On nothing more than a whim, my wife and I began to explore the world of estate sales a few years ago. Living in an older (by US standards) city like Pittsburgh, there is no shortage. We typically review a weekly list of available sales online and set our course for Saturday mornings. Many are homes that have sat vacant for several years since the passing of their owners, some are in so-called “McMansions,” although these, to our eyes, are the saddest and usually least interesting, as it often seems that the owners have literally walked away from their world, leaving everything behind: entire wardrobes of clothing, framed pictures of years of family photos, furniture, garages full of tools, and all of the more common items associated with maintaining a contemporary household. Nothing ever appears to be more than a few years old. See enough of these and one begins to get impressions of nasty divorces or job relocations in which people are just trying to shuck everything and start over, but one is never quite sure.
Such homes are less interesting than the riches often found in the older abandoned homes. These riches can be found on shelves thick with dust, in bookcases, or in unmarked boxes tucked away in the corner of a basement and include the remnants of decades, if not sometimes centuries, of people and memories long-forgotten. The latest treasure I found as I was ready to leave a house; the house had obviously set empty for many years while the family or executor of the estate got around to emptying the contents and preparing for its sale. Painted woodwork was worn thin, floorboards creaked, and the musty odor of age was apparent. On the corner of a well-worn buffet was a small, plain and faded cream-colored cardboard box with ragged edges, appearing to have started life containing fine stationery.
Opening the box revealed a handful of letters, handwritten correspondence between Anne Murray and her would-be suitor, Lee Whalen. I sensed the possibility of a rich slice of history and eagerly paid the $3 asking price for the box, anticipating the chance to explore them more fully at home.
The letters contain nearly a year’s worth (1928-1929) of correspondence between the two, with Mr. Whalen’s letters sent from the Hotel Times Square (now The Michelangelo), New York City, where he apparently stayed during his various trips on business while she remained living and working in Pittsburgh. The hotel stationery shows a graphic image of the hotel with the words, “Absolutely Fireproof” under the picture.
The nine intact envelopes include Lee’s letters to Anne and what is presumably her reply to same, although why her reply letters would have made it back to her is not clear. Perhaps these reply letters were merely drafts of letters she revised and actually sent. What is clear is that the exchanges reflect a dance of desire between two people nearly one hundred years ago, with several fits and starts along the way. Neither of their ages is apparent. Lee pledges his undying affection for Anne as he moves from job to job, culminating in a hoped-for engagement, which Anne kindly but firmly rebuffs; apparently Lee had a gambling and drinking problem. She writes (quoted here as written), “Dear Lee, Your letter was received and I was delighted to hear from you. Now that you have (may I say reformed) I hope you will live up to your good resolution. If you can measure up to my standards, and you know what they are, I shall be glad to renew our friendship. Unless you can promise to give up liquor for good, I do not want you to come back. I could not stand a repetition of what has already happened. Saturday and Sunday are yours. I am breaking a previous engagement for Sunday. I will be expecting you at eight o’clock on Saturday and hope that at that time we will be able to straighten out matters and begin all over again.” We can never know if they ever “began all over again” and eventually married.
Holding the letters was a delicate experience, noting the brittle nature of the paper, being careful not to let them tear at the aged folds, and yet the blue ink, obviously done with a fountain pen, was as clear as if it had been written yesterday. The penmanship of both individuals in cursive style was remarkably pristine.
It is a common conception that investing in such a process, even for those who were once taught cursive writing and the art of penmanship, has been lost to the keyboard, its expediency crowding out the careful and thoughtful work of longhand. Maybe something is gained by this efficiency, but Mark Helprin, in his novel, The Oceans and the Stars, describes his protagonist’s receipt of a letter from his lover while at sea thusly: “It was on elegant but plain stationery—cream on the outside, a Tiffany-blue envelope lining, cream papers, hand-addressed and written, with a floral stamp. And yes, her perfume was strongly apparent, so much so that he spent a few minutes before he opened the envelope breathing in deeply to catch the scent, eyes closed. Then he opened it. Just the handwriting was as seductive as anything by which he had ever been seduced.”
The record of Lee and Anne’s correspondence ends abruptly, with no final answers to the many questions raised in their few exchanges contained in that crusty cardboard box. Did he succeed in his “resolution” and finally measure up to her standards? I have searched unsuccessfully for any record of either of their lives, and yet from this happenstance on a Saturday morning I am granted a brief glance into a fragment of their lives. Historically, the letters between John and Abigail Adams come to mind, along with many others, and provide the reader with appreciation for the depth of their relationship perhaps best understood only through the medium of those exchanges.
I know it has been many years since I received a handwritten letter from anyone, or in fact sent one myself, yet my wife continues to labor long and lovingly to write notes of hope, forbearance, and love. I can open them from years ago, read them, refold them and recall the circumstances under which they were written, remembrances of times of great struggle and great joy, pieces of living history. Recently, I renewed decades-old friendships at my college reunion, and the memories shared there will certainly offer opportunities to nurture those relationships through the touch of pen to paper.
Perhaps it is unfair to elevate the status of a handwritten personal note or letter above an expedient email or other keyboard-produced content. Perhaps, but I suggest there is palpable pleasure in opening a note or letter that has arrived by mail or been tucked under your pillow. The weight and texture of the paper add to the anticipation that this is someone who took the time and thought to convey a message to you alone. When the message arrives in fountain pen ink, as with Lee and Anne’s letters, one can almost feel the spread of the ink as the nib glides across the paper and sense the working of the writer’s mind to organize and communicate the message.
These considerations will no doubt be considered hopelessly archaic by those of certain generations, where “instant messaging” is the default mode, but I for one will dig out my fountain pen, ink it up, and write a letter to a friend, knowing that it will be welcomed with special affinity and perhaps a little unexpected joy.
Image credit: Thomas Eakins, “The Writing Master” (1882) via Wikimedia Commons
