Yet, I knew these letters were precious to Mom and to be respected. After all, had she not wanted me to read them she could have destroyed them. Instead, she left them to me. What did Mom want me to know? To pass on? Did I want to know tales of passion, secrets, and survival during the years of the Great Depression? I had a litany of reasons not to delve into the letters: too much work, not enough information, who cares anyway? What would I discover? Would I feel bad about not understanding their lives while they were here? Would I feel that I was an intruder? Would I judge them?
I reminded myself that Mom had entrusted the letters to me, she had faith in my decisions and actions, and so, I decided to proceed. I certainly couldn’t leave the letters untouched or in the hands of someone else. If nothing else, the letters would give me the opportunity to pay tribute to my parents who persevered through happy and challenging times before I was born. Moreover, if I put aside my fears I could honour my parents’ writing. Maybe the letters would provide me with the unique opportunity of knowing them before they even knew me. I loved my parents and from the bits I had picked up from Mom I knew I would appreciate them even more after reading the letters. In the end, I wasn’t disappointed.
Getting at It
“Scan them” I was told when I asked anyone who seemed to indicate they had any expertise or interest in old family documents. “All old documents deteriorate so you’ll want to get a record while they are still readable. Then transcribe them – that’s where you’ll get the emotion.” Oh dear, that would mean reading them. Even scanning the letters meant getting them out of their resting place of over 80 years.
I turned to a friend, Alwyn, who has expertise in qualitative research methods. She analyses written data to find themes and patterns and is open to whatever may emerge. “Proceed slowly,” she advised, “Don’t decide on themes too soon.” Her recommendation was to immerse myself in the letters and stay open to anything I might find. I was teetering on the edge of the pool but needed a push to plunge in.
To my great relief, I met a retired librarian who was enthusiastic about seeing the letters, assessing their condition, advising on storage and suggesting an approach. The moment was upon me to dig into the chest and give the letters air and light. I opened the chest quickly, scooped out the disorganized mound of letters and raced downstairs to put them on the dining room table where Sharon waited. It felt like I was ripping a bandaid off a wound.
