In today’s age of social media and instant connections through texting and emails, letter writing is becoming a thing of the past. As I was cleaning out some drawers the other day, sorting through old socks with no mate, and pantyhose with runs in the knees, I found some old letters my grandmother had written to me way back in the late seventies, when I was living in England for a year.
As soon as I recognized her handwriting, I was transported back in time. Memories came flooding into my mind. Memories of my grandmother out in her garden, bent over exactly like those funny wooden cutouts people stick on their lawns, with large behinds and polka dot skirts.
Her handwriting was always a bit of a chore to read. It was a lot like deciphering code. Trying to make sense of all those letters crammed together needed a keen eye and a strong will, but that was my Nana, bless her heart.
There were the usual ruminations of what the neighbours were up to. Who was dating who, and how someone had hogged the party line the other day for over four hours, and no one else could make a phone call. I was apprised of her concerns about a failing sump pump, and how one of my many cousins had just given birth to the latest great-grandchild, and how someone else was getting over the flu, giving me an insight into the important matters of her life.
Important matters of the heart.
I can still picture my grandmother standing on the porch of that tiny, brick house, hollering at the dog, “Come get a biscuit!” As if the poor thing couldn’t hear her! There was always a dog in my grandmother’s ample lap, or a cat, or a kid. Sometimes, all three at once. There was always room for one more on Nana’s knee.
All those familiar words were written down on my mind, like the letters she let flow from her hand. Things like, when I asked if I could pick a rose from her beautiful garden, I was told, “Just pick one!” I would spend an hour or so going over each heady bush, finding just the right bud. Not quite open yet. A promise of bloom that would swell in the glass of water and finally burst into something close to poetry! And others, like, “Take a quart of cucumbers!” Or, “Put a couple of dollars gas in your car before you go!” from the farm tank just off the side of the barn.
The tiny brick farmhouse is still there, a lonely testament to the memories I have of my grandmother out on the porch, holding a scruffy white dog and waving as I drive away The house is there, but my grandmother isn’t… except she is still there in those letters in a drawer, and she’ll always be there in my heart.
