M.--
You left a half bagel in the toaster oven with the power on AGAIN. The fire alarm above the fridge went off as I was throwing it in the trash. Also: coffee grounds and filter dumped in the sink. Why?
Toni drops C. off at 3:45 this aft.--don't forget. Last time she said she knocked for 10 minutes and nobody came to the door. We are going to get kicked out of this carpool if it happens again.
Please buy feta cheese--big crumbly kind--at store if you get a chance today. Forgot it on my dinner party grocery list. Also club soda for Jeannette. She always asks for it and we never have it.
Will try to call you later today if I can find my cell. Have you seen it? Do you have it?!!!
XXX M.R.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
March 12, 1940
Dear Lavinia,
I cannot imagine that it will interest you much that I am marrying Edwin Poker, father's junior partner, next month. I long ago understood that your family and their doings and well-being are of little concern to you and that you can't be bothered to write a simple note or send birthday cards or even call when one of us is ill. For a long time I made excuses about you when people in town would ask, have you heard from Lavinia, when is Lavinia coming home, we haven't seen her in ages! I would say merrily, oh, you know Lavinia with her Wanderlust, she can't sit still a minute, she's probably in Paris or Rome or maybe even Borneo, tramping among the savages. She doesn't have much time to write, I'd say, but we get a postcard from her from time to time--though of course we didn't. Privately I thought it would be nice if you could come home at least at Christmas and write to father regularly. You know how he has always admired you, really much more than me; a letter from you once in a while would cheer him so much. But I knew that you were headstrong and adventurous and full of life and youthful high spirits and that eventually, once you'd travelled hither and yon and seen the world, your thoughts would turn again to the people who loved you best.
Then the sore on father's foot became so infected that he nearly died of septicaemia, and we heard nothing from you. Not a single, solitary word--not even after I sent the telegram. Then a few months later we received your telegram, telling us you had married that German, which I imagine you will come to regret in time if you do not already, given the dire things that that country is doing now. I will never forget the look on father's face when he read it, as if he had been wounded some place deep inside. He said, well, Louisa, I've always known your sister was unpredictable, but this takes the cake! We must try to think about what we can send as a present. Trying to treat it as just another of your larks. But I could see how it hurt him, and since that day whenever your name is mentioned he has a pained look on his face and buries his face in the newspaper or turns his head towards the lamp so that we will not see it.
So why do I even bother to write you about my own marriage when nothing that we do, nothing that happens to us, seems to interest you in the least? Because we are family members, and there are certain basic courtesies that I owe to you as a sister and that I refuse to forswear, even if you have long ago. Despite all that has happened, I still hold out hope that one day the distance you have placed between yourself and your family will close, and that we will be the loving sisters I have always wanted us to be--and that Father and Mother wanted us to be. (It pains me to think of how much it would distress Mother to know how estranged we have become.) Several times while writing this letter I have been tempted to lay down my pen and throw this sheet of paper away. But it occurred to me that writing to you about my marriage might be the thing that ends the long silence between us, and brings us together again. Think of how lovely it would be if we could laugh and gossip together like we did when we were girls! Do you remember how we used to laugh over how Aunt Isora would reach under her dress to loosen her corset after meals until we were red in the face, and mother would have to send us outside so that she would not hear? I remember that and so many other things we laughed about--old Caleb lying drunk under Mother's rose bushes, and Miss Pegram's singing at church, so high and quavery and off-key. Of course you were always the one who started it, and once I looked at you I couldn't help but join in.
And so I am marrying Edwin next month: that is what I am writing to tell you. Does that make you laugh? I imagine the idea will amuse you, as you never thought highly of him when he came to call and even laughed openly at him when he wiped his nose on the same handkerchief he used to clean his glasses. His large feet also were funny to you; they were always knocking into things, and on one occasion when you danced at him at the Spring Cotillion he stepped on your toes, causing you to squeal so loudly that everyone turned and looked. But he is a kind and gentle man and has been so good to father during his convalescence. And he is such a hard worker; Father says that there is scarcely any need for him to return to the office, Edwin has been so industrious while he has been away. He brings me a little present every time he comes to see me--the other day it was a small Limoges dish, so precious--and he has a taste for poetry. The other afternoon he recited "The Chambered Nautilus" to us while we were sitting in the front parlor, inspiring Father to say "Tears, Idle Tears" from memory. We were both quite moved; that was Mother's favorite poem, as you will remember. But perhaps you do not.
The wedding will take place on April 20th at 7:00 at St. James, an evening service--simple and without much fanfare, the way we would both prefer it to be. Edwin is a Methodist and is very awkward and uncomfortable with the ritual and prayers, though I tell him it is all quite simple, once you get the hang of it. Stand to sing and kneel to pray, as Mother always said. But he is afraid he will never be able to get used to it, which is why I have consented to attend First Methodist with him once we are married. It is not such a great sacrifice on my part; many wives have done as much or more. What is most important is his love for the Lord and faith in Christ, and he has that in abundance, I know. After we are married we will live in the little Hester house (on Satterwhite St., just a few blocks away) which the family has agreed to sell now that old Miss Annie has died. Essie has agreed to come with us; Father says that he will be soon be needing more strenuous care than she can provide, and they have not gotten on so well as in the years since Mother died. She was so jealously protective of Mother in her last years, as you may recall. In some way I think she held Father responsible for her death, though he of course had nothing to do with it.
