And, when you’re looking for a little simple nurturing, you can always go “overtown” and talk about what you had for lunch, or what kind of weather the old-timers are predicting, or who’s working on the Community Club auction quilt this year.
You may even find someone who’ll say “Bless you”—whether you sneeze or not.
Blowing Rock, 1998
* * *
Leaving a career and moving to Blowing Rock was a risk for me. But I agree with Pulitzer-winner Marjorie
Rawlings, who moved from New York to remote Cross Creek to write. She said, “It is more important to live the life one wishes to live, and to go down with it if necessary, than to live more profitably but less happily.”
—Jan
* * *
The Postman’s Knock: The Letters
And none will hear the postman’s knock without a quickening of the heart.
—W. H. Auden, “Night Mail”
You know your author well enough to know that she’s not only a romantic, but somewhat on the hopeless side.
So is it any wonder that in A Light in the Window, I devoted an entire chapter to love letters?
This is one of my favorite chapters of all the nine books. Mainly because I got to watch two people laying themselves quite bare, even when they thought they were safely “buttoned up.”
Oh, the longing in a love letter! Listen to Mr. Jefferson in his plea to Maria Cosway, that gorgeous babe who stole his heart across the pond:
“Write to me often. Write affectionately, and freely, as I do to you. Say many kind things, and say them without reserve. They will be food for my soul.”
My goodness. Though I always admired Mr. Jefferson, such carrying-on made him all the more agreeable.
Now hear Duff Cooper, the finest of letter writers, who penned this to his future wife in 1914:
“Don’t write too legibly or intelligibly as I have no occupation so pleasant as pondering for hours over your hieroglyphics, and for hours more trying to interpret your…sayings. A clearly written simply expressed letter is too like the lightning.”
Or perhaps you’d relish knowing what lovely Mary Wordsworth, wife of Father Tim’s favorite poet, had to say to her husband in 1810:
“It is not in my power to tell thee how I have been affected by this dearest of all letters—it was so unexpected—so new a thing to see the breathing of thy inmost heart upon paper that I was quite overpowered, & now that I sit down to answer thee in the loneliness & Depth of that love which unites us & which cannot be felt but by ourselves, I am so agitated & my eyes are so bedimmed that I scarcely know how to proceed.”
Frankly, I believe that Father Tim and Cynthia might never have married if it hadn’t been for their winter parting…she in New York, he frozen into Mitford like an ice cube in a tray. The deed was effectively done, I’m convinced, because of the breathing of their inmost hearts upon paper, as Mary Wordsworth called it.
Have you ever dared to breathe your inmost heart upon paper?
I recommend it.
Here’s something else I recommend.
Read the letters of Father Tim and Cynthia aloud to a loved one, taking turns.
(My editor, Carolyn Carlson, was courted quite successfully by e-mail. But that’s