Writing For My Life

 Sometime this spring, maybe last year, I reread Anna Quindlen’s book Write For Your Life. 

For some reason her book finds its way to me every couple of years. Each time I am inspired. 

As I read about her lament of the loss of letters it created an ache in my chest. I remembered hours spent with Philip in his dad’s attic, digging through chests, going through old packets of letters. Some from Victor’s mom, writing from Boonton, New Jersey, to who knows where WWII. She would write about the goings on in town. Who died. Who had to go to the hospital. New babies. What flowers happened to be blooming. Sometimes she would ask him to pray for her because she was feeling poorly.

We were especially intrigued by letters to his dad from George Lincoln Rockwell. Link. A pal and co contributor to Sir Brown at Brown University. Some complaining about the incredibly dull summer in his parents’ home. And please come so I have something to do! Row, picnic, have drinks and dinner. Later the letters complained about the horrible conditions in boot camp. How he longed for a conversation with someone from school because he felt rather intellectually superior to his mates. At some point the letters stopped. Victor went from Brown to Fifth Armored Division and liberating Luxembourg to a long career in journalism with the wall st journal. His friend, who was no longer his friend, founded the American Nazi Party. 

Whoa…

When clearing out Mom’s house to sell, I came across so many letters. One broken box had letters from my paternal grandmother, Pearl, to Harwood, my grandpa. Over a few evenings this spring, I read letters. What a trove! A little crush turned into a friendship. A courtship to engagement. Elk City, Oklahoma. Her little anecdotes of the day. Saying “I’m sorry my handwriting is such a mess but I have my baby sister in my lap!” Or, “I sure did love it when you took me to your favorite grove on your farm. It was so pretty.” And scattered throughout “haha!” Instead of lol. 

I got to experience my grandma as a teenager becoming woman, learning about her time working for her dad doing accounting and answering the phone in his feed store and mill. Which is how they met, that handsome farmer coming in to get some feed. 

I thought about my kids. We text all the time. The pictures, jokes. Interesting news tidbits. Instant and easy. Most of them are many miles away but we stay fairly connected through the phone.

As I read Quindlen’s book, then my grandma’s love letters, I grieved the loss of the handwritten word. I wanted more than anything for my children to have letters to hold onto someday. To chuckle over the trivial. To have some kind of historical record.

A few months ago I decided I would begin to write the kids. Send them a family recipe . Nothing deep or consequential. 

At first it felt odd. My handwriting is messy. Some blend of cursive and print and shorthand and gosh my wrist started to go numb writing on my lap in the chair in the corner. Found stamps. Had to dig for mailing addresses.

The other day I got a letter back from Madi in Boise. Today I got a postcard from Nils in Arizona. I cried both times.

Isn’t that silly? I felt privileged and loved. Pieces of paper with a stamp and a date and their handwriting. Bits and pieces of what they are thinking. 

Once a week or so I sit down with paper. I dive in and see where the letter takes me. What’s growing in the garden. What I’m cooking for supper. Any juicy tidbits, like the feral kitties let me pet them. Or it rained the other day and I happened to see so and so in the store. 

It all seemed very inconsequential. 

Until I found real letters waiting for me in my post office box. Wow…