I’ve been writing Christmas letters, long handwritten ones. Usually I type a generic newsy epistle into my computer and print multi copies onto pretty seasonal paper. I leave lots of space for personal items of interest. I reminisce with each recipient as if they were sitting across my kitchen table having a coffee with me.
Already this month I’ve received two breezy letters, not Christmas ones but letters all the same. The odd thing is the second one was from mom’s cousin that I had written to in May. She doesn’t write often.
I had just sent her a Christmas letter, likely crossing in the mail. Beulah’s letter was 12 pages. I like the anticipation of slitting open the envelope, extracting the pages with a slight crackle. Sometimes a picture falls out. My aunt used to send me fabric scraps when she was still sewing: two new dresses, two swatches.
Beulah sent me a business card with a photo of her condo building. She has downsized, readapting to one- bedroom high-rise living. She misses her garden but wasn’t able to keep up the work.
As I write I think of the recipient. What are their interests? What do they already know about me? Who do we have in common?
When writing to mom’s relatives I ask questions about their shared heritage. “Where were you living when.....? Did you and mom grow up or go to Sunday school together? What do you remember about Great- grandma Good?”
I really don’t expect answers to my questions. Realistically very few send me anything lengthy. Even less answer my queries. I am asking in order to establish a connection and maybe in the process help them ignite a memory.
Aunt Dorothy called me as soon as she received my letter. With the rotating mail strike she was startled to get anything, although she checks her box every few days. She usually says, “this is your letter.”
She has her own questions. She is interested in politics and has opinions on how the news is presented. She enjoys baseball and hockey and fishing. She told me she doesn’t write because there is nothing to say. She then proceeds to tell me a story.
One was about a fishing event that her family arranged for her on her 88th birthday. She is now 91. She rode in Maurice’s SUV through northern Ontario, over rough gravel roads, out to Keith’s hunting camp. It is a hunting lodge where he and Debbie spend the summers, hosting hunters of all ages. Not a typical B & B.
The two brothers created a large raft, a floating dock so that their elderly mom could sit in comfort and still enjoy her favourite pastime.
Cousin Beulah related some stories too, about her friendship with mom and Dorothy when they were girls together on nearby farms in the High River area. She told me about raising her children in Ontario, working long hours as a waitress, then managing her apartment building. She won many awards for her beautiful flower gardens.
After spending a week writing her 12-page letter, I recalled that this was the woman who previously had said that she couldn’t write often. Her hands were too sore.
I was taught to write letters in elementary school, Grade 5 I think. Our church had a Sunday school paper that included a section with other young people looking for pen pals. That’s an unknown concept today. I began writing to two girls my own age from different regions in Pennsylvania. One travelled across country with her sisters on a visit to northern Alberta. They stopped on their way through and I got to form a true friendship with Sarah.
We continued to write for several years, after my marriage and the arrival of my first son. As life got busier, somewhere along the road she no longer answered my missives.
There was something special about those shared moments. I still have a couple of photos of Sarah that sunny summer day that she crossed paths with me.
- Hoey is the longtime Gazette columnist
