Thanks, Dad

My Dad introduced me to the art of letter writing.  Mother never liked writing.  Dad, however, was a prolific writer.

When he went away to summer camp in the 1930's and 1940's, Dad wrote home almost every day.   His Auntie, who ran his Father's home after his Mother died, carefully saved all of his letters.  Today they make such interesting reading.  The boy with the fish is Dad, in 1938, at Camp Pet-O-Se-Ga in Petoski, Michigan.

When Dad was in England and France during World War II, he wrote home almost every day.  Auntie saved those letters.  There are almost 800 of them.  I have several more that he wrote to one of his old girlfriends; several years ago I met her and she told me that Dad was the most gallant man she ever dated and she loved his letters.  They are full of stories about the adventures of that small town Kentucky boy.

I was taught that writing a thank you note was an essential response to every gift I received.  If you accepted the gift, you were obliged to repay the gift with a note of thanks.  I once received a particularly ugly gift of clothing and suggested to my Dad that I just return it, not accept it, and then I would not have to write a note when I was not thankful.  That was the wrong thing to say.  My punishment was to write an extra paragraph of thanks.

Dad made writing fun.  I loved his handwriting.  He almost always wrote with a fountain pen, which I thought was very cool.  He bought me a fountain pen when I was in the sixth grade and that gave my letters a special touch.   It was years before I could use that pen without getting ink on my fingers.  Many years later I learned calligraphy because I loved the pens and ink; I got my fingers inky then too.

I had pen pals and wrote and received many letters.  Dad wrote letters to his friends, too; it was something we had in common.  He bought me my first stationery.  It was beautiful white cotton paper with my name and address printed in blue ink on the top and on the envelopes.

When it was time to address Christmas cards, I got to help because I was the eldest and I had good handwriting.  Dad and I would address the cards and he even let me write some of the messages inside.  It felt so grown up and important to be able to represent the family with my writing.  He showed me his system for keeping track of addresses and what had been sent.  When I was grown, I duplicated Dad's system and used it for years until technology took over and streamlined it.

Through the years, after I moved far from home, Dad wrote letters to me regularly.  The best part of the letter was always the end, where he would close with "Mother sends her love.  We are so proud of you, sweetheart." or similar endearing and encouraging words.  I miss those letters a lot.

Email has replaced a lot of my letter writing, but I still enjoy it.  I love pretty stationery and my Monte Blanc pen with blue ink.  I still get excited going into stationery stores and the smell of the paper intrigues me.

I have my Dad to thank for my enthusiasm for written communication.  He had such a knack for saying the right thing in his letters.  He wrote me a note and mailed it with a small gift the day before he had a fatal stroke.  When I returned home after seeing him in his last days, I received the package and his note which included a short message; "and perhaps this will cheer you up a little bit", he wrote, not knowing just how much cheering I would need.

I promised Dad I would write something with his WWII letters.  Little by little I am reading them and scanning them to preserve them.  I am doing a little writing and researching some of the facts, and writing some more.  It makes me feel close to Dad.   I am very thankful to my Dad for sharing his love for written communication in such a way that I learned to love it too.