Dear Reader,
It is my pleasure to share with you one of the writing entries awarded Honorable Mention in this year's Write a DearReader Contest. Today's Honorable Mention piece was written by Karen Schoch. Thank you so much Karen for sharing your story with us.
My sisters and I called them her love letters. My mother had stacks of letters written to her by my father during World War II when he was stationed in North Africa. Four years’ worth as a matter of fact We knew where she kept them, up in the attic in an old cabinet, bundled together with string and rubber bands. It was fun to sneak a peek once in a while, and as children we never looked at it as an invasion of personal space and neither did my mother. The letters just cemented the knowledge we had that my parents really loved each other, having met on a blind date through my mother’s cousin who was in the same Army unit as my father. Fate. A chance meeting. And a forever after love story.
The story of the blind date at the local amusement park, getting stuck in the Tunnel of Love, and the four years of being apart because of the war, were cherished stories that we heard often. Every now and then, when we asked, my mother would show us some of the letters. Letters that contained words blackened so you couldn’t read them and whole words and phrases cut out of them, illustrating the censorship caused by being at war. But the majority of time the letters rested untouched in that old cabinet up in the attic.
My parents were wonderful people and my growing up years were happy and secure. They were loving, respectful of others and of each other, and always had our best interests at heart. We went camping, had picnics with friends, always ate dinner together, and took a yearly trip to that infamous local amusement park. Life got interesting when, at age thirty eight, my mother had my baby sister. Being seven years older, I looked upon my new sister as my personal plaything. I was the middle child. My older sister was eleven. My poor father! With three girls in the house I imagine he never got more than five minutes in our one bathroom on a daily basis.
Time marched on and we sisters grew up, went on to college and work, got married, and lived our lives. My father became terminally ill and passed away within 9 months of his diagnosis, devastating all of us, but most of all my mother. She was never the same, she missed him every single day. One summer, she retrieved the letters waiting so patiently in the attic cabinet, read every single one, and then destroyed them all. When we heard what she had done, my sisters and I were incredulous and heartbroken. How could she do such a thing? As we thought about it, though, we came to realize that the letters belonged to no one else but her. Personal, meaningful, and hers alone.
Some years later, my mother passed away from the same disease that took my father. Life seemed so very cruel to take them both the same way and at such a young age. At least my mother got to know her four grandchildren. The house, with its attic cabinet, has been sold... more than once. I miss them both, but so very fondly think of the letters, their love for each other, and how that legacy has so positively affected my sisters and me. Like a love letter to us.
– Karen Schoch, Honorable Mention, 2022 Write a DearReader Contest
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
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* This month's Penguin Classics is Metamorphosis by Ovid, a sensuous and witty poem in an accessible translation by David Raeburn. I have a copy of the book to share with a lucky reader, so start reading and enter for your chance to win.
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