Organization forgotten.
There’s something special about a handwritten letter. About getting an envelope with pretty stamps in the mail. Those letters that we set aside for a moment while we make a cup of tea or coffee, so we can sit and really enjoy it. These connections tie us together tighter than a phone call or text message can.
Naturally, when I finished reading through the stack, I grabbed my tin of older letters and kept going. There are birthday cards, wedding announcements, birth announcements with photos, and sadly, death notices. Letters on fragile blue Airmail paper, and Christmas greetings in beautiful cards.
My Oma’s spikey Kurrentschrift, my Tante’s Sutterlin, and Opa’s distinct handwriting got a little shakier as he got older. Although all are written in correct style, I know their individual handwriting as well as I know their faces.
I looked again at the photos with inscriptions on the back. And the photos without.
Note: Please remember to put details on the back of the photos! Or someone down the line will be wondering… Who WAS that child??
As the tech changed, I would get handwritten faxes from my cousin. The paper faded with age, and there’s still a curl. Later came the emails that I always printed up and tucked into my box. But there were still handwritten cards, postcards, photos, and even drawings by my cousin’s children.
And I felt connected to my family. I realized how much each of these letters and cards means to me. And I felt remiss that I’ve also taken the quick-and-easy route of WhatsApp or email.
It’s a funny thing, growing up thousands of miles away from extended family with a different language and culture. The threads that tie us together are stretched so tightly. But the letters, the common memories, hold us together. It makes me feel a part of something bigger.
Maybe because of this, over the past few years, I’ve been digging deeper into our family tree. Years ago, my maternal Opa hired someone to build our family Stammbaum. I’ve sifted through stacks of typed papers (How do I know it was typed? Crossouts and whiteout show). There’s even a dubious-looking family crest. And on my father’s side, there’s a Stammbaum written in tiny cursive. Oof. I actually use a magnifying glass!
Still, much to my delight, the digging has paid off. I’ve matched names to online birth certificates and wedding registrations. And I’m meeting cousins who are a few times removed, online. We share stories and photos. Old black-and-white photos of great-grandparents I’ve never seen before, and modern snapshots of our families today. I print those emails to put in my tin. These connections make my world both bigger and smaller. Bigger because there are more people in it, smaller, because we found each other.
And I’m over the moon, because now it’s time for a second tin.
