Loving genealogy as I do, I was thrilled when my now-dead great uncle started sending me family photographs; excerpts from the family Bible in Pommern, a Prussian province; correspondence; etc. Included was a letter from 1923, sent from my great-grandfather Frederick to his wife, my great-grandmother Lucile. She’s been dead since ’69, and he since not long after that. It was so long ago, and yet they weren’t much older than I am now when they wrote it. I don’t know what he was doing in South Carolina, but he left his wife and two young children home in Ohio. They’re all dead now, except for my Grandpa, and he wasn’t born yet when this letter was written. And it’s the most beautiful, sincere love letter. It’s delicious, and makes my heart glad: [ All spelling and grammatical errors have been noted with a ‘sic.’ I want to preserve the integrity of Grandpa Juergens' letter to the best of my ability.].
“My dear Wifey:
I am at the Shandoz Hotel, York, S.C., the end of the rainbow but not any gold and the end of anything you might mention, but seein’ as how the O. Henry Hotel furnishes so much nicer stationery and further seein’ as how I am well supplied with said nice stationery I will proceed to slobber a smitherin’ bit of colored water over said nice stationery. Nice stationery and nice writing is food for the eyes. Well this is not intended for starving glimmers but from an aching heart and I believe my scribbling will partly relieve the heart pains that exist in the heart of the one receiving this, realizing that it will take embraces & kisses from the one who is writing this to soothe the craving in the heart of the reader.
My, what a terrible line (or lines) that is. Yet ‘tis true. York, S.C. does not appeal to me this much (.) and that represents a fly speck (sic). Andrews, N.C. may be worse, but it appealed to me ten times more than this place does, and you know I’ll be tickled to death to leave it. And ‘tis true that, sweet as my letters may be, they do not satisfy to the extreme. Only will my person do that.
I am awful sorry that I am not going to be home tomorrow. Tomorrow morning at 6:13 our second happiest moment in our life had passed begun? 3 years ago. The first had been four years ago next Friday. The third last Valentine day; even tho (sic) it turned out to be a boy, you were happy, weren’t you dear? And I am sure the noble little son is all that could be expected of any child his age. I hope he runs circles around your little second cousin of the Rubber City. I hardly expect it of him but it would more than please me if he does. Shirley is three tomorrow and I’ll think lots of her. What a little mite she was (and is yet) and what a time we had that Sunday! And how on 3 years ago this evening the Magsig’s set up the hand coal stove and I tried and tried to start a fire, suceeding (sic) finally. And I will think of you too, dear. How brave you were and how pleased you were when you knew it was a girl and was all okeh (sic).
I am a terrible moody husband am I not, always dissatisfied, always growling, always pouting. “Distance lends enchantment.” It does, does it? Regardless I just feel like pouring out my very heart to you tonight. I just feel like I (sic) 93 million miles from nowhere, in a stuffy P.& B. (pitcher & bowl) room of a little old two horse town hotel. I can’t get used to the way they serve meals down here. They stick a piece of chicken before you and then surround it with about eight side dishes. Not so at the O. Henry. Anyway dear, don’t worry about me starving or getting thin. I certainly am not. I don’t mean that I am getting fat. Just holding my own.
In a telegram from the office this morning they mentioned you were staying at Martin until I come home. I have sent a couple letters to you at our home and also a couple cards to the kiddies and a birthday card to Shirley. I hope you will get them somehow. I hope Bliss told you I was coming here so that you can write to me. Have had only two letters from you and not a line from the office. Of course, don’t take it that I am blaming you dear. You can’t send a letter to F.W. Juergens, Somewhere, N.C. or S.C. I might not get it. But if they’re sending me some other place from here they ought to tell you in time so that you can write.
The situation here is such that I can’t tell how long I’ll be here. It is a $2,000,000.00 road issue and is being contested by a few. They had an all day session today and will have another tomorrow. I don’t know whether it will close by the end of tomorrow or not. Anyway, I hope so. I’d like to catch the Royal Palm out of Atlanta Thursday morning. To catch it I must leave here tomorrow night. I ought to write to the office tonight but there isn’t much more I could tell them than what I died in my telegram to them tonight. After court session tomorrow I may know something.
I believe I have about spoken my piece tonight and my hand is getting heavy again. So I’ll close with this thought.
Oodles of love and kisses, until I arrive home. Birthday greetings to Shirley and a bump on the nose for our son:
Your Hubby. And Daddy.
It was all so long ago, and yet it doesn’t depress me. Lucile, “Hubby,” Shirley, and the bouncing baby boy, all dead now. It makes me feel incredibly lucky to hold a piece of my family’s past in my hands and read a letter from a loving young husband to his wife.