The Catskill Chronicle

By Janet Waterston

As Tali approached her thirteenth birthday, her father asked me to write her a letter about her mother. Nina, who I’d known since the eighth grade, had died when Tali was just two and a half. “She’s heard stories, of course,” Herman explained, “but to have something she can keep that captures who her mother was, well, that would be the best gift in the world.”

Always the letter-writer, I wanted this one to be extra special, something worthy of Nina’s memory. I bought a book of handmade paper and wrote in calligraphy. I made color photocopies of pictures of Nina, me, and our friends that I incorporated throughout my narrative. I wrote about Nina’s love of life, her unique sense of humor, and her appreciation for the smallest pleasures. I described Nina’s growing commitment to Israel beginning with Israeli dancing, the first interest that connected us beyond classes and mutual friends. I wrote about our 6-month experience living on a kibbutz and learning (or, in my case, attempting to learn) Hebrew and Nina’s subsequent decision to make aliyah, the move to Israel. And I concluded the letter, “The greatest joy in your mother’s life was to be your mother.”

Ten years later, Tali, having finished her army stint, did as many young Israelis do. She spent months traveling and eventually headed for New York. With more poise than I ever would have had at age 23, she asked to meet me over dinner. She told me about her army experience; her acceptance by and of her stepmother and two half brothers; and all about her extended family.

Toward the end of the meal, Tali dropped her eyes and seemed to blush. Then she raised her head and apologized for not contacting me after she had received the letter about her mother. “I was just too overcome,” she said, “I slept with that book under my pillow for an entire year, and I still treasure it to this day.”

With e-mail and text messaging, I wonder what sort of mementos people will have in the future. Is anyone making hard copies of correspondence and, if so, will it mean anything with its smiley faces and LOLs? Is an e-mail really the equivalent of a letter, or is it more like the transcription of a phone conversation. I talk; you talk. Or rather, I write; you write. A far cry from the letter writing described so eloquently in the books of Edith Wharton or my own family’s experience.

Since my father’s stroke two years ago, conversation doesn’t always flow easily. His short-term memory is almost non-existent and how much can you talk about the nursing home routine that repeats itself day after day with monotonous regularity? My sister, Jude, and I have found a wonderful solution. We bring in old letters and take turns reading them. Our dad often fleshes out the story with his reminiscinces. There’s a letter, dated May 2, 1942 from my maternal grandfather. It’s addressed to my father at his army base in Macon, Georgia and says, “As Man to Man, I think that you will agree with me that this is not the time, nor the place for you and Mattie to take up marriage…. I am sure that you will agree with me, that if anything, “God Forbid” happens to you that she being legally married to you will be one of the unfortunate War Victims as by all means, thousands in her class will be. Should you on the other hand come out of this war as you are now, there is no doubt that the happiness of marriage would be much greater for you, and for both sides of the family.” From a year later, there’s the letter my mother wrote on the occasion of their wedding anniversary when my father was oversees. She describes the story of how they met and fell in love, and she even predicts the future when they’d live in a house and have three children and a dog. Okay, we were never allowed to get the dog, but the number of children was correct.

From the hatbox in which I keep all these relics, I rediscovered a small pile of envelopes with English postmarks. These were from my pen pal, and I was fascinated to find a cover sheet from the International Friendship League Inc. It reads, “As part of Pres. Eisenhower’s People-to-People Program, the League is bringing individuals of various countries together in friendship. You can, as an unofficial American Ambassador, do much in your letters to bring the United States and the rest of the world closer together.” On the flip side, dated May 31, 1962, it lists Elizabeth Jane Ridding and her Dancashire, England address. The envelopes I found were all from 1969, so my pen pal and I had managed to keep up a correspondence across the ocean and passage of time. Jude and I took turns reading the letters to my dad. Our hearts ached for the then 17-year-old Lizi who had to have all her teeth pulled and wondered if she’d go out of her house before her false ones were made.

In the same hatbox, I came across two note cards, each hand-painted by a different friend. The first thanks me for afternoon tea in my apartment. Terry died a couple of years later, and his card not only evokes my recollection of those hours spent together, but the simple painting of a teapot filled with flowers is a reminder of the watercoloring retreat we attended at his suggestion. The other, a more sophisticated rendering of a tulip, is from Scott after a morning spent at the Botanic Garden. He wrote, “Thank you for my wonderful day of flowers. It was just one of the many things you do for me that makes my life more special. I love you very much.”

Sitting across from Tali, I handed her a packet of blue aerograms tied with a ribbon. “These are all the letters your mother wrote to me after she made aliyah,” I told her, “The one on the bottom is the last letter your mother ever wrote. It doesn’t really say anything, just, ‘Dear Janet, I………..’ and then your mother didn’t have the strength to finish. Your father knew I would still want it, that it would be Nina’s final gift of friendship to me. And now I’m passing that gift onto you.”