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 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 have put together. Letters from Mom, Dad, my sisters, and brothers occupy this box. Some are a little worn around the edges and stained with ink but are still treasures. I can hold in my hand. Each letter reveals to me the person it was from and the passage of time.

Until my mother died, 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 then lingering on each word.

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

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

One letter from January of 1973 was typed on the old portable typewriter and began with the greeting, "Dear Crew." On the side of the worn paper, she wrote in red ink, diluted by moisture, "I can’t possibly correct all these carbon copies. You’ll just have to wade through the errors." Her desire to spend some time with us was her main concern and she felt it necessary to close the letter with . . . "Start your year in prayer-start each day with your morning offering. Remember prayer does not change God, but it changes us to be better people. It strengthens us to meet the bad days and makes the good day better."

Often she would recite this poem, it captured the maternal 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, some arriving four years apart, some sixteen months apart and in two in a pair, Mom knew full well the responsibilities of motherhood. Her words still ring true, "Love the bad days as well the good ones." She showed me that if you do not embrace the bad days, how will you recognize and enjoy the good ones. From years ago through today, when things become a little hectic, and life begins to wear me down, I open my closet, lift the box down, and spend some time with Mom.

I remember, whenever Mom 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 as she sat in the auditorium the evening in May at St. Mary’s Academy for Joy’s graduation from high school.

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 in the box, I catch a glimpse of moments that have faded from my memory. Trips to the mountains are mentioned on post cards. The old Ford is in a photo. Of course, pictures of the family meals show pleasant weather lunches, birthday celebrations, and summertime watermelon at the picnic table in the back yard. One thing not in the box was a sign Mom made to let neighborhood playmates know we were not available to play. It read: "Sorry-eating."

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 until that day comes, I have my little box.