On Notes, Cards and Letters

Since I was a child, I've always enjoyed receiving and giving notes, cards and letters, many of which I have kept.   Every time my first husband and I moved, which was a lot, he would comment on having to move my boxes of letters, asking me why I didn't just throw them away.  "Because, they are a part of me," I would explain.  After the 5th or 6th move, he quit asking and kindly toted them around for me. 

When I was in 3rd grade, I had a pen pal, Karen, who lived in Alaska.  We wrote to each other for at least 5 years, learning about our families, friends, where we lived, what we did, sending photographs of our gangly selves standing in parkas, bathing suits, knock-kneed shorts.  I wonder, do kids today have pen pals, or do they have text pals? 

During middle school, I would visit my aunts and uncles in the big city - Chicago and surrounding area.  From there I would write letters and send postcards of the incredible buildings and sites.  It was such an exotic, foreign setting:  so many roads, so much concrete and steel, so many people, so much sound, so many cars, trucks, semi's, and of course the L.   My pen could not write fast enough.

My Junior year in high school was spent in Salina, Kansas, armpit of the country.  I lived with my big brother Dan, his fiance Steph, and his two kids Jessie and Robbie.  From there I wrote furiously to my best friends back in green, hilly, watery, forested, Michigan, as well as to my mom, dad, sisters and brother.  I was desperately lonely, and there were no such things as cell phones, email, texting, Facebook, instant chatting, to ease my homesickness.  There was the telephone, but I was banned from using it after my 2nd $300+ bill.  I wrote of how flat it was, how you could see for miles and miles in all directions.  I wrote about the giant grasshoppers, their deafening noise and how I could not walk in the grass on side of the road because it totally grossed me out as they blindly jumped all over me and stuck on me.  I wrote about my school, Salina Central, and what it was like to go to a school where I was the minority.  I wrote about how I spent most of my time in my dingy room in the basement, staying up all night drawing, drinking diet pepsi and eating peanut M&Ms and then sleeping through geometry the next day.  I wrote about my jobs at Elmore's Cafeteria where I accidentally poured boiling hot water from the giant coffee machine all down my left arm, and Taco Tico, where I learned how to make and eat fast food Mexican burritos and tacos.

And I received letters.  I would check the mail daily, hounding the mailman, pouncing on that mail box, to see who I would hear from.  My friend Sue wrote the most.  She had the best penmanship.  I would read, re-read, and memorize those letters, placing them in a special box in order of author name.  Whenever I felt bad, I would take them all out spread them on my bed, and read them again.  When I moved back to Michigan the next year, I packed them tenderly up, placed them in my duffel bag, and they rode back to the hometown in the belly of the Greyhound.

In my 20s and 30s, I moved away again: once to Colorado for a short stay, and then to New Mexico, Texas and Missouri, all with my first husband Paul.  My sister Susanna and I wrote a lot to each other during this time.  She would send me cards from her kids, photographs of "birthday weekend" in May, and bits and pieces of news about Marquette.  Mom send a lot to, including recipes, newpaper clippings, etc.  It took me years to learn how to read her letters as often they were encripted with words that would push my buttons as if I were a little kid again.

When my dad, and then years later my step dad, were dying of cancer, I would send them a card a day for months at a time.  Chuck's, my step dad, favorite card was one that had a little red truck on the front.  On the inside it said, "Thought you could use a little pick up."

During my real estate career and 15 years of holding elected office at local, state and national levels, I sent and received hundreds of notes, thank you's, congratulations, PANs (personal acknowledgement notes).  The onces I received came from clients, co-workers, people I didn't even know.  I have just about everyone I received.  Again, when I would come home from a board meeting where I had just had to beat down the "good 'ol boys" or take knives out of my back placed there by wolves dressed as little old ladies and men at the church's annual meeting, I would take out my box of notes I'd received, spread them out and read them over.

In my 40's, I didn't write much any more.  I didn't have time, didn't make time.  I'd drop a card to mom once in a while, but never wrote to my sisters.  Now we had the internet, and phone rates were cheap and easy.  Recently, texting and Facebook have added to the ease of communicating.  But . . . yesterday when I went to our mailbox, my heart smiled as I saw, wedged between the junk mail and the bills,  a hand-written note card addressed to me.  It was from my Auntie Bonnie and Uncle Bruce.  It was a thank you card stuffed with 2 additional sheets of paper, filled with gratitude and love for my, and other's, efforts with the fundraiser that was put on for their benefit a few months ago.  As I read it, standing in my kitchen in my pjs, tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision, I felt as if they were right there with me, hugging me with their gianormous hugs.

The power.  The power of the written word.  Of ink on paper.  Nope.  It can not be replaced.  It is different than pixels on a monitor transmitted through space.  It is different.  It is tangible and can be held in your hands while your tears drop onto it, smearing the letters that make the words.  Oh!  Don't get me wrong, I love how technology has bridged the homesickness/thank you/what are you doing right now/I need support gap, bringing us closer together.  But nothing beats receiving or sending penned thoughts and feelings and facts on paper.  Yup.  This letter is a keeper.  Thank you Auntie Bonnie and Uncle Bruce for lightening my heart, for the prayer you said to help you convey your thoughts and love onto paper, for your continued guidance on how to be a person of value. 

This letter will stay out for a while before it gets gently placed in my box.  I think I will write them one back.

Comments

[anita]

Thank you Connie. They come through my heart, so it makes sense that they are reaching yours through the same source.

[connie]

<3 <3 <3 Thank you Anita! Your words always seem to reach right in and grab my heart...