Letters from My Father, World War II: June 6, 1945

April 14, 2026 / / No comments

–

Sometime back, I came into possession of a large box of letters written by my father during his soldiering years, World War II. I haven’t gone through them all and, in fact, years go by between visits. There’s a lot.

In my family, I might be the most sentimental. My brother Al, more stalwart in every sense, is a better keeper of records, important papers, facts. He’s the one to trust with anything valuable (though I suppose it depends on what you value). I’m the one more likely to marvel & grow wistful over the fact that my mother used to call me a “skinnymalink.” My sisters Barbara and Jean fall somewhere in between, though they are inscrutable to me. What do they think and feel? I’m often not sure.

Anyway, I thought I’d share and type out this one, almost taken at random. It is a letter from a son to a mother, attempting to ease her fears. In general, there are far fewer letters written to his father, my grandfather, but those tend to be more interesting. A little more meat to the bone.

Dad was in the air force, a navigator, not sure of his final rank (he’s second lieutenant at the time of this letter; a little research suggests he received a base pay of $150 per month), staged in the Pacific. When he knew that he’d enlist, waiting for that birthday to come along, he famously stopped attending high school. I mean, why bother? So he skipped 23 straight days, mostly following the horses out at Belmont Park, and then headed off to war. At least that’s the legend as I remember it. 

–

–

Dear Mom,

Well how are you? I’m still making out O.K.

I’d just like to tell you not to worry. Sure things will get tough from time to time but on the whole it doesn’t look so bad at all. I really mean that. 

You see Borneo has a lot of rather easy spots but I guess that every other place does too. But what I’d really like to say is that they make every possible effort to look after you. Boy they don’t miss a thing especially on these briefings. Everything is talked over to the fulled extent. If the tactics look dangerous to someone he says so and then they talk it over. If he can show where it will be even slightly better another way they by all means do it. In short they look after you as best they can. I guess we are sort of valuable to the army. 

Say if you ever read any newspaper items that you think I might be connected with please send them to me. That will serve a two or three fold purpose. I’ll probably get a laugh out of the write ups on our strikes and if I’m not concerned I can keep track of what the rest of the army is doing. The third reason is that I can get an idea of what is going on in your mind. I won’t be able to say anything about them but it will be very interesting to me. 

From time to time I’ll fall behind in my letters but bear with me and I’ll try to make it up later on.

Well how is the home front getting along. We are starting to eat a bit better now. It seems that either supplys come in or else someone is getting generous. Even so we don’t eat bad because we are lucky to have a good staff in our mess hall. 

The natives here sort of remind me of the Mexicans in San Antonio. There doesn’t seem to be much difference except that you can see a bit of oriental in these people.

I’ll write again soon.

What is new at home?

Love Al

–

Category: Family / Tags: , , , , , , ,

It’s a Thrill When Books Are Translated

April 13, 2026 / / One comment

I’m in the process of downsizing, moving to a much smaller & as yet undetermined location. One of the painful aspects of that is figuring out what to do with all my beloved books — the ones I’ve read and the ones I’ve written. In fact, I just returned from a quick trip to my neighborhood middle school, where I donated a bunch of books for classroom libraries.

Anyone who has ever moved, knows that it comes with a degree of navel gazing. You come across an old photo album and time stands still. Or, no, time goes in reverse. You lose an hour, happily. Part of that process, for me, has been trying to get a copy of each of my books, across 40 years, packed up for safe keeping. This way my children can throw them in the Dumpster at a later date. Because I sure can’t do it. 

So, yes, I’ve pulled out all my books over the years. Spread them out on the floor. And look at this:

–

–

If you are lucky in this business, some of your books get translated into different languages, almost by pure magic. While this is not a complete record, here are some of those titles: Jigsaw Jones in Arabic, German, Spanish; Scary Tales and The Fall in Japanese; Bystander in Greek; Before You Go in German; and Six Innings in Korean. Each one leaves me agog. 

How cool is that? Which is another way of saying: How lucky am I?

Very, I realize. Very lucky indeed.

