The young garden

Easter 2016
Just look at this blowsy camellia of mine.

April weather has been fickle, but I pull open the curtains every morning with pleasure and note how my front yard is coming back to life. I’ve been in a mood lately and studying English cottages and gardens with my typical fervor. I have such strong ambitions for my meager garden, and I feel like a failure more than half the time, but the context of English gardening has made me feel more relaxed. First, it is very loose and impressionistic. Gardens are simply packed with every conceivable flower and shrub, with little form or order imposed. Second, the English have been gardening for hundreds and hundreds of years. A refined plantsman in one of the books said his garden was so young; it was only 20 years old. This surprised and comforted me. I recall that my garden is four years old; it is but a mewling thing, inchoate and desperate to be tended. I have a long way to go until it feels finished, and I am happy about that. Because maybe a garden is never finished.

Next: To figure out how to persuade Guion to jack up our horrible concrete walk and replace it with pea gravel. (I mean, I’ll help, but it’s such man’s work.) This project feels incredibly essential to me right now. I’m also hankering after a Virginia rose, but I can’t find one anywhere.

There is a very old tin of Burt’s Bees’ lemon butter cuticle cream at my desk; I use it infrequently. When my grandmother was alive, I’d give her this cream every year for Christmas. She’d clasp the little circular tin in her narrow fingers and say, “Oh, I have needed this! My cuticles get so dry!” She’d say this every year as she unwrapped it, even though she probably knew she was getting the same thing she got every year, and it pleased me. Whenever I use the stuff, the faint lemony scent makes me think of her, and I smile.

Now that I am 30, I have put childish ways behind me:

  • I am acclimatizing myself to being referred to as a “nice lady”; it is horrible beyond words to be called this.
  • I think I’m still in college, but then when I meet an actual college student, I think, Good grief, look at this infant.
  • I have to repeatedly Google the meanings of acronyms that my young colleague uses in Slack.
  • I want to be in my bed, skincare routine complete, by 10 every night.
  • I cannot fathom wearing a bikini in public. It now feels inappropriate, to show this much flesh in my old age.

Recently, in reading life:

I’ve fallen in love with Teju Cole, and I feel a particular bitterness toward my boss for loving him before I did, as if I have to lay claim to an author first, before anyone else recommended him to me, as if that mattered at all. If I heard that Teju Cole was speaking somewhere nearby, I’d probably travel an unconscionably long while just to hear him. I read the infinitely strange Two Serious Ladies, by Jane Bowles, and I have been thinking about her ever since; I lent it to a colleague, and he gave me the slim volume of Paul Bowles’s Tangiers diary, and I am curious about what kind of marriage they must have had. I’m reading Spring, the latest little release from Karl Ove Knausgaard, and it charms me in all the predictable ways that he works on me. Specifically, he has this magic for making me ponder questions that I don’t encounter anywhere else. The one that has been haunting me lately is what is personality FOR? What is its function? I’ve been asking lots of people this question lately, and Grace M. gave the best answer I’ve heard yet: That human animals have personality because it makes society better; different personalities fulfill different roles, and so we have a collaborative, healthy, diverse community because of the multiplicity of temperaments.

I feel like I should surrender as a creative writer. I sat down to write a story recently, and was feeling into it, coasting along in this great groove, and then I stopped and re-read the character I thought had sprung from my fresh mind. I had just written an exact replica of Elio from Call Me By Your Name, down to the lounging on a mattress listening to classical music daydreaming about boys. What a hack! My brain is a thief. I give up.

Her towels, her house

A pair of colorful beach towels, folded so that they resemble books on a shelf, reside in my coat closet. I have left them there, undisturbed, for almost a year now. They belonged to my grandmother. She died a year ago today.

Oddly enough, I have strong memories of these towels. Ma-Maw would wrap us kids up in them when we’d dash into their house from the lake. We’d be shivering in the freezing house, dripping all over her floors in our Disney one-pieces, and she’d have a stack of these big beach towels by the door to fold us in.

The towels came into my possession when my mother gave me three framed prints from Japan that lived in my grandparents’ house.

Home, August 2016
One of the prints.

I had always loved these prints, as a child, because of my study of Japanese, and I was honored to receive them. To protect the frames in the car, Mom had wrapped them in these two towels.

When I unwrapped the prints, shortly after her funeral, I burst into tears in my dining room. Not because of the art but because of the towels. The towels smelled exactly like her. It was as if she was suddenly in the room next to me. My eyes still swim with tears when I remember this, which is strange, that the mere memory of a scent could produce such a strong reaction.

