Yesterday, I read a Facebook post from my Momma's second cousin that reminded me of the elaborate and beautiful letters my Grandma Far would receive from her half-sister out west. My great-aunt's beautiful penmanship swooping across the page, spinning a yarn and weaving a tale. In the days before Facebook and texts, they kept in contact through hand-written letters. A powerful and now nearly extinct form of communication.
My Grandma Far; a nurse and my Grandpa with the Pipe; a middle school principal. Their warm and welcoming home smelled like paper and Capitan Black. The dark solid desk with the oddly modern (at the time) rolling chair; the centre piece of their den. The desk lamp designed for illuminating correspondance and tracking accounts kept in ledgers, casting a green hue across the polished desk top. Hanging upon the wall; a handwritten poem entitled Mac (my Grandpa), the parchment paper marbled and the black calligraphy scratched onto the delicate surface. This was a place for writing. I can remember the feeling of the blotter beneath my paper. I remember the woody, safe smell of the drawers as they opened to reveal personalized stationary. The stationary my Grandmother would use to send good tidings and condolences. The envelopes she would seal, keeping her stories safe until they reached their destination. Paper that could hold the smell of the person sending you a letter. A living person sending living paper, delivered by a live letter carrier. The magic of a letter, is it's life.
If there is one thing in the world that calls to me like a siren to the sailor, it's stationary. Oh, stationary, how do I love thee? I love cards and paper, pens, pencil crayons and stamps. I love the feeling of cotton weave and satin finish. The way a Zebra feels gliding across my empty page. I have even considered investing in a monogramed wax seal. But I am blogging now, most of my writing is by hand, but digitized. I long for the letters that would come in the mail and be read aloud at the dinner table and the ones secreted away and read alone. It's a strange nearness those letters carried, a weight or wait, or both. I don't want to lose the art and magic of letter writing. Perhaps my cursive isn't as strong as I would like. Maybe these letters go out across a living network of live wires, but it's not the same...The only consolation; the distance between long lost pen-pals is as far as the nearest mailbox, and our stamps are permanent.
My Grandma Far; a nurse and my Grandpa with the Pipe; a middle school principal. Their warm and welcoming home smelled like paper and Capitan Black. The dark solid desk with the oddly modern (at the time) rolling chair; the centre piece of their den. The desk lamp designed for illuminating correspondance and tracking accounts kept in ledgers, casting a green hue across the polished desk top. Hanging upon the wall; a handwritten poem entitled Mac (my Grandpa), the parchment paper marbled and the black calligraphy scratched onto the delicate surface. This was a place for writing. I can remember the feeling of the blotter beneath my paper. I remember the woody, safe smell of the drawers as they opened to reveal personalized stationary. The stationary my Grandmother would use to send good tidings and condolences. The envelopes she would seal, keeping her stories safe until they reached their destination. Paper that could hold the smell of the person sending you a letter. A living person sending living paper, delivered by a live letter carrier. The magic of a letter, is it's life.
If there is one thing in the world that calls to me like a siren to the sailor, it's stationary. Oh, stationary, how do I love thee? I love cards and paper, pens, pencil crayons and stamps. I love the feeling of cotton weave and satin finish. The way a Zebra feels gliding across my empty page. I have even considered investing in a monogramed wax seal. But I am blogging now, most of my writing is by hand, but digitized. I long for the letters that would come in the mail and be read aloud at the dinner table and the ones secreted away and read alone. It's a strange nearness those letters carried, a weight or wait, or both. I don't want to lose the art and magic of letter writing. Perhaps my cursive isn't as strong as I would like. Maybe these letters go out across a living network of live wires, but it's not the same...The only consolation; the distance between long lost pen-pals is as far as the nearest mailbox, and our stamps are permanent.
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