The following excerpts from Beth Puckett's letters to her husband Lewis, a navy clerk stationed abroad during the end of the war, reveal her daily activities and emotions during his absence.
On rationing:
Feb. 11, 1945. I am parked in bed with a cold! Kleenex is a thing of the past so a cold really is a problem. Right now I have a role of toilet paper for a handkerchief.
March 12, 1945. The meat counters are very funny. Long shinny white ice boxes decorated with one very small box of wieners trying to fill up the space.
May 29, 1945. I am having a terrible time with shoes for us all. There are none in town in Steve's size -- rationed or otherwise! Sherry is wearing a pair of non-rationed sandles that are about gone. I don't know what I am going to do now! Shoes are like meat -- there ain't any!
June 5, 1945. Groceries! Hew! There is no meat of any kind, bologna or otherwise. Everything else thats left is sky high.
June 15, 1945. I came around the back of the O. Henry [and] all hell broke loose. There was a noise like nothing I ever heard before -- a combination scream and pistol shot, with loud hisses combined. . . . My tire was in beautiful strings. [A man put on the spare, saying] "Lady, you better get home quick. This tire ain't no good neither!"
June 21, 1945. The children were walking on air tonight. Yesterday I found some hamburger and they were walking on air almost literally!
June 27, 1945. If something were done about the "black market" there would be an end to all of this mess. Of course a hugh portion of food is going to Europe and the Armed Forces which is only right but there is terrible mismanagement in this country to cause such a mess.
Daily life:
June 16, 1944. I only wish I could do something more than keeping house. But our children are the next generation and I guess I have got a job right here. It's no use to fight now if we don't teach our children how to handle themselves for the future.
June 22, 1944. Kitty and I worked at the Red Cross this morning making gauze sponges. Its slow work at best but the old hens around us cackled a few words to the minute.
July, 1944. I bought bonds today, made a bank deposit, got a safety deposit bag and practically filled it! Cut a bunch of signs -- four bunch -- to be exact, bought shrimp for bait, waited in Dr. Johnson's office for two hours, went by the house for mail and to inspect the new furnace, came to the farm and cut grass, put the imps to bed. . . . Earlier I cleaned up the house, bathed, gave myself a manicure and ate luch with daddy. Otherwise it has been a very dull day!
Aug. 15, 1944. I was at mother's for dad's birthday and she brought the letter. I was working in the flowers and she drove right up to me, slammed on the brakes and yelled "I have a letter!" Were we dancing!
Dec. 27, 1944. Thank God for work that keeps us busy enough to wear us down. I get so tired I have to sleep, and that's wonderful.
Jan. 5, 1945. Please, God, let there be a letter for me tomorrow -- even a note or a small V-mail! Makes no difference what is says -- just so its from my husband and says "I Love You."
Jan. 7, 1945. A soldier came to the door at noon to ask if I please had a furnished apartment for rent. I allowed as how I didn't and he looked so forlorned that I asked him to come in while I telephoned around ... His wife is on her way here from San Antonio, Texas with a 10 months and a 3 year old, both boys. I finally got him on the trail of an apartment on Tate Street. . . . Hope he gets it!
April 15, 1945. I've been listening to the radio almost constantly since Thursday. It is still hard to believe that FDR is dead. He seemed indestructible. . . . Arthur Godfrey was all to pieces when he started his description, and when the caisson came into his line of vision he said feintly under his breadth, "God -- give me strength to go on.
April 15, 1945. Friday night Steve was getting out of the tub and was laughing when all of a sudden he put his arms around my neck and sobbed as if his heart was broken. He just said "I wish my Daddy was home.". . . Don't ever worry about the children forgetting you. There is no danger. They are both so proud of their Navy Dad.
June 21, 1945. I can't see a Western Union boy without turning ice cold. My prayers are often wordless but I know God understands.
June 24, 1945. I remember one night of your leave putting my hand on your arm to memorize the feel of it for the future -- photographing your eyes in my mind -- teaching my heart and eyes all of you for the lonely days to come.
July 15, 1945. If the postman doesn't leave me some mail tomorrow I shall shoot him! He has no right just to walk by and ignore me!
Sept. 3, 1945. Tomorrow Stevie starts to school. All along I've felt that you had to be home for that. Unless a miracle takes place you won't be. It isn't that I'm being the sentimental Mother type -- it's just that one more phase of life is over. . . . One of the worst things about this war has been your missing their growth.