The Everyday and the Special
Sorting the endless family belongings, I've found that pieces of paper with writing on come in two types.
There are the pieces of paper that have been kept because they're special, and the ones that have been kept because they simply haven't been thrown away - they have lurked in a drawer somewhere for thirty years or so, minding their own business, hoping nobody would notice them.
There are quite a few of the special ones:
It's painted on a postcard, with a quite definite rugby reference. So who painted it, and who received it?
Well, Uncle Dick was my grandfather, my mother's mother, Richard. He's the one who fought in the First World War and I have all his letters from the trenches. He died when I was eighteen months old but not before he'd made a huge impression on me by sending me a postcard with a picture of a monkey on it. I was delighted, and I have sent a lot of postcards ever since I was old enough to send them.
Who drew it, painted it and sent it? Well, I'd put my money on Amy, the family's Most Artistic Person, now eighty-four and still the family's Most Artistic Person: because she was married to Uncle Dick's nephew. Wonderful.
Then there are the ones which were a bit special, because they were sent for some kind of anniversary.
This was a birthday card to me from my Grandma, my mother's mother Charlotte.
She lived with us for about thirty years, so I saw many, many examples of her precise, early-last-century writing: she was born in 1898.
And it's so very familiar to me - it's as though she wrote this yesterday. It's hard to accept, looking at this, that there'll be no more of this writing ever: she died in 1991, age ninety-three.
So, the card was a bit special then: it's very special now.
Finally, here's a letter from the Communist to me, sent in December 1977 - the month that I met my husband Stephen - when I was away in Cardiff at university. The Communist was working in his chemist shop then, but also rehearsing for an amateur pantomime, and his letter, full of backstage complications, is very funny to me now, and yet very poignant, in these days when he has trouble even signing his name.
Dear Daphne
I have a choice between dropping you a line and looking at my script for tonight's run through.
Elizabeth is ill - some sort of breakdown - and has withdrawn from the Lion, she herself arranged with Harriet to do it. Harriet rang Pam, who said "Yes, please!" - but Doreen, who knows the part and is doing it at the matinee, had told me when Elizabeth was on holiday and missed rehearsals, that if she dropped out, Doreen would like to do it. I told Pam that I thought that the part should be shared between the two, as I believed that Doreen would be hurt, but Pam was adamand that Harriet do the full evenings and Sat - She phoned Jean, who agreed with her, and then phoned Doreen - who, of course, said she didn't mind.
Phil and I were a bit put out - and I was crosser cos bloodyjohn was there and stuck in his oar - said the Director must be ruthless and kept saying it.
Anywhereway, it's arranged now, so don't mention it. So we are rehearsing Sat. evening for the new Lion. Mam still has a bad cold and cough. Nanny phoned to ask how you are.
Your name is on the programme.
See you soon.
Love Dad
Nanny was my other grandmother, from Lithuania originally, who died in 1990, age 96. I remember all the people mentioned in the letter - the show was Alice Through the Looking-Glass.
The Communist sent me lots of letters when I was away, all written in his lunch hour at the shop, and I took this completely for granted - - and yet I kept them. So, even then, I must have known that, one day, the everyday would turn into the special.
There are the pieces of paper that have been kept because they're special, and the ones that have been kept because they simply haven't been thrown away - they have lurked in a drawer somewhere for thirty years or so, minding their own business, hoping nobody would notice them.
There are quite a few of the special ones:
It's painted on a postcard, with a quite definite rugby reference. So who painted it, and who received it?Well, Uncle Dick was my grandfather, my mother's mother, Richard. He's the one who fought in the First World War and I have all his letters from the trenches. He died when I was eighteen months old but not before he'd made a huge impression on me by sending me a postcard with a picture of a monkey on it. I was delighted, and I have sent a lot of postcards ever since I was old enough to send them.
Who drew it, painted it and sent it? Well, I'd put my money on Amy, the family's Most Artistic Person, now eighty-four and still the family's Most Artistic Person: because she was married to Uncle Dick's nephew. Wonderful.
Then there are the ones which were a bit special, because they were sent for some kind of anniversary.
This was a birthday card to me from my Grandma, my mother's mother Charlotte.
She lived with us for about thirty years, so I saw many, many examples of her precise, early-last-century writing: she was born in 1898.And it's so very familiar to me - it's as though she wrote this yesterday. It's hard to accept, looking at this, that there'll be no more of this writing ever: she died in 1991, age ninety-three.
So, the card was a bit special then: it's very special now.
Finally, here's a letter from the Communist to me, sent in December 1977 - the month that I met my husband Stephen - when I was away in Cardiff at university. The Communist was working in his chemist shop then, but also rehearsing for an amateur pantomime, and his letter, full of backstage complications, is very funny to me now, and yet very poignant, in these days when he has trouble even signing his name.
Dear Daphne
I have a choice between dropping you a line and looking at my script for tonight's run through.
Elizabeth is ill - some sort of breakdown - and has withdrawn from the Lion, she herself arranged with Harriet to do it. Harriet rang Pam, who said "Yes, please!" - but Doreen, who knows the part and is doing it at the matinee, had told me when Elizabeth was on holiday and missed rehearsals, that if she dropped out, Doreen would like to do it. I told Pam that I thought that the part should be shared between the two, as I believed that Doreen would be hurt, but Pam was adamand that Harriet do the full evenings and Sat - She phoned Jean, who agreed with her, and then phoned Doreen - who, of course, said she didn't mind.
Phil and I were a bit put out - and I was crosser cos bloodyjohn was there and stuck in his oar - said the Director must be ruthless and kept saying it.
Anywhereway, it's arranged now, so don't mention it. So we are rehearsing Sat. evening for the new Lion. Mam still has a bad cold and cough. Nanny phoned to ask how you are.
Your name is on the programme.
See you soon.
Love Dad
Nanny was my other grandmother, from Lithuania originally, who died in 1990, age 96. I remember all the people mentioned in the letter - the show was Alice Through the Looking-Glass.
The Communist sent me lots of letters when I was away, all written in his lunch hour at the shop, and I took this completely for granted - - and yet I kept them. So, even then, I must have known that, one day, the everyday would turn into the special.
posted by Daphne at 8:45 pm
5 Comments:
I have the only not my father ever wrote me. He sent me $5 when I was at college and wrote a few words on the paper he folded the check in. I treasure it.
ah...that would be note not not. hehe got that?
I really miss the whole letter-writing thing. When I lived in Japan (pre-email for most home users, it was the late 90s) I would write long, long letters back home - often 10 pages long - both to friends and family. The Japanese have lovely stationery and I'd buy this whisper-thin airmail paper and write reams. I think my mum has kept my letters somewhere. So much nicer than email.
Your grandma wished you lots of "gay tomorrows". Did you have these and were they nice?
With fragments like these - flotsam and jetsam from another world, I feel an overwhelming sense of loss - the echoes of another time that was vibrant, peopled and never imagined that one day all that would be left would be a few old cards, a few saved letters, some fading memories, inherited facial characteristics in a few descendants. Dust to dust.
It's strange how such a little thing can turn into such a treasure, Debby. I used to write lots of letters on paper too, Bun - now I mostly send postcards. YP - - no, all my tomorrows were straight, but I'm glad she gave me the option! I share your sense of loss, though, when looking at such things.
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