I received in the mail this week, believe it or not, a hand-written letter. This was not an oligatory thank you note for "the (fill in the blank) gift you gave us. I know we will use it a lot" No. This was a genuine 4-page piece of correspondence. There was nothing earth-shattering in the letter, just a hello and catching me up on her family's news.
In my recent letter, Patsy (the writer) shared with me about the camp we missed in eastern Oregon. Her best try for watermelon-seed spitting was just over 4 feet. She was whooped by a 10-year-old whose seed soared past 23 feet. There were photos from the camp: 1)tug-of-war, 2)beautiful sunset, and 3) look how my grandson has grown in one year. She purposely decided not to bring her needles and supplies for making pine needle baskets and, instead, brought a good book to read.
My Mother was a letter writer. For our 20 years in Alaska, Mother faithfully wrote me 2, 3, 5 times a week, sharing with me what she had seen at Gottschelks (her favorite store) or what she was fixing for dinner, or family news. Even after her death, I received two letters from her. Today is the anniversary of my father's death; he joined mother to their grave almost to the day one year later. I miss many things about my mother, but the greatest emptiness felt is evidenced each day when I open the mailbox.
Now, the reader may think that I am leading up to answering Patsy's letter with a pen-to-the-paoer letter from me, but that conclusion would be incorrect. At Christmas, I will send her one of our year-in-review newsletters,
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2 comments:
Bloggers should give themselves credit for intimate updates addressed to the world. Such periodic messages supplement and in some ways supplant holiday newsletters. I look forward to them both as close-ups and big-picture narratives.
I got a letter from your mom after her death, too, on the day of her funeral. In it, she talked about how eager she was to go home... and she did. I've still got that letter tucked away.
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