Letters From Home

Veering wildly from things political, I would like to reflect (in a meandering fashion) on the cleaning out of a closest this weekend. One of the seldom reported blessings of being a disorganized person is that when you go through boxes you can make wonderful discoveries, because you have no real idea or memory of what you originally placed in the boxes.

Such was my experience Saturday. I found the usual hodge-podge of my daughters' art and stories from elementary school, always a treasure-trove. I found boxes and boxes and more boxes of pictures with no semblance of order which, really, I will put in albums some day. Really.

But by far my favorite find was a wooden box of old letters. There was no rhyme or reason to this particular grouping of missives. There was one from me to a friend just before I left for college when I was seventeen (how did I get that back?). There was one from me to my dad just weeks before I got married in 1973, and one from my grandmother to my mother just weeks after my parents' wedding (everyone was still talking about how lovely it was) in 1930. There were multiple letters from my mother to her family when, as a girl, she and a friend went on a trip to Colorado. Her detailed accounts of what they saw, who they met, how often they bathed, where they ate, just radiate with girlish excitement. Her life stretched before her with endless promise. She begged for letters from home, and promised on her part to save some stories for the telling. Can you imagine sending and receiving multiple letters while on vacation?

There was one to me from daddy which detailed his use of a new fertilizer and asked if they could borrow my typewriter (the one they bought me for college) over the summer.

I think my favorite was one from my dad to my mom in the early years of their marriage. He was writing to her on the day he buried his grandmother, and spoke of how he wept at her grave, how he and a cousin held his mother up during the service. He called my mother "baby."

We have in our family letters that my brothers wrote when they were in the Air Force and Navy serving abroad. Those letters were like gold, and everyone clamored for their turn to read the latest from John or Tom. It went like this: John wrote my parents. My parents either sent or brought the letter to Mom and Dolly (my grandparents), Mommee (my paternal grandmother), Aunt Maurine and Uncle Joe, my other Uncle Joe -- you get the picture; and then finally, after everyone had greedily read them over and over, they came back to my parents for safe-keeping. Those letters were valuable currency.

It saddens me (and I realize I am not original in this lament) that future generations won't stumble across such jewels when they clean out their closets. I love email, skype, cell phones, and everything that makes staying in touch with friends and family so quick and easy, but there is just nothing like unfolding an aged, much handled, oft-read, piece of paper and reading love in and between the lines from folks long gone, including myself at seventeen, or at twenty-four.

Every year I vow that I will hand-write notes and letters, but I rarely do. And don't you miss the excitement of the postman coming, looking for familiar handwriting from someone dear as you shuffle through bills and ads? Now, aside from the occasional baby-shower thank you note, nothing personal comes my way via the U. S. mail, and that saddens me, too.

But in 1966, after my mother and brother dropped me off at college, I received these words from my mom, " Everything seems so unreal about your being in college. I feel all numb and would really like to bawl but won't let myself...I haven't the words to tell you how proud we are of you and the confidence we have in you...may God bless and keep you."

Message received, Mom. Thanks.

More On The Prize

I think you are right, Laura, that Obama did not wish for this prize now, and would as soon not have it. I don't think we can know if he feels "used," as you suggest, however. I have read the remarks of the committee members who voted for him and found them to be genuine in their assessment of and appreciation for the impact Obama's candidacy and election have made on the world. They are bewildered that we can't see that ourselves.

It certainly factors in that Obama is "not George W. Bush," but it is more than that. John McCain would have been an improvement over Bush -- hell, so many people would have been an improvement over Bush -- but none of them would likely be getting the Nobel Prize right now.

Samar and Mortenson are incredible humanitarians and deserving of the highest forms of recognition. But in the bigger picture, Obama helped this country and the world turn a corner in the direction of justice and peace. I don't mean to imply that Obama is some perfect person or savior -- he most certainly is not , and has disappointed me more than once -- but he is the right person at the right moment in history with a vision that is moving us in that direction. That's why I think giving him this honor (and, as you say, by extension the nation who put him in office) is wonderful. I don't know what the prize means to him, but his receiving it resonates with the majority of the planet.

Obama's Prize

Like everyone else in this country I was stunned by the news that our new president had received the Nobel Peace prize. I understand the almost knee-jerk response of "too soon, too soon," even from his supporters. Even from Obama, who seems abashed, amazed and certainly humbled, as well as somewhat dismayed.

We discussed it with friends over breakfast Saturday morning. All agreed that it was going to be entertaining to watch the apoplexy of the far right, but wondered if it would hurt Obama, and if it was, indeed, "too soon." Except, that is, for my friend, Judy, who simply said, "I think it's wonderful." Once those words left her lips something shifted inside me, and I knocked heads with the all-too-often submerged side of me that is capable of acknowledging something, anything, as simply "wonderful."

Now it's official. I'm in the "wonderful" camp. I always was, but didn't know it. Being me, I have to think over exactly why it's wonderful, and here goes: The United States of America means something to the world. Oh, other countries jab at us and patronize us, and there's a small, deadly bunch that wants to destroy us. But, aside from that last group, America has always been a light in the world. Not perfect by a long shot, but magnificent in our courage and hopefulness, our fairmindedness, our grand experiment, our welcoming of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. And over the last eight years, if I can just beat this drum once more, the light was all but extinguished, at least in the eyes of the larger world. Barack Obama, for all his newness, has reaffirmed our country's promise as a champion of peace. He has meaningfully reached out a healing hand to anyone who will join him.

My husband and I worked hard to get Obama elected because we saw the need for a transcendant figure to lead us out of the darkness created by the Bush/Cheney regime. Here on the home soil some have nodded to this, but we have all quickly moved on to health care, jobs, gay rights, war, none of which is proceeding smoothly or to anyone's satisfaction. Never mind that each one of those issues pits Obama against what C. S. Lewis called "that hideous strength," the powerful bastions that exist only for the bottom line and never for progress and justice.

But the rest of the world has not moved on. They have paused to be grateful that there is a person at the helm of America's ship who has a heart for peace. Yes, even while he wages two wars and stands firm against those who would harm us. By his words and his actions he has begun restoring America to the world, and us to ourselves. This is not a small thing.

Both political friends and foes now say he must "earn" the prize bestowed upon him. Both Judy and I say he already has. And it's wonderful.

What am I doing here?

So, my daughter, Shelley, said she could set up a blog for me in about one minute. She lied. It took about 5 minutes and I had to do some of the work. Now that I'm here, I have writer's block. As soon as something really meaningful and profound occurs to me, I'll get started.