Week 7: Letters & Diaries

 

WEEK 7: Letters & Diaries

My mother was only 19 when she married my father on June 11, 1949.  They were both from the same small community in Simcoe County, Ontario.  However, Mom worked for a few years as an assistant cook at a nursing home in the nearby town of Barrie.  At least the town is “nearby” by modern standards as it is only about a 15 minute drive, but back in the 1940s, most people did not commute that distance every day.  Mom lived in residence at the home and went home to her parents most weekends.  At the same time, Dad lived and worked on his father’s farm, along with most of his siblings.  On the weekends, he would ensure his share of farm chores were done early in the day so that he could spend time later in the day with Mom.

Dad was not an overly vocal man, but his actions spoke for him.  I grew up witnessing that he would never leave the house for work without a goodbye kiss from Mom.  He would stand and wait by the back door until she realized he was waiting for the kiss – he would never go to her for the kiss, or call her over.

During their courtship, with Mom living in town, apparently Dad would frequently write letters to her.  They would not have been love letters in the traditional sense (because that was not him), but news of the community and family life.  They were short, usually only one one page.  When Mom complained that the letters were too short and encouraged that he write longer letters, he sent a letter with a notation at the bottom to turn the page over.  On the back side was just a comment about having used both sides of the page.

Over the years, Mom made an occasional mentions of the letters, but it was not until after my father’s death in August 1990 that I discovered that she had kept them.  On their anniversary day in 1991, I called Mom to ask how she was coping.  She said that she was reading through the letters Dad had sent her.  WHAT???  She had treasured the letters and had kept them all those years - apparently tied up with a ribbon in a box. 

When I mentioned that I would like to read them, she made it clear that they were her eyes only.  She stated that she wanted them buried with her.  For the next few years, she would read through the letters on special days but never ever allowed me or my brothers to read them.

The thought had crossed my mind various times that instead of honouring her wish that they buried with her, I would compile them into a book.  I do not believe I ever expressed this thought to her.  However, one year when I asked if she was reading through the letters, she informed me that she had my brother shred them to ensure that no one ever read them.

Mom finally passed away last week.  But alas there are no letters to be buried with her or compiled into a book.

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