Delicious Secrets

Dear Nana,

At school I will soon begin to teach my students how to write a "friendly letter." And as I plan the unit, one that I've taught for the last four years but am always hoping to enliven, I feel slightly hopeless. It is not that I feel unsuited to teach the unit. It is that I will teach my seven and eight year olds a skill that they will most surely never use once given the choice. They will not pen letters to friends when they are away at college some day. They will not spray envelopes with perfume and write in longhand to their sweetheart. They will not anxiously wait by the mailbox each day to see if their sweetheart has written back. People simply don't write letters anymore. It's a dying artform. An artform. That's what it was. And you and Grandpa Saul had it in spades.

In my letters to you, I will share some letters that you and Grandpa wrote to one another; letters that I found a few years ago. Letters through which I've gotten to know you as a young woman in love. Letters through which I've gotten to know Grandpa since we never had the chance to meet. I am quite certain, although you might blush at times, you will enjoy them. This is the first of hundreds....

Class 7B3
June 1, 1931

My Precious, (my heart thumps as I write it - but there's nothing like a good little heart thump to keep one's spirits up.)

Darling, what can I say on paper, that I haven't already made evident in person? You must know how perfectly glorious our week-end was. The spontaneity and unexpectedness with which everything happened added all the more interest (although how much more interest do I need, other than just being with you?) Even the closing of our week-end seemed to have just "happened". It rained, so I went to get you an umbrella, but just as our minds were made up to that, fate decided that that was much too ordinary a good-night for two such unusual people, so before we knew it you were sleeping over at my house. Wasn't that itself a glorious state of affairs? Then breakfast to-gether, and even our morning tete-a-tete didn't end as expected, that is the call for school. Saul, dear, our affair, itself, was so unexpected, and everything since that impromptu dinner at my house on April 7, so delightfully surprising, that all I can do is hope that all our forthcoming surprises together, may hold as much joy for both of us. Everything is a joy to both, isn't it? I hope so, for unless it is mutual, the whole thing is empty. But there, darling, I deserve a spanking for even questioning the fact that all between us is "50/50". Otherwise how could everything we do to-gether be so whole-hearted, huh? Of course.

Now, honey, I'll return to this poor commonplace world of ours. Again I have the 7th & 8th yr. classes. My room is right across the hall from Mr. Weiss's and as he walked thru the hall before, he saw me writing at my desk, but I'll bet he couldn't possibly have the slightest conception of whom I was writing to, nor the spririt behind my writing. Dearest, it's wonderful keeping so many delicious secrets between only our very selves.

Tell me truthfully now, sweet, did you sleep well last night for if it inconveniences you in anyway I wouldn't have you do it again, for the world. How did you get to work this morning - on time, in good condition, physically, mentally, and spiritually?

Darling, I've written so steadily, so fluently and so sincerely that I am actually fatigued, but what a delicious worn-out feeling! Gee, really, I couldn't possibly think, say, or write another word.
Your Treasure, Henny

Perhaps this was the first letter you ever wrote to the man who would one day become your husband. You were just a few weeks shy of 22 years old. And if it weren't for this letter, this hand-written, lovingly penned, starkly honest letter, I would never know about the beautiful night you spent with Grandpa Saul on May 31, 1931. I would never know of your giddiness as you snuck a letter to your sweetheart from your teacher's desk when you were supposed to be substitute teaching.

People write emails. We save them in cyberspace, floating in the air somewhere, untouchable and unmemorable. But this, your letter, will live. Your letter tells of a time when people could write to the point of emotional exhaustion as you did. You probably walked to the post office afterschool, giddy with the thought that you would soon send your words out into the world. Perhaps you knew that even though the recipient lived in the same city in a nearby neighborhood, he would anxiously await the postman's delivery and write just as feverish a letter in return. It saddens me that my students will probably never know this feeling, this art. But I will try to teach them so that perhaps one of them some day, will choose stationery over email, a stamp over a click of the mouse, anticipation instead of instant gratification. And I thank you for reminding me what a treasure simple, honest words can be.

Love, Katie