Do we all have stories like this one from our past? The story of Pam immediately triggered a memory of a girl I knew in high school, Linda Velzy who was picked up when she was hitchhiking in downtown Oneonta. She was 18, and he was a released repeat offender who ended up dying in prison. Her story haunted me for years, and though I never had a thought about hitchhiking myself, this sealed my commitment to never, ever taking that risk. Linda was kind, super smart and headed for a life filled with possibilities that was snatched away by a sick, evil man. As far as reclaimed letters are concerned, when my dad died, and I was going through his possessions as I packed up the things I'd keep and threw away the things we didn't deem necessary, I discovered a box filled with every letter and card I'd written to him over the course of our lives. They were eye-opening and for the most part, rather disturbing as I got to see how attached I was to him, how devoted, how codependent. I'm grateful to have them as I write our story. I'm glad you posted this story today. Our lives get upended in so many ways. It's good to be able to look at these things more than once. As I've aged, some of my perceptions have shifted. I'm lucky to have some documentation of the past to refer to as I write the stories of my life. xo
I found myself engrossed in this story and also have boxes of old letters. As you know, the old correspondence between my mother and myself provided much of the evidence and interest for my memoir. So I really resonated with the idea of old packets of letters.
This too, really spoke to me: “I didn’t miss Pam, yet I missed the world her disappearance had erased.”
it speaks to that litany of moments when our world changes, and we suddenly realize that things are possible that we never thought possible. In terms of human cruelty, human kindness, and people‘s true nature.
In the text era, you wouldn’t have all those letters to bring your book to life. And this story couldn’t happen. We lost so much when we stopped writing letters.
yes, I've thought about that so much, too. The only letters I've written in the last bunch of years are condolence letters which I like to hand-write. Or at least send through the mail as a tangible letter or card the recipient can keep.
The way you pull us into your connection to Pam showed me a reflection of my own teenaged self and the feelings toward the more popular girls who had little more than disdain for me. And then you show how those feelings complicated the unresolved grief for her so clearly. But the return of Pam's letters pivots the piece toward making peace with the past. A delightful resolution.
Thank you, Jill. The previous versions of this essay were steeped in guilt and sadness. Working on the story over the years has made me a huge believer in the potential for old work to open portals.
Two young sisters from my hometown disappeared while walking to our local shopping center for a slice of pizza. I had just turned 13. No trace of them was ever found. I never got over it.
My life is letters. I used to save every piece of correspondence received stored in boxes. Each year end, I’d tape it shut and write the year on it. Many years later life forced me to downsize. I disposed of all the boxes but one. It was from years earlier. Why I chose to save that particular box is still foreign. Recently I opened it as I was curious of its contents. It contained a letter my dad wrote to me near his end days. It was in his beautiful cursive as he was an artist. I have considered having it framed. The box contained other treasures. A letter from a former colleague I’ve long ago lost contact with. We worked at Chatelaine magazine together some 45 years ago. I googled her which is what we can do these days. I’d thought to send it to her. But she’s since moved on. I may still try and hunt her down. … Thank you for this piece, Rona. A sad story but a rich one.
I have framed a letter that my grandfather, a painter with fine penmanship, sent my grandmother when they were courting. I love catching glimpses of it as I go about my day. I hope you find your colleague, who could be someone I vaguely knew. I worked at Maclean Hunter 45 years ago.
Rona, once again you’ve written a brilliant and beautiful piece. I lived in Manchester during the first decade of my marriage. I also went to school in Durham. So I felt a connection right away. But beyond that, because my New Hampshire years were as an adult, you sent me back to all the letters I wrote and received in my childhood and young adult years. They (at least, those I received) are still in boxes in my attic. I’m almost ready to start going through them. I was thinking I would throw many away, but your post helps me realize that I’m not quite ready… Thank you so much for sharing deeply about, how we come of age. Thank God, most of us change. The sad part is that some of us don’t get the chance.
I have files of letters and cards I’ve kept for decades. Every few years I go through them thinking that I’ll winnow out some of the bulk. But I rarely can dispose of anything. I see the cursive of relatives who live on as ghosts in my memory. I trace all the Xs and Os sent by my grandmother, perhaps hoping those love symbols would distract me from the hard truths I later discovered wrapped around her memory. Then I’ll find a blessing sent by a dear friend with whom I’ve corresponded as she’s moved from Canada to Spain and now France. And then I’ll notice lined sheets of paper filled with giant, tilted, marching letters from kids in long-ago Sunday school classes of mine announcing their sweet affection. My treasures, some bittersweet, but others effervescent bubbles rising from my past.
