Lost Art of Letter Writing
Today, I got my Mother's family Bible out to go through it. I found a some letters she had saved that meant a lot to her. These letters gave me new insight into my mother and my grandmother.
When my mother had turned 75, We, her children, wrote the little paper from her hometown requesting anyone who remembered her to send a birthday card. Esther Knaippelmeir wrote her a four page letter. My mother had been her teacher in a one room school. "In the early thirties," she wrote, "the depression years where nobody had much money. I remember the long ways to school, made over clothes, and sometimes not to (sic) much in my lunch bucket (usually syrup pails.)"
She continued, "I remember when you first started teaching at Dewey, there were seven boys and one girl (me). Then later in the spring, the Bohling kids and I think the Mehlins moved in, that made about ten kids more. Then we had enough for a ball team." She goes to say that sometimes they didn't even have a bat, so they used a board. Esther remembered my mother having a Model A Ford and how my mother had lived with her sister, Gertrude Weber. She remembered playing run sheep run and hiding behind the tombstones in the cemetery. She remembered her eighth grade exams where she had to go Auburn to take them. She had passed with a ninety percent that meant she could go to high school in the honor student group. Then she says, "I think about you every once and a while. God bless you--you were the best teacher I ever had."
My mother loved to teach. She missed it I know, and sometimes she forgot that she never really left teaching, because she taught her six children so much.
In that one letter, I learned how difficult it must have been for both student and teacher during the depression. I learned that my mother made a difference in the life one woman. For her to say that she thought of my mother, let me know the impact Mama made on Esther. We all make a difference.
In my grandmother's letter, I read how much she loved her children and grandchildren. In her letter she states that she had been ill with the flu, but her concern was with her daughter, my mother, "Now, Wavie, stay well, and don't get sick." She mentioned that one of her granddaughters was in town, but had not come by to see her. The granddaughter was busy with friends, but I could hear the longing in her voice for the girl to drop by, but she says simply, "...but I am just an old woman." She writes that she decided not get her hair done at the beauty shop anymore, but instead she would use that money to call my mother once a week. My mother lived in Phoenix, Arizona and my Grandma Muzzy lived in Auburn, Nebraska. I also wondered how sad it must have made my mother to live away from her mother and hear the loneliness in her voice. Then my grandmother closed her letter as she did with all her letters, "God keep you safe." She had a faith and trust in Jesus.
Would they have written these letters if there had been email? I wonder. People keep emails brief. They are less personal and not meant to be saved. You cannot see the hand of the person who wrote it. Esther wrote in neat, straight lines. Muzzy wrote in bold letters with alacrity. The handwriting itself becomes a part of the person. Emails,by their very nature, are not meant saved. They become lost.
What joy I had in reading Muzzy's letter. It was almost as if she were in the room. What fun to learn that as a teacher of young children, my mother made an impact in a person's life. It is history. It is my history and the history of my family left behind for generations to read. Isn't it ironic that in this age of modern technology when machines and inventions are to save time for people, we have so little time on our hands that we no longer write letters?
I went to town a few months ago to find stationery. I couldn't find any. Clerks kept showing me paper for printers. When I told them what I wanted it for, one clerk said, "Gee, I don't know what a letter is." I kid you not, this twenty-something young lady, had never sent nor received a hand-written letter. She could only print. She never learned cursive.
I hope to made a habit of writing letters to my family and friends. Letters are one form of legacy we can leave behind. I have a challenge for you...this week, try to write one letter to someone who means a great deal to you. Who will take up the challenge?
When my mother had turned 75, We, her children, wrote the little paper from her hometown requesting anyone who remembered her to send a birthday card. Esther Knaippelmeir wrote her a four page letter. My mother had been her teacher in a one room school. "In the early thirties," she wrote, "the depression years where nobody had much money. I remember the long ways to school, made over clothes, and sometimes not to (sic) much in my lunch bucket (usually syrup pails.)"
She continued, "I remember when you first started teaching at Dewey, there were seven boys and one girl (me). Then later in the spring, the Bohling kids and I think the Mehlins moved in, that made about ten kids more. Then we had enough for a ball team." She goes to say that sometimes they didn't even have a bat, so they used a board. Esther remembered my mother having a Model A Ford and how my mother had lived with her sister, Gertrude Weber. She remembered playing run sheep run and hiding behind the tombstones in the cemetery. She remembered her eighth grade exams where she had to go Auburn to take them. She had passed with a ninety percent that meant she could go to high school in the honor student group. Then she says, "I think about you every once and a while. God bless you--you were the best teacher I ever had."
My mother loved to teach. She missed it I know, and sometimes she forgot that she never really left teaching, because she taught her six children so much.
In that one letter, I learned how difficult it must have been for both student and teacher during the depression. I learned that my mother made a difference in the life one woman. For her to say that she thought of my mother, let me know the impact Mama made on Esther. We all make a difference.
In my grandmother's letter, I read how much she loved her children and grandchildren. In her letter she states that she had been ill with the flu, but her concern was with her daughter, my mother, "Now, Wavie, stay well, and don't get sick." She mentioned that one of her granddaughters was in town, but had not come by to see her. The granddaughter was busy with friends, but I could hear the longing in her voice for the girl to drop by, but she says simply, "...but I am just an old woman." She writes that she decided not get her hair done at the beauty shop anymore, but instead she would use that money to call my mother once a week. My mother lived in Phoenix, Arizona and my Grandma Muzzy lived in Auburn, Nebraska. I also wondered how sad it must have made my mother to live away from her mother and hear the loneliness in her voice. Then my grandmother closed her letter as she did with all her letters, "God keep you safe." She had a faith and trust in Jesus.
Would they have written these letters if there had been email? I wonder. People keep emails brief. They are less personal and not meant to be saved. You cannot see the hand of the person who wrote it. Esther wrote in neat, straight lines. Muzzy wrote in bold letters with alacrity. The handwriting itself becomes a part of the person. Emails,by their very nature, are not meant saved. They become lost.
What joy I had in reading Muzzy's letter. It was almost as if she were in the room. What fun to learn that as a teacher of young children, my mother made an impact in a person's life. It is history. It is my history and the history of my family left behind for generations to read. Isn't it ironic that in this age of modern technology when machines and inventions are to save time for people, we have so little time on our hands that we no longer write letters?
I went to town a few months ago to find stationery. I couldn't find any. Clerks kept showing me paper for printers. When I told them what I wanted it for, one clerk said, "Gee, I don't know what a letter is." I kid you not, this twenty-something young lady, had never sent nor received a hand-written letter. She could only print. She never learned cursive.
I hope to made a habit of writing letters to my family and friends. Letters are one form of legacy we can leave behind. I have a challenge for you...this week, try to write one letter to someone who means a great deal to you. Who will take up the challenge?
Comments