... from the Spring 2008 issue

Writing a part of discovering self

By Roberta Lampe, Garden Plains, Kan.

As the oldest daughter in the family, my life has had its pros and cons. Back in the 1940s and ’50s, I really wasn’t aware of the cons, probably because my mom was quite satisfied with the life my dad provided for her, my sister and me.

Dad delivered gas to local farmers and fuel oil for area homes. Vacations were not an option because of the busy seasons.

My dad was one who believed in paying for things when he purchased them, and those items had to have merit. Only groceries were charged, and they were paid for every two weeks. Things like class rings and fancy skirts were not a necessity in his opinion. When class rings were ordered and delivered at my high school, I turned away, trying not to notice.

College also wasn’t considered a necessity, since Dad didn’t have the money. Living in a small town didn’t provide many job opportunities, so following high school, joining the military presented the exciting option to see the world. By then, Dad had taken a railroad job where he was able to get vacation time, and to travel was a choice he could embrace.

In 1956, my parents still had to sign their consent for me to join the military, since I wasn’t 21 yet. Mom agreed to sign if Dad did.

I will never forget the day he and I stood in the driveway, and he sighed deeply. He didn’t have any sons, but here was his oldest daughter considering the Women’s Army. Not only was the whole idea a jolt to him, but also to our small rural town. Proper, respectable young ladies just didn’t go traipsing off to do such a thing. There was only one supporter for my illogical choice, and that was our parish priest, who had been a World War II chaplain and had known many young women in the service. 

Dad rubbed his shoe around in the driveway gravel, then finally stopped and looked at me directly as he said, “I’ll sign your papers, but if you don’t like it, don’t come crying to me.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t,” I assured him.

A whole new world opened up to this small town girl in May 1956. The physical in Kansas City almost deferred me from going further. My eyesight was bad enough to warrant a waiver, so a visit to an ophthalmologist was required. My eyes were dilated to the maximum, which meant tears were running down my cheeks, highlighted by a glaring, dripping red nose.

As I stood on a Kansas City street waiting for my ride back to the induction center, I had a wonderful surprise. Complete strangers came up to me and offered me money, food, a place to stay and warm, caring gestures. What a lifelong impact that made on me.

Eight weeks at Fort McClellan, Ala., in the hot months of June and July were spent learning the rudiments of military life, marching and the infamous KP. In August, a train trip took me up the East Coast, from the south to New York City. A fellow WAC from Massachusetts, who was familiar with the enormous Grand Central Station, helped me maneuver the maze of all those trains and loading docks.

Ten weeks were spent at beautiful Fort Slocum, N.Y., on an island only accessible by a ferry ride across Long Island Sound.

Weeks of intensive public information writing and reporting prepared me for the assignments to come. That knowledge gained me a reporter’s position at the Northern Area Command Headquarters in Frankfurt, Germany. For 17 months, this wonderful opportunity not only allowed me to write for one of the military’s largest newspapers, but also to travel extensively throughout Europe.

All of those opportunities to write, to paint pictures with words, opened up a previously undiscovered side of me. The words tumbled through my brain and robbed me of sleep in the middle of the night, constantly pushing me to put down thoughts on one more subject. With the thoroughness of a nosy, digging reporter, the desire drove me to research deeper than necessary. Because of that, the chance to write a detailed historical account of our vicinity in Kansas came to me.

Story ideas come to me constantly. Finally, about 13 years ago, when I was bombarded with family illnesses, writing became my source of strength to face each day and help my family. Novels and short stories swirled in my thoughts until they were put on paper. Thanks to the writing training given to me, one of my books has now been published, and numerous articles have appeared in newspapers and magazines.