Stories of Ruth

Ruth Lillian Burnett Lewis

September 15 1915 - December 27 2005

These are some of the stories my mother told over the years regarding my father. Talking with my children they came flowing into my mind the more we talked. My brother, being older, may have heard them, and my sister may remember some. But, if I didn’t write them down I might be the last one to know about the stories she told me.

In chronological order, these are some of the stories of Ruth Lillian Burnett Lewis:

Ruth is a Bible name, as we were told more than once. It was about an independent woman who overcame the restrictions of her society and became someone whose story would be told for generations. My mother was proud of her name, and she was well named.

She met my father one summer day in 1929. She was 15, he a mere kid of 14. He always teased he’d been seduced by an older woman. He had climbed into a tree and whistled at her as she walked by. He recited a Sonnet from Shakespeare, one of many he knew at 14, and she was ‘hooked’. They were together until the day he died.

In high school my father was a very good baseball player, a shortstop. So good the St Louis Cardinals were scouting him [scouting in 1920’s was different]. As my mother told the story it came down to him or a kid named Marty Marion. One day, sitting in a shed reading, “A Tale of Two Cities”of all things, the shed caught fire and my father was badly burned. They had to do skin grafts, still a new procedure, and it took a couple of years to recover. The Cardinals signed Marion, who went on to be known as the best Cardinals defensive shortstop before Ozzie Smith. But, my mother said, “Phil was a better hitter”.

As the Depression wore on their “dates” consisted of getting one White Castle hamburger and a coke for a nickle each and sharing them. If either of them had a dime.

I know for some period of time they lived in Richmond, VA, and that my brother was born in Washington DC in 1938. Daddy worked at a federal prison. He wasn’t a guard, but had to go out a few times to help find an escaped prisoner. This was not one of mother’s fonder memories.

When World War II came my father was at first deferred because he was married with children. As the war went on they agreed on what to do if a draft letter came. Although not qualified for conscientious objector status, he did not want to have to kill. When the dreaded letter arrived in the mail she called him and work and simply said, “you got some mail today.” He left work and enrolled in the Merchant Marine so that he could honestly say he’d joined before he got the notice.

Then there is the missed ship story. Daddy was sent to Boston to train as a Warrant Officer. His orders were to travel to San Francisco and take a certain ship. In those days all troop travel was by train, and he was to change trains in Chicago. He managed to trade tickets with someone so he’d go through St. Louis. And, this, as the story was told to me, is why I have a baby sister. He missed his assigned ship and took another. Long after the war mother somehow found out the assigned ship had gone down with loss of all hands. I ended up with the best father and best sister I could ever have hoped for.

It’s hard to imagine now, but all letters from war zones were censored. No information as to destination or location could be included. My parents had a system involving each having the same world map. In his letters he would mention a color corresponding with the color of a country on their maps. The censors never knew he was colorblind and had to ask someone what color to put in the letter.

There was an incident during the war which I heard her tell only told once. While in New Guinea he was assigned to lead a group of natives. For reasons I do not know, he fired a warning shot which wounded a pregnant woman. He would never touch a gun again nor allow one in the house.

There are two more stories involving my mother and me I did experience firsthand which ought be told.

On September 17 1966 we were living in Springfield, IL. On a whim I decided to drive to St. Louis and see my parents, something we’d never done before. When we got to their apartment no one was home, so we went to home of Kay’s parents. Soon after we arrived there was a phone call for me. It was my mother. She said six words, “David, come home, I need you.” I said I’d be right there and hung up. Rushing Kay to the car she asked, “what’s wrong?” I’ll never know where it came from, but I replied, “My father died.” Ringing phones have bothered me ever since.

One last time my mother would tell me something to remember. She said, “if we never meet again in this life, I’ll be waiting for you in heaven.” I never saw her again. Somebody else will have to finish this story.