One Day in December

Letters can express so many feelings—love, joy, sadness, fear, longing, hope. This is about a terrible letter; one of the hardest I’ve ever written.

We met at a dance. He was almost two years older, and we danced all night. I fell in love, as best as a fifteen-year-old can.

The only daughter of four rowdy brothers, I wasn’t allowed to date until I turned sixteen. But the next day when John knocked on the door and introduced himself, my skeptical, conservative parents were enormously impressed. It didn’t hurt that he was the only child of an only child and stood to inherit a comfortable amount of money.

His parents, who needed a daughter-in-law who would fit in socially, readily gave their stamp of approval.

For the next two years my life was a whirlwind of dances, movies, proms, church, dinners, picnics, fishing, traveling. He bought me flowers and expensive gifts for no special occasion. He presented me with an engagement ring with a diamond from his grandmother’s wedding ring.

My future was scripted—after graduation, I’d be a stay-at-home mom with several children, hosting card parties and play dates, eventually caring for our parents when they grew old.

But on December 1, 1969, the trajectory of my life changed, although I didn’t realize it at the time. That Monday night, the entire nation was glued to their television sets watching representatives of the Selective Service System reach into a glass jar 366 times and pull out a pellet containing a slip of paper that would match a date in the calendar year. This would determine the order of conscription into the U.S. Army.

The fifth date pulled was October 18—John’s birthday.

He would be going to Viet Nam.

February 1, he left for boot camp. I graduated high school in May.
It was understood—but unspoken—that I would continue to live with my parents while planning our wedding that was to happen upon his return from Viet Nam. He wanted to be standing at the front of the church in his dress uniform as I came down the aisle. My father would hand me over to John, then step away.

But the day after he left, it was though someone opened all the doors and windows—everything seemed lighter, airier. I had the freedom to make my own decisions, time to myself and time to hang out with friends. It was a heady experience and every morning I woke excited to start a new day. I graduated, got a job, and then, in a rush of independence, an apartment. John wrote that he did not approve of me living alone.

I found it oddly joyful to pay my own bills, balance a checkbook, buy groceries. I taught myself to cook and reveled in the quiet aloneness.

I went to parties and made poor decisions. When my friends left for college, I ached to join them.

I dated other men.

And soon, I started getting a lot of pressure to help plan the wedding. My mother booked the church. His mother booked the Country Club. My fiancé wrote, begging for details—what did the invitations look like? How many bridesmaids? Flowers, food, honeymoon, music—a dizzying number of details.

***

One evening, alone in my apartment, I sat with pen and paper and did a horrible thing, but also the only thing I could do—
“Dear John,”

***

My mother was devastated. His parents were outraged.

I broke his heart. Of course, I did.

A year later I stepped into my first class at the university, thrilled, terrified. Three years later I graduated.

I eventually married and eventually had children.

I’d like to say I didn’t look back, but I did, mentally wishing him every happiness. He was a good person. He just wasn’t right for me.

Had it not been for December 1, 1969, I doubt that I would be the woman I am today—strong, resilient, purposeful, and, most importantly, free to make my own decisions.