MyStories

“The beauty of the written word is that it can be held close to the heart, and read over and over again.” –Florence Littauer

I was a baby when my maternal grandmother passed away. I’ve been told that, within hours of succumbing to ovarian cancer, Grandma Wilma held me tenderly for a few minutes, bestowing kisses and expressing gratitude for the chance to have been a grandmother, if only for a year. I always felt like I’d sorely missed out by not knowing her. Then, one day just a couple of years ago, my mother handed me a dusty, cardboard box crammed with old, well-thumbed letters. (My uncle found the box amongst my grandparents’ few, remaining possessions, and managed to put the letters—nearly 1,000 in total—into sequential order.) Some of them are between Wilma and her parents, but most of the near-daily correspondence is an intimate exchange between my grandparents (pictured at right, at my parents' wedding in 1967). The love letters span a full twenty years (1926-1946), beginning with their initial, long-distance courtship and ending while in the throes of raising a young family. Needless to say, I was—and am—incredibly grateful. Out of all the things that could have been saved, this was something truly invaluable…something personal…something that offered a second chance.

One of nearly 1,000 letters exchanged and passed down by Laura's grandparents

Although the volume was daunting (it took months to read through the box's fragile, yellowed innards), the reward was having my grandmother materialize before my eyes. She was no longer the rather ambiguous subject of faded photos, second-hand stories, and bittersweet conversations with my mother. Wilma had colorized into a whole person—daughter, sister, teacher, friend, lover, wife, mother, and survivor of life’s innumerable triumphs and tragedies. Solely through the written word, I became privy to her inner-most hopes, thoughts, and feelings, and grew to understand the choices and sacrifices she made, as well as the logic and emotion that accompanied it.

Wilma Moss, Laura Lee Scott's grandmother. Although she passed away when Laura was a baby, she feels she knows her grandmother well through the hundreds of letters she wrote and saved.

As time progressed and Wilma's world changed, I loved observing this shy, rather uncertain girl evolve into a strong, wise woman. Unquestionably, she’s someone I am proud to call my grandmother (although, it's probably not surprising that I identify more with the younger years of those letters). Now that I have some real insight into our similarities and differences, it's fun to conclude that, if we’d been able to spend time together, we would have also been friends.

Given Wilma's demure, quiet nature (admittedly, that's a trait that does not fall into our 'similiarities' category), it's somewhat surprising that the letters still exist. I think it would have been easy for my grandmother to have simply junked them, especially when she became terminally ill. I can imagine making the (wrong) assumption that the letters—and all thoughts and feelings connected to them—weren't of enough significance to keep. Or that, by tossing them, she’d be saving her family the time and "hassle" of cleaning out her personal belongings once she was gone.

Yet, instead of fetching a garage can, Grandma Wilma found a box, tidied up her mountain of letters, and allowed her humanity—her ideas, vulnerabilities, and inner-most self— to endure well beyond her lifetime. (It’s worth noting that my grandfather proceeded to keep the letters safely tucked away until his own death 18 years later.) To me, leaving that simple, unmarked box behind was a brave thing to do. When I hold one of her letters, I feel an intangible sense of faith and hope in the future's “unknown”—including me, and all those who would (and will) come after. In general, I respect anyone who is willing to leave a truthful foothold to the past, as it not only allows us to “relive” it, as Florence Littauer suggests above (if we so choose), but, more importantly, I think—to learn from it. All of it—the "good," the "bad," and every twist and turn in between. If we keep open the door to history's both profound and subtle lessons, our present thoughts and future actions cannot help but abide with greater tolerance, intention, and authenticity.

Grandma Wilma, with my mother, Linda, and Uncle Ken.

Obviously, many circumstances have changed over the years, but the rich, beautiful story that unfolds through my grandparents’ letters is as relevant today as ever. Still, I worry that, in their rather crumbly, ephemeral condition, this wonderful, ancestral paper trail will probably not make it into the hands of those who are currently just a ‘twinkle in someone’s eye.' Even if they do manage to stay intact for a few, more decades, will anyone else take the time to read them? After all, in this age of instant gratification—of email, smartphones, and flash drives—people are hardly becoming more patient. Therefore, I’ve made it my mission to scan and digitally archive the whole, weathered lot, then consolidate it all into a professionally-bound book. To make it a real "page-turner," I'll add lots of pictures, captions, fun antidotes, some family genealogy, and even a few recipes from my mom and uncle (if they are willing to divulge some "secret," family ingredients.) In other words, turn the overflowing contents of a visibly exhausted cardboard box into my grandparents’ LifeStory. (Seems fitting, doesn’t it?) Undoubtedly, it’s a process that’s going to take serious time and effort. But, hey, my grandparents—both of them—are worth it. I feel like I finally know this “first-hand”—and it makes me happy that future generations will have the chance to know it too.

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