Last week, I got thinking about all the boxes and bins that I have been avoiding. I set up a specific goal for myself, the only way I could even contemplate beginning to deal with them: Go through one box per day. Not every day. But only one box. No more. I know I can easily get caught up in, "Oh, this wasn't so hard, so lets do another and another and another," and before too long, I would be destroyed.
I grab a cardboard box off the shelf in the garage. Wonder what is in here?
It's full of letters I wrote to Rob (O Bob) after he went off to College. Leaving me behind. Our first date was July 5, 1968. We spent the summer together.
The letters were written in 1968. I was 17. They are stream-of-consciousness letters from the late sixties. Love letters. Some are handwritten and others are typed. I choose to read the typed ones, as I feel trying to decipher my handwriting would for certain set me up for defeat. Emotional defeat.
Not that my typing was really any better! These were typed on an old (even then) Royal manual typewriter. You may remember the kind -- with a fabric ribbon. No erasing, no white out, no spell checker, no auto correct. Creative spelling (though I seem to do some spelling corrections in parenthesis), keyboard short cuts. Typed on all sorts of paper. Thankfully, I numbered the pages... here is a special one with misspellings in place. I could have written the poem to Rob yesterday, 10 months ago, five years ago, tomorrow.
September 22, 1968
Hear you have just left and I am already riting to you. I remembered what I wanted to tell you. I was thinking about our first date on Saturday nite after our discussion and I remember my feelings. Under ordinary circumstances I wood have said you may not believe this but since you are determined to believe me (you may be sorry) I can't say that. Well what I wanted to say was that I was very excited about your asking me out but I was worried that the date might end up a flop. I generally don't takl mush (much) on a first date and I was afraid, since I thought of you as quite (quiet) that we wood not be able to talk to each other. Strained ( thru a sifter ) silence wood rain. I even expressed my fears to my mother. I was greatly influenced in my fears by Barbara. I thought if she could not talk to you what hope had I. Boy was I wrong!
Do you remember ( wow what a remembering letter ) ( and You don't like to remember ) the poem I showed you that I wrote about me?? Well after the summer I wrote a kind of sequel in a way to it. Its just that I have changed and grown since I first met you ( since you found me ) ( or some thing like that).
You got me thinking --
I've discovered new ideas
You got me interested --
I've become more aware
You got me involved --
I've experienced new feelings
I am no longer shallow
I have grown in depth.
Thanks to you.