The towels don’t really smell like her anymore. Over the past year, they’ve absorbed our scent, whatever it is (probably a mix of old books and German shepherd dander), and lost hers. But if I bury my face in them, nose deep into the well-worn fibers, I can pick up the faintest hint of her.

I am not sentimental about objects. I throw everything away with gleeful fervor. But these towels, weird as they may be, may always live in my closet, untouched, unused.

Sapona Lane
Me, in front of their house, in August 1995, apparently.

The last time we saw my grandparents’ house was the day of my grandmother’s funeral. All 10 of us grandkids went together, as a final pilgrimage to the house that we so adored.

We silently split up and wandered through the house, each of us taking a separate path, seeking out the room we had most loved: And I remember how sad and somber it felt, because she was not there. The house itself seemed to wilt. There were mildewy patterns on the gingerbread trim. Even the shadows seemed gloomy. The things that were once cute—a concrete owl on the front porch, her numerous rabbit figurines—now were strange and sad.

Grandkids at Sapona Lane
The last time we saw the house. March 2016.

“It was as if the house knew they weren’t living there anymore,” I told my mother, and she agreed. The house took on a grief of its own.

The house is sold now, and I am glad of it. Not only because of the needed income for my grandfather but because it would be horrible to keep thinking of it empty, without the two of them. The house needs a new life, just as we do.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the loss of her. I don’t expect to. But it is comforting to remember her, in all of the ways that she resurfaces in my life.

Women in my family have taught me

Advice from the women in my family.

My mother

Christmas 2015Buy nice hand soap. Make your home a warm and welcoming place for guests. Be a kickass business owner who isn’t afraid to negotiate, with everyone, for everything. Never settle for uncomfortable jeans, even if they’re on sale. Take care of your nails (stop painting them). Sit down and eat a good meal, mostly derived from the earth, and don’t worry so much about hard-core exercise. Tend a garden. Take walks.

My grandmother Lucy

Ma-Maw getting some bun cuddles.Take care of your face. Invest in expensive face creams. Be proud of your family; tell them how proud of them you are whenever you see them. Create and cherish family traditions. Find your signature scent and do not deviate. Write and send cards to people on every conceivable occasion.* (*At Ma-Maw’s funeral, a woman came up to me and told me that Ma-Maw sent her dog a birthday card.)

My grandmother Loretta

GranBe direct with people about what you want; don’t hedge. Laugh a lot: loudly and daily. Tell stories and crack jokes in every social interaction. Making fun of people is a nice way to show that you care. Consider the needs of dogs, first and foremost. Take risks and do not give any weight to cultural opinions. Show off your legs.

My sister Kelsey

Easter 2016Be confident about yourself and your appearance. Marie Kondo your entire home; if you bring home one new thing, throw out one old thing. Reserve time for kissing and cuddling. Take care of everyone around you; be uncannily prescient about predicting others’ needs. Prioritize your own needs on a long road trip (e.g., chicken nuggets and a milkshake).

My sister Grace

It's so hard having hot sisters #farsonsSee the whole damn world. Do what you want with your life and ignore conventions. Hoard creative material and ideas and make no apologies for the rats’ nest that is your childhood room/closet. Dress like you just went on a trip to Japan and found out that your life calling is to be a potter (who also owns a motorcycle and two pit bulls). You can never have too many notebooks.

My great aunt Lib

Found photo: Aunt LibRead everything and write long letters full of great sentences. Tell stories in every conversation. Invent your own catchphrases and use them liberally. Preserve an irreverent sense of humor in all circumstances. Be a lady who gets things done and doesn’t let anyone stand in her way.

Lucy

My beloved grandmother passed away on 28 February. Following is the eulogy I delivered at her funeral on 5 March.

Young LucyAs we remember the bright and beautiful life of Mary Lucy Land Johnson—known by most as Lucy and known to me as Ma-Maw—it is important to note, up front, that her primary love language was baked goods. Pies, specifically. And cakes. Not many years ago, while she was battling cancer, in the course of an afternoon, she made twenty-two cranberry pies to give to friends and to the oncology nurses and staff at the hospital. Twenty-two pies! In a day. Her strawberry cake and her three-layer cream cheese pineapple cake were family staples. As you all probably know, Lucy was a true Southern woman who knew that one of the swiftest ways to love people was through food. And we can all confirm, she certainly made outstanding food. And more than that, she made her family and friends feel deeply loved and cared for throughout her life.

