Carl — P.S.
Left to right — my father, Carl, my grandmother, my grandfather in 1952
I first met Carl on Labor Day weekend in 1952 when he was visiting my family. He was in the Army at the time, stationed at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. Since I was only two years old then, I have no recollection of his visit.
About 62 years later, we connected again. I use the word “connected” because we didn’t meet in person. Carl lives in Angels Camp, California and I live in eastern North Carolina. This is the story of that unlikely connection.
When Carl first began calling me, I didn’t answer the phone. With the increased frequency of robocalls, my husband and I rarely answer the phone if we don’t recognize the caller ID. But Carl persisted and called again and again.
Finally, my husband answered the phone, poised to tell the caller to never call us again. But then, what sounded like an elderly man introduced himself and asked, “Is Vicki available?”. Thus, our friendship began.
Carl told me about his weekend visit with my family in 1952. After all these years, he had not forgotten the hospitality my family had shown to him. He said he had been corresponding with someone in my family, which was most likely my grandmother. It was a common practice at that time to be a “pen-pal” with someone in the armed services who might be far away from home and lonely or need a friend. And she invited him to visit that weekend. However, through our many conversations, his story about how he came to visit my family that weekend wavered, as he was unable to remember the details.
My grandmother’s cooking was something that he vividly remembered. He had never eaten cornbread; polenta was the comparable food he was used to eating in California. But he recalled how good it was, eating almost an entire pan of cornbread by himself. My grandmother baked thin cornbread in the oven. It was fried in Crisco in a blackened pan used only for cornbread. When the edges were browned and crispy, she poured off the excess oil and cut it into squares. The prized pieces were the crispy edges.
Carl remembered all the wonderful food my grandmother prepared. She was in her element in the kitchen and nothing pleased her more than to cook for relatives and visitors. It was easy to overeat because she kept offering you more fried chicken or biscuits or jelly roll!
And my grandfather took Carl on a tour of the farm, showing him the land and cattle. Of course, both my father and grandfather kept him busy listening to the stories of their lives and livelihood. My father was not much older than Carl at the time, so my grandfather had many more memories of life to share than he did.
But the big question that came to mind was how Carl found me after almost 62 years!
Carl had a cousin who was interested in genealogy and lived in North Carolina. He told her of his visit to North Carolina many years before. He told her the names of family members and two-year-old me. He didn’t know who, if any, of my family members were still alive.
So, his cousin searched for my family and found my contact information. That was when he started calling me.
Along with the story of his visit to our home that Labor Day weekend, Carl said he had pictures of the occasion that he wanted to send to me. The pictures included himself and me, along with my grandparents and parents and were taken in the front yard of our home. My mother was pregnant with my sister, Sylvia, who was born later that September. From his cousin’s research, he knew the names of my three sisters.
I could not believe that he found me after all those years. And to have kept pictures of his visit was amazing. What an impression my family had made on this young serviceman so far away from his home. Soon after our first conversation, I received the pictures he spoke about in the mail.
That was the beginning of an ongoing friendship. Carl calls me about once a month. I have learned about his life, the occupation from which he is retired and his family of German descent. His wife is also in her mid-eighties, and they have no children. The only family members alive are a few cousins in northern California and Canada.
The phone calls become more frequent during times of severe weather in my area. Carl enjoys watching the weather channel and becomes concerned about my safety. He may call several times a day to check on our weather when a hurricane threatens the North Carolina coast. Most of our conversations begin with him asking about the weather here.
Carl is in his mid-eighties now, and the stories are pretty much the same every time he calls. But I sense it gives him great pleasure to have someone to listen to them. So, I listen and ask him the same questions, which he answers with the same enthusiasm as if he were doing so for the first time.
This past June, my husband and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. While discussing how to celebrate, we decided on a trip to the Grand Canyon, San Francisco and end with a visit to Carl in Angels Camp.
I admit I was a little nervous about meeting Carl. I enjoy our phone conversations but meeting him would be much different. We brought gifts of local food items — fried peanuts and hoop cheese. We also brought pictures of my family. Carl was aware of family members from previous pictures we had sent him and was able to identify each of them.
Needless to say, it was a very special trip. Carl is failing physically and mentally. He spends his days and nights in his lift chair because of the constant pain he experiences. He also watches television, especially the weather channel.
He always ends our phone conversations with “now you have a very nice day, young lady”.
And now my fond memories of my friend Carl include a visual perspective. We met in 1952 and again in 2019.
P.S. Carl died in February 2022 at the age of 90. Every time he called, I asked him how he was doing. He always replied, “hanging in there, Kid”. I miss him.
