The Address Book

The old and the new.

My address books may not have carried much value over the years, except at Christmas when I yearly mailed cards and short stories to friends and family.  The year my parents died a few months apart, my sister and I felt abandoned and lost when Christmas time came.  Someone else lived on the farm, and the Miami Country Club, our second home, had burned to the ground.  In the midst of my Christmas heartache I found Mother's address book, with names and addresses of hundreds of friends they had met over the years.

That December I used my mother's address book and began sending cards to many of my parent's  friends, along with a short typed note explaining that our parents had died unexpectedly that year.  Most every person I contacted replied, and many of them shared hand written stories or pictures of mom and dad.

That year I learned the value of personal address books. In a distant way it kept my parents memory alive.

This year my old address book looked more like scribble than readable address. In the decades of that book friends had moved several times, some simply lost touch, while others died. I couldn't even read some of my own handwriting, as I searched for people and addresses that were current.  A simple solution, I bought a new book, one with a shining cover. Then began the task of writing out names and current addresses of people with whom I shared Christmas, birthday, or anniversary cards  With each and every name in my book I see that person and for a moment my brain scans through times we shared, through tears, hysterical laughter, somber moments, tough talks.

One year LaVonne's letter shared how her son had run through a plate glass window. When other people might have been shocked or worried, I laughed. Our son, Michael, had once run through our sliding glass door without bloody injury the day before we were to leave on a two week vacation in the yellow van. We had to hire a house sitter for a day or two until the glass company could be there to fix the door. Oh, such memories. 

Christmas cards are pictures on a world of people who have walked through my life and made it better.

That should have been the end of the story except this time, more people had died than I ever realized. It rattled me to realize how decades had passed.

I posted on short note on Facebook sharing my feelings. Barbara replied, "I hear you. We are at that age where we have friends dying all too often. I replaced my address book last year for the same reasons you mentioned."  Her words lifted my spirits.  Someone else shares my feelings. Her words were echoed through out the list of replies.

Still there was no answer for my heart on what to do about all the names of people who have died. Then another friend posted the answer that put me back on track. Debbie wrote, "One of my least-favorite book work tasks. I feel I am disrespecting a friend or loved one by marking out their name or deleting their phone number on my phone. I can't do it. In time, I start a new address book but their phone number will remain in my phone until I need a new phone..."

Thanks to Debbie's words, I noticed a place on each tab page of the new address book that stated 'Quick Reference.' A perfect place to list a name and hometown of a friend who has passed away from this earthly life.  Now for the next few decades my friends will have a new home in my address book, and a smile from me when I see their names.

Thinking back about address books and writing this story, I realized that there is more to the value of that book than just printed names. Addresses write our history. My stories come from 209 H st. N E,  3030 Oakland, Nebraska st, Canterbury st and more. We didn't have many pictures, so our words had to tell the story.

August 4, 1911, Hulst Holland, Peter de Bakker, Prosperity Mo, Amerika

Place was how families stayed connected with oceans between them. Letters told of babies dying, people moving, aches and pains of growing older, and other news of the day. The stories of our families, our genealogy are directly tied to place and time. 

I started writing pen pals letters in 5th grade  through addresses found in My Weekly Reader.  Then on vacation in the summer of 1959 at Branson, Missouri, I met the Kuhlman family. Susan and I immediately became friends and pen pals until the 1970's when we both had children and lost touch.  A few years ago during a trip that Jack and I took to St. Louis, I saw a highway sign that showed Mexico, Mo. I wondered whatever happened to my friend Susan.  Over the next week of traveling, thanks to Facebook, I found my long lost Pen Pal. A year later we met up in Mexico, Missouri and told stories all morning long.  Sadly, Susan in now in hospice care. I heard the tinkling of tiny china bells the other day and wondered when or if Susan had received her angel wings.

The ebb and flow of our lives will continue in the book of life. 

If you like this story you may also like these stories. Simply click on the link below.
Postcards from the Wild

Postcards from the Road


Postcards from Alaska

Pen Pals Lost and Found

Consumed by a Story

200+ But Who's Counting?