Lucy’s loving nature is what we will all remember her for. I think most of us would be hard-pressed to name another person who was as constantly brimming with hospitality and generosity as she was. Her sweet and incandescent smile, spreading over her high cheekbones and fabulously, miraculously youthful skin, will not soon fade from our collective memories.

Mary Lucy Land was born on April 26, 1931, to Clarice Fulcher Land and Harry Lynwood Land. She was born in Norfolk, Virginia, and though she lived most of her adult life in North Carolina, Virginia always held a very special place in her heart. When my husband and I were considering moving to Charlottesville, Virginia, she told me, “I prayed about it, and God told me that you should move to Virginia. It is, after all, God’s country.” She said in the secretive but confident voice of one who most likely had a direct line to God, which I believe she did.

She was raised on her grandparents’ farm in Amherst, Virginia, after her father died when she was 3. Her Aunt Mabel and Uncle Teap took care of her and one of her siblings while their mother supported the family—including Lucy and her older sister, Dot, and their two brothers, Elburn and Allan—by teaching in a one-room schoolhouse.

Lucy was a fun-loving and independent girl, and she used to delight my sisters and I with tales of her (admittedly minor) teenage rebellions. Her mother, a devout Baptist, forbade Lucy and her sister, Dot, from wearing any makeup, so Lucy would sneak a tube of red lipstick in the pocket of her dress and put it on while she walked to school and then be sure to remember to wipe it off on her walk home. Lucy was also tough and energetic, and she served as captain of her high school basketball team—a fact that always impressed us grandkids mightily.

After high school, she followed her sister Dot to Charlotte, North Carolina, where she took business classes and worked for an insurance company. In Charlotte, she and Dot lived with a fun-loving group of single women who called themselves “Girls’ Town.”

It was there in Charlotte that she met a tall, handsome young gentleman by the name of Edwin Rushing Johnson, or Pete, at St. John’s Baptist Church. Another suitor had asked Lucy on a date, but she turned him down, saying, “No way; you are too short.” But then she pointed to Pete across the room and said, “But he is tall enough!” Soon, Pete and Lucy started sitting together in the balcony during Sunday services. Pete was so nervous to be next to the lovely Lucy Land during church that he would gallantly hold the hymnal for her—but upside down. And then they could be found chatting at ice cream socials and so on. Pete and Lucy started dating, and he would take her out every weekend he was home from Wofford College.

On September 5, 1953, Pete and Lucy were married at St. John’s by their beloved Dr. Claude Broach. Pete and Lucy were members of St. John’s for 30 years and then were faithful members for another 30 years at First Baptist Church of Albemarle.

covermaybeI won’t be able to make it to the end of this speech if I have to tell you about all of the ways that Pete and Lucy have demonstrated true love. So, suffice it to say, this was a marriage that we could all strive to emulate. The most significant lesson about love that I have learned from my grandparents is that there can be joy in sacrifice. They loved each other tirelessly, but they were always full of light and humor when they were together. Pete and Lucy were extremely generous with one another, but they also had a lot of FUN too. Watching them interact with and care for each other in these difficult past few years has been enough to break your heart but then heal it again—to realize that such a transcendental and holy love is actually possible on earth.  All of their lives, Pete and Lucy were tender and kind to one another. Yes, I am sure they squabbled from time to time—they were not perfect, but I think they came pretty close to it.

Pete and Lucy had three children: Mary Elizabeth, now Betsy Almond; Teresa Lynn, now Teresa Farson, who is also my mother; and Edwin Rushing Jr., also known as Rush. They delighted in Betsy, Teresa, and Rush, and I have to say, from my vantage point, Pete and Lucy did a pretty commendable job raising their children. Each one of them reflects their mother in a variety of ways. Betsy has Lucy’s fun, playful spirit and unflinching devotion to her family members; Teresa has Lucy’s deeply sacrificial nature and her tremendous gift of hospitality; and Rush has her gentleness and love of tradition and family values.

Pete and Lucy with baby Mary Elizabeth (Betsy)After the kids were grown, Pete and Lucy moved to Norwood, to a beautiful Victorian house with gingerbread trim and a wraparound porch, right on Lake Tillery. They began attending First Baptist Church, where she volunteered with the church youth group and started the Fifth Sunday Luncheon. She also started working at the Cheer Shop at Stanly County Hospital, where she worked and volunteered for 25 years. Lucy also created and organized the hospital’s fundraising winter ball for years.