I do not really expect you to come. I do not even truthfully expect you to write. More momentous things than this have happened in the past few years and have not prompted you to pick up your pen; why should news of my marriage produce a different result? Perhaps I am foolish to hold out hope that my note will reach you in a way that our other letters and calls have not. Foolish though it may be, my hope persists: hope that we will recover the closeness we once shared as sisters, hope that love shall bind together what remains of our family--which is all that any of us have in the end, isn't it?
Louisa
I cannot imagine that it will interest you much that I am marrying Edwin Poker, father's junior partner, next month. I long ago understood that your family and their doings and well-being are of little concern to you and that you can't be bothered to write a simple note or send birthday cards or even call when one of us is ill. For a long time I made excuses about you when people in town would ask, have you heard from Lavinia, when is Lavinia coming home, we haven't seen her in ages! I would say merrily, oh, you know Lavinia with her Wanderlust, she can't sit still a minute, she's probably in Paris or Rome or maybe even Borneo, tramping among the savages. She doesn't have much time to write, I'd say, but we get a postcard from her from time to time--though of course we didn't. Privately I thought it would be nice if you could come home at least at Christmas and write to father regularly. You know how he has always admired you, really much more than me; a letter from you once in a while would cheer him so much. But I knew that you were headstrong and adventurous and full of life and youthful high spirits and that eventually, once you'd travelled hither and yon and seen the world, your thoughts would turn again to the people who loved you best.
Then the sore on father's foot became so infected that he nearly died of septicaemia, and we heard nothing from you. Not a single, solitary word--not even after I sent the telegram. Then a few months later we received your telegram, telling us you had married that German, which I imagine you will come to regret in time if you do not already, given the dire things that that country is doing now. I will never forget the look on father's face when he read it, as if he had been wounded some place deep inside. He said, well, Louisa, I've always known your sister was unpredictable, but this takes the cake! We must try to think about what we can send as a present. Trying to treat it as just another of your larks. But I could see how it hurt him, and since that day whenever your name is mentioned he has a pained look on his face and buries his face in the newspaper or turns his head towards the lamp so that we will not see it.
So why do I even bother to write you about my own marriage when nothing that we do, nothing that happens to us, seems to interest you in the least? Because we are family members, and there are certain basic courtesies that I owe to you as a sister and that I refuse to forswear, even if you have long ago. Despite all that has happened, I still hold out hope that one day the distance you have placed between yourself and your family will close, and that we will be the loving sisters I have always wanted us to be--and that Father and Mother wanted us to be. (It pains me to think of how much it would distress Mother to know how estranged we have become.) Several times while writing this letter I have been tempted to lay down my pen and throw this sheet of paper away. But it occurred to me that writing to you about my marriage might be the thing that ends the long silence between us, and brings us together again. Think of how lovely it would be if we could laugh and gossip together like we did when we were girls! Do you remember how we used to laugh over how Aunt Isora would reach under her dress to loosen her corset after meals until we were red in the face, and mother would have to send us outside so that she would not hear? I remember that and so many other things we laughed about--old Caleb lying drunk under Mother's rose bushes, and Miss Pegram's singing at church, so high and quavery and off-key. Of course you were always the one who started it, and once I looked at you I couldn't help but join in.
And so I am marrying Edwin next month: that is what I am writing to tell you. Does that make you laugh? I imagine the idea will amuse you, as you never thought highly of him when he came to call and even laughed openly at him when he wiped his nose on the same handkerchief he used to clean his glasses. His large feet also were funny to you; they were always knocking into things, and on one occasion when you danced at him at the Spring Cotillion he stepped on your toes, causing you to squeal so loudly that everyone turned and looked. But he is a kind and gentle man and has been so good to father during his convalescence. And he is such a hard worker; Father says that there is scarcely any need for him to return to the office, Edwin has been so industrious while he has been away. He brings me a little present every time he comes to see me--the other day it was a small Limoges dish, so precious--and he has a taste for poetry. The other afternoon he recited "The Chambered Nautilus" to us while we were sitting in the front parlor, inspiring Father to say "Tears, Idle Tears" from memory. We were both quite moved; that was Mother's favorite poem, as you will remember. But perhaps you do not.
The wedding will take place on April 20th at 7:00 at St. James, an evening service--simple and without much fanfare, the way we would both prefer it to be. Edwin is a Methodist and is very awkward and uncomfortable with the ritual and prayers, though I tell him it is all quite simple, once you get the hang of it. Stand to sing and kneel to pray, as Mother always said. But he is afraid he will never be able to get used to it, which is why I have consented to attend First Methodist with him once we are married. It is not such a great sacrifice on my part; many wives have done as much or more. What is most important is his love for the Lord and faith in Christ, and he has that in abundance, I know. After we are married we will live in the little Hester house (on Satterwhite St., just a few blocks away) which the family has agreed to sell now that old Miss Annie has died. Essie has agreed to come with us; Father says that he will be soon be needing more strenuous care than she can provide, and they have not gotten on so well as in the years since Mother died. She was so jealously protective of Mother in her last years, as you may recall. In some way I think she held Father responsible for her death, though he of course had nothing to do with it.
