November 10, 1943 Tuesday Evening
My Dear Wife,
I received your lovely note tonight when I came in out of the cold and rain, and it warmed my chilled and weary bones…
I really don’t know how I’d lie around, as heart contented, if I hadn’t followed that inward urge I had just fifteen years ago when I saw the cutest girl I ever saw, leaning against a post at Emanuel Church!
That was it then, and has been ever since…
Someone compiled and saved all of the letters my grandfather wrote to my grandmother, and to his parents, from August 1942-April 1943, during the time he was enlisted. I have just begun to read through them. There are so many!
My mother and I were talking earlier today about the lost art of writing letters. Not only is there something so lovely about holding the letter in your hands – the care in penmanship, the act of mailing a letter, the anticipation of someone reading it – but also this…
So many correspondences will be forever lost simply due to nobody ever being aware they existed – or by not knowing the bloody email password of a loved one who passed!
Even when one prints out a sentimental email to save it, it has lost all of the romanticism of a hand written note.
Doesn’t “sentimental email” seem like an oxymoron?
Can we bring back the handwritten letter?
The love letter?
Is it too late for us, in the age of instant gratification, to mail a letter just to say…
I love you,
I miss you,
From the moment I first saw you, that was it for me?
Could we even bear to wait for a response?
Do we need one?
One story before I go…
A couple of years ago, the world lost Norman Fucile. He was a wonderful man, the father of a dear high school friend of mine. Norman and his wife had a beautiful love story and a marriage that had lasted many decades. They were one of those couples I always enjoyed seeing throughout the years. At Norman’s burial, someone read aloud a poem Norman had written to his wife, Ellen. It was a poem chronicling their love story. It was beautiful. At the reception I went over to Ellen to hug her and offer her my condolences. I said, “I love that he wrote you that poem; what a treasure.” She looked at me with the sweetest smile and said, “I have a whole box of them, Dear.”
Oh, my heart.