First, I want to Thank You Dear Readers wherever you live on this planet. Without you my words have no meaning, no life. You are the ones who give breath to these printed words.

And yes, I'm counting and examining the two hundred plus blogs I've written since 2010. I want to see if I've become a better writer; to see what I have learned; to reread and reflect; and to look ahead. Searching through the archives on the right side of the screen I realized that my heart is as random as my head. Many of my blogs, like books in a library, touch our hearts or challenge us, but some ought to be discarded. 

Like birds randomly dropping seeds, my finger slipped on the computer screen, as I searched the archives, and I opened Anna's Angel.  I've moved since I wrote that story, but Anna's Angel still has a place over my grandmother's antique secretary desk. 

With my 50th class reunion still fresh on my mind, I searched through the Miami Memories and found two stories that touched me deeply.  One November I spent several days calling my classmates, listening to their voices, their stories

of laughter and sorrow.  Those Moments that Connect reminded me of my January promise: This year my goal is simple but sincere.  Pick up the phone and call a friend once a week. A phone call connects us to the heart of the person, much like using a puppet to communicate.Goals from the Heart

Another Miami Memory shows the depth of sadness in our family in the one week when our President JFK

Aunt Sissie and grandma

was assassinated and my grandmother died in her sleep. Moments in Time.  

Sonya, Jan, and Jeannette

The tremendous impact of reading on my life can't be measured, and I can always find a moment to tell someone about a good book, relate a story about a story, or sit down and visit a new world created by an author's imagination. There are many Readings and Greetings in the last five years of my blog, but perhaps the list and reflection of our Book Club in Hutchinson tells it best.   It is like Edmund Burke says, "Reading without reflecting is like eating without digesting." 
Book Club Celebrates Ten Years

Looking back I can find  stories begging to be told in the oral tradition of  storytelling.  That is, after all, how this

 all began. It is how families stayed connected, and it is how I have reconnected with my family on my mother's and father's side.  Thanks to my grandmother's collection of postcards  about the Clendening family, we now have a thorough shared genealogy file: Consumed by a Story. Through another family post Along the Lonesome Trail, I have met and talked with long lost family members. What memorable moments these stories have given us, one hundred and fifty years later. 

Glancing back to 2010 and 2011 I see what I so dearly miss--those early morning country walks with Lucy. I'm so glad I wrote about those memories, as brief as they might be. They give me reasons to laugh and chuckle at life. I'd forgotten about that little skunk, who's dance captured my heart

 Dancing in the Breeze.  One day a squirrel, in an attempt to out run a horse, instead ran up my leg. Lucy to the rescue still shows the scar of the squirrel on her nose.Walking Pell Mell  I still laugh every time of think of some of these moments. 

What have I learned?  Thanks to comments by my readers, I've learned to increase the size of my font. When our stories connect to the heart  then people relate and feel connected. I've met many new friends and fellow writers online, each with a distinct voice and vision. Their diverse styles, formats, and purposes for writing inspire me and encourage me to continue. 

In the future, I'd like to write more about other people's lives,

walk closer to nature, and continue to explore every aspect that life offers us.

There will always be change, as long as we are still learning. My very first blog, one paragraph long, begins with change and adaption. As difficult as computer programs have been for me to learn, I'm thankful that I have the opportunity to grow and stay connected to the world. Thank you Rosemary Miller for showing me this path. The last lines from my first paragraph reads: Practice, repeat, and continue. So this blog will be a study of learning, living, laughing, and loving life with Letty.

NYC December 2015

Postcards to Pen Pals

The sun came out and colors came to life.

We were on our way up I 44 toward St. Louis, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a green highway sign saying, "Mexico near." 

An arrow with a mile sign pointing to Mexico, Missouri caught my full attention, luckily Jack was driving, because I suddenly remembered a childhood connection to a Pen Pal who grew up in Mexico, Mo. Somewhere before we stopped for the night I shouted out, "Her name is Susan Kuhlman."  "What?" Jack curiously turned toward me.  "Tee hee hee," I laughed. "I just remembered my Pen Pal's name. I wonder where she is now?"

