Dear Ernest, I am pleased to share with you that I now have all three volumes of your letters to read. Wouldn't you know it, the last volume would arrive first; so I did take a quick read into it while waiting for the other two volumes to arrive, but now that I have all three, I have made myself set aside the last volume to start from the beginning.
I love the child that you are as this journey begins. How wonderful! What a treat to be able to peak into this childhood window. Ernest, you are so bright, and funny, and boyish. These first letters of yours date from the early 1900s. Volume 1 of your letters spans the time period from 1907 to 1922. Which would have covered that part of your life from the age of 8 to age 23.
Although what has been preserved is a mere fragment of the letters you were to write in your lifetime, still, it seems too good to be true to be able to have the opportunity to glimpse into your life, thoughts, and adventures.
First, young Ernest, let me send you a big hug and say that I can fully commiserate on the delights of summers spent adventuring on a rural lake - you on Walloon Lake, in Michigan, I on West Hill Lake, outside of New Haven, Connecticut. The freedom of exploring the fields and woods. The joy of waking up to the surface of the lake sparkling as if it had been sewn with millions of diamonds just for our delight. You write of seeing a mother duck and her seven little babies. For myself, I remember the earthy smell of decaying leaves as my brothers and I hunted salamanders - orange and black spotted newts with bright black eyes and tiny translucent toes. What fun!
We were so blessed that we didn't know then, dear friend, about what life held for us. Thank God! Right? How could we ever have been able to have so much unbridled fun, pleasure, and enjoyment with such simple things that seemed so miraculous and special.
I am sorry that the squabs died. I can remember finding young birds, fallen from their nests, and repeatedly trying to nurse them, only to have them die in my care. There were so many, that my brother's and I established a small cemetery for the express purpose of giving these poor souls a resting place. Ernest, you would have loved the pomp and circumstance of our funerals as we held the processional down the shaded path, stopping just next to the garage, where we interred the remains and said a few memorable words over the bodies. It really helped that the boys were acolytes at church as they had just the right thing to say to invoke God to sit up and pay attention.
Dinner with grandpa; mucking about in the river; fishing - the stuff of summer. Perhaps your parents would, like mine, come to see you during those summers. I'm sure, like me you'd be brimming with stories of adventure and discovery, shadowing their every step as they took up temporary residence in the summer house. Perhaps you, like me, knew that you had a finite window of time to invoke your rights to their attentions and time before they left again. I wonder, Ernest, if you ever felt, like I did, that you really had their full attention? Or did it feel like somehow the world of adults forever prevented them from connecting to the miracle of what you laid at their feet as a child?
What fun that you were able to help your father in getting his closet in order. Good for you! I'm sure he thought you were the best thing since sliced bread! I love that your Mom is sending you stamps from her travels, and how exciting that you were able to go on the roller coaster! You are so much braver than I, Ernest. I can't stomach roller coasters, not at all. In all honesty, I get motion sickness from a swing, can you imagine how sick I would get on a roller coaster!?!
I will leave you for now, but I am looking forward to learning more about your trip to Nantucket with your mother, and the time you spent there. Nantucket holds many childhood memories for me, growing up in that area. We can compare notes!
Sending you one more hug before signing off.
With deep affection,
Betsy McDowell
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