Countdown to 50: Day 3

My younger sister & I during my "private detective" stage.

It's been a busy week; had to keep reminding myself that today is Thursday. And despite the fact I'm turning 50 in a few days, I find I'm not spending much time in reflection, even on my morning walk. I'm thinking of other things, like finding suitable people to interview for In Conversation With and whether or not Phyllis the hen is going to stay on the three eggs we want her to hatch out. Big thoughts, friend, big thoughts. No room for something minor like looking back on my life.  

I can, however, share a story, which is infinitely better: 

In 1973, after seven years of marriage, and a lifetime of living in Toronto, my mother moved out of the city with her husband and two small daughters. Dad had bought his own funeral home in Cobourg and we all moved into the apartment above the business. Every so often, my mother would sit down at her typewriter, set up on a desk in the dining room, and type an "Epistle to the Relations" -- to her cousins and aunts and sister in Toronto and other places. There aren't many, or rather, not enough, letters but the ones she did type and are charming and funny and full of typos. 

From these Epistles, I get glimpses of myself as a child, and from them, I could try and glean glimpses of myself now. For one thing, I get my creative writing from my mother. Also, the propensity for typos. 

From an epic two-page Epistle, dated April 4, 1975, my mother wrote this about her children: 

"Our children are fine. Their normal, active selves. Sara's artwork is becoming voluminous and, I think, quite good. Dolly [my sister Araminta's nickname] likes to draw too. She is at the circle stage. I guess that is normal for her age [2 1/2]. She also knows most of the alphabet and some of her numbers. To what purpose she can use most of this information, I do not know. 

The other morning, my husband called me at ten to nine, and told me to get out of bed because the children were on their way up the street. I did as he requested. (He was shaving.) I donned my fur coat with my lovely white legs showing beneath and went to retrieve them. They were almost up to the Guy's house (Auntie Guy and Uncle Stewart, that is). They were both dressed in their proper winter clothing, hand in hand, with Sara carrying a six-quart basket over her other arm. I discovered that they were on their 'picture' route, handing out pictures that were contained in the basket. They had drawn these masterpieces in the time between six and 8:30 that same morning. Regretfully, they returned with many explanations and wailings. By the way, they can unlock the doors and escape. 

Sara said she would not do it again (that is, until the next time.) Dolly had whined to go so Sara said she could. It's like putting King Kong in charge of an orphanage."

(Notes: When Dad said "street", he meant Buck Street, the one-way side street, not the main street that was the address for the funeral home; we were never in danger, and we knew all the neighbours. Also, I don't know why we called Marg Guy "Auntie Guy"; just one of those things.)

I have lived with that line -- "It's like putting King Kong in charge of an orphanage" -- all my life. It really does go with my natural approach to everything: More enthusiasm than skill. It also might explain why I love kids, but didn't want any of my own!  

This is one of the losses of our modern world wherein we email and text and take digital photos with our phones: In the future, there will be no letters. No file folder full of typo-riddled letters from a mother to her family. No memories recorded on paper, in ink. With a typewriter! No stories to go along with photos in photo albums. There won't be any of those either. All our photos, all our letters, all our memories, all our stories won't be preserved in a way that is tangible, that is real, that is accessible. They will be floating around in a cyber cloud, locked away or lost, or deleted or scrambled. 

I feel lucky to have these letters, these famous Epistles. I've been reading them over for years. They are my history, my childhood. They are who I am, who I came from, why I exist. Like me, they came from my mother's body, from her love, from her creative spirit. As I turn 50, I get to read these words over again and realize that I'm still that same creative, curious, uncontainable girl from 1975:  

"Sara, or Cinderella, or Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White, whoever we are at any given moment, is fine. She told some kids up at Zeller's the other day that she was from the Jewell Funeral Home. We should put a sandwich board on her and send her up and down the street."