Page 18 - WTP VOl. XIII #2

Letters (continued from preceding page)
I never, even at my poorest, am without my good quality, fine-point blue ballpoint pens. Such are our compulsions...)
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Jobs are central to most of these letters. So many of my friends arise from these transitory jobs.
Jodi (or Jode) and Jodie: names that take me a while to place. But I do remember Jodi, the lovable young, long-haired dishwasher from the restaurant where
I worked for a couple years in Montana (a context
I share with a cluster of letter-writing friends). I’m astonished to find even a single letter from this kid, let alone three. I left Whitefish to get married in 1979, and these are dated ’85, ’86 + ’87—I was fond of this kid, without a doubt, but that he corresponds for nearly a decade is stunning, and touching.
Jodi’s script is close to printing, and neatly squared; his pages, single-sided on lined note-book paper. Reading his words, I can see his long dark hair, his narrow face, and that huge smile. Jodi would some- times show up in a high school class I sub for now and then. His last name won’t surface (but will come to me one night). It seems he’s married another Jodie (or Jode?), and her sweet round face comes to me, as I write this. They’ve had a boy, Nathan, between the first and second letters. He tells me about the com- plications of their pregnancy, and how they’re now hovering between California, with its opportunities, while yearning for Montana.
The last letter (after my back surgery—and wishing me well with that), still situates them in California. He’s doing some kind of work on “the structural steel for an airport control tower.” He always seemed to love work (even as dishwasher!), and provides a fascinating glimpse of the challenges of steel, joking about becoming “somewhat of a trigonometry whiz” despite hating it in high school and “wondering
why anyone would ever need to know something so stupid anyway.”
Now, he’s thriving on the learning, and thrilled with the sense of accomplishment—and the magic of parenthood. It all makes me him anew. But we’ve lost contact.
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Keep or discard? That’s the question that guides (or plagues) me through this letter-reading venture.
Knowing what matters, what holds meaning, brings 11
joy or understanding, is the challenge. We ask each other in those introspective years, nudge one another as we mature, and remind one another as we age.
L-M-N-O, P
Love is how so many letters close. Sometimes it’s “with love”, or “lovingly”, or “much love.” We all seem to sign off with love—and seem to feel and to mean it. Later, though, the idea of signing off with love will paralyze me. Do we grow stingier with our love? Or are we more reluctant to and awkward with voicing emotion? No idea which, or why.
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Money is a constant throughout so many of these let- ters. Money forever binds us, tethers us, motivates us, and worries us through these years. We manage it so carefully, fret about it, and share our thoughts and fears so openly. My mother explains in one letter how she can’t afford to call just now. It’s been cold and the fuel bills are high. Her next letter recounts how my sister had found the gifts mailed by our brother (mentioned by him in a previous letter). It seems they somehow got shoved under a couch at Christmas, and only turned up later; but not before my mother had filed the requisite postal forms for reimbursement. Money clearly matters.
My first and closest childhood friend, Marcia, I’m surprised to notice, also pays close attention to money. It’s Marcia who sparks my interest in travel- ling west, and so bridges those segments of my life, those disparate places, and those clusters of friends. This particular letter is dated February 1, and must be sometime after 1976 because I’m in Whitefish, and she’s back in Missoula, going to school. She’s trying to sell her car (for $700) and is explaining that she’d have called by now, but her last call had cost her $2.29, which has shocked her. She’s promising to call after she sells the car, claiming to be “beginning to know how it feels to be broke.”
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Names change over time, both intentionally and out of forgetfulness. I can place undated letters by whether I’m called Beth or Elizabeth. I make the change from Beth between high school and univer- sity, though it can be challenging for friends to adjust, and even more awkward for siblings. Later, Elizabeth & Monty becomes more usual—or sometimes the whole family unit, with all our kids (and occasionally even the dogs or cats) acknowledged.