The Peters family

The trip to Monticello, Indiana, meeting a new family of cousins once removed and sightseeing, took my attention away from a lost pen pal.

Ironically, it was postcards from one hundred years ago that brought our distant families together.  My grandmother Pearl saved her postcards, and they eventually found their way into my hands and onto the web.  One by one Pearl's story in postcards united nearly all of the grandchildren from her sister's side of the family and her side, too. 

1909 view of Indianapolis

Her sister, Mae, died one hundred years ago, leaving behind three small children, who would be raised by a less than kind and loving step-mother and their father.  My grandmother's story was that of following the oil fields, as her husband was a geologist. 

The Boat House, Chicago, Illinois  1912

For four days in June, the Peters family, Jack and I shared stories of our lives and connections.  Genealogy is so much more interesting in person, rather than from the tombstones.  We realized that not only did the postcards connect us, but that four of us are librarians. Our

3rd st Bartlesville, Ok  1914

grandmother's would be so proud.  What great connections the past offers us, when we take the time to look back and begin asking questions.  





Two family stories that I discovered in postcards are already on my blog:   When They Were Young and  Consumed by a Story

As for my Pen Pal, that's another story.

What about the art of sending notes and sharing our lives through postcards?  Postcards are still being sold at state tourism departments and in a few old souvenir shops.  I still send postcards, do you?  Christmas is coming, how many of us will send Christmas cards with a note of happenings in our lives?  

So much to read, so little time.  Why not make it easy and send a postcard?


Check out these stories for more thoughts and pictures in postcards. The Postcard is Alive and Well: The Iconic Muse

Biloxi before Hurricanes Camille and Katrina.  Biloxi, Mississippi

History of postcards Smithsonian

***This is like Christmas, only early.  Look what just arrived in my mailbox from Dori and George, who spent some time this fall in Vienna.  

Consumed by a Story

Dear Friends,
I've spent the winter consumed by one story, one unwritten saga of a family who left Ireland and Scotland in the early 1800's and traveled to the U.S.A. to raise their family.  Sadly, the record of their lives is found in cemetery after cemetery from County Donagal, Ireland to Pennsylvania, to Indiana, and on to  the plains of Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas, and through the battles of the Civil War, the Spanish American War, and World War II.  In between many many babies were born, but death was always standing nearby collecting mothers, babies, and soldiers.

Mae Clendening Kneer

Of those strong stalwart people who were able to put off death long enough to raise families the pictures show the joy in their lives when time was spent with family and friends.  Pictures also show somber dark eyes starring into a camera searching my soul one hundred years later, wondering who will know them when they are gone.

Pearl Clendening Weaver and my mother Helen.

Postcards tell the journey of this family from Indianapolis to Lansing, Michigan and on to homes and oil fields in Ardmore, Oklahoma and Wichita, Kansas.  Postcards remind them of the family they left behind and of celebrations of Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Letters and postcards tell of adventures and travels by train and by car.  They tell how one woman traveled from Ardmore, Ok to Indianapolis, Ind with an 8month old son and 5 year old daughter and the help of a Nanny.  Letters tell the longer story of the human heart, its sacrifices and it's passion to continue beating through celebrations and heartache.

1912 A Happy Easter to You.

My grandmother, who's mother died when she was only 3 or 4 lived 75 years, but I was only 12 when she died in 1960.  Her story, and that of her sister, Mae, who died in 1915 at age 34 leaving behind 3 young children, remained tucked away in a box until 1960.  Then from 1960--89 the story lay hidden in a pair of hose in my mother's underwear drawer.  After my mother died the story came to me, and once again lay buried in a plastic tub in my basement.


One day last fall while writing a different family story I received a phone call that my nearest cousin by birth, Thomas, was in the hospital with a possible heart attack.  We had already buried our youngest cousin, Gary, and all of our parents.  My heart raced, and I knew I had to tell my family's story, our story, their story. Follow along in the months to come as I share "Bits and Pieces" of our journey. 


Sincerely,
Letty (Clendening) Stapp Watt