Notes on a Gentle Art

A long-winded epistle to the one and only Mary Basquez.

    In my room there is a closet. In the top of that closet there is a shelf. And on that shelf . . . there are shoeboxes. Lots of them.

    A few are stuffed so full that they are bound shut with shoelaces and odd bits of string. And one wonders: why does a girl who is so into throwing away junk tolerate these excesses?

    Because they are filled to bursting with letters. I've kept every letter I've ever been sent. Every one. And I will never admit them to be "junk". Junk is a knicknack that your dear old auntie gives you. Or an old library card, an earring with a missing mate, that lucky T-shirt with the tear in the armpit (you swear you'll sew it up someday). But not letters. Never, never letters.

    "Letter" is a small word we use to describe thoughtfulness and love, sealed up in an envelope and sent across kingdom come. A letter is a small, powerful of piece of faith: faith that it will reach its destination; faith that the time you spent on it, which could be so much more efficiently used sending an email or text message instead, was worth it. And when a person receives this gift, it means more to them than a thousand text messages. Why? Because when you send a letter, you send a little bit of your heart.
    That's why I keep them.
   

    Contrary to what many people believe, letter-writing is not some monstrous undertaking which can only be done by "smart folks", novelists, or the Queen of England. Letter-writing is for everyone. As E.V. Lucas says, "It is because plain talk is very often better than brilliant talk that education is of little service to correspondents, and the best writers of books are by no means the best writers of letters." My dear friend Cordelia once said, not long after we first met, that she did not send letters, and wouldn't know what to write. She obviously underestimated herself, because nowadays she is without a doubt one of my most entertaining correspondents. Rather more so, I believe, than even the Queen would be.

    In the old days, everyone wrote and received letters. I live in a time when one barely affords one's own relatives a passing wave, but long ago that passing wave was unheard of, and in its place lived a steady correspondence with any or all that you knew. It was not done only by adults, or spinsters, or elderly people, or professors, but by gentlemen, gentlewomen, businessmen, housewives, schoolchildren, young lovers, soldiers.

    Every sort of person, sending every sort of letter: a marvelous patchwork. 

  

   

    Before the typewriter was invented, every letter was executed with the personal touch of the sender's handwriting. I think such a thing would give me a kinder opinion of humanity overall. Even a typed-out letter with someone's actual signature on it sends me into raptures.

    There's something about knowing that at one time the person's hand touched that paper, held a pen to it, and marked it with the name that they had been taught since childhood to write. It is a pleasure to know that I am worth that special squiggle of ink, that expression of the sender's true identity, that certain moment in their busy life.

   

    I wonder sometimes what people think when they read my letters. Do they sound natural enough? Do they adequately express my feelings at the time that I wrote them? What is it, exactly, that makes a letter good? The key, it seems, is to not overthink it. "The less trouble you give yourself, the better it will be. Letters should be easy and natural, and convey to the persons to whom we send just what we would say if we were with them," says Lord Chesterfield, whoever he is. * 

    Well, I began to follow this advice. Not only do people seem to respond more quickly and cheerfully when you write to them as you speak with them in person (rather than as though they were your English professor), but letter-writing becomes an even more pleasant ritual for the sender.

    At times, of course, I get discouraged. Letters aren't always answered, and even if they were I wouldn't always feel like writing them. When that happens, it takes some reflection to get back in the mood. 

    The truth is, I love so many people so well, and sending them kind words on paper is the best way to show that to them, since all of them, friends and relatives, live too far away for me to see often.

    But even after I tell myself that, I protest again: I don't have anything to write.

    People, that is not an excuse. There is always something to write. Begin with "Dear", end with "Love", and in between tell the recipient that you are well, that you miss them. That is the heart of the letter, and the rest will follow: you'll remember something they did for you, and you'll thank them for it. You'll remember a book you read that they would enjoy, and you'll tell them about it (but just enough so they will want to read it for themselves). You'll tell them about how your life is going, and what the different members of your family are up to. Anything goes, because what their mind reads is not as important as what their heart reads: that they are loved.

              

  

*The quotes in this post were found in a sweet little book called "Writing Letters with Pen and Ink", by Edward St. Paige. Thus, I may not know who Lord Chesterfield is, but I like him anyway. 

P.S. It takes a lot out of me to admit to something like the above. I mean, what if Lord Chesterfield is one of those people about whom everyone knows except me? What if, upon saying so in company, the room rings with the words "You don't know who Lord Chesterfield is?......."

"..............you must be homeschooled."

    

My Darkest Secret

    I have a story to tell you, about a dear friend of mine and his untimely demise. It's very serious, so pay attention.

    When I was about eight years old, I lived in a low white house in the simmering oaken woods of western Arkansas. Not the most charming of places, but my siblings and I made the most of it. Nowadays when I think about those labyrinths of dusty briars and the enormous quantity of glimmering blue and green lizards sunning on the stones by the carport, I shudder. To a bunch of kids in battered jeans looking for their next adventure, however, it was paradise.