–

–

Category: the writing process / Tags:

Oranges Disappoint

April 8, 2026 / / No comments

I sat down last night, a book on my lap, a cup of tea on the table, along with an orange sliced into quarters.

And I took a bite and thought:

This is the time of year when oranges disappoint. 

It struck me as a type of Twitter comment, a quippy social media update. In the Northeast, I eat delicious oranges throughout the winter. A habit formed during my halcyon wrestling days, trying to make weight. But come this time of year, not so much. They are  so often disappointing. 

This particular orange lacked in flavor.

Then I thought that readers would see it as coded language. To them, I wouldn’t be talking about the fruit. No, it was obviously a reference to the Ugliest American, the orange one. His grim threats of genocide that had us legitimately wondering if our highest elected official might, in a snit, drop a nuclear bomb. And wondering, too, if there would be anybody with the moral conviction to stop him. Those thoughts settled in my stomach like the bones of a sunken battleship to the ocean floor.

If I posted “oranges disappoint,” it would be seen as not only about Trump, but it would also imply that I once help hopes for him. Maybe was even a former supporter, a three-timer, now (finally) disappointed. 

But nope and nope. 

As Sigmund Freud once remarked, “Sometimes an orange is just an orange.”

Category: Current Events / Tags: , ,

One Memory of My Father

April 1, 2026 / / 2 comments

–

In an era of great book covers, this one strikes me as pretty bad. But just wait till you get inside!

I’m reading Susan Orlean’s extraordinary memoir, Joyride. She is, quite obviously, one of our greatest living writers. The book is largely about her writing life, which one gathers is not at all distinct from her life in general. I find it vastly inspiring. She makes me want to be a better writer. A truer writer. Highly recommended to anyone who cares about writing or admires Orlean’s work. Which of course you do, because how can you not?

But I keep putting this book down after a page or two. Over and over again. Long ago I determined that was a very positive sign. The poem that has me staring out the window. The book that elicits memories, new ideas, inspirations, eureka moments. I think of these as source books. Deep wells from which the imagination drinks its full. I suspect it will take me forever to finish it. I also suspect that I’m going to need to own this one, scribbling in the margins. Returning the book to the library just won’t suffice.

Oh, right, my dad. Orlean was writing about her mother and a memory of my father leaped into my head. He passed in 2006, long ago, and I suppose days go by when I don’t think of him. I also suppose that such streaks rarely happen. He’s always there, as anyone with a deceased parent understands. 

My father was an insurance man. A practical man. A man of his time. Smart about things, like money and the stock market and when to rotate the tires. He loved mucking about on his boat. In fact, as I think of it now, “puttering around” was his prime activity. Pruning a tree limb, slathering it with tar. Setting down an imperfect line of Belgian blocks along the driveway. Playing bridge and doing jigsaw puzzles and pouring a scotch. He had a minor but persistent artistic streak, a flag that he never truly unfurled. It came out in different projects, a late-period adult education painting class, that sort of thing. He never took me to a museum or read novels or did anything that I recall to cultivate an artistic sensibility in his children, which includes me, his youngest. 

So I think when I became a writer it sort of baffled and intrigued him. He might have even admired it a little, I’m not sure. He wasn’t supportive or not supportive. It was just sort of like, okay, whatever. So long as you can put food on the table. I think he felt that way about all his children. Go live your life; I’m here if you need anything.

The memory is this: He would sometimes come across an article in the newspaper. Something that tangentially tied into what he thought I did for a living. Maybe he just came across a news item that made him think of me. I imagine him at the kitchen table, an unfiltered Camel burning in the ashtray. He’d grab the scissors, clip it out, fold it neatly into an envelope, and send it my way. If there was a note attached by a paper clip, it would be brief, “I found this interesting.” That sort of thing.

We don’t live in that world anymore. When folks stuffed newspaper clippings in envelopes. It used to happen, I’m sure some readers remember, but not anymore. That time has largely vanished from the earth, living only in memory. How the mailman would arrive and lo, here was a letter from my father, unbidden and unexpected, containing some odd miscellany he felt I’d enjoy. 

