My Father, Kenneth Cameron Lobdell, died March 30, 1945, three months before I was born. My parents met when my Dad came to Seattle to be trained as a flight engineer for the B29. One weekend they both attended a USO-sponsored ski trip where their paths crossed. They fell in love and had a big military wedding on May 14, 1944, in Seattle, before moving to Denver, where my Dad helped train more men to fly B29s. When he was sent to Tinian, my Mother moved back home with her parents in Seattle. He died months later. My Mother never skied again, and under the circumstances, I have always been surprised that she named me Joy.

Daddy Ken (my Mother's name for him) was the only child of Eva and Gershia Lobdell and grew up in Lebanon, NH, where there is a memorial to him in the Congregational Church. He was born March 24, 1919. He attended the University of New Hampshire, played in the band there, and received his engineering degree in 1941. In 1943, he enlisted in the Army Air Corp, went to officers training at Yale where he received his commission on Feb. 24, 1944 and his wings in August 1944.

My Mother told me that after he went overseas, he wrote to her about problems (malfunctions) they were having with the B29s. Before his death, he completed five bombing missions over Japan. On March 30, 1945, his plane took off and started having problems. They crashed before they could turn around and land. He died 6 days after his 26th birthday. James Landgraf, radar operator, was the only man to survive the crash. When the war ended, he visited all the parents of the dead crew members.

My Father was first buried in the American Cemetery on Tinian Island. His body was returned to the United States in 1948, when my Grandparents had him buried in Hartland, VT.

I know that my Father was well educated for his time. He was an artist, creative woodworker, a musician and generally a clever man. I know that he was the love and light in my Mother's life that was never replaced by anyone else. Although she remarried when I was one year old, that special place in her heart for Daddy Ken always remained. She wrote at least once a week to his Mother, until my Mom died in 1978.

I was lucky to have Grandma Eva, Daddy Ken's mother, in my life because she helped me to see him as a person. Someone I wish I had known and with whom I lived. There was a part of Grandma that never healed from loosing her only child. She talked about my Dad as if he died yesterday, instead of years ago. We often went together to visit his grave in the small cemetery in Hartland, VT. She told me many stories about his childhood, growing up, college days, his short life as a professional engineer in Delaware, and his enlistment into the Army Air Corp. Because she saved everything, I now have letters from my Dad, school report cards, piles of pictures, and other artifacts from his life. I pray that Grandma Eva is finally with him again now. My life would have been so different if he had returned home to us.