Pete and Lucy traveled all over the world together, often with Pete’s brother Joe and his wife, Suzanne. They especially loved Europe and visited France, Italy, Germany, the Czech Republic, just to name a few. They even went to Morocco together, which I, for one, find very impressive. They took a cruise to Alaska and drove cross-country across Canada and the United States. During their cross-country treks, they would bring their famous giant white styrofoam coolers, and Lucy would carefully pack the coolers full of food and sandwiches to minimize the amount of time that they would have to stop.

On one of their favorite trips, they took the Orient Express across Europe with Joe and Suzanne and Pete’s eldest sister, Lib. It was Lucy’s birthday, and Pete had told the chef that she loved chocolate and raspberries. The chef brought out a giant silver platter with this enormous chocolate mousse and raspberry confection, and they all ate it so quickly that everyone felt queasy afterward. But Lucy maintained it was all worth it.

Lucy was an excellent seamstress throughout her life. She’d create Easter dresses for the girls, without patterns sometimes, and if you ever had a need for homemade drapes or quilts or fancy bedskirts, Lucy was your girl. She loved arts and crafts; whatever was in vogue, Lucy was crafting it.

She also had a powerful obsession with rabbits. She started collecting rabbit figurines and bunny paraphernalia in adulthood, and over the decades, she amassed a remarkable collection. When I was a little girl, I was looking for something to do while at Ma-Maw and Da-Dan’s house, and so I decided to catalog all of the rabbits. I went from room to room with a pad of paper and counted all of the rabbits, and after about an hour, I had my grand total: 425 rabbits. Yes. In one house.

She loved shoes and frequently lamented her extremely narrow feet. She also loved putting together the perfect outfit. An “outfit” was an important sartorial construct for Lucy, and I loved that about her. Clothes were a carefully selected uniform, which communicated how much she cared about being with people and social events; she picked out the perfect lavender blouse to go with the white slacks and topped it off with her favorite bird’s nest brooch, and then she was ready for society. I don’t have to tell you that she always looked fabulous.

Lucy also probably singlehandedly kept her local Hallmark store in business. I think this may have been one of the only things that she and Da-Dan ever quarrelled about: how much money she spent on greeting cards. She loved the art of the emotionally perfect greeting card. Every year, at every birthday and holiday, we’d all get carefully chosen cards, each one with a sweet and personalized message from Ma-Maw and pertinent phrases meticulously underlined.

MM and Sam, boatingI would like to say that you have not known truly unconditional love on this earth unless you either (a) own a dog or (b) are one of Lucy Johnson’s grandchildren. Fellow grandkids, isn’t it remarkable to note that, in Ma-Maw’s eyes, we have never, ever done anything wrong? According to her, we are sinless! We used to joke that Ma-Maw could have ended the Iraq war if we had told her that Saddam Hussein had insulted one of her grandkids; she would have taken care of him swiftly.

She adored her children and doted on her 10 grandchildren: From Betsy, Matt came first, and then from Betsy and Jeff, Emily; from my parents, Teresa and Jak, there’s me, Kelsey, Grace, and Sam; and then from Rush and Cindi, Hunter, Pete, Parker, and Mary Elizabeth. If you ever visited Pete and Lucy in Norwood, you may have seen what we called “the Grandkids’ Shrine.” It was a big round table in the formal living room that had dozens of photos of the 10 grandkids at every stage of life. Although I can attest that we grandkids are all far from flawless, in Ma-Maw’s eyes, we were never anything but perfect.

One of Lucy’s many gifts was making people in her life feel special and cherished, especially on their birthdays and on holidays.

Grandparents through Grace's lensShe loved celebrating holidays and had an impressive store of decorations for her house at every major event. At Valentine’s Day, there were chocolates and hearts; at Easter, there were elegant baskets for everyone filled with candy and gifts, and a dainty “Easter tree” that we’d help her decorate with tiny, fragile egg and bunny ornaments; they hosted their famous annual Fourth of July gathering at the lake, and we kids would spend hours in the water and then everyone would gather to eat at tables on their wraparound porch. And then Christmas—Christmas was her magnum opus. She pulled out all the stops for Christmas. There was an immaculately decorated tree, seasonal food (a birthday cake for Jesus; Ruby Red grapefruit juice, sausage & egg casserole, and English muffins for breakfast; beef tenderloin for dinner), and piles and piles of presents. My brother Sam always liked to say that Christmas lived at Ma-Maw and Da-Dan’s house, and that was in large part due to Ma-Maw working her holiday magic.

