Don’t Worry Be Happy: Or Why Carp?
By Julie Anne Phillipps
Walls festooned with an eclectic array of art and memorabilia pay tribute to a shared life in a constantly changing world. Figurines collected in war-torn China adorn a cherished heirloom curio cabinet, framed cartoons drawn by army friends hang near the “Don’t Worry Be Happy” singing bass, intricately carved Mah Jong game boxes nestle as snugly as the hand-crafted dolls, and stately candlesticks stand watch over a frenzied watercolor in furious suspension over the Chippendale couch scavenged from a New York City street. The furniture, from New York, Spain, Panama, China, Missouri and Arkansas, is well loved for the valuable shared memories they inspire.
“Someone once asked me what period the furniture was from. I said it’s from the Army period” said Jan. The army period lasted for three decades of their 56-year marriage during which the Wedlans traveled a million miles and collected as many stories.
Stories that rises up out of cabinets and drawers like the faint scent of long stored spices; starting with the blind date that succeeded before it started. “When I saw him, I said to my girlfriend, that’s the man I’m going to marry,” said Jan. An intuitive based decision she never regrets.
While the two dated, Paul worked as a buyer for Katz Drug Company in Missouri, where each night Jan would wait for him while visiting with store personnel. Always his partner, she proclaims, “I was his spy. When they thought someone was stealing, I knew it wasn’t the guy they thought [was stealing] it was another guy and I was right.” Throughout their courtship and marriage, the Wedlans shared the burdens and joys of each other’s responsibilities. From 1938 until 1941, the couple reveled in the peaceful flow of dates and friends until World War II erupted into their idyll, separating the couple while solidifying their acceptance of change as a natural part of life.
“Even a cadaver changes,” said retired Air Force Colonel Paul Wedlan. “Nothing stays the same, but for some reason human beings resist change.” The dime-store singing bass reveals their approach to life. Rather than carping about the difficulties' that life presents the Wedlans have chosen to adapt and move forward.
“I have always been an optimist, always taken life as it came,” said Paul, “Of course, I had my own ideas about how things should go,” he added with a grin. “The only time I wasn’t optimistic was when I had to go to war” he said, “I always figured that ‘this was it’.” “He left without telling anyone,” said Jan, when Paul interrupts to add “for China on January 12, 1942.” The story unfolds as they touch hand-to-hand and eye-to-eye.
“I didn’t hear from him until April (1942).” Jan adds that when Paul finally wrote, “He would send lots of telegrams. Well, back then a telegram meant that someone died. I used to make the telegram guy open it so I wasn’t alone.” She gazes intently at Paul, while he listens and nods affirming her details. She relates that she finally persuaded Paul to stop sending telegrams. Of course, he adds, “I just wanted her to know I was safe.”
The war years meant separation, and yet Jan never asked him to leave the service. In May of 1942, serving under General Chennault, Paul joined the “The Flying Tigers.” During his years of service he received awards and ribbons “up to my neck” from good conduct and sharpshooter ribbons, AUS and China Air Force Pilot Wings, to three Bronze Stars and three Legions of Merit. When asked about the deeds that merited the awards, Paul said, “It all seemed so important then, but now it’s just not important.” He kept the ribbons and medals but together the couple cherishes the awards of their marriage. The flying tiger pin represents one such award.
The tale of a long and affectionate partnership flies forward with the flying tiger pin, “Paul gave to me before we were married,” said Jan. A pin more cherished than the gold wedding ring purchased on Africa’s Gold Coast as Paul flew home to marry Jan (on July 8, 1944) in a “war weary” B-17. Although her wedding ring has been replaced with diamonds, the Flying Tiger pin remains a cherished possession. Enough so that Jan enjoyed sending the impertinent and overly aggressive Wisconsin collector packing after he offered Jan a thousand dollars. Of course, her packing experience spans continents.
After Paul’s return from China, they headed to the Pentagon in Washington D.C., then onto New York, Nebraska, and Colorado. In 1967, after twenty-six years of service, Paul received the ultimatum “go to Vietnam or retire.” Alone, Jan stayed in the states. Paul said, “It was terrible for Jan. My daughter Candy had just married and then I left,” as he reaches out to accept Jan’s hand with the remembered separation still vivid in their eyes. Paul recalls serving in Saigon, under General Westmoreland, as deputy comptroller, and as he talks his wife holds steadfastly to his hand as if he might fly away again. Paul recalls, “They [the Vietnamese] were terrorists! You didn’t know what was going on. We had a dress parade one day and I had to leave the line. While I was gone a rocket went off killing a naval officer.” Working with General Westmoreland proved equally unnerving. “Westmoreland’s C53 was a target. The General and I would fly to every base in his ‘White Goose’ and yet we never got hit” recalled Paul. After serving a year in Vietnam, he returned to his wife to embark on happier years for both of them, which they spent in Panama.
Panama stirs a kaleidoscope of memories that only settle into a clear picture when seen together, including the tale of Puff, their adopted Maltese cat with a reputation for biting children. Jan chuckles as Paul firmly declares, “He [Puff] didn’t bite unless the children kicked him.” When Paul stumbles in the retelling, Jan picks up the story, adding that Puff eventually bit another child. Paul adds that the MPs threatened to put Puff down if he bit again; fortunately, the MP’s fondness for Puff developed into building outdoor quarters for Puff, far away from the legs of small children. After four years in Panama and one final year serving at Scott AFB in Illinois, Paul retired in 1972 after “30 years, 10 months, and 24 days.” Jan shakes her head when her hero insists he “was just one of the workers really. I was fortunate in that I always had a good job.” The good job done, the two could enjoy time together.
The last crumbs of Sunday morning breakfast have been swept away in a comfortable kitchen adorned with hanging pots and pasta filled jars. Surrounded by the curios of a long life, Jan and Paul discuss the merits Aunt Fanny’s Spanish tongue recipe, and whether or not Jan's cousin wants the jars back from the homemade jam. The Wedlans remain happy, optimistic and willing to adapt as long as they are together.
Jan and Paul passed onto a new adventure; we wish them God's love