When my mother died unexpectedly-ish in August, 2008, I was a busy Atlantan running the lives of two children. Up in Chattanooga, Margaret had loved her life surrounded by treasures from a host of late relatives ("I'm sentimental", she often observed). When the day arrived for this pile to become all mine, it was more than a little overwhelming. With a tight deadline, I took the easy way out, jettisoning what seemed unneeded and shoving the rest into a 10' x 10' storage unit. I rolled down the door and headed back to Georgia to pick up my life where I left off, never looking over my shoulder at that crowded space.
While time marched onwards, I routinely wrote a check every month, and the eventual stick of dynamite dispatching me to frozen-in-time storage came with an August, 2021 rent increase. Thirteen years of denial were over and, amidst this heap of my mother's earthly residue, I ran across a department store paper bag bearing Margaret's precise printing, "Nannie's Sympathy Cards - 1972".
Nannie--my grandmother--was an elementary school teacher who made wondrous sugar cookies. Nannie was also the first person in my world to die; I was crushed when she had a stroke and was gone.
Reading 53 sympathy cards one Sunday evening was a miniature visit to a faraway world.
The overture to a day gone by jumped out with handwriting. My grandmother's and parents' contemporaries of 1972 were accomplished cursive artisans, writing with flair in mostly blue ink. Pretty handwriting on envelopes mirrored the script alphabet lines that once traveled the walls of elementary school classrooms everywhere, back when cursive education was part of the deal.
The cards themselves presented expressions of kindness in respectful tones. There were several senders who wrote about their regret in having missed the funeral, and more than a few thoughtfully enclosed a clipping of Nannie's newspaper obituary.
In the formal department, there were many folks who signed cards with titles attached to their names ("Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Love", "Miss Knapper"). It was all quite gracious, reflecting a forgotten day when familiarity with one another was a phenomenon that evolved across time in association. (It took 20 years for my mother to progress from calling our long-time next-door neighbor "Mrs. Balch" to an informal "Ruth", likely a world record).
Sympathy cards in 1972 cost 15 or 25 cents, and the ones featuring glitter ran the price up to 35 cents. All the eight cent stamps featured Ike's reassuring soft smile. Whether sprinkled with glitter or not, the printed sentiments were thoughtful and kind, with all of them acknowledging loss and sorrow with encouraging comfort from God and the senders. The pain of losing a loved one was palpable and recognized in '72---celebrations of life would be a brand new idea waiting in the future.
I sort of remember little bits about many of the senders through vague memories of my parents talking about them, and I know these people represented a constituency from many walks in life. But the common thread amongst them all was extraordinarily uniform grace, decency, and dignity. From the Cafeteria Lady at Nannie's school to our longtime housekeeper to more prosperous friends, there was no distinction found in decorum, benevolence, or even handwriting.
Lastly, the vast majority of these understated card senders have also departed across the decades, many of them, like Nannie, long gone. After all this time has passed, an opportunity to read the kind words they left behind is a privilege.
~~~~~
Stepping back 49 years in the calendar for glimpses of old-fashioned mores was a surprisingly meaningful evening. Once upon a time, refinement was popular and pursued by many. Much like letter writing, it seems to have lost its appeal across time.
Here in the 21st century, a text or email of sympathy gets the job done, and with limited effort. While the method of conveyance is efficient and the sentiments are no less sincere, I see how I fall short in going out of my way for others ("Putting yourself out", as Margaret would say). Presentations of kindness are still as lovely and significant today as they were in 1972, perhaps even more.
Of course, I love the super convenience of my laptop and iPhone, and I happily testify they make life a cakewalk, opening windows on the world, serving up perpetual entertainment, and putting writing at my fingertips. All of which leave me convicted of not being an outstanding card sender and letter writer. I'm pretty sure this reflects an acquired laziness on my part.
While we have gained tremendously more in an easy lifestyle over 49 years, I have a feeling some significant riches were gradually lost along the way. Restrained familiarity suddenly seems like an excellent means of showing respect as we grow to know others in our orbit. And I can't help but wish for a reacquaintance with beautiful handwriting, cards in the mailbox, and the embrace of everyday civility with one and all.
