February 25, 2007
Letters
Reading the Sunday paper was a family affair when I was a child. After church we all changed out of our good clothes and then helped Mom in the kitchen. Once our Sunday dinner was out of the way, we sprawled in the living room with the paper split up among us. When I was in grade school I only read the news and current affairs if they were assigned for a school project. I read the society pages during carnival season, because many of my friends served as pages and maids in some of the large Mardi Gras krewes and it was fun to find their names and pictures. The full-color magazine was a treat, and of course all of us read the comics. My favorite feature though, was just for kids. Since my brothers and sister didn’t care to read it, I’d carry it to my room and usually doze off for a Sunday afternoon nap with it collapsed across my face. I can’t remember now if the whole page was syndicated, or just the column by Aunt Jane. She became my anonymous friend in much the same way that we now form cyber-friendships. She shared fun ideas and stories, and she encourgaged letter-writing. Toward that end, she hooked us up with penpals. I don’t remember now how the system worked. We were less jaded then, so maybe my full name and address were printed in her column, or perhaps I sent her my information and she made the match-ups. Too many years have passed for me to retain such details. I do recall the specifics of several friends with whom I carried on pen-pal relationships until we were well into our teens. I’ve never been quite sure why those exchanges ceased. I know that I was disappointed when each one dropped out and allowed several letters in a row to go unanswered. The last to go was Carla, who lived in the Great Lakes area. We corresponded for six or seven years and I still have her picture in a dusty shoebox of other memorabilia from those years. I don’t remember disposing of her letters or any of the others, but they’re long gone. Did I toss them in the trash years after the fact, or perhaps burn them in a effort to sear away the pain as each friend was lost? Maybe I carelessly lost those letters when they no longer held a significant place in my life. I was young and foolish, so I could have done that. They were, at one time, neatly tucked away in a file box, each friend assigned an index card where I tracked who owed whom a reply and noted the small gifts we exchanged. I guess that implies that I chose to empty out the box and dispose of its contents, because it’s still with me, though filled with recipe cards these days. What was the name of the boy, from which South American country, who turned out to be only using me as a source for English-language books? You’d think I could remember that, because I certainly recall how shattered I was when his scheme became evident. Still, he was part of that first group of friends with whom I learned the binding power of written correspondence. They all played a part in the commencement of what I once thought would be a life-long habit of letter-writing.
I know what happened to the few letters that I got from my ex, back in the days when he was passionately in love with me. When his betrayal and abandonment came, I did burn those, trying to purge his vile wickedness from my aching heart. Again, young, rash and foolish. Our son might have treasured those letters one day. I might have even enjoyed re-reading them myself when time had mellowed me a bit, but I robbed us both in a fit of anger and despair.
There have been others over the years who kept me watching the mailbox in anticipation. A few summer camp friends, high school buddies who scattered to the four winds shortly after graduation, my last “best friend” in Louisiana, with whom I maintained a lively correspondence for a few years after I moved to California. Those few relationships that still survive at all have dwindled down into Christmas card contacts. Some of them now tuck printed newsletters into their card each year; some take the time to handwrite a brief note and their well-wishes. I’ve done both myself.
My last true correspondent was Uncle Cliff. He was seventeen years younger than my father. His first clear memory was seeing Dad in his uniform, headed off to war. Uncle Cliff always hero-worshipped his big brother. It was a natural thing for us to begin truly sharing each others lives when I brought Dad here to live with me and my son. Cliff was the only one who knew or was even interested in the day to day stuff of our lives. He was my rock when Dad deteriorated and his care consumed every hour of every day. He built me up and shared my worries, constantly reminding me that I absolutely must take small breaks and find some time for myself. Only Uncle Cliff knew how devastated I was the first time my father needed a diaper change while my son was out. I tired to handle the task with dignity for both of us, and Dad said it was okay, it was fine, he understood. It eventually became just another task, but Uncle Cliff knew what it cost both, and sent bawdy humor to remind us that it’s okay to laugh. I discovered through one of his letters that he liked Rod McKuen, the poet who had scripted the background for love in my youth. I found a used copy of Listen to the Warm and sent it to Cliff. Thus we began to get outside of ourselves and discuss music and poetry and other fine distractions.
Through it all, Cliff penned memories of people and events that most in our family had forgotten or never deemed worthy of passing on to a new generation. My great-aunt Tinny, who had always been just a name to me, came alive with her eccentricities and unbridled passion for life. I began to see my grandmother and grandfather as young parents, making life and love out of nothing at all. How sharp was their memory of taking the boy who would be my father into depression-era cotton-fields so he could help them earn a pittance to live on! I began to understand why cousin Edith was the one person Dad had insisted he must visit in Dallas before I flew him here to be with us in Hawaii. No one had ever shared those stories with me until Cliff put them on paper and affixed a little postage.