First I want to say I am so glad you record the post so I can listen to it as I often have trouble reading long posts, my mind wanders or the words run together and I lose concentration.
Second thing I want to say is this tale was powerful and moving
I threw too many letters away wanting to distance myself from my past. Of course, I'm sorry now. And now, who writes letters? And what we do write-texts, emails-I think whether we like it or not, exist in perpetuity.
They may exist forever, but not in a form useful to scholars, biographers and family historians. We have already lost so much of ourselves. Maybe one day I can serve you something green with my signature white sauce.
Carefully crafted and tragic story, Rona, with a welcome bit of light at the end. Coincidentally, I recently listened to a chapter from Ann Patchett's These Precious Days in which the value of old letters and memorabilia is heavily featured. I have boxes of letters, kept and handed off to me from my mother, letters I wrote to her and she wrote to me. I've not made time to get through them. I hope I get the chance.
Again, yes beautiful. I agree with the others who mention how evocative this story is for so many, especially those who remember the bullying popular girls, the ones who intimidated us and whom we envied at the same time. I, too, have a leather satchel with at least 500 letters from pre-internet days, in sorted rubber band piles from earnest poetic adolescent boys and girls who wrote in minuscule handwriting on both sides of a sheet, capturing every existential angst they were living. I, too, cannot get myself to part with them. I have tried to send piles back to their authors in case they want to "hold their younger selves in their hands" as you beautifully put it. But no, all I get is, 'Please don't send these to me. They make me cringe." Occasionally people have sent mine back to me, and I understand why it is difficult to reach back across the years and remember those young thoughts. But I often tell my adult children they will never understand the creative outlet of writing and sheer agonizing, delicious anticipation of receiving letters. Never. All they have known is the immediacy of texts and emails. Such a pity.
Interesting that your old friends don’t want to revisit their letters. How much compassion can you have for others if you won’t spare a little for your young self? My journal entries from my teens are painfully self-centered, but I wouldn’t be without them. They show me how far I have come.
I so love reading your writing. It means a lot to me that you don’t charge anyone to be able to comment. When I can relax again about expenses one of my first goals is to become a paid subscriber. As for letters, my friends and I used to shop together for patterned stationary, the kind with embossed flower borders. We had pen pals. Mine was a boy in Japan whose family had survived Hiroshima. That was a subject that endlessly fascinated me. Why did he want an American pen pal in light of that? To improve his English. Was real friendship possible? We were not sure.
I would wonder too, as a reader (many times) of John Hersey’s HIROSHIMA. And I am touched by your desire to become a paid subscriber, even if now is not the time.
Thank you for another relatable piece on so many levels. I was also a letter writer and hoarder. And have been presented my letters back through the years. They bring back many things I didn't write in my journals in my responses to the writers of the letters. I was also hopeless at cooking class and for our dessert project I put 2 cups of salt instead of sugar in the cream puff filling. Still can see the look on Mrs. Quackenbush's face when she sampled it!
Another fascinating story, Rona. As you know, I possess a trove of letters from my late brother, and have edited them into a book. I laugh and I cry as I read his crazy stories. He is frozen in time in those letters, and I especially enjoy the tales of his innocent youth.
Donna, you are so lucky to have those letters, written by a natural writer who brought his whole self to the page. I remember your persistence in getting them.
Do we all have stories like this one from our past? The story of Pam immediately triggered a memory of a girl I knew in high school, Linda Velzy who was picked up when she was hitchhiking in downtown Oneonta. She was 18, and he was a released repeat offender who ended up dying in prison. Her story haunted me for years, and though I never had a thought about hitchhiking myself, this sealed my commitment to never, ever taking that risk. Linda was kind, super smart and headed for a life filled with possibilities that was snatched away by a sick, evil man. As far as reclaimed letters are concerned, when my dad died, and I was going through his possessions as I packed up the things I'd keep and threw away the things we didn't deem necessary, I discovered a box filled with every letter and card I'd written to him over the course of our lives. They were eye-opening and for the most part, rather disturbing as I got to see how attached I was to him, how devoted, how codependent. I'm grateful to have them as I write our story. I'm glad you posted this story today. Our lives get upended in so many ways. It's good to be able to look at these things more than once. As I've aged, some of my perceptions have shifted. I'm lucky to have some documentation of the past to refer to as I write the stories of my life. xo
You are indeed. It’s a sign of your father’s abiding love for you that he saved every scrap of correspondence.
