After supper, Luchóg motioned for me to come closer, and he whispered in my ear that he had
stashed away a surprise for me. We walked away from camp, the last rays of pink sunlight illuminating
the way. Clamped be-tween two large stones were four small envelopes.
"Take them," he grunted, the top stone heavy in his arms, and I whisked out the letters before he
dropped the cap with a thud. Reaching inside his shirt to his private pouch, Luchóg extracted but the nub
of a sharp pencil, which he presented with becoming modesty. "Merry Christmas, little treasure.
Something to get you started."
"So it is Christmas today?"
Luchóg looked around to see if anyone was listening. "You did not miss it."
"Merry Christmas," I said. And I tore open my gifts, ruining the pre-cious envelopes. Over the
years, I have lost two of the four letters, but they were not so valuable in and of themselves. One was a
mortgage stub with pay-ment enclosed, and at his entreaty, Luchóg received the check to use as rolling
paper for his cigarettes. The other lost piece of correspondence was a rabid letter to the editor of the
local newspaper, denouncing Harry Truman. Cov-ered both front and back with crabbed handwriting
that scuttled from margin to margin, that paper proved useless. The other two had much more white
space, and with one, the lines were so far apart, I was able to write between them.
Feb. 2, 1950
Dearest,
The other night ment so much to me that I can't understand why you have not phoned or
written since that night. I am confused. You told me that you loved me and I love you too,
but still you have not answered my last three letters and nobody answers the telephone at
your home or even your work. I am not in the habit of doing what we did in the car, but
because you told me that you loved me and you were in such pain and agony as you kept
saying. I wanted to let you know that I am not that kind of girl.
I am that kind of girl who loves you and that kind of girl who also expects a Gentleman to
behave like a Gentleman.
Please write back to me or better yet call me on the phone. I am not angry so much as just
confused, but I will be mad if I do not here from you.
I love you, do you know that?
Love,
Martha
At the time, I considered this letter to be the truest expression of real love that I had ever known. It
was difficult to read, for Martha wrote in cur-sive, but thankfully in big letters that resembled printing.
The second letter baffled me more than the first, but it, too, used only three-quarters of the front side of
the page.
2/3/50
Dear Mother and Father,
Words cannot begin to express the sorrow and sympathy I send to you at the loss of dear
Nana. She was a good woman, and a kind one, and she is now in a better place. I am sorry
that I cannot come home, but I've not enough money for the trip. So, all my heartfelt grief
must be shared by this most insufficient letter.
Winter draws to a cold and unhappy close. Life is not fair, since you have lost Nana, and
I, near everything.
Your Son
When they learned of the two messages, the girls in camp insisted they be shared aloud. They were
curious not only about their substance but about my professed literacy, for almost no one in camp
bothered to read or write any longer. Some had not learned, and others had chosen to forget. We sat in
a ring around the fire, and I read them as best I could, not fully comprehending all of the words or
understanding their meanings. "What do you think of Dearest?" Speck asked the group after I had
finished.
"He is a cad; he is a rotter," Onions said.
Kivi pushed back her blonde curls and sighed, her face bright in the firelight. "I do not understand
why Dearest will not write back to Martha, but that is nothing compared to the problems of Your Son."
"Yes," Chavisory jumped in, "perhaps Your Son and Martha should get married, and then they will
both live happily ever after."
"Well, I hope Mother and Father find Nana," added Blomma.
Into the night the bewildering conversation flowed. They fabricated poetical fictions about the other
world. The mysteries of their sympathies, concerns, and sorrows perplexed me, yet the girls had a
wellspring of empathy for matters outside our knowing. I was anxious, however, to have them go away,
so that I might practice my writing. But the girls lingered until the fire collapsed into embers; then they
nestled under the covers together, where they continued their discussion, pondering the fate of the
writers, their sub-jects, and their intended readers. I would have to wait to use the pages. The night
became bitterly cold, and soon all twelve of us were huddled together in a tangle of limbs. When the last