Jenny cried when her father told her he was leaving, but seemed to be mollified by his promise to visit in two weeks, and to write to her every week. While he was gone, she brought in the mail every day, though she had to stand on a stool to reach into the mailbox. "I hafta check the mail," she explained importantly to Susan, "In case there's a letter for me from Dad."
The next week, she went to Susan with a pencil and a large piece of paper. "Susan, will you help me write to Dad?" she asked seriously. "I want to tell him about the birds' nest I saw yesterday, and the new dress you're making me, and the kitties in Bruce Meredith's barn."
"Of course Susan will help you, little Jenny," answered Susan. "Do you begin by drawing him pictures of those things, and then I will help you with the words."
When Shirley returned, as soon as he stepped out of the JN-4 and down to the ground, Jenny was at his side handing him a large piece of paper folded neatly into the shape of an envelope, and sealed with a bit of wax. "I drawed the stamps on, so it would be sure to get to you," she announced solemnly. "And I drawed a kitty and a birds' nest, and…."
He grinned as he swung her up to his shoulder. "Don't tell me everything or there won't be anything left to read, Miss Jenny. Did you like my letter, then?"
"Yes, I did. Grandmum read it to me. But soon I'm going to learn to read myself so she won't have to. And then I can write so I can make you a real letter."
Whenever he came home after that, Jenny solemnly handed him her latest letter. It was a great day for them when the letter consisted simply of "I LOVE YOU, DADDY" in uneven block letter, and Jenny was able to announce, "I writed it all myself!" During the winter, Shirley was not able to return home as often, but Jenny was somewhat consoled that he was staying in one place for longer, so that she could write him "real letters, with envylopes and real stamps!" She insisted on handing each one to the postman personally, to "make sure he gave it to Daddy."
When spring came. Shirley began returning home every other weekend again, and Jenny began to ask Susan for lessons in baking for him. Susan was as eager as Jenny to serve all of Shirley's favorite foods, and she willingly connived in the little girl's plans. "No, Mrs. Dr dear," she was heard to say firmly one week, "We cannot have lemon pie this Saturday. That blessed brown boy is coming in this weekend and he must and shall have his apple brown Betty. Jenny has planned it all for him, and she will be peeling the apples herself, careful lamb that she is."
Between Susan and Jenny, they served Shirley something special whenever he came home that spring and summer, until he pushed his chair back from the table one night and said, "Between the two of you, you're spoiling me! If I stayed home much longer, I'm afraid I would be too heavy for the airplane to fly with me in it."
Two years went on in that way; sometimes Shirley stayed at home for as much as a month at a time, but eventually he would get restless and return to his work. He never left without solemnly promising Jenny that he would return as often as possible to his "air anchor", as he called her. The summer she was six, Shirley took her with him for a few days at a time, when he was working in a place where she would be able to stay with him. The bond between them grew ever stronger. Shirley's pride in his daughter was evident in his brown eyes whenever he looked at her, and Jenny began to speak of becoming a pilot "like Miss Earhart when I grow up, so I can work with Dad." She frowned, an oddly mature expression above her stubborn six-year-old chin. "I don't think Dad eats enough when I'm not there to watch him. And I love airplanes like my Jenny-plane, anyway."
That August, Jenny watched Shirley as he loaded his warmest clothing into the JN-4. "Dad, what are you doing? It's summer!"
"I'm going to the Klondike," he explained. "It's very far north, and I'll be away for maybe two months, so it will get cold up there. I'm going to help by carrying messages and bringing out some of the men mining for gold in the remote areas, before winter comes."
"You be careful there!" she ordered. "And write me a letter every week. If you use short words, I can read them by my ownself now."
"Yes, ma'am!" He saluted, then bent down to kiss her before moving to the propeller. "Stand back, now!" he warned. He waited until she moved behind the field's fence, then propped the plane to start its engine and swung himself into the cockpit.
Somehow Shirley did manage to get a letter to her every few days on his journey across Canada, then every week from the Klondike, though as he wrote, postal service in the remote areas where we was working was largely a matter of finding someone who was heading out to civilization and didn't mind carrying a letter along. His letters arrived all through August and early September. Due to the uncertainty of the mails, the letters didn't arrive exactly on schedule, so no one was surprised when a week went by without the customary envelope for Jenny. When one week stretched into two and then three, though, the doctor began looking grim. "It gets cold early up there," he told his wife privately. "He'd better come home soon if he doesn't want to get snowed in for the winter." To Jenny, of course, the usual week-long wait between letters was an eternity; by the time the second week had passed, her grandparents were watching her carefully, expecting tears and questions they were afraid to answer. Yet Jenny did not cry. Her letters to her father were faithfully mailed twice a week, and if the set of her small jaw was grimmer than usual no one but Susan could tell.