As we move towards the festive season, I have never heard so many people declare they are finished sending Christmas cards; cost of postage and lack of time being their main gripes. I’m tempted to follow suit this year as I know I become very tetchy until the last envelope is sealed. The process always starts with a review of last year’s list – crossing out (with a pang of sadness) the names of those who have departed this life and adding a few new acquaintances who have joined our circle of friends.
Yet I can’t bring myself to break with tradition because it involves signing off on my childhood where writing a little note of thanks for birthday presents etc. was compulsory. In an age when Facebook or texts didn’t exist, letter writing was inextricably woven into the fabric of our family life.
My mother kept up a correspondence throughout the year with the lady whose house we visited every August in Donegal. Mrs Kerr would send articles from the regional paper, recording all the “goings-on” in the area. Mam, in her turn, would comment on these events and give updates on all the trivia of our daily routine. My mother could then work her effortless magic on the locals when she arrived for her holiday on the shores of Mulroy Bay. The postmistress’s eyes would light up when she inquired about her niece’s wedding or the shopkeeper would beam with pride when she congratulated him on his son’s promotion in Letterkenny. This simple communication between the two women opened many avenues of friendship for us and an equal amount of precious memories.
Recently, I came across recipes my mother received from her best friend, who happened to be a home economics teacher. Difficult as it was to read the ingredients (well besmirched with flour and butter), the flip-side of each sheet was more interesting. Here were witty accounts of dinner parties where the recipe proved to be either a great success or a dismal failure – with tips on how to avoid the latter. In the same drawer I found all the Mother’s Day cards my sister and I had made in primary school, the “finger-width” measure between words (which the nuns had insisted upon) still visible on the page.
A great man for letters
My father was a great man of letters too, both in his business and private life. Many a manufacturer quaked on receiving a letter of complaint about their products; his precise words cutting to the core of the matter. He deplored spelling mistakes – in fact he took great pleasure during the early days of “Teletext” in ringing RTÉ to correct the abbreviations. Fair dues to them, they bowed to his demands for a while and he would sit looking at the TV until he saw the changes on screen. He set high standards for us when as teenagers in the Gaeltacht or on student exchange in France we would receive a well-crafted letter in Irish or French.
I remember one letter in particular when, as a young teacher, I spent a summer in Canada and was more than a little homesick. We had been travelling around with no fixed abode for a while and therefore had no contact from home. Towards the end of our trip, we spent a week in a college in the centre of Toronto. Each morning we passed a glass-walled post room in the quadrangle on our way to the dining hall. As all the regular students were absent, the numbered boxes were mostly empty. Imagine my delight when I spied an envelope addressed to me in the slot for my room! Sitting on the grass pouring over its contents reenergised me and helped me to enjoy the last few days of my stay. Obviously, dad understood the many benefits of putting pen to paper. In his carefully written memoirs he spoke about his involvement in a debating society: “Writing was a great training in self-expression and consequently I was never over-awed in the presence of anybody, especially of those who thought they were superior.”
My husband, by contrast, detests letter-writing. The only time he’s happy with a pen in his hand is when he’s scribbling the prices on a catalogue at a mart, especially if the livestock are his own – the more zeros the better! When we were in those hazy days of new love, I insisted he reply to a romantic declaration I had sent him. I realise now what a penance I had imposed. Yet, not wanting to disappoint, he did write back and has put his phrases of devotion into practice many times over through all the ups and downs of life.
Postcards were probably the old-fashioned equivalent of Twitter. Along with a basic introduction and sign-off, you had just enough space in the middle to write one condensed, meaningful sentence. Irish mammies used to prop them on the mantlepiece in full view of the neighbours when they dropped in for a cuppa – just to let them know how far their offspring had travelled. Lately, I found a postcard my six-year old son wrote when my sister and I took our respective children off together for a short holiday.
“Hi Daddy,
There is sea.
There is sand.
There is (sic) no lambs.
I miss you. XXX”
A letter I should have sent
The reason all these images of correspondence have flashed across my mind is because of one letter I wished I’d finished. When my mother died 20 years ago, I vowed to send a card every Christmas to a dear friend of hers. Many years passed thus and I would breathe a sigh of relief when a neat reply would pop back into my letterbox. Two years ago, no reply came. Some months later, I discovered she had moved into a nursing home and was unable to write back because of chronic arthritis in her hands. I got her address and a half-written letter was moved around my desk during a lazy autumn. The inevitable news arrived a few weeks later that she had passed away. I was taken aback by the waves of guilt and sadness that swept over me; realising how much a letter would have meant to her. I suddenly remembered the kind messages sent to me when my parents died; particularly as many of them came from people I wasn’t in every day contact with. Yet they took the time to express their sympathy so eloquently that I was humbled by their thoughtfulness.
Such memories spirited me back in time to the red formica-topped table in our kitchen when I was young, biting the top of my pen in frustration as my clumsy left hand deposited inky blobs on a thank-you note. I could hear my mother’s gentle chiding as she stirred soup on the cooker.
“Keep going, Val….. you may not think it’s worth the effort… but it matters.”
Just think of the smiles and comments you’ll elicit if you write someone a letter. No sterile email or text can ever match the ripping open of an envelope and the surprise felt when unexpected correspondence arrives. So if you have a few minutes to spare, write… write now.
