Within the volumes of papers my father gave me of my great uncle’s, there are dozens of letters. Some of them are sweet, others beautiful or funny, and a few move me to tears.
(Note: This was also posted on my other blog, Journey to Tunisia) For my 35th birthday, my father passed down to me all of his collection of Pete’s things. All of it.
My birthday is Tuesday and, since I’ve expressed that there’s nothing I want or need right now, my parents gave me the kind of gift that just cannot be replicated.
Pete, or James K. Stepro, as was his given name, was born on a chilly February Saturday in 1912. The seventh of eight children in a three-room house with no electricity, he was from inauspicious beginnings. The family was poor but they did the best they could. His early years were full of joy, with…