Letters

Among the many classes I enjoyed in college, the one called "American Love Letters" ranks in the top three.  Here, our class examined early American history through epistles, both actual letters to individual people and other letters to an imagined audience.  We studied epistolary novels such as J. Hector St. John de Crèvecœur's Letters from an American Farmer, searched letters to the editor and letters from notable American revolutionaries, and poured over the tender and insightful letters between Abigail and John Adams.  Our professor hoped to instill in us a love for the handwritten letter--indeed, he listed it as one of the objectives and assigned us to write letters as part of the course assignments!  These assignments strengthened my connections with others in ways unique to letters; delivering them and having them read in front of me deepened my insight on what it means to be bashful and how deeply I could blush, while the simple act of writing to others turned my attention outward.

Ever since then I have been particularly fond of letters.  While this form of communication may be antiquated in today's helter-skelter paced exchange (with notifications of when your text message was read and phone settings that include having notifications pushed into your awareness), I believe it is timeless.  There is something so magical and exciting about receiving a letter.  You don't really know when it was sent or what it may be about, and how you receive it is entirely up to you.  You can tear open the envelope at the mailbox, devouring its contents in haste; you can take it in with you, set it aside with curiosity and wait until you can process it.  You can read it all, immediately, without interruption; you can take it piece by piece, walking away from it or setting it down.  You can read it once or several times.  You can throw it away or tear it to pieces or burn it or frame it or cherish it.  It is a physical object usually just from one person and usually just meant for one person--YOU.

Naturally, when I happened upon this book on the library shelves, I took it with me.  And, finding this one as I sat in the parked car on the driveway, door opened to enjoy the fresh spring breeze, my spirits could not been better cheered.  And I wanted to share it with you, dear reader.  I am thinking of writing such a letter of encouragement to myself.  I could use it.

Here is E.B. White (the thoughtful writer who gave us Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web and host of other good reads) in response to a man's despair at the state of humanity in 1973.  May it lift you as it lifted me.

Dear Mr. Nadeau:

As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.

Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society — things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.

Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.

Sincerely,

E. B. White