For many years, when we grandkids were young, Ma-Maw and Da-Dan would have us stay with them for a weekend on our birthdays. We looked forward to those visits so much; we were treated like little kings and queens. We got to go shopping with Ma-Maw; she’d dress us girls up and curl our hair; and then we’d play by the lake or go fishing with Da-Dan. We were served unlimited cake and cartoons, and we never wanted to go home at the end of the weekend. She loved playing with us and talking to us about our interests. I think she saved every little scribble and drawing that we ever made at her house. She was perpetually involved in our lives—sending us cards and letters and care packages when we were away at school—and coming to see us whenever we came back into town.

Grandparents through Grace's lensAnd she was never one to pass up a good time with her family; on a memorable day many years ago, we even convinced her to play street hockey with the grandkids. She ended up getting checked by a feisty granddaughter (I won’t name names) but popped right up and was very brave and cheerful about the whole incident, despite the fact that she chipped a tooth and had a black eye. In typical Ma-Maw fashion, while she was being nursed on the sofa, she suddenly sprang up and said, “Oh, but I have to go make the coleslaw!”

We who have been fortunate enough to know Lucy Johnson will continue to reflect her in our lives. A person cannot help but be radically changed by receiving that kind of unconditional love. She will not soon fade from our memories, and I pray that we can honor her by showing each other even just a fraction of the kind of love and hospitality that she lavished on us. We all remember her with grateful and humble hearts.

Thanksgiving

There is a lot to be thankful for this year, even amid the sadness. I am so in love with my family and so full of gratitude for each of them. A few photos from our week at home.

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Suffused

Heading to their first home in Spartanburg, SC; Sept. 1953
My grandparents, heading to their first home together (in Spartanburg, SC), September 1953.

I’m working on a project about my maternal grandparents’ love story right now, which basically means I’ve been spending a lot of time hunched over a scanner, weeping. This photo, in particular, just wrecks me. I can’t look at it for too long or I will summarily lose it. He is so handsome and casual, and she is so adorably plucky, perched there on the hitch between that proto-U-Haul and their car.

Why does old age have to be so cruel? I am absolutely crushed by the unfairness of it all.

I think about them, and my parents, night and day, without relief.

(Somewhat related: I’ve decided that I would like to die instantaneously, in a fiery car crash, when I am 75.)

In lighter news, we are constantly grateful for what marvelous friends we have and how much they love and support us and make us laugh and inspire us. This is the main reason we have no plans for leaving Charlottesville.

 

Patrick’s wedding and Mother’s Day in NC

We spent the weekend in NC to celebrate Patrick’s wedding and Mother’s Day. It was so lovely to be with everyone; I only regret that the time seemed to fly by. Requisite photo dump!

Rehearsal dinner and wedding festivities

Family weekend
Sexy sister & bro.
Family weekend
Jak loves to ruin photo ops.
Family weekend
Us. Playing along.
Family weekend
Paul (best man), Mom, and Patrick (groom).
Family weekend
Backup bridesmaids.
Family weekend
#truelove
Family weekend
Sisters ready to go.
Family weekend
Mom surveys the landscape.
Family weekend
Bro!
Family weekend
Sisters, redux.

Family time

Kelsey loves dog wrangling.
Kelsey loves dog wrangling.
Family weekend
Ma-Maw and Grace.

Family weekend

Family weekend
With Cousin Emz.
Family weekend
Sam and MM.
Family weekend
Da-Dan is the best.
Family weekend
Wry husband.
Family weekend
Eden getting some fetching lessons from Juju.
Family weekend
And Pyrrha gets some love from Emily.
Motorcycle mama
Finally, hot grandma on Jak’s new toy.

Family in Hatteras

We spent more than week away from the “real world,” which was magical.

First, we spent a little time in the Pines with Nettles

Nettles at some lake in Whispering Pines
Chris in some lake.
Nettles at some lake in Whispering Pines
Juliana reads Jhumpa Lahiri on the dock.

and left Pyrrha at doggy summer camp with Guion’s wonderful parents, and her puppy BFF, Georgia.

Doggy summer camp

And then we went to Hatteras and ate lots of food and talked and wandered around on the beach.

View from our beach house
View from our beach house.
Grandmothers on the deck
Ma-Maw and Gran.

