I get flashbacks through social media almost every day. Many are blog posts from prior years. If there’s a method to the madness it must be the calendar. I wrote the following three years ago. I posted the blue story the night that Ruth died. I had already written it and followed through with the posting sometime during that sleepless night.
I had planned a series of mini stories connected by a brown tweed suitcase that my mom gave me. I still have it stored in my Michigan condo. I didn’t go through the contents last summer as I have in years past. That may be why the story popped up last week. It didn’t want to be forgotten.
I haven’t. I just needed a brief reminder.
The red part of the story was posted several weeks later. I spent most of October writing about losing Ruth, so the red part waited for me to move on to other topics. Moving on is not always easy, but it is necessary.
Mom was a Deltiologist. I don’t think she knew it, and I didn’t realize it until she gave me the brown tweed suitcase that housed her treasures. It contained a large collection of postcards from the late 30s through the mid 40s. Most were written during the “war years”. After she married my dad in 1945 the postcards slowed. The last one was sent in 1948. The first is dated 1936.
The cards came from all over the United States: Illinois, Virginia, Kentucky, Florida, California, and South Carolina. There are a couple from Canada. Some were sent from locations throughout Michigan, and a few made their way across town in Detroit. Most were written to my mom, but she also saved cards sent to her parents and her brother, Harry, and sisters, Ruth, Eugenia and Mildred. Many were addressed to the home site, 1260 Phillip, Detroit.
Postage was one cent throughout the twelve years unless you were in the military. Guys and gals serving in the armed forces sent their cards for free. Mom received such cards from several different guys but no gals.
One of my favorites was sent to Mom from Aunt Jean shortly after I was born. It arrived from Florida when Mom, Dad, and I lived in the second story of Grandma and Grandpa Barner’s house on Phillip.
If you never learned how to read cursive, it reads as follows:
7-8-47
Dear Kids
Wish all of you could be with us. It sure is everything you’ve read about in books. It’s raining today, but it’s a nice rain (ha! ha!) Hoping to get some nice pictures to show you. Take care of Robbie.
Love Don and Jean
I think ha! ha! means the same today as it did in 1947. Aunt Jean was twenty-two and Uncle Don was twenty-four. Rainy days in any state provide an opportunity for young lovers in their twenties. Not everyone writes about it, but Aunt Jean did.
Mom was about ninety years old when I organized her postcards for her. I put them in a “postcard scrapbook”. I thought they’d be easier for her to enjoy that way. It’s not fancy but it houses all her cards.
I have the scrapbook now. I look at it from time to time and learn a bit more about my mother each time I read through them. It’s a written history of her life, documented in bits and pieces, much like we “text” today. Postcards were simple, quick ways to provide information. The cards went through the mail. What we now call snail mail was one of the fastest means of communication for most people. Some took weeks to travel from one end of the country to the other, and others several days to go across town.
Telephones were a luxury, so most people used the mail. Postcards were quick, easy, and some were works of art. The pictures were spectacular and the handwriting exquisite.
During the war years, mom received cards from several guys. Dad was one of many. His cards always opened the same way. “Having a swell time. Wish you were here.” They had postmarks from cities in Michigan, Maryland, Virginia, and California. When he shipped out to the Pacific, they stopped. Cards from other guys said, “waiting for orders”, “thanks for the cigs”, and “What’s the matter is your pen broke.” She kept them all but married my dad.
Most cards contained the news of the day. They were reports of who was doing what where. Sometimes they included information about the people themselves, but most focused on the day’s happenings rather than the people.
There are a couple of cards in Mom’s collection from me. I sent them during one of our winters in Palm Springs. They all started the same way, “Having a swell time. Wish you were here.”
Moving forward, let’s keep in touch. You can send me a post card, a text, a message via Facebook messenger, respond to one of the blogs I’ve posted, or use any other new fangle means of communication that might come our way. I’ve learned it’s not the how that counts, it’s the do.
Three years have passed since I published these two stories, but I still believe it’s the do.
My Uncle Bill traveled for work for several years and always sent me post cards from wherever he was. I loved getting them and saved them in a box in my closet but I think my Dad threw them away after I moved out because I never found them again. Your post reminded me of how much I miss them.
I love reading your posts—we certainly lived through the same times—very interesting. I imagine your’re settling into your winter routine now—enjoy. We are having rainy days right now and do desperately need the rain.
I read almost all of your posts. This one was especially fun! Postcards! For some reason my teenage grandson loves postcards. When we travel, I buy a stack of them and send them after we get home. He only lives a mile away but every day he looked forward to a postcard. I think he has them stashed somewhere in his room. See you in a few months at Memoirs! Keep writing!