The Daily: 11 September 2024

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My son and my father have taken to writing each other physical letters. I know this because they both call or text me to report on the letters they have sent and received. They are both transformed by this project that started on a whim, with my son telling his grandfather about riding the Five Boro Bike Tour. My dad always wanted to do that and never got there. He still harbors ambitions, but his body is probably not going to do that. So my son thought a moment-by-moment description would be a nice gesture, a vicarious bike ride for an aged body. And it sort of grew from there.

I was reminded of my decade of letters. My mother-in-law’s best friend was an artist and an educator. She taught at the Herron School. But she was also a prolific writer with an astute sense for detail and a keen hand at manipulating metaphor. Our correspondence began as a pagan holiday card she created for me — the “Pigans”, something of a cross between hippy druids and pigs. I wrote back thanking her, and because I’m me, the thank you note carried on for something like three pages of lined notebook paper. And then she wrote back…

We wrote each other for something like ten years. This relationship was nearly independent of our dealings with each other face-to-face. (For the record, she absolutely refused any sort of email or texting, though late in life she embraced Facetime so she could keep tabs on her remote grandchildren.) I still have every letter carefully saved in a box — that is stored in the attic, not the damp basement… Most letters came with illustrations. Some had photos of random encountered things — a dragon-shaped cloud, a bent oak tree, a worn river stone that had somehow traveled to a weedy parking lot, an artfully arranged pile of gear from the unhoused people who sometimes camped behind her house. All were written on yellow legal paper in her precise and microscopic script. Some letters needed extra postage.

We stopped writing to each other at some point. I don’t even remember why. She became busy with grandmothering. I became busy with bookselling. Or maybe it was just time to stop and we could sense that in some wordless way. But I think I could use her words and images today. I wish we had never stopped so I could count on a letter to arrive, sporadically but dependably, to take me out of my life and see through her eyes. I miss that. I miss her distant, unseen presence. I miss her caustic wit.

But she was one of the first people I lost to COVID, though I don’t think she ever contracted that virus. She had throat cancer and she’d lost her husband shortly before the pandemic hit. She might have beat the cancer if she’d had the will and the level of personal medical care that we used to be able to expect. But the will died with her husband and the care evaporated with COVID. She lasted all of seven months after her initial diagnosis.

I haven’t sought another writing relationship. I suspect few would compare favorably to her and that seems unfair. But also, I haven’t met anyone who wants to write on paper in a long time. I fear that my generation would be content to let letter-writing die. So I was so very happy to hear that my son has picked up his rather fancy pens and started a correspondence. I hope there are others in his generation. Because receiving a letter is one of the very few joys created by this culture. And it is always something to look forward to.

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It was Grandparents’ Day this past weekend, part of the reason I chose this particular Thing To Look Forward To. And because the letter writing is between my son and his grandfather, I decided to make the Wednesday Word grandmother. I had ambitions of writing poetry this week because I am on vacation…

Silly me… first, I still am overwhelmed by harvest tasks. (Today, I am roasting and freezing an enormous hubbard squash and picking the remaining apples.) But the bigger issue is that my parents were here until this morning. Nothing much got done… which is good. But… no poetry. Also, as you can see, it is very late to post. However, it is still Wednesday. So…

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Wednesday Word

for 11 September 2024

grandmother

Anyway, you can respond in the comments below or go visit the All Poetry contest for September. Your response can be anything made from words. I love poetry, but anything can be poetic and you needn’t even be limited to poetics. An observation, a story, a thought. Might even be an image — however, I am not a visual person, so it has to work harder to convey meaning. In the spirit of word prompts, it’s best if you use the word; but I’m not even a stickler about that. Especially if you can convey the meaning without ever touching the word.

Even if you don’t choose to scribble, at least I’ve made you think about… grandmother.

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©Elizabeth Anker 2024