This was a man, a veteran of World War II, who didn’t express a lot of emotion. Or, like, any? I’m searching my memory and nothing shows up. Oh, well, no bother. But those clippings in the mail, delivered days later, were his attempts at connection. Saying, I am thinking of you. Saying, I now understand, I love you. 

–

–

Thank you, Susan Orlean, for somehow mysteriously summoning up that memory for me. You wrote another great book. 

Category: Family, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , ,

FESTIVAL RECAP: Thank You, John Torres, and the Poughkeepsie Public Library Staff & Volunteers

March 30, 2026 / / One comment

–

I want to start with the thank you’s before getting to the more interesting stuff. Boring, I know. I half expect to hear the orchestra play me off stage. I’ll be quick, promise.

I was invited to participate at Saturday’s Poughkeepsie Children’s Book Festival and it was a really nice day that couldn’t have happened for me without the help of many people. 

The person I owe the greatest thanks is John Torres, who somehow orchestrates the massive event without (seemingly) fuss or stress. Part of that is because he has a lot of help. I want to thank the staff at the Poughkeepsie Public Library. Somehow there’s a free book voucher for every child who shows up (17 and younger) and I know that requires a lot of behind-the-scenes fundraising and publicity efforts. All I do is benefit from their hard work. 

In my experience, festivals are also determined by the quality and quantity of volunteers. We couldn’t do it without the many blue-shirted volunteers who help us out throughout the day, especially my favorite, John’s daughter Isabella, who hangs around every single year. I feel like we’ve grown up together! Isabella is quiet and unassuming. Running errands, looking to be helpful with water or sandwiches or whatever.  Yet she pretends not to hear me when I request a simple cocktail. You might not even notice her. And every year I think the same thing: Still waters run deep. 

As a formerly shy kid myself, I’ve always liked and trusted the quiet ones.

Thanks, too, to Kira Wizner at Merritt Bookstore. When it all runs smoothly, we don’t notice they are there. But heaven forfend, when there’s a mistake, they stand up and take the heat. Thanks for everything, Kira; you do good work.  

Anyway, it’s a funny thing about these festivals. Sometimes authors will ask me, “How’d it go? How did you do?” And maybe for some the idea is whether you’ve moved product. And, yes, that’s a beautiful thing. Young readers coming up, grabbing your books and racing off with smiles on their faces. It’s great to be popular. And, yeah, to actually have a viable career. To write or illustrate books that people want. It’s not nothing. 

But maybe because I’ve never been that writer with the big bestseller, I’m just a guy who has somehow lasted 40 years in this business, I’ve kind of steered away from measuring “a good day” by that standard. I don’t keep track of how many books I sell. Instead I tend to look at conversations I have, people I meet, the beautiful families that sometimes come along — the parents, the kids, all enjoying themselves, gathered around for a chat. The way those parents stand back and give their children the time and space to explore the books, meet the authors, ask questions, and finally (sometimes agonizingly!) choose one (or three!) for themselves. It warms the heart to see these families, and these young people who are supported and so obviously loved.

And then there’s the story of Jacob . . .

I love when this kind of thing happens. One this day, a reader, Jacob, returned to Poughkeepsie after meeting me at least 2-3 years ago. Back then, he was a cool, confident, upbeat kid. Now he’s even cooler. Yesterday there was that expectant look in his eyes, like, “You remember me, right?” And of course I can’t even find my car in the parking lot. I stammer something. Finally bells go off and the lights turn on: “Jacob! You’re older!” I think he was tearing through my Scary Tales books last we met. Now he’s moved on to Blood Mountain. It’s a good feeling for me, exactly like seeing an old friend. Thanks, Jacob. And thanks, Mom, for the support and the photo and for, you know, Jacob.

–

–

–

Category: Current Events / Tags: , , , , ,
« Older Entries  
Website Hosted by Web Instinct

James Preller's Blog

News, Notes & Inside Info from a Children's Book Author

Skip to content ↓