Thanks, Rona. He did love me. I know this to be true. Love to you! xo
I found myself engrossed in this story and also have boxes of old letters. As you know, the old correspondence between my mother and myself provided much of the evidence and interest for my memoir. So I really resonated with the idea of old packets of letters.
This too, really spoke to me: “I didn’t miss Pam, yet I missed the world her disappearance had erased.”
it speaks to that litany of moments when our world changes, and we suddenly realize that things are possible that we never thought possible. In terms of human cruelty, human kindness, and people‘s true nature.
In the text era, you wouldn’t have all those letters to bring your book to life. And this story couldn’t happen. We lost so much when we stopped writing letters.
yes, I've thought about that so much, too. The only letters I've written in the last bunch of years are condolence letters which I like to hand-write. Or at least send through the mail as a tangible letter or card the recipient can keep.
The way you pull us into your connection to Pam showed me a reflection of my own teenaged self and the feelings toward the more popular girls who had little more than disdain for me. And then you show how those feelings complicated the unresolved grief for her so clearly. But the return of Pam's letters pivots the piece toward making peace with the past. A delightful resolution.
Thank you, Jill. The previous versions of this essay were steeped in guilt and sadness. Working on the story over the years has made me a huge believer in the potential for old work to open portals.
The story takes on a life of its own and this version breathes through the portal.
How well I understand the need, the desire, to return to this story—its bewilderments, its afterlife. Gorgeously written, Rona.
Beth, I returned to this thinking of your wonderful term “obsession vessel.” That’s what this story is to me, and why I may never be done with it.
Two young sisters from my hometown disappeared while walking to our local shopping center for a slice of pizza. I had just turned 13. No trace of them was ever found. I never got over it.
Kimberly, your comment gives me the shivers. Two girls from one family. I feel stricken for the family nd everyone who knew them.
My life is letters. I used to save every piece of correspondence received stored in boxes. Each year end, I’d tape it shut and write the year on it. Many years later life forced me to downsize. I disposed of all the boxes but one. It was from years earlier. Why I chose to save that particular box is still foreign. Recently I opened it as I was curious of its contents. It contained a letter my dad wrote to me near his end days. It was in his beautiful cursive as he was an artist. I have considered having it framed. The box contained other treasures. A letter from a former colleague I’ve long ago lost contact with. We worked at Chatelaine magazine together some 45 years ago. I googled her which is what we can do these days. I’d thought to send it to her. But she’s since moved on. I may still try and hunt her down. … Thank you for this piece, Rona. A sad story but a rich one.
I have framed a letter that my grandfather, a painter with fine penmanship, sent my grandmother when they were courting. I love catching glimpses of it as I go about my day. I hope you find your colleague, who could be someone I vaguely knew. I worked at Maclean Hunter 45 years ago.
Jane Jankovic
Sorry, a new name to me.
She moved on to TVO
Rona, once again you’ve written a brilliant and beautiful piece. I lived in Manchester during the first decade of my marriage. I also went to school in Durham. So I felt a connection right away. But beyond that, because my New Hampshire years were as an adult, you sent me back to all the letters I wrote and received in my childhood and young adult years. They (at least, those I received) are still in boxes in my attic. I’m almost ready to start going through them. I was thinking I would throw many away, but your post helps me realize that I’m not quite ready… Thank you so much for sharing deeply about, how we come of age. Thank God, most of us change. The sad part is that some of us don’t get the chance.
You will meet yourself in those letters, Etta. You’ll relive memories. I’m so glad you related to this piece. It’s particularly close to my heart.
I have already reread many I wrote to my parents, which came back to me in the process of cleaning out their house. So powerful!!
Amazing story!
Thank you for commenting and restacking.