I do not really expect you to come. I do not even truthfully expect you to write. More momentous things than this have happened in the past few years and have not prompted you to pick up your pen; why should news of my marriage produce a different result? Perhaps I am foolish to hold out hope that my note will reach you in a way that our other letters and calls have not. Foolish though it may be, my hope persists: hope that we will recover the closeness we once shared as sisters, hope that love shall bind together what remains of our family--which is all that any of us have in the end, isn't it?
Louisa
Thursday, April 12, 2007
June 27, 1977
Margot,
You find these idiotic, mindlessly louche postcards all over Florence, usually with Michelangelo's David's equipment, shall we say, featured prominently--thought you'd enjoy one. Also in abundance are tee shirts with English words flung together in a kind of word salad: St. Fireman's Bronx and the like. I'll bring you one of those too as a souvenir.
Florence is hot as hell and crammed with tourists. We had to wait three hours at the Uffizi--a nightmare. Patricia held up admirably through it all, and afterwards dragged me all the way across the Arno to the Brancacci Chapel to look at a Massaccio fresco she was determined to see: the Expulsion from the Garden. What can one do but humor her, do what she wishes, stay by her side as long as one can, while one can.
Think of you every day--
Dan
You find these idiotic, mindlessly louche postcards all over Florence, usually with Michelangelo's David's equipment, shall we say, featured prominently--thought you'd enjoy one. Also in abundance are tee shirts with English words flung together in a kind of word salad: St. Fireman's Bronx and the like. I'll bring you one of those too as a souvenir.
Florence is hot as hell and crammed with tourists. We had to wait three hours at the Uffizi--a nightmare. Patricia held up admirably through it all, and afterwards dragged me all the way across the Arno to the Brancacci Chapel to look at a Massaccio fresco she was determined to see: the Expulsion from the Garden. What can one do but humor her, do what she wishes, stay by her side as long as one can, while one can.
Think of you every day--
Dan
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Thursday, October 29, 1914
Dear Mother,
Caroline is somewhat improved since my last letter. She can now sit up in bed, and will take a little toast with milk if she is prevailed upon to do so. I have been seeing to it--insisting--that she gets some nourishment, though she sometimes rails at me, and says things to me I never would have believed her capable of. The doctor says that it is her nervous condition, and that I must not dwell on it. But I have difficulty believing that I will ever be able to look upon her the same way again.
No, we did not tell Mrs. Rapp about the overdose of laudanum, believing that it would only upset her. If you write to her, please do not mention it. Let us keep the knowledge of what happened between you and me. I believe that when Caroline is improved in health it will be a consolation to her that no one knows what she undertook to do while she was ill.
Little Lavinia is getting on nicely with Nurse. She is a strong and healthy babe; for this I thank the Lord with all my heart. She was over eight pounds at birth and has gained two more in the past few weeks. Her mother still refuses to hold her, though she will consent to have her in her room for a little while in the mornings with the Nurse, and does not openly seem to despise her as she did not long ago. We must hope and pray that she soon comes to feel all that is proper for a mother to feel towards her child.
Continue to keep us in your prayers. I know that we are benefiting from them each and every day. The Lord will not abandon us in our time of trouble, of that I am confident. No, just now is not the best time for a visit, but in the spring when Caroline is well, God willing, we will send Louis to fetch you, if you are able to come to us then.
Yours with love,
Henry
Caroline is somewhat improved since my last letter. She can now sit up in bed, and will take a little toast with milk if she is prevailed upon to do so. I have been seeing to it--insisting--that she gets some nourishment, though she sometimes rails at me, and says things to me I never would have believed her capable of. The doctor says that it is her nervous condition, and that I must not dwell on it. But I have difficulty believing that I will ever be able to look upon her the same way again.
No, we did not tell Mrs. Rapp about the overdose of laudanum, believing that it would only upset her. If you write to her, please do not mention it. Let us keep the knowledge of what happened between you and me. I believe that when Caroline is improved in health it will be a consolation to her that no one knows what she undertook to do while she was ill.
Little Lavinia is getting on nicely with Nurse. She is a strong and healthy babe; for this I thank the Lord with all my heart. She was over eight pounds at birth and has gained two more in the past few weeks. Her mother still refuses to hold her, though she will consent to have her in her room for a little while in the mornings with the Nurse, and does not openly seem to despise her as she did not long ago. We must hope and pray that she soon comes to feel all that is proper for a mother to feel towards her child.
Continue to keep us in your prayers. I know that we are benefiting from them each and every day. The Lord will not abandon us in our time of trouble, of that I am confident. No, just now is not the best time for a visit, but in the spring when Caroline is well, God willing, we will send Louis to fetch you, if you are able to come to us then.
Yours with love,
Henry
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