Born in 1923, my dad was the youngest of three siblings, all of whom grew up during the depression in Bridgeport, Connecticut. His parents had emigrated from Romania and settled in what was then a burgeoning city outside of New York. They built a modest home that backed up to a pond. His father Harry, was a traveling salesman for a pharmaceutical company called Good Products. But we’re pretty sure some of the drums he would transport included some bootleg. My grandmother Sadie, was a bookkeeper and wore sensible shoes, made pies and crocheted afghans for the family. Grandpa Harry’s travels could take him far. Being away from his bride, motivated him to write her letters.
From the Robert E. Lee Hotel St. Louis — June 16, 1929
Sweetheart
I am sitting here recalling the memories of days gone by, and how like a dream it all seems, and how happy I feel, in all my worldly possessions, all the worries, struggles, heartaches, all fade at the thought of you on our wedding anniversary.
I am not much on expressing my feelings on paper as you know, but all my life dear, I hope we may go on together for many more years to come.
Yours forever.
Devotedly,
Harry
When I think of my dad, I think of the many letters we wrote to one another. He taught me the art at an early age. My first letter was to the Tooth Fairy at his suggestion.
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I lost my tooth while riding my bicycle today. That’s why it’s not under my pillow. Please forgive me.
Your friend,
Andrea
Later I found more powerful imaginary pen pals to write to. When I was 12 and my mother died, I wrote to God for an explanation.
Dear God,
Why did you take her? I don’t understand. I believe in you. But why would you do this to us?
- Andrea
At 14, I went to France for a summer to live with my great Uncle Morris and Tante (aunt) Gustel from my mother’s side of the family. They were from Frankfurt, Germany and fled the Nazis in 1939. But rather than come to the United States, they settled in Paris and spoke not a word of English. After spending eight weeks with them, I came home dreaming in French.
My dad had given me some thin, light blue paper and explained it was special stationary for writing letters that would weigh very little so that I wouldn’t have to pay a lot for air mail stamps. He asked that I write him regularly and promised to write back. And with that, he taught me the art of writing about my experiences and my feelings and he shared his in return.
June, 1971
Dear Dad,
Every day we watch a bike race called the Tour de France. Uncle Morris has the TV going all day long. I don’t understand who wins. The bread here is amazing. I think I broke a wire in my braces.
Love, Andrea
We wrote when I was at overnight camp, we wrote when I was in college. We wrote when I got my first job and after he met my future husband for the first time. He said I smiled like a basket of chips and he knew he was the one for me.
He wrote when I had my first son, and when I was sick. He sent me newspaper clippings and I sent him some back like when Click and Clack the Tappit Brothers, his favorite car show on NPR, signed off.
June 8, 2012
After 25 years, Click and Clack are putting “Car Talk” in park. Tom and Ray Magliozzi, hosts of the nationally broadcast radio show “Car Talk,” announced Friday that as of October, they won’t make any more new shows.
He wrote about his day. Sometimes just a few lines. He’d tell me about the stop he made at a factory or someone he met in a luncheonette who reminded him of something. Through his most ordinary experiences I felt a part of his life wherever I might be.
He shared his philosophies with me in these letters.
Deal from strength
Never look back
Be brave
His last letter, before he died suddenly five years ago, included a clipping about a father who helped his daughter ride a bike without training wheels for the first time. After the father let go and his daughter fell and scraped her knee he explained, “This is part of the lesson too, that the people who have your back can’t always be there to prevent injury but we will be there to commiserate, to dust you off, and get you back on your way. And as his daughter got back on the bike she says, I’m doing it daddy, I’m doing it. And she was, all by herself. And so the father let go again.
Though the letters have stopped, the everyday experiences linger in my memories. Seems like yesterday when I’d open the mailbox to find a note from dad.
March 4, 1976
Dear Andrea –
Such a day — all the snow and all my ideas about the lawn and shrubs forgotten. Oh well, I still have my piano.
Got your letter. Glad you are in touch with Nanny.
Business is doing well as long as we continue to pay off our loans we will eventually make some good money.
Your brother drives now. We had the same officer that took you out. I think you drive better but don’t tell him –
Love, Dad
