I'll Be Seeing You Sara Etgen-Baker   © Copyright 2025 by Sara Etgen-Baker

Photo of Winnie and Ed Etgen courtesy of the author

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “In approximately five minutes, we’ll begin our descent into Liberal Mid-America Regional Airport where the weather is slightly windy and 78˚. Make sure your trays are clear and in their upright position. Please fasten your seat belts and remain in your seats until we are safely at the arrival gate. Thank you for flying with us today.”

I looked out my window; the ground below looked like square plots on a huge map of some kind. Gradually, the Kansas prairie came into view with its wheat fields waving as if they were welcoming me home. As the plane neared the ground, small cars heading down long highways of black ribbon appeared as well as homes of different shapes and sizes. The plane made its final approach, and I squinted focusing my eyes on the city streets hoping to recognize the layout of the city I once called home.

Then a sudden bump; I jumped slightly as the landing gear was released. Trees and rooftops whizzed by as the aircraft made its final turn toward the waiting runway and ended with a mild rumbling as the tires kissed the tarmac. Once the plane taxied to a halt, I was the only passenger who walked through the fuselage door onto the jet way bridge disembarking into the airport.

Once inside the airport, I found it virtually empty—silent and still with a slight twinge of sadness floating through the air. As I made my way toward baggage claim, the floor beneath my feet creaked with the voices of the pilots and soldiers who worked at this airfield during World War II. I glanced out the huge plate-glass windows and spotted the deserted AAF classroom buildings, abandoned hangers, and empty storage facilities. I fought back the tears. Why did I think this place would remain the same when nothing else does?

At baggage claim, the skycap handed me my luggage. “If you hurry, you can catch the cabbie before he leaves for town.” I scurried through the lobby toward the automatic sliding doors, stepped outside, and stood at the crosswalk waiting until the cab appeared.

“Let me help you with your luggage, ma’am.” The young cabbie easily hoisted my two large suitcases into the trunk of his vehicle and then snapped the trunk shut. He opened the backdoor on the passenger side and said, “My name’s Tom. Where ya headed today?”

“I’m heading into town….734 North Webster Avenue.” I slid across the torn and tattered upholstery. “Do you know where that is?”

“Certainly do, ma’am. I’ll have you there in a jiff.”

I looked out the smudged windows as the cabbie turned onto 8th Street then headed past the fairgrounds and the all-too-familiar Bluebonnet Park where I frolicked as a child. “Here we are ma’am…734 North Webster Avenue.”

I stared out the window at the vacant, old house. Although it looked familiar, dust and wind had scoured its skin so it showed more board now than paint; and the front door sagged to one side like a slack jaw. The slats in the shutters on the upstairs windows were mostly broken out. A slight breeze made the shutters tap against the house, and their hinges squeaked. Despite ivy clinging to the outer walls of the house, I could see inside the front door into the house just past the banister and staircase.

“Tom, would you mind waiting for me while I go inside?”

“Sure thing, ma’am.” He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lifted it to his mouth, and lit it. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to. Take your time.”

I stepped out of the cab and onto the gravel driveway. To the right of the driveway, I could see remnants of the Victory Garden Aunt Jean and I tended almost every day during the war. I thought about the fruits and vegetables we routinely canned leaving commercial canned goods for the troops. Later, I even built nest boxes for eggs and raised chickens so we’d have eggs for eating and cooking. I felt so patriotic doing my part to insure America’s victory.

I turned around gingerly climbing up the rickety porch steps. Using my antique skeleton key, I turned the rusty lock and opened the front door fully expecting Uncle Claude and Aunt Jean to greet me. As I entered the house, the sun—now low in the sky—illuminated the downstairs rooms.

Although the old house was decaying, the floors inside were not rotten and looked sturdy enough to bear my weight. I walked through the entryway and found the grandfather clock had long since stopped. I closed my eyes and imagined myself in another time altogether when blackout curtains hung over the windows and I sat in the living room listening to radio shows like “Amos ‘n Andy,” “Bing Crosby,” and “The Green Hornet.” I even thought I heard the old phonograph playing songs from big band leaders like Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller.

I opened my eyes and discovered the chandelier that once shone upon the piano was now covered in cobwebs and dust. I headed toward the kitchen, looked back, and thought I caught a glimpse of Aunt Jean—her hands dancing across the keyboard playing her favorite wartime song, “I’ll Be Seeing You.” The buffet and china cabinet were just as she’d left them; but mold from damp nights had seeped into the walls making gray streaks across my aunt’s favorite wallpaper. In the kitchen I found an empty teakettle sitting on the stove patiently waiting for Aunt Jean’s return.

Ribbons of moonlight drifted through the kitchen window and shimmered across the kitchen table where I often drank coffee and talked with Uncle Claude about the war. At that table, my future husband—a mechanic on the flight line—asked Uncle Claude for my hand in marriage. Despite the war, his house was alive and always full of people—a sort of wartime oasis for soldiers, pilots, and locals that Uncle Claude invited to his home. Now, though, the old house was hollow and lifeless. All that remained were memories and the faded echoes of voices from a bygone time.

I climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor and opened the door to my bedroom. From my second story window, I watched as the airport, hangars, and runways were constructed. I also watched the military parade march through downtown Liberal the day many of the soldiers and pilots arrived at the airfield for their training.” That parade moved me to the point that I quit my teaching job and took a job as a clerk at the new airfield.

Although the night was new, darkness soon forced me to say goodbye to the old house. I walked through the moonlight down the driveway turning back as though summoned, drinking in the sights and relishing the flood of memories. I stared up at the moon. Then something caught my eye. On the second floor, the curtain moved. I saw the woman I used to be—an innocent, patriotic wartime bride full of hope and anticipation about her future.

I waved goodbye to her and climbed into the cab.

“Where to now?” Tom flicked his smoldering cigarette onto the ground snuffing out its embers.

“The Warren Hotel downtown,” I choked, my eyes filling with tears.

“Sure thing.” We backed out of the driveway; I rolled down my window and thought I heard Aunt Jean playing her piano and singing her favorite song to me:

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces all day through. In that small café, the park across the way, the children’s carousel, the chestnut tree, the wishing well.

I’ll be seeing you in every lovely, summer’s day; and everything that’s bright and gay; I’ll always think of you that way. I’ll find you in the morning sun; and when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.”

I grabbed a handkerchief from my purse; wiped the tears from my eyes; and whispered, “I’ll be seeing you, too, Aunt Jean. I’ll be seeing you, too.”

Side note: My mother, Winifred C. Stainbrook, married my father, Edwin R. Etgen, on November 19, 1944. She was 19 and my father was 22.