My trepidation turned to fascination as Sharon’s expert fingers quickly put the letters in order, bundling each with string by year. We placed the letters in a box made of fibre designed to protect them and keep them ordered. Those letters, 80 years entombed and ignored, were now officially out of the chest, organized and waiting to be read. “What a treasure you have there” Sharon said. “Let me know how things progress.” She gave me a gentle hug and was gone. As I watched her drive off a deep sigh escaped from my relaxing body. I had breached the force field. The letters were now mine.
The Inventory
The organized letters stared right through the box and reminded me that this was only the beginning. My next step was to do an inventory. It was the only way I could get the “big picture” so that I could set some target dates to keep me on track. The fear of losing momentum and drive was real and I was determined that the letter box would not collect dust on my shelf. The next step involved my opening each envelope, pulling out the letter, gently unfolding it and noting the date, sender and location. And so I began.
For encouragement, I placed an undated photo of Mom and Daddy within the plastic sleeve on the lid of the red box containing the letters. They are both wearing “dress” coats, hers with a shawl style fur collar, his atop a shirt and tie with double breasted buttons and a handkerchief tucked in the top pocket. His arm draws her in closely, his hat in hand visible at her hip. Mom’s hat, probably of felt, has a band with a buckle and a narrow brim sitting at slightly jaunty angle on her dark wavy hair. Their smiles are relaxed and radiant. I don’t recall ever seeing them stand so close together glowing with such happiness. Those contented smiles beamed at me as I lifted the lid to begin the work of scanning.
The letters were filed by string bound batches in a neat row just as Sharon had left them. I reached for the first one, alone in its pack labelled 1932. The cream coloured envelope felt soft in my trembling hands. The address, to Miss Sabina E. Carroll, Farrellton, Que. was written by my Dad with great flourishes of M’s and C’s, F’s and Q’s. A red 3c postage stamp of King George V, one edge curled away from the envelope, remained fixed on the top right corner. Across the stamp the word Martin could be made out, no doubt meaning Martindale, where my Dad lived. The back of the envelope is stamped Farrellton, July 5, year not visible.
I carefully folded back the flap on the envelope to reveal the letter within. The slight sliding sound of paper on paper as I slipped the letter out had a quieting effect on my rattled nerves. What was I going to discover?
