On writing and writhing.

Yesterday's post about my father's old coin and stamp collection brought back a memory from the deepest corner of my cranial hard drive. 

My mother also had small collection, not of meaningless pieces of metal or envelop affixations, but of something more precious, memories. A large shoebox, most likely for boots, of handwritten letters - in beautiful cursive -- between her and her entire first family in Glasgow. 

The letters, and there were hundreds of them, were written on a blue parchment paper, no thicker than an onion skin, that also folded up in a self contained envelop, thus making the entire endeavor lighter and cheaper -- that legendary Scottish thriftiness -- than many 3rd Class International Postage stamps. 

Let's not forget this was all in the post-Depression era and my parents were distinctively working class poor.

Also, as a reminder to some who have been reading this blog for some time, my mother and her older sister Mary left Scotland at the ripe ages of 17 & 19, respectively. They boarded a boat -- The Queen Elizabeth -- got a cot in steerage, and crossed the Atlantic to start new lives in NYC. 

I can't for the life of me imagine my daughters, at that age, leaving home to go reside in a foreign country. 

I was told they came to America because they were great jazz fans of Stan Kenton. But in later years, my mother confided in Deb that the reason for the trip was more consequential. And had much more to do with today's current discussion about Roe v. Wade.

I didn't ask for any more details than that. 

But even at a young age, I remember my mother penning those letters. Seated at the kitchen table with a beer, a cigarette, a box of tissues and a heart full of pain and homesickness. Especially after Mary, her older sister, passed away at age 33. It would be hard for me to picture the recipient of those letters, her mother, brothers and other sisters, not to notice the tear stains on each of those missives.

Part of me wishes I could get my hands on that shoebox. And part of me is glad I can't. The last thing I need is to relive her anguish.

Having told this story, I realize that I have inherited about 1/2 her bravery. More than 40 years ago, I left home in upstate NY, bought a one way ticket to Los Angeles, with nothing more than a huge army duffle bag and $100 in my wallet. I was unhoused and slept on the roof of a UCLA frat house for about a month. 

She passed onto me something even more important, the ability and the need to excise the hurt through the magic of the written word. 

Sorry for not bringing the funny today. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.