Another Day in the Country
Write me a letter
Contributing writer
One of the loveliest things about the holiday season was the letters that suddenly began to appear in my mailbox. No longer were we relegated to receiving mostly junk mail and long No. 13 envelopes which tried to look like they were something personal — but weren’t. We’re getting cards! Not quite a letter, but the envelopes are different colors and amusing shapes!
I love getting letters from friends. I even like getting cards and try not to begrudge that they wrote nary a word, just signed their name. But, to get a letter! A real letter filled with news and funny stories is as much fun as an ice cream cone in July.
Didn’t I confess that I was “going through things?” It began last fall with a storage house, which then tipped into going through boxes of letters saved by an old friend of mine who I had corresponded with for almost 10 years. I called him Shawzee, I’ve mentioned him before in this column. He saved every letter that I ever wrote to him. We’re talking years and years of life experiences.
Could I just throw them out? No! I had to go through them all to see if there were some I needed to save — for posterity, of course. How many times do you have the emotions of your life handed to you in print? During this time, my daughters graduated from high school and college. I went to graduate school, divorced, and eventually graduated — in that order.
I bought an old house in Ramona and fixed it up, during this era. I lectured, got stuck in boring meetings, and was frustrated with my kids. I read it all, again.
“Watch out, spaghetti sauce enclosed,” it said on the outside of a tomato red envelope postmarked 1985.
There was a simple recipe for Marco Polo Spaghetti inside. My daughter had written the instructions for an English assignment.
“You can do this,” I told the man who existed on Meals-on-Wheels.
When I discovered all of these letters in 1995, we were closing down Shawzee’s house in Michigan, preparing for his move to California.
“You can’t throw those out,” he said.
“We’ll store them in Ramona,” I retorted. “Maybe we’ll write a book.”
Another letter began, “You can tell it’s snowing …” there were still silly snowflakes enclosed. It was snowing in the Napa Valley. I could remember the magic.
I came across a box in my mother’s things this summer, marked “Important letters from Pat and Jessica 30 years ago.” I began to sort through them. I’d written a letter to them from boarding school. I was 15.
“I’m in English class and a bunch of kids in English Club are going to the mountains. I don’t belong to the Club so I was hoping you might come visit this weekend so there will be some excitement.” And then I began to list all the things I needed, “Oh, bring me some stamps (3 cent and about three 2 cent ones if you can). I need a pair of hose, size 10, with dark black heals that come to a point and dark seams.”
That tells you something of the era.
“I also need Kleenex. My letters always have so many bring this and that. Oh, bring some taffy (ha). Love you lotz, Pat.” I know why Mom kept that letter — the list!
A former student and friend wrote to me last year and said, “Pat, I’m formally asking you to correspond with me — the art of letter writing is dying and we need to keep it going.”
I wrote back, “I’m game, if you are; but I won’t promise to always write them by hand — the computer makes it so much easier.”
We wrote back and forth, several times, and then it fizzled. I should try again.
“Dear Bill, What happened? Did you move? Have you started your artisan bakery? I’d love to hear from you!”
I have a letter from my Grandma Ehrhardt and I recognize her handwriting. Is that becoming a thing of the past?
“Dear Pat, The weather is good. I need to wash clothes. You wanted the recipe for Cream Cookies.”
And she wrote it out, crossing out numbers a couple of times when she made mistakes in her calculations. I framed it!
It’s another day in the country, and on this day, I’m going to write at least one letter. Does a column count?