Read more
Tell me again: treasuring the tales of the older generation
When a dog - not a diamond - is a girl's best friend
As we move towards the festive season, I have never heard so many people declare they are finished sending Christmas cards; cost of postage and lack of time being their main gripes. I’m tempted to follow suit this year as I know I become very tetchy until the last envelope is sealed. The process always starts with a review of last year’s list – crossing out (with a pang of sadness) the names of those who have departed this life and adding a few new acquaintances who have joined our circle of friends.
Yet I can’t bring myself to break with tradition because it involves signing off on my childhood where writing a little note of thanks for birthday presents etc. was compulsory. In an age when Facebook or texts didn’t exist, letter writing was inextricably woven into the fabric of our family life.
My mother kept up a correspondence throughout the year with the lady whose house we visited every August in Donegal. Mrs Kerr would send articles from the regional paper, recording all the “goings-on” in the area. Mam, in her turn, would comment on these events and give updates on all the trivia of our daily routine. My mother could then work her effortless magic on the locals when she arrived for her holiday on the shores of Mulroy Bay. The postmistress’s eyes would light up when she inquired about her niece’s wedding or the shopkeeper would beam with pride when she congratulated him on his son’s promotion in Letterkenny. This simple communication between the two women opened many avenues of friendship for us and an equal amount of precious memories.
Recently, I came across recipes my mother received from her best friend, who happened to be a home economics teacher. Difficult as it was to read the ingredients (well besmirched with flour and butter), the flip-side of each sheet was more interesting. Here were witty accounts of dinner parties where the recipe proved to be either a great success or a dismal failure – with tips on how to avoid the latter. In the same drawer I found all the Mother’s Day cards my sister and I had made in primary school, the “finger-width” measure between words (which the nuns had insisted upon) still visible on the page.
A great man for letters
My father was a great man of letters too, both in his business and private life. Many a manufacturer quaked on receiving a letter of complaint about their products; his precise words cutting to the core of the matter. He deplored spelling mistakes – in fact he took great pleasure during the early days of “Teletext” in ringing RTÉ to correct the abbreviations. Fair dues to them, they bowed to his demands for a while and he would sit looking at the TV until he saw the changes on screen. He set high standards for us when as teenagers in the Gaeltacht or on student exchange in France we would receive a well-crafted letter in Irish or French.
I remember one letter in particular when, as a young teacher, I spent a summer in Canada and was more than a little homesick. We had been travelling around with no fixed abode for a while and therefore had no contact from home. Towards the end of our trip, we spent a week in a college in the centre of Toronto. Each morning we passed a glass-walled post room in the quadrangle on our way to the dining hall. As all the regular students were absent, the numbered boxes were mostly empty. Imagine my delight when I spied an envelope addressed to me in the slot for my room! Sitting on the grass pouring over its contents reenergised me and helped me to enjoy the last few days of my stay. Obviously, dad understood the many benefits of putting pen to paper. In his carefully written memoirs he spoke about his involvement in a debating society: “Writing was a great training in self-expression and consequently I was never over-awed in the presence of anybody, especially of those who thought they were superior.”
My husband, by contrast, detests letter-writing. The only time he’s happy with a pen in his hand is when he’s scribbling the prices on a catalogue at a mart, especially if the livestock are his own – the more zeros the better! When we were in those hazy days of new love, I insisted he reply to a romantic declaration I had sent him. I realise now what a penance I had imposed. Yet, not wanting to disappoint, he did write back and has put his phrases of devotion into practice many times over through all the ups and downs of life.
Postcards were probably the old-fashioned equivalent of Twitter. Along with a basic introduction and sign-off, you had just enough space in the middle to write one condensed, meaningful sentence. Irish mammies used to prop them on the mantlepiece in full view of the neighbours when they dropped in for a cuppa – just to let them know how far their offspring had travelled. Lately, I found a postcard my six-year old son wrote when my sister and I took our respective children off together for a short holiday.
“Hi Daddy,
There is sea.
There is sand.
There is (sic) no lambs.
I miss you. XXX”
A letter I should have sent
The reason all these images of correspondence have flashed across my mind is because of one letter I wished I’d finished. When my mother died 20 years ago, I vowed to send a card every Christmas to a dear friend of hers. Many years passed thus and I would breathe a sigh of relief when a neat reply would pop back into my letterbox. Two years ago, no reply came. Some months later, I discovered she had moved into a nursing home and was unable to write back because of chronic arthritis in her hands. I got her address and a half-written letter was moved around my desk during a lazy autumn. The inevitable news arrived a few weeks later that she had passed away. I was taken aback by the waves of guilt and sadness that swept over me; realising how much a letter would have meant to her. I suddenly remembered the kind messages sent to me when my parents died; particularly as many of them came from people I wasn’t in every day contact with. Yet they took the time to express their sympathy so eloquently that I was humbled by their thoughtfulness.
Such memories spirited me back in time to the red formica-topped table in our kitchen when I was young, biting the top of my pen in frustration as my clumsy left hand deposited inky blobs on a thank-you note. I could hear my mother’s gentle chiding as she stirred soup on the cooker.
“Keep going, Val….. you may not think it’s worth the effort… but it matters.”
Just think of the smiles and comments you’ll elicit if you write someone a letter. No sterile email or text can ever match the ripping open of an envelope and the surprise felt when unexpected correspondence arrives. So if you have a few minutes to spare, write… write now.
Read more
Tell me again: treasuring the tales of the older generation
When a dog - not a diamond - is a girl's best friend
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