Yesterday, I reluctantly ventured out to some stores around St. Louis. I had a few purchases to make, and it was a beautiful day to be out and about. Not having considered the danger of Valentine's Day shopping, I was unprepared. At least half the shoppers had a surprised, uncertain look in their eyes. Some actually showed panic if not fear. Obviously, love can be a dangerous game.
A young black man in a hoody asked my opinion at a sidewalk flower display. He held up two choices--a dozen red roses and a large mixed variety. "What do you think?" he asked.
"It's hard to go wrong with red roses." I suggested.
His young face turned into a huge smile, and he sighed. "I don't know nothing about flowers. "
"Men never do, but it comes with the territory. How long have you been going out?" I asked.
"Two months. So I better get this one right." he looked like a drowning man looking for anything to grab in these deep waters.
"Get the roses and a little box of chocolates. Then write her a letter." I suggested.
"A letter?" he barked like it was the craziest idea ever.
"The roses will eventually wilt, and she will eat the chocolates. The letter will be here long after we are gone." I said.
"Thanks man." my young friend said with a smile as he stepped into the checkout line with his red roses. "A letter!" he laughed, "Alright."
As I walked on down the street, I thought about the love letter I found last summer in an antique store. Stuck between some old photographs, it had waited patiently for readers since June 12, 1893, the date at the top. It started "Dear Sarah." It was a very intense letter from a young man on holiday to Niagra Falls in 1893, but he had been separated from his sweetheart. He poured out his longing and hopes. He told her about his dreams and fears. He pledged his love in ink on paper. And there it was after all those long years in my hands in 2010.
I wonder if Robert and Sarah's love endured. I wonder if they were able to be together. I wonder how many times Sarah read and reread those words. I couldn't help wondering about their story. It reminded me of Mark Twain's statement:
"The frankest and freest product of the human mind and heart is a love letter; the writer gets his limitless freedom of statement and expression from his sense that no stranger is going to see what he is writing." - Mark Twain's Autobiography
Today, I think about all that frantic activity yesterday. I think about the consuming desire to purchase the "perfect" Valentine gift. In the era of texting and twitter I think about the enduring grandeur of the word on paper. I think about the sensual pleasure of applying ink to paper of putting thoughts into words of putting dreams into language, and I think--What could be better?
You are absolutely right. There's nothing quite like physical words on paper. Sab and I have sent countless emails, texts, and IMs but probably what I treasure the most is my little collection of letters from him that I have hanging on my wall. I don't always have to read them but just knowing that he cared enough to write and send them means a lot to me. It always make me smile.
ReplyDeleteWell said...writing is such a lost art anymore...but I still treasure some of the letters I've received over the years from dear friends, and even my mom who is not here anymore; very true that the letter will be around long after we are gone. Hope your day is great!- Ruth Anne
ReplyDeleteYou are still passing on your love of writing...even if it is to random strangers in the checkout line. :-)
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