1917

September 18, 1917

  My father sat at the dining table, his brows furrowed as he examined the newspaper with an intensity that could have cut glass.

“You need a damn magnifying glass to read this nonsense!” he roared, his voice echoing through the room like the growl of an enraged lion.

“Let me read it,” I said, a knot forming in my stomach. I instinctively knew it would contain something disheartening. The news, after all, had a peculiar tendency to prioritize the negative over the positive—an assertion I firmly believed.

“Go ahead,” he replied, setting the newspaper down gently as if it were a fragile artifact.

  I leaned closer to the paper, and my heart sank as I read about Lenin. Confusion swirled in my mind like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind.

“Father?” I ventured softly, not wanting to disturb the charged atmosphere.

“Hmm?” he replied, his voice still tense.

“Who’s Lenin?” I asked, my curiosity overshadowed by the unease I sensed in his demeanor. His face turned as pale as a sheet of paper, and for a moment, he was silent, searching for the right words.

“Some nutcase who thinks we should overthrow the government,” he finally answered, visibly shaken by my question.

“But that’s treason!” I exclaimed, incredulous.

“Sure is, son,” he confirmed, his voice laced with concern.

“What if he succeeds in overthrowing the government?” I asked, a chill running down my spine at the thought.

“Never going to happen,” he chuckled dismissively, though I noticed a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he called for Roy, our loyal German Shepherd, to come comfort us. He was the sweetest dog in the world.

“Where’s Mother?” I inquired, puzzled by her absence.

“She’s picking berries in the forest,” he replied, folding the paper with meticulous care.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” I asked, the worry creeping into my voice.

“I’d sure hope so! I can’t imagine a life without your mother,” he sighed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to carry the weight of his affection.

  Feeling the pressing need to focus on something other than my mounting anxiety, I retreated to the study table in the other room. I sat down, staring at my school assignment that required a hefty amount of writing. The question loomed before me, uninviting: Do you support the president’s decision to join the war? Why or why not?

  I grimaced at the challenge, recalling the history lessons that framed my understanding of our nation’s foreign policy. I wrote:

Before 1917, the United States had maintained a tradition of neutrality, especially regarding entanglement in European conflicts. This stance was upheld by several past presidents, most notably George Washington, who warned against foreign alliances that could drag the U.S. into unnecessary wars. By entering World War I, Wilson broke with this longstanding principle of avoiding involvement in the volatile politics of Europe.

“Papa?” I called out from the study, my voice laced with trepidation.

“Yes?” he replied, clearly irritated by the newspaper.

“Do you support Wilson’s decision to enter the war?” I asked, anxiety gnawing at me, fearing his ire.

“Hell no! We should stay out of foreign wars, period,” he retorted, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“That’s exactly what I said in my assignment!” I exclaimed, a rush of pride mingling with my apprehension.

“That’s nice,” he replied, his tone distracted and bored.

  Just then, my mother returned from berry-picking, her presence a burst of sunshine in the otherwise tense atmosphere.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she chimed cheerfully, her tone playful, as though we were strangers rather than family. Life had a way of taking people away, leaving empty spaces where love once flourished. I had lost both my cousins to tuberculosis when I was young; life had never been kind, nor did it care for my feelings. That was the sad truth.

“Look what I found!” She proudly presented a handful of freshly picked raspberries.

“Delicious!” my father and I said in unison, momentarily distracted from the weight of the world.

“How are your school assignments coming along, Jeremiah?” she asked, leaning down to meet my gaze, her eyes sparkling with maternal warmth.

“Not well. We had to write an essay about whether it was a good idea for Woodrow Wilson to join the war,” I confessed.

“And what did you write?” she asked, her interest piqued.

“I wrote that it was a horrible idea to join the fray,” I admitted, my honesty mixed with a hint of trepidation.

“Oh, sweetie… This is the war to end all wars. There will never be such a war again,” she reassured me with a smile that hinted at her unwavering optimism. If only she could see thirty years into the future. If only.

“I believe that, Ma,” I said, smiling and wrapping my arms around her leg, drawing comfort from her presence.

“Good, now it’s time for you to go to bed,” she said, gesturing toward my room with a gentle wave. It was an ordinary room, unremarkable in nearly every aspect, save for a canvas map of the world on the wall. I had circled places I wished to visit, dreaming of adventures beyond my hometown. I had only traveled outside the United States once, to Mexico with my parents. My father had protested vehemently, saying, “I don’t want to see spics,” but we went nonetheless. That vacation had turned into an embarrassment; my father getting drunk on tequila and trying to befriend everyone around him was cringe-worthy to witness.

  I lay in bed, pulling the covers over me as I prepared to drift into sleep. All that remained was for my mother to kiss me goodnight, a ritual I cherished. I waited in the dim light for a minute before she finally appeared at my doorway.

“I hope you have wonderful dreams, sweetheart,” she said, her voice smooth and soothing like silk brushing against my skin.

“I hope you do too, Mama,” I replied, grinning up at her.

“I love you,” she said, leaning down to kiss my cheek, her warmth lingering.

“I love you too,” I murmured, reaching out to turn off my lamp, plunging the room into comforting darkness.

  Another day had come to an end, but as I closed my eyes, I felt a flicker of hope for the dawn to come, ready to embrace whatever it might bring.