Wednesday, January 16, 2013
For a few years in elementary school, I had a pen pal in Japan. Sometimes I even wrote back to her. She wrote beautiful letters to me and enjoyed the ones I wrote so much, she finally had to tell me less was more. I thought that was so considerate.
In high school I wrote for the campus newspaper. Our faculty sponsor saw my potential and told me I could write editorials some day. For somebody else’s paper. I felt special.
And, of course, when my husband was still my fiancé and was away in Germany serving his country, I wrote to him every single day for almost a year and a half. I mailed him hundreds of letters. I told him what I was thinking and how I was feeling and all of my girlish dreams and what colors I wanted in our kitchen and which songs I was thinking of using at our wedding. He saved every single letter in a box he stored outside in a shed. If it weren’t for that terrible flood, I could post some excerpts here for your enjoyment, but would you believe they were all eaten by termites? Talk about bad luck.
So here I am today, writing a blog, grateful to all those people who believed in me. They’re each so remarkably humble, they begged me not to mention their names in public. Still, someday, if I publish a book, I know they’ll be there to support me just like they always have. My husband's already building a shed where we can store the hundreds of autographed copies I'll have on hand.
Silent partners. I owe everything to them.
Photo courtesy of Scott Hamlin's photostream