    I grew extremely quick at capturing those lightning-slithering reptiles, and nothing pleased me more than to gently place my dear lizard/toad/turtle into a spare cardboard box, hop into the kitchen with it, and cry, "Mom, look what I found!"
    "Get that thing out of the house," she would say calmly.
    "Can I keep him? Can I feed him something?"
    If she was in a good mood, she would say, "Just for the day. There's some lettuce in the fridge."
    If she was not feeling charitable toward the animal kingdom (for example, when our dog, Buster, enjoyed a frolic with the trash cans on trash-truck day) she would say, with an air of crushing finality, "go put it back  where you found it." And it was on one of those days that I met my good friend the Toad With No Name.

    Back then I possessed the prudent habit of looking beneath rocks for creatures of interest. (It's a mercy I was never bitten by a copperhead, what with all the horrid stuff I got up to.) There was always something special under there, even if 'twas only a sweet little grub or roly-poly. And one day, when I was hot and bored and looking for an extra companion (three siblings aren't really enough, you know), I found a true prize.

    He was a beautiful, benevolent, bumpy, absolutely enchanting little toad. My favorite animal of all (and now the only animal I really love, period.), and he was waiting there as though heaven-sent to be a friend to me. He napped peacefully there in a depression beneath that great stone, and goodness knows how he managed to squeeze under it. One of the great mysteries.

    As soon as I disturbed him, he me made a quick hop for it, but as every young person knows, this is really a display of deep affection. I caught him smoothly, thinking of the good times we would have together.

    But we ran into some trouble in the kitchen. It came like this:
    "Go put that thing back where you found him."
   
    Well, I thought dismally, this wasn't really goodbye. I could probably catch him again when I wanted. Toads were faithful creatures and tended to stick around.

    Once again out in the thick heat of the great outdoors, I had a stroke of inspiration. As a parting token of my devotion to him, I would replace the toad in his cool, earthly little haven beneath the rock, so that he would not have to lift a little webbed foot for the rest of the day, and he would be struck by my thoughtfulness. So there I put him, saying a fond farewell, and lowered the stone.

    I suppose it would have been better for my overall mental health if I had just let well enough alone. But later that day, I just had to check on him. What I found will haunt me unto my death.

    Upon lifting that rock, I saw that a change had come over my toad. That is to say, I must have misjudged precisely where his little open space in the dirt was, because somehow the rock had squashed him. I had squashed him. What had once been a perfectly lovely, healthy toad was now a queer mass of congealing blood and bumpy brown skin. Even now my heart constricts at the thought.

    I gently laid the stone back down and returned indoors, sick with horror. I, a good, kind, law-abiding little girl, had accidentally killed my chum. And it was about seven years before I told anyone about it.

    Mary was the first to know. There was actually a little laughter in the conversation, during which she called me a "toad murderer". There was even more laughter when I told the story to Mother and whatever siblings happened to be around at the time. But there was a spark of tenderness in Mother's eyes as she smiled, for she can recognize a touch of regret even when I'm joking about.

    Anyway, I'm really, really sorry, Mr. Toad. I hope you forgive me. Your spirit will linger in all our hearts, and I hope you have some great-great-great-great grandchildren hopping around the creek somewhere, to carry on your legacy.

   
  

The King and the Queen







    Here they are: the benevolent rulers of the kingdom in which I dwell. Forced to come up with some way to begin my description of them, I can only throw up my hands and declare, "They are Mom and Dad, world without end, amen!" Looking at them together causes me to ruminate even further than usual upon true love, for they are, as Mrs. Jennings in the 1996 Sense and Sensibility would put it, "Besotted . . . an excellent match."

      I'm not sure how an impartial observer would see  them. Simply as "a couple in their fifties" won't do. A uniquely American pair, perhaps? After all, they are both wholesome, quality people who like cheeseburgers and own too many T-shirts. Of course, they may carry more pomp in people's opinions than I know; Mary once told me that before her mother got to know mine, she thought she would turn out to be a "preppy rich lady". It's true that Mom always lovingly irons each item of her outfit before appearing in public, and that she prefers dignified lipstick and French food. Dad also irons all his town duds, styles his hair to gleaming salt-and-pepper perfection, and dislikes driving unless he has first sterilized the windshield. But in truth, while they are the king and the queen, they are also my best buddies, and I have a hard time viewing them in a formal light.    
   
    They are rich in good children, good laughs, and good sense; never have a joke far from their minds, and never have grave matters far from them either. I've told Mother before that I hope I can grow up to be half so good as they are; and she of course said that she knew I would be much better. But I know the truth: Mom and Dad are one of a kind; impossible to imitate. There never has been anyone like either of them. They share a peculiarly lovely union, two absolutely indomitable people who have long hard years behind them and spirits that strive for ever more victories in the future; who chose to be together for as long as they live, and to raise their children with all their heart and soul.
   
     What fine parents! It must have been a trying ordeal to raise me, but they never gave me a moment's doubt that I was loved. That's a gift I have no idea how to repay, except to love them back and make them proud by living my life with colors flying and glory undimmed. They want nothing but the best for me. I want nothing but the best for them.