The Box

What is it about a handwritten letter that can change one’s mood in a second? It is sad to envision letter writing becoming a thing of the past, replaced with an instant text messaging and emails. I’m glad I was born when letters were the common thing. The instant messages are great but the words are deleted and forgotten.

A colorful, striped cloth box my sister made, sits on my closet shelf. What it holds is more valuable to me than everything I own. Letters from Mom, Dad, my sisters and brothers occupy this box. Some are a little worn around the edges, stained with ink but a treasure I can hold in my hand. Each letter reveals to me the person and the passage of time.

Walking to the mailbox and finding a letter from home would influence my mood for the day. The motions were all part of the thrill: Ripping the envelope open, removing the letter and lingering on each word.

Mom wrote the best letters. She had a homespun way of saying things that reveal her very soul. I often felt her longing to be heard, each line spoke volumes to me. She wanted me to know that life is to be live as best you know how and not to worry. Besides most of the problems, she knew would work its way out. The idea is to tell God about it.

The letters were newsworthy but they convey a truth. The many valuable lessons to be learned in life are somehow written in between the lines. The person of Mom is revealed and her strong personality softens from line to line. Her painful childhood has made her determined that we all receive the necessary tools to lead a happy, useful life.

Her January letter of 1973 was typed on the old portable typewritten with the greeting, "Dear Crew." On the side of the worn paper, she writes in red ink, diluted by water, "I can’t possibly correct all these carbon copies. You’ll just have to wade through the errors."

Often she would recite this poem, it captured the motherly feelings she held within:

There was an old lady
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
Because she wanted to
She gave them some broth
And plenty of bread
Kissed them all sweetly
And tucked them in bed

With five girls and two boys, arriving four years apart, some sixteen months apart and in pairs, Mom knew full well the responsibilities of motherhood. Her words ring true, "Love the bad days as well the good ones." She has shown me that if you do not embrace the bad days, how will you recognize and enjoy the good ones.

When things became a little hectic, and life began to wear me down, I opened my closet. Lifted the box down and spent some time with Mom. I remember, whenever she had a moment to spare from house work, she would be jotting something down. The poem Mom scribbled while waiting for Joy’s birth, crowded her memory in the auditorium that evening at St. Mary’s Academy. It was her graduation.

We’re expecting a ray of sunshine
When the leaves begin to fall.
At least, that’s what the Doc says
And I don’t doubt it al all.
Sometimes we hope that it’s a boy
Then again we like a girl
But I don’t really care
As long as it has curls
It’s really been fun expecting
I thank God for it all
But damn, I wish the day would come
When the leaves begin to fall

Flipping through the letters, cards, and pictures, I catch a glimpse of moments that have faded from my memory. Trips to the mountains, the old Ford and of course the family meals started popping in my head. All the neighbors knew when it was time for dinner. The screen door swung out and the roll call began . . . Joy . . . Larry . . . Judy . . . Trudy . . . Marie . . . Steve . . . Chris.

Mom started placing a card on the door that read: "Sorry-eating." The kids in the neighborhood knew the sign meant no knocking. Our door was always open and Mom would add a little extra to the pot in case a relative or friend just happened to come by. She placed such importance during this time, she delighted in the time to share and talk. Good conversation was food for her mind and she was hungry.

How can I forget Annabelle? She came twice a week to help with cleaning, ironing and such. This gave Mom time to sit under the Chinaberry tree; read, think and write. Now and then, she had to pull in her feet, as the posse’ chase came charging around the front of the house. A neighbor stopped by the fence to talk to Mom and asked if she knew how many children were in the back yard. He counted them. "Twenty-two," he said.

I check my emails every day. Read and delete. I go to the mailbox and find bills and advertisements. It is nothing but junk. It’s the same day after day. I am waiting for the day when a letter will arrive and I can go through the motions: Ripping the envelope, lifting the letter out and lingering on each word. Oh well, I have my little box.