For the next few years, we all lived in a town in eastern North Carolina. (There’s nothing like a small town for helping people of like mind to find each other. I made more friends there in a very short time than ever I made in the big cities where I worked after college). My friend and I got into a few scrapes together; shared world views; enjoyed my children (the eldest could have been hers, he looked so like her); bore up under our husbands’ absurd work loads; kvetched to each other when no one understood us, and sometimes when they did.
In 1970, my family moved some 200 miles away, and my friend and I began writing the letters. They are almost always fairly short, a couple of pages handwritten on a legal pad. I haven’t saved her letters, and I don’t think she has saved mine. I suspect that neither of us would be able to write with spontaneity if we knew the letters were being kept. Looking back over the 30 years, however, I would give a good deal to reread the whole correspondence, if only for the sentimental journey it would surely provide.
She writes a good letter. So do I. The real delight, however, is just knowing that every week or two, I can count on finding in my mailbox a long envelope with her handwriting on it. For a few happy moments I will be engaged by the way her mind works, charmed by her sense of humor, comforted by her understanding. And I will bask in the fact that someone I love and admire is willing to spend the time to share her thoughts with me.
For a small investment in pens and legal pads, that’s a mighty rich return.
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