Sorting ... sort of

This picture was taken by my mother on September 11, 1943, my first birthday.

Sorting. Deciding. Eliminating.

And, best of all, discovering.

As I get ready for the big downsize from a house to an apartment, the biggest chore is choosing what to take with me, what to give away (or sell), and what to toss in the trash.

But there are also discoveries.

I found something Sunday that I had never seen before: A letter to me from my father. It was tucked away in a box of papers and photographs I had found in a closet when I was cleaning out my mother's house, getting it ready for sale in 2006, the year before she died.

The letter from my father was dated July 18, 1943. It was addressed to Master Donnie Dale.

I was less than a year old.

He probably wrote it either on board a ship headed for the South Pacific or in New Zealand where the Seabees staged for their part in the bloody but ultimately successful effort to take the strategically placed Solomon Islands away from the Japanese.

The short letter, written in ink and in my father's clear cursive style, was in response to a letter my mother had sent him that purportedly was from me. Of course she had written it; I was too young to talk much, let alone write a letter.

It's difficult to describe how I felt when I found the long-forgotten letter. I was touched by how sweet it was. I imagined the turmoil he was going through so far from home on the eve of a dangerous campaign. I was so very glad I had found it. And I was astonished that it had survived for six decades.

Here, for the record, is what he had to say:

Darling little fellow,

Daddy got your letter and read it several times. Between the lines I read that you love me. And Daddy loves you too, you and your Mamma. So you be a good little boy for me and look after your mother until I get back, for you are the only man in the family there at home now. And you kiss Mamma good morning for me every morning.

Daddy

P.S. Daddy loves you both.