New Yorker Magazine
Heyyy hand-written
letter…I’m sry 2 hear of ur passing, but u r just way 2 time consuming &
I’m not even sure I remember how 2 print.
U r, I’m afraid, SOL.
Last week, I
visited my mom with my orally fixated golden retriever puppy, Maisy. Unprepared
with a bone, ball or her favorite dismembered stuffed hedgehog, we headed to my
old bedroom in desperate search for a toy - of any sort. Ultimately, we found success in the dusty-curtained cabinet above my dresser – although not the kind we were looking for.
Along with my sister’s mighty super ball collection, a copy of Chaucer's “The
Canterbury Tales,” a dental award statue and the tassels from my siblings’ high
school graduation caps, we uncovered three shoeboxes filled with old letters,
negatives and a few photos. Treasure!
Among the
letters – written by family, camp friends, school friends and old boyfriends – were
a pile from my dear old dad (I miss him every, single day). Penned in the early
80's when I was a teenager frolicking at sleep-away camp and performing at summer
stock theatre, his letters, written on unadorned white paper, were neatly
tri-folded into recycled business reply envelopes (“waste not, want not!”).
My eyes welled
up as I read his jaunty prose, and I was reminded of his great wit and teasing.
Dear
Audrey,
It
is too quiet, we miss you but the young swan must try her wings, so!!! We are looking forward to your letter telling
us about the luxurious accomodations, gourmet vittles, heated tile floor in the
“Jane,” and the good looking males across the way.”