference to each of us, for the rest of our lives. I think a person is lucky if that happens two or three times in a lifetime. We are twice blessed to know for sure that we made that mark on each other. That’s a mark I want to keep on my soul!

Thank You

Thank you Pat. Thank you for your service to our country. Thank you for the sacrifices you made for us that we civilians cannot even imagine. Thank you for taking the time to write to every child. There were lots of kids in that class who didn’t get a lot of individual attention. Thanks for remembering us. Thanks for finding me twenty years later. (Thank God for the internet! You can tell the kids I said that!) Thanks for wanting to know my side of the story, and for telling yours—it’s a good one. Maybe (with some editing!) others will hear it as well. Above all, (I had to look that up!) thank you for your continued friendship!

Love,

Stephanie (“Mrs. Schuler”)