I have always felt like I belonged in another time, another place, and with other people.  That point was never more clear than when I met my third husband.  He was six and a half years my senior, but our love was unlike any love I’ve ever known.  His first wife had often said that he belonged in the backwoods somewhere during the Revolutionary War.  I have always had a keen sense that I was from the WWII years, believing that those years filled my heart with more emotions than I currently feel in the twenty-first century.  Hence, we were “old souls”, belonging to a time period very different from our current lives.

I’ve had a passion for the WWII years, feeling at home in the love, determination, patriotism, angst, pain, perseverance, strength, and faith of the people.  I love to read books and watch movies from that period; I love the love ballads and “close-together dance styles” that were so much more emotionally moving than today’s raucous rock-n-roll.  I love the simplicity of the times where all of this computer mumble-jumble wasn’t even a thought for our kids.  I love that you could grow to love someone “in person,” rather than through a social media app.  Our country was more patriotic and willing to stand up for our core values of God, country, and family.  People would voluntarily serve others and were willing to sacrifice their own needs to be a part of a country at war and a country where people loved one another, cared for one another, and shared the twists and turns of a world struggling between democracy and fascism.  It seems, today, people don’t have the same kind of moral integrity that was present during WWII.  We’ve become so divided that I wonder if we, as a nation, will ever get back to being real Americans who care more for others than ourselves.

My husband was honorably strong and would give you the shirt off his back if it would help you heal from any kind of affliction.  Service to him meant wearing the uniform of the United States Air Force with honor and courage.  He didn’t have a college education, but he received the best engineering education you could get from the service.  He loved with his whole heart and put his family first above all else.  His ability with a pistol or a rifle was better than that of a sharp shooter, and he often won contests with local policemen.  He believed that to be a good citizen you needed to continue to be informed about local, state, and federal issues, never letting the politicians decide the issues he found important to himself and his family.  He was a woodworker of great ability, making furniture, building cabinets, and other personal endeavors.  Although he was not musically inclined and we chuckled over his inability to play a C scale on the piano, he loved my abilities on the piano, organ, and other instruments.  He was a gentile man who opened doors for me, pulled out chairs for me to sit on, and put blankets on me when I would leave our bed and lay down on the sofas because I couldn’t sleep.  He loved me with a passion that belonged in Revolutionary times, and even though our three and a half years passed quickly, those years remain the most endearing years of my life.  They were the “always and forever years.”

When I wrote my first book, “Listen to the Voices of Your Heart,” one of my friends said to me after reading the book, “You are an old soul.  Your values of love, honor, strength, compassion, loyalty, faith, and integrity remind me of my grandfather during WWII.”  I was a bit taken a back at her comment, but when I thought about it, I realized she was right.  Today as I watched Betty White’s last movie, “The Lost Valentine,” I couldn’t stop crying; tears just poured from my “water-spigot eyes.”  As a young WWII wife of a navy pilot, Betty said of her husband, “If he has the courage to risk dying, then I have the courage to risk living.”  Somehow, I miss that kind of philosophy today.  Some of us are willing to sacrifice, even die, for others; some of us are willing to create positive lives for ourselves and our neighbors.  Too many people are only doing selfish acts, forgetting that we are better when we love each other.

So, I ask you, where is the America I grew up in?  Are we so caught up in ourselves that nothing else matters?  Is the America of the past totally gone from our lives?  Maybe my friend is right; I am an “old soul,” waiting for her Air Force husband to come marching home from over seas.  Maybe he could really build a log cabin by himself, fight off bears with his bare hands, or cook a possum stew in the Revolutionary War times.  I know America can return to its roots and be the symbol of light for the world once again, but it will take all of us to be “old souls,” to remember an America that stood for its core values of God, country, and family.  When that happens, I will be proud to be called an “old soul” who loves her country and all of its talented, caring citizens.  We could be the country where Christmas is celebrated all year round.  With the help of God, you may live twice as long to become an “old soul.”

Anna Hartt