Taking Care
By Alice Outwater

Correspondence Today and Yesterday

My love of writing and caretaking began when I was 12 years old. World War ll had started. Two brothers, a sister and a sister-in-law, plus numerous cousins, immediately joined the Armed Forces. I was determined to do my part in the war effort.
I launched plans to write to individual family members weekly. This quickly proved too ambitious with school, sports and homework. So I drew charts and aimed to write each person every two weeks; I penned in each name opposite the due date. I carefully addressed the blue V-mails, then folded them on the dotted lines, and licked them shut. I knew how careful I had to be not to give any classified information. In the return mail from overseas, I noticed some sentences had heavy black ink marks across them.
As my personal contribution to the war effort started, I was certain this would bring everyone home unharmed, and it miraculously did. I conscientiously strove to write one letter after finishing my homework and sometimes managed two an evening; in that case I would copy the news from one to the other. Of course the following day would contain fresh news unless it was something extremely important about school or family doings.
Certainly everyone would want to know about my winning first prize in the neighborhood roller-skating contest and that the prize was a sterling silver Mark Cross pen and pencil set. The fancier Mark Cross pen immediately replaced my Scrip pen with its refillable ink nib. I decided these details were important so they could picture everything vividly and get a whiff of my life.
Soon overseas mail began arriving for me. Oh, the quiver I felt as the postman reached into his brown leather sack and pulled out a hand addressed letter to me. Mother and Father asked that I read them to the whole family in the living room. This was a most unexpected honor as this was Father’s prerogative. He often read letters of interest; and never had any of my four older siblings acquired such a central role during after-dinner demi-tasse time when Bessie in her black uniform brought in the silver tray with cups and saucers.
As the war ended, Douggie, my dashing 6’6” cousin, a Captain in the 101st Airborne Division in France, wrote how much my V-mails had comforted him. He said he was sending me a piece of his parachute that had kept him safe. I cried the day the mailman brought me that package. I slept with that large green and brown camouflage swatch of silk under my pillow every night, then took it to school and showed my best friends – and even went off to college with it. Douggie convinced me how powerful writing could be.
Through the years Father shared letters from my twice-widowed Grandmother Hiles who traveled with Auntie Pasco. These missals arrived at intervals from faraway places such as India, Indonesia, or Sumatra where they might spend several months or a year. I remembered Grandmother’s detailed descriptions and puzzled over Father’s shoulder at her odd spidery handwriting that I found difficult to decipher.
One letter read, “We’re aboard a Dutch freighter on the Sampa River in New Guinea. A tribal chief, barefoot, with his colorful robe draped over his shoulder, and carrying a long knife in a sheath boarded the boat with his entourage. He had never seen a white woman and was entranced with Pasco. Being in need of another wife, he promptly offered to buy her in exchange for a pig. The price was soon upped to three pigs. But, of course, I refused. Luckily the Captain backed me up. The chief disembarked at the next port obviously disgruntled. No need to worry. We’re both having lots of adventures and will be in touch.”
As the years went by, the world sped up: fewer people wrote letters. Correspondence was replaced by phone calls and then e-mail. Gradually I, too, became hooked and began a hearty e-mail correspondence, easily storing numerous addresses on my computer.
This year my husband John, 86 years old, and I had a quiet Easter with no close family around us. I felt a gust of loneliness. By afternoon I realized I had not sent out my usual holiday e-mail greetings to extended family and close friends, describing how we were celebrating. That simple act of sitting down and writing brightened my Easter and recouped the powerful anticipation of my former 12-year-old self.
The bonus arrived almost immediately as e-mail replies flowed in from all over the world with family news and appreciation of my efforts to share. Oh, the feelings of invigoration and warm satisfaction this brought me. No need to wait for the postman’s delivery on Monday.
Still, there was a tinge of nostalgia as I recalled the pleasure of settling down at my desk with special overseas stationery and my Mark Cross pen from that roller-skating race. A quietness would take over as I carefully wrote each letter, then sealed the envelope and precisely placed a colorful stamp on the upper right-hand corner.
The advantages of e-mail are obvious. I can reach anyone anywhere in the world in a blink. Still something is lost … maybe it’s knowing that sender and recipient both touch the page.
William James wrote, “As long as there are postmen, life will have zest.”