August 26, 2024
Greetings from the written words,
If you were searching for something in my house, say a cufflink or a safety pin or a gift certificate to the Barnum and Bailey Circus, and you began pawing through drawers and corners of my house, you would probably find these letters. Some are folded into squares or tucked inside cards, some are pressed between the pages of books. A few are still in the original envelopes. Many have other notes scribbled on the back, used to save a phone number, or a short shopping list, before the letter was saved as the precious thing it is.
A few of these are from my children. Simple Father’s Day wishes, a birthday poem, a note of appreciation. There is one about running away, which still breaks me a little, but for the most part they are scribbled words of thanks or affection.
You will never find the cufflink. You’ll probably sit down and read this note from one child or another, and smile at their innocence, and the naïve adoration. It is refreshing. There is also something charming in their printing, the scratched-out word, the creative spelling. I can see them at the kitchen table, poring over these creations.
One of my favorite authors is Wendell Berry, author of, among other wonderful works, Jayber Crowe, which is one of my favorite books. When I published my own book, I was searching for authors to read my work and write an endorsement for the jacket, known as a ‘blurb’. I made a list of living writers I admire and began the tedious process of trying to break through the byzantine protection around them and ask them to read my work.
I reached out to Wendell Berry’s foundation, a wonderful organization, and someone responded the same day. They said if I wanted to contact Wendell directly, I needed to write him a letter, and provided the address. Write a letter. So I did. A few weeks later, he did.
“I’m sorry…,” he wrote in an unapologetic script, letters sprawling and looping across the half page, “…that you went to any trouble or expense, but I stopped writing blurbs for books many years ago.”
The letter came in a small envelope with Wendell and Tanya’s name in the left corner, over their address in Kentucky. The stamp was a Woods Rose, affixed slightly askew in the other corner, so I could imagine him almost forgetting to do it and then sticking it on while he pulled on his coat. It is a bit of a drive from his farm into the nearest town where there is a post office, so the letter was in his shirt pocket for a while, and then, after a brief conversation at the mailbox, it was sent to me. And now it is settled in the collection of written words tucked into my world.
Wendell Barry is not a celebrity, I would guess some of you hadn’t heard of him before this, but he has written eighty books, many of which were hugely successful. He lives a full life, including writing and speaking and tending to the things he cares about. And somehow he felt it was important enough to sit down and write a letter in response to mine. What delights me about this simple act of civility is that it aligns perfectly with his philosophy and the characters he forms in his books.
A handwritten letter is an interesting glimpse of the person writing it, a grainy daguerreotype that shows the shape and shades of the person sending the note. It hints at the story that is told around the letter. There is the choice of pen, or pencil. The calligraphy, the paper, the way it is folded, the coffee stain, the ink smudge. Each is an authentic fingerprint of the person who wrote it.
In a special box on my dresser is my collection of journals from my cycle touring years. Tucked in between those ragged books is a letter my Dad wrote to me before I left on my ride across the country and back.
I remember he couldn’t be home for the day I set off. He left the letter, with a twenty dollar bill inside, and I took it with me and read it from time to time. It’s remarkable that it still exists, almost fifty years later, it’s been unfolded so many times.
It is an encouraging letter, one that tells me he knew I was a little anxious about traveling alone, about the size of the adventure, and about my life after that. I had no idea he saw this in me until I read his words.
What is special about this letter is that I can just look at it, not even read the words, and see my Dad, see him leaning over the paper, holding this pen, making the marks on the page that meant what he was thinking. I also know he was very self-conscious about his handwriting, and so I can tell he was being focused, being attentive to the physical act of the pen as well as the words. It is a genuine act of love, the words and the writing of the words.
I am writing this as more than a sentimental nod to the pages nested in the crevices around me. It is a reminder, for me and to you, that these things matter to the people around you. The person you are mentoring, the neighbor who brought food after the funeral, the son who you think doesn’t care that much about mushy stuff, the friend who you can never visit enough. There is something special about getting a letter these days, almost magic in the face of the limitless digital possibilities. Make the moment, don’t wait for an occasion, and write out the words you want them to know. Don’t wait for your handwriting to improve or for stamps to get cheaper or the weather to get better. Send the letter.
Hope this finds you making your mark,
David
Copyright © 2024 David Smith
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