Letters to Bob
I've always been a sucker for snail mail. I probably have six or seven of those 5-inch black binders filled with clear page protectors that hold collections of every card / letter / drawing that anyone has ever given me. Those binders contain everything from a magic marker note that David Monterusso passed me, asking to "check yes or no" if I wanted to be his girlfriend (ten years after George Strait's hit... but at least five years before I ever heard it) to a 3-page letter that my high-school science teacher left at my graduation party with words of wisdom for my journey to MSU, as well as many beautiful handmade notecards that my Aunt Jeanne always used to make. Now, just because I've always liked getting mail (who doesn't?) doesn't mean I was always the best at sending it. My Grandma Jane was a huge advocate for letter writing. When I went away ('went away') to Michigan State she would send a thoughtful response back to each letter I wrote and always included a crisp $20 bill along with her note. (Still wondering why I didn't make that a weekly routine??) Those letters remain a very real, very personal connection to my Grandmother even though she is no longer with us. Wisdom, love, history, not to mention, a window to a 1/4 of my genetic make-up, lies in that cursive ink. So why then, do so many of these significant stories go untold? Lost in letters, journals, minds?
When looking at the spectrum of life, it is easy to see the importance of youth. To allocate resources for education, for health, for safety. This is no question. They will be our future. If you mentor one child, they say, that child may go on to be an engineer or a doctor or (heaven forbid!) a marketing professional. With proper guidance they will grow to become valuable members of society. They will boost our economy and solve future problems. But what about the other end of the spectrum? What about the people who have already sacrificed? Already put in 'their time' to the world? Didn't they boost the economy? Work? Spend? Create? Live? Love? Now they... wait?
How many people take the time to listen to the stories? *LISTEN* to the stories. Not just humor someone. Learn from them. In 2009 my boyfriend of many years' grandparents moved from California to Michigan. His Grandma was 92 and frail. She had recently been diagnosed with cancer and they moved into a condo along with Drew's mom. In April of 2009 she passed away. She never did like Michigan much. So what happens to a man who just lost his wife of 65+years? Who does he turn to with his stories when no one else has an accurate point-of-reference? His daughter's heard them all. His grandchildren don't live in town. Are his memories no longer valid? Is his history null? I struggled with these questions. As someone who really likes to tell stories, I ached for this man who no longer had an audience. Selfishly I hurt as I looked upon him, praying I always have someone there to listen.
In 2009 change was the only constant in my life and it seemed that computer screens were relentlessly challenging me to staring contests. I needed some roots to grab on to. Some solid ground to rest my feet and some old fashion friendship. That's when Bob and I became penpals. Drew and I had since broke up, but we remained friends. He would sometimes joke that I had to stop writing to Bob because his family wasn't allowed an adequate grieving time to exit our relationship and, someday, when he was bound to bring a new girl home, there would be no way to compare. Ha!
Bob's letters are some of the loveliest I have ever received. These days he prefers to type them instead of hand-writing. He creates his personalized letterhead and prints his own envelopes. Once I received a birthday card with my own face on it. It was pixelated to the point of resembling the side of a rubix cube, but it was my face none-the-less. This year, for Christmas, Bob and his daughter Linda took pictures as I strolled along Ottawa Ave. dressed as Clifford the Big Red Dog during the Grand Rapids Santa Claus Parade. He printed me a 16x20 copy of one of the pictures and attached it to some foam core. It now hangs in my office and my co-workers think it's ridiculous. Sometimes I stop by to check on Bob. Make sure he's still going to church, attending some lecture here or there, and at least talking to someone non-blood related.
Every time that I stop over to see Bob I learn something new. Sometime it's a new joke. A new riddle. The specs of his new laser printer. It doesn't really matter what it is, because at the heart, I know that I learn a little deeper what it means to have a friend. I believe that cross-generational friendships can be some of the most beneficial relationships in our lives and that we have so much to learn from those who came before us... and are still accessible! How could we ever pass that opportunity by? Yet, we do, right? All of us, do, I'm guessing. I certainly don't practice what I preach nearly enough in my efforts to listen to those who came before, but I will say that I'm working on it, and I encourage you to do the same. There is so much wisdom that is silenced unless it is given a voice.