I have files of letters and cards I’ve kept for decades. Every few years I go through them thinking that I’ll winnow out some of the bulk. But I rarely can dispose of anything. I see the cursive of relatives who live on as ghosts in my memory. I trace all the Xs and Os sent by my grandmother, perhaps hoping those love symbols would distract me from the hard truths I later discovered wrapped around her memory. Then I’ll find a blessing sent by a dear friend with whom I’ve corresponded as she’s moved from Canada to Spain and now France. And then I’ll notice lined sheets of paper filled with giant, tilted, marching letters from kids in long-ago Sunday school classes of mine announcing their sweet affection. My treasures, some bittersweet, but others effervescent bubbles rising from my past.
Sometimes it’s good to be a pack rack. I can picture those sheets of lined paper and their tilted letters.
On balance, I’m ok with my old-fashioned habit. 😊
First I want to say I am so glad you record the post so I can listen to it as I often have trouble reading long posts, my mind wanders or the words run together and I lose concentration.
Second thing I want to say is this tale was powerful and moving
I so appreciate your comments on the recording. I am often tempted to skip this step, but readers keep telling me they value it.
I love your rendition of white sauce.
I threw too many letters away wanting to distance myself from my past. Of course, I'm sorry now. And now, who writes letters? And what we do write-texts, emails-I think whether we like it or not, exist in perpetuity.
They may exist forever, but not in a form useful to scholars, biographers and family historians. We have already lost so much of ourselves. Maybe one day I can serve you something green with my signature white sauce.
Carefully crafted and tragic story, Rona, with a welcome bit of light at the end. Coincidentally, I recently listened to a chapter from Ann Patchett's These Precious Days in which the value of old letters and memorabilia is heavily featured. I have boxes of letters, kept and handed off to me from my mother, letters I wrote to her and she wrote to me. I've not made time to get through them. I hope I get the chance.
Ann Patchett is a glorious essayist. As for those letters your mother left, it’s about making time to read them and let their impact sink in.
Making time....:sigh: My kryptonite. ☺️
Again, yes beautiful. I agree with the others who mention how evocative this story is for so many, especially those who remember the bullying popular girls, the ones who intimidated us and whom we envied at the same time. I, too, have a leather satchel with at least 500 letters from pre-internet days, in sorted rubber band piles from earnest poetic adolescent boys and girls who wrote in minuscule handwriting on both sides of a sheet, capturing every existential angst they were living. I, too, cannot get myself to part with them. I have tried to send piles back to their authors in case they want to "hold their younger selves in their hands" as you beautifully put it. But no, all I get is, 'Please don't send these to me. They make me cringe." Occasionally people have sent mine back to me, and I understand why it is difficult to reach back across the years and remember those young thoughts. But I often tell my adult children they will never understand the creative outlet of writing and sheer agonizing, delicious anticipation of receiving letters. Never. All they have known is the immediacy of texts and emails. Such a pity.
Interesting that your old friends don’t want to revisit their letters. How much compassion can you have for others if you won’t spare a little for your young self? My journal entries from my teens are painfully self-centered, but I wouldn’t be without them. They show me how far I have come.
I so love reading your writing. It means a lot to me that you don’t charge anyone to be able to comment. When I can relax again about expenses one of my first goals is to become a paid subscriber. As for letters, my friends and I used to shop together for patterned stationary, the kind with embossed flower borders. We had pen pals. Mine was a boy in Japan whose family had survived Hiroshima. That was a subject that endlessly fascinated me. Why did he want an American pen pal in light of that? To improve his English. Was real friendship possible? We were not sure.
I would wonder too, as a reader (many times) of John Hersey’s HIROSHIMA. And I am touched by your desire to become a paid subscriber, even if now is not the time.
Thank you for another relatable piece on so many levels. I was also a letter writer and hoarder. And have been presented my letters back through the years. They bring back many things I didn't write in my journals in my responses to the writers of the letters. I was also hopeless at cooking class and for our dessert project I put 2 cups of salt instead of sugar in the cream puff filling. Still can see the look on Mrs. Quackenbush's face when she sampled it!
Mrs. Quackenbush! Sounds like a Dickens character. I’m glad you enjoyed this, Chera.
Another fascinating story, Rona. As you know, I possess a trove of letters from my late brother, and have edited them into a book. I laugh and I cry as I read his crazy stories. He is frozen in time in those letters, and I especially enjoy the tales of his innocent youth.
Donna, you are so lucky to have those letters, written by a natural writer who brought his whole self to the page. I remember your persistence in getting them.