November 27 was a hectic day filled with appointments, work, weekend cleanup and errands. Near sixty degree temperatures lured me into thinking the gentle fall weather would last. When darkness began I apologized to the dog for missing our daily walk and promised him a long one the next day.
Within twenty-four hours drizzle, falling temperatures, freezing rain and snow changed the scene. Ice turned the roadway into a glossy slip and slide that the UPS truck found difficult to navigate. Dog and I found footing dangerous at the end of the driveway and turned back to the house.
Winter is not my friend. Warm sweaters and cozy evenings are great, but aside from occasional beautiful days I’ve lost my enthusiasm for the package deal. I prefer green grass and gardens filled with flowers to brown sticks poking through white and hothouse daisies purchased with the groceries. I’d rather open the office window for fresh air than fill a humidifier.
What I dread most is ice. Nothing undermines free exercise faster than the possibility of losing traction at any moment. If the mail vehicle, a neighbor’s SUV and the UPS truck are having trouble, the dog and I are not heading out. Even walking like a penguin can’t make everything enjoyable and safe.
The penguin walk instructions offered in the lobby of a family member’s condo building, is one of the personal affronts of the icy season. With feet apart and turned slightly outward, lower your center of gravity over one leg, and waddle around the sidewalks. Pretend others don’t notice your strange effort to stay upright.
Being resigned to months of dressing in layers of black outdoor clothing with leather boots is enough. The indignity of a daily slide or penguin walking is undeserved punishment.
12 responses to “Taking Pen in Hand”
Just seeing your photos of letters sent and received brought back so many memories of my own letters/cards…both those I have sent as well as those I have saved, some since college. Keep thinking I should toss them…or at least purge some…but continue to hang on to them. Your post made me glad I have.
Those letters and cards are our history–it’s food to remember where andwho we’ve been!
How I loved writing and receiving long, newsy letters! My mother saved every one I sent home, and I found them tied together after she died. Some from Ft. Lauderdale, where I fled at 19, were embarrassing to re-read, but later ones revealed a lot about who I was becoming. Thanks for this important post!
Aren’t the saved letters a treasure?! One of my favorites was from you—sent to me after I moved to Missouri (a.k.a. Misery). It includes a hilarious semi-rant about a young asst. prof who was still wearing flip flops in November in Morris (and not because of a pedicure)! And I definitely see my current self in the younger self captured in letters.
I used to love writing and receiving handwritten letters (or typed letters from my Dad). I used to write 20 page letters to my closest friends. I miss writing and receiving such letters. How wonderful that you have kept so many!
Back then, my handwriting was better. I wish my Dad had typed—his handwriting took some deciphering! I know what you mean about long letters—the news and stories just flowed. The letters I received meant so much.
Yes, I think the nice thing about letters is that you can save them for years. And it does tell our personal history. I love how technology allows us to communicate so much more freely, but there is something about the permanence of letters that I also love!
Yes, I like having both forms of communication. A phone call is wonderful for immediacy and there’s less chance your words will be misunderstood — you can immediately clarify and answer questions. But letters are wonderful at preserving a moment in time. Thanks for sharing your thoughts!
How lovely to remember those days. Like you, I refrained from opening my letters until I had time to read slowly and savor the words of dear friends I seldom saw. I kept several of those letters, and I have learned in recent years that some of mine were kept, too. We poured our hearts out. Ten pages, twelve. To this day I believe that the act of writing — I, too, demand a good pen and ink-welcoming paper — is therapeutic in and of itself. And writing to a friend was much less daunting than penning an essay or short story, though the sentiments contained therein might be identical.
10-12 page letters—you bet! And they just flowed. Poured my heart out along with jokes and stories. Thanks for sharing your experience,
It seems like another world, doesn’t it? We forget what it was like, the long waiting between letters. Phone calls were out of the question! The excitement when we received a letter was a wonderful gift.
It’s nice that you are corresponding with your son. Sadly, my sons tell me that they can’t read my handwriting. Cursive is a foreign language to them, alas!
Funny about handwriting. Mine isn’t very good any more, but I think Mike will be able to figure it out . . . just like I deciphered my father’s, who had really awful handwriting.