"Noggie, you're going to be homesick."
My grandmother calls me "Noggie". Even when she is really annoyed at me, she calls me by my nickname. The only time when I am assured that she knows my real name is when she introduces me to someone. It is then that she will use the name that is on the birth certificate.
Gran thought I was going to be homesick. It was not a question. To her, it was a fact. I was still a teen and had finished one school degree. I wasn't ready to answer the 'and-what-will-you-be' question yet. My decision was to continue in school but, this time, I would attend a university far away, many time zones away from home. It meant travel, adventure, new friends and all sorts of good things. I didn't think being homesick was going to be a problem and I assured my grandmother that I would be just fine.
On the weekend prior to my leaving, Gran had planned that we would go into the city and have some time together. It was August and, on the farm, the beginning of the fall season is one of the busiest times of the year. Every day is necessary to prepare for the coming winter. She always has endless lists of things to do, as the final harvest of the year approaches. For her to take time away from the farm operation then was significant and I knew that.
Gran had the outing planned. She wanted to have lunch at her favourite place for crepes and she wanted to take me shopping for a dress. I had to fit everything I was to take with me to school into two suitcases. Gran insisted that I have a black dress. She said that, if I was to pack any formal wear, it was going to be a black dress. Along with the dress, my grandmother insisted that proper shoes were absolutely necessary too. And of course, in the years since, that black dress has proven that my grandmother was perfectly correct. My simple black dress has had, and continues to have, repeated use.
My grandmother and I had a wonderful time. We had delicious crepes and shopped. I asked her several times if she was tired. She said she was fine and I was not going to admit that she had far more stamina than I. As the afternoon passed so quickly, she asked if I wanted to have dinner in the city. Then she suggested that we find a room in a hotel and stay the night.
I told Gran that we didn't have any luggage. She chuckled and we found a room in an elegant hotel.
I had never been in the hotel and it was simply grand. We had a huge room that had a wonderful view of the city. Dinner was wonderful and afterwards we became tourists. By the time that we returned to the hotel, I thought my grandmother would be tired. She wasn't and she placed a room service order for champagne. So for my last weekend at home, I found myself drinking champagne with my grandmother.
We talked into the early hours of the morning. We talked about the farm, the horses, the dogs, the family and how much we both missed my grandfather so very much. It was a wonderful evening. The setting was so different and I love spending time with my grandmother.
As we were enjoying the champagne, my grandmother exacted a promise from me. First, she went to her purse and pulled out something that she had wrapped carefully with tissue. It was my grandfather's fountain pen and she wanted me to have it. She wanted me to use it and to write to her, one handwritten letter every month. I agreed but I just could not take my grandfather's pen. I simply couldn't do it. So Gran and I negotiated over more glasses of champagne.
We agreed that I wouldn't take the pen. She would keep it and use it to write snail mail to me. And we further agreed to go and do more shopping the next day. We would find and buy a fountain pen for me. And we did. It's gorgeous.
I use that pen on the first Friday of every month. I send Gran a handwritten letter. She sees my errors. Sometimes, I wish for a 'backspace' and the chance to re-state a thought. The snail mail requires such a different approach. It cannot be rushed.
Although Gran has email and is far more acquainted with Gmail than most people I know, we do exchange snail mail once a month. And I look forward so much to receiving her regular handwritten letters. The way that they are written tell far more than just what the text say. They are monthly treasures that I cherish.
And yes, Gran was right. I was homesick.
Despite living in a wonderful university residence and having a terrific room mate, I was so very very desperately homesick. For the first part of that initial school semester, it was awful. I would send emails home to friends and family. I would use instant message services to reconnect with people at home. I would use the phone and call occasionally. Skype was not an option yet. It would have saved me some much needed dollars.
I would use the internet to connect to Gran at the farm. On instant message, she would remind me of what we had talked about that evening at the hotel. And sometimes, she said she would write me a letter and have it in the mail the next day. Eventually, it dawned on me that Gran had more than anticipated my being homesick. She had made certain, over glasses of champagne, that my memories were fresh and vibrant. She knew that those memories would be essential. Those memories would elicit a feeling of safety and home. She knew that it would be what I would need to overcome feelings of being so homesick, so far away.
I know that I am fortunate. My grandmother is smart. She is wise. She knows how to have a good time. And today is the first Friday of the month and I have a snail mail to write. I haven't missed sending one snail mail a month to her since I left. No matter what, that monthly letter is hand written and sent. I know that she would blast me in email if I didn't keep my promise to her.
Some promises are simply sacrosanct.
Catherine Forsythe
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Comments
Jonathan, it always great to see you drop by. Thank you!
All we can do is try half the women they are and were.
rated with hugs
If I could I'd write you.
I was sad and came here.
I called home to say hello.
My son said the truck broke.
The farmers missed a market.
It is the White House Market.
No farm truck? They rent one.
The Studebaker? It broke too.
When it rains it sure do pours.
Earl is coming to Shelburn, NS.
Earl might rip down mailboxes.
I will sit down to write love note.
I write you to say you no broken.
Smile.
I am still in Canada to see loons.
I watch human loons in America.
I may write love letters in sands.
Pat Boone sang about the `days.
On day like today a truck`broke.
Well. Buy a wagon and a `horse.
Ride to gingerbread house`hug.
live hand written letters so much.
I am so glad I read this. Sincerely,
and I felt like I smelled. You did.
Your perfume as I unfolded this.
Thanks.
This is a real melancholy keeper.
Sorry.
on & on.
I shad up.
Yes Catherine.
I like Ya Gran.
She a piano.
Grand One.
Art, what can I say, except... "thank you!".
mypsyche, thank you for the encouragement. Writing things in the first person pushes my comfort level. I am so glad you enjoyed it.
Brian, she's an Allen Iverson fan ;)
Thanks for reminding me of this. I've always longed for a pen pal.