Where have I been?

Here I have these fascinating letters, this chunk of history, and where have I been?

            Away from this blog, that’s for sure. Here’s some mental meandering about why I don’t seem to be doing much with my treasure. I can look at it from at least a couple of perspectives. First there’s the daughter, second there’s the amateur historian who was once a professional economist. These two have far different concerns, but both find them worthy of thought before moving on. (There’s the third a teacher/disciplinarian who drones “your paper is late! Get with it.”)

            First the daughter—it’s strange and disconcerting meeting this youngish man. I’ve stopped thinking of him as my dad. Now I call him Lewis even, occasionally, Lewie. I worry about him. He’s so concerned about those debts, will he get a better job, and will he ever, ever get a book published? I want to pour him another cup of coffee and tell him not to worry, everything will be okay. I read a letter dated on my birthday, but several years before I make the scene. “Boy, are you going to be surprised!” Then I catch my breath, he tells Dottie how they’ll grow old together, watch their grandchildren, read books. I’d never tell him that this wasn’t in the cards. He’d meet only one of his five grandchildren, and that one he had but six months. Not what you need to go through life knowing. I feel like the old gypsy lady with a crystal ball—I see all, but what would I tell?

            I remember a busy Daddy, sometimes brusque and a little temperamental. (Watch out when that fair face turns red!) Is he this tentative, gentle fellow writing the letters? I do recognize this—he always was a hard worker, too hard almost. When I was a little girl, we couldn’t make noise after supper—the minute the dishes came off the dining room table, the little red Royal typewriter went down and Daddy started “pecking out a story.” Most nights I went to sleep to that clicking lullaby.

            The young man I’m growing to love was just as hard a worker. He spent the day not only as editor of the paper, but reporter, and sometimes ad salesman. He managed to write to Dottie almost everyday two or three single-spaced pages, not all mushy love—there is some of course, as a daughter I can’t decide if I should avert my eyes or clap my hands—but comments on his town, his times, the new government (New Deal), and his ambitions, oh his ambitions. His resolution was to submit news releases (he was paid by the word) to the Associated Press, the Dallas Morning News, or the Ft. Worth Star-Telegram every single day. The money helped with what seemed staggering debts and gave him a little extra. That where the red Royal came from. It also gave him a name and a reputation with the big boys. He had a novel in and out, in and out, publisher after publisher, to no avail. (I hope it’s in my attic.) He spilled over with ideas for short stories. What energy, but what joy in doing what he loved and had dreamed of as a lad.

            So there are a few of my daughter feelings. They are brimming over. And what to do? As a minimum, get this together so the five grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren have a legacy from Lewis and from Dottie. But I think there is more. What I’m pondering is what is that more?

           

An additional thought: besides the daughter, the historian, and the mean disciplinarian, there’s a fourth—the fiction writer. I’ve promised my writing group that I’ll make a stab at turning the first letter in to an ‘on the road’ short story. I’ll post some of my efforts here.