I didn’t get any glamorous beach shots, because I didn’t want to take Louis in the sun and water, but these two photos give you a general idea of what we mostly did (ate and talked and ate and talked, and sometimes watched appallingly riveting television, such as “Swamp People”).

Beach laziness
MM, Kelsey, and Alex.

Beach laziness

You guys, I love these people that I happen to be related to by blood (and marriage).

Week 5: A letter a day

In honor of my sister Grace, I am imposing a set of weekly challenges on myself. For 12 weeks, I will attempt a different “challenge” each week–to do one thing every day for seven days, ranging from serious to silly. At the end of each week, I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’ve been writing letters since I could scribble and I’ve had pen-pals (from Japan to Peru to all over the U.S.) since I was probably 8 or 9. As you probably know if you’ve spent any amount of time with me, I have a lot of love for the handwritten word. I think it’s a deep shame that its value is vanishing in the 21st century. I still write a lot of letters today and I am thankful for a great cadre of women who are willing to write me back! In tribute to them, I set out this week to write a letter a day.

(You can click on the photos to enlarge them.)

Day 1: To Windy

I’m always a little bit intimidated when I write my mother-in-law, because she is a legitimate calligrapher; she’s the real deal. But she’s always been 110% supportive of my calligraphic endeavors and I am so thankful to have her as a resource! I think it’s such crazy fate, that I would end up with an amazing mother-in-law who also practices calligraphy. Windy is one of the most optimistic and open-hearted people I’ve ever met. She’s also a lot of fun. I’m very thankful for her and for the ways she has welcomed me into her family.

Day 2: To Ma-Maw

My grandmother is probably my most faithful correspondent. I get her little letters and notes almost once a week and I always look forward to them. She fills me in on her busy schedule and other family happenings; I tend to get most of my family news through her. She’s spunky and sweet and I love her to death.

Day 3: To Mom

I don’t often write my mom letters–we tend to stick to e-mails–but I felt like she deserved a note, because everyone deserves a handwritten note in the mail! Mom also has excellent handwriting, even though she pretends like she doesn’t. She also possesses a great collection of stationery that’s constantly making me envious (and anxious to snatch some whenever I come home!). Writing her is always very smooth and comfortable, because I don’t ever have to justify or explain myself to her. She already knows. Moms are omniscient like that.

Day 4: To Kathryn

Kathryn was one of my first friends at UNC and most recently served as one of my bridesmaids. As our friendship has progressed, Kathryn has remained my rock when I struggle with life’s big questions or with doubts about my faith. She’s always been there for me. K.B. is now in law school in Raleigh and I’m confident she’s making a big splash there. We’ve exchanged a few letters since we swapped states and I always love hearing from her; I really want to make her handwriting into a font, too.

Day 5: To Emily

Emily overwhelms me with her sincerity, imagination, and laudable skill in self-expression. Her letters are gems. Somehow she always knows what to say and exactly how to say it. I’ve missed her more than I can say and my letters to her are mostly messy, rambling things about our lives and artistic ambitions. She’s always been so encouraging to me and I couldn’t do without her. I’m going to stay with her next weekend in Durham and I am absolutely thrilled about it. Can’t wait!

Day 6: To Catherine

Catherine is the classiest woman I know. She is not only a curator of finer things, but she is also experienced in the practice of finer things (e.g., she is an impeccable dresser, a gifted ballerina, and an accomplished violinist). She also has a heart of gold and seemingly endless reservoirs of sympathy. Catherine is also deeply hilarious and I love nothing better than a whole day with her.

Day 7: To Angela

Angela is my loyal, endlessly entertaining, and honest friend who is also a brilliant writer, programmer, MFA graduate student, Slate journalist, and Mary-Kate Olsen enthusiast. She can literally do everything. I love her so much and earnestly believe that my life would be comparatively dull without her. Her letters are bursts of energy and joy and always very creatively packaged.

WHAT I LEARNED:

  • Sometimes, starting a letter without the standard pleasantries (“How have you been? How’s the weather?”) is easier. Now, I prefer to jump right into a subject. My English correspondent Diane has always been very good about this.
  • Having pretty stamps makes me a whole lot happier about sending letters. I am loving these Chinese New Years stamps that G. picked up for me.
  • I think I’ve always inherently known this, but writing letters is a therapeutic experience for me. It is very calming to sit down and write a letter at the end of a long, hectic day. Thankfully, I have sympathetic listeners!

Next week, I will be attempting to write and edit those pesky short stories that have been lingering on my laptop for weeks…