Cliff was too sick to travel when we flew Dad home that last time to rest beside Mom. When the funeral and its attendant business were over I rented a car and drove to his home half a day away. Cliff stood shakily from his chair to hear the words my son intoned as he presented the flag from Dad’s coffin, the words with which the flag had been placed into his own hands: “On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation …” Cliff collapsed, his grief overwhelming, but he later insisted that he must hear the speech in its entirety, those final words in remembrance of his big brother/hero. We had a few more days of rest and healing, and then I flew home, knowing that we would not likely have such times again.
Dad’s passing left me with the small inheritance I used to start my business. This necessitated acquiring my first computer. Cliff had been online for years. Writing had become difficult for him, yet his hands flew across the keyboard, and our correspondence resumed. He wrote to me daily with silly limericks and thoughtful remembrances and all of the wisdom and stories that he knew he had only a short time left to memorialize. I told tales of my island paradise and the wonderful times we would share when he came to visit, a harmless fantasy we both enjoyed embroidering. He called on his years of success in business and became my mentor as I stumbled inelegantly into entrepreneurship. We had about two years of that blessed online relationship before the dreaded phone call came. My aunt had gone out briefly, and returned to find that he had left us. He was at his computer, perhaps even preparing to write once again to me, when he breathed his last.
I didn’t have a chance to save those precious emails when my hard drive suddenly consumed itself and my computer had to be replaced. But I have a box full of his handwritten letters and a few that were typed when his hands refused to grip a pen. These will not be tossed or burned or carelessly lost. They preserve his spirit, his wit and his unbounded love for his family, including one far-away niece who missed him then and still misses him very much. I feel his presence scrawled across those pages, and I love the feel of them in my hands.
He rewrote the Song of Hiawatha for me once, calling it Hiawatha Slandered, and ensconced it in a ten page letter to me. The remainder of the letter takes it to Hollywood, where he selects John Wayne to play my father, Meryl Streep for me, Jimmy Stewart for himself and “… Jack Nicholson playing John (the ex), whom I never knew, but then, Nicholson can play anyone.” Francis Ford Coppula and Steven Spielberg co-direct the masterpiece, Tennessee Williams assists in the screenplay and Carl Sagan (or his ghost?) provided authenticity to a scene involving protons and neutrons and electrons. When my son comes into my life, Cliff pens “… Note to self: keep T. Williams out of this segment entirely; fire him, pay him off, but be sure that he doesn’t even get on the set.” This wonderful letter was ended with a P.S. that answered my puzzlement as to what could have inspired it: “You mentioned love letters yourself. And I thought I heard a wish in your voice. Always be careful of wishes - you never know when you will get them. Remember that leprechauns, genies and, sometimes, weird Uncles can grant wishes - but usually there is a price to pay.” I guess he was referring to the “chore” of writing back to him (which was not a chore, but a pleasure,) because that was all he got in return and he never sent an invoice for some other fee.
This is not what I started out to write, but my mind is subject to (dis?)associative wandering. I wanted to talk about the beauty and joy of handwritten letters, which are well along the road to becoming a thing of the past. Instead I’ve strayed, but that joy is still contained herein. I’ll tell you some more about letters soon, and share with you the event that set my mind on this path. Stay tuned.
The update has been posted for your reading pleasure.
Technorati Tags: letters, penpals, memories, family
Posted by skeet @ 4:13 pm • Society & culture, Home & Family
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March 9th, 2007 at 11:54 pm, Skeet's Stuff Says:
[…] any expectations at all, they are limited to the anticipation of future correspondence. Like the penpals I had as a child, he will remain an anonymous friend, letting me know as much or as little of […]
March 12th, 2007 at 1:05 am, Stephanie Says:
Writing letter is a lost art. About the only one I write to anymore is my GReat Aunt, and then only b/c it is hard for her to hear on the phone, and she doesn’t do email! She is 90!
March 12th, 2007 at 1:26 pm, skeet Says:
It is indeed, Stephanie. Younger generations don’t have the dependence on it that we once had and so never discover its wonders. Email, IMs and message boards may be more efficient, but miss somthing on the personal level that was better expressed in handwriting.
March 12th, 2007 at 10:44 pm, kailani Says:
I still have letters from long distance relationships, old boyfriends, pen pals. It’s nice to read them sometimes. Email does not quite have the same feeling.
Here from the Carnival of Family Life.
March 14th, 2007 at 12:36 pm, Holly Schwendiman Says:
Letters are amazing things! I’m so glad I kept all those between my husband and myself. They now form a beautiful binder of memories that can’t be replaced!
Hugs,
Holly
Holly’s Corner
Here via the Carnival of Family Life.
March 15th, 2007 at 10:28 am, LionAndMagicBoy Says:
Yeah, you can’t exactly save text messages the way you can letters. And they’re certainly missing something. It’s a lost art, to be sure.
Here from the Carnival of Family Life.
March 15th, 2007 at 4:30 pm, Super Saver Says:
Skeet,
Thanks for this post. It reminded me of the boxes of letters I have kept and the notes from Dad who passed away last year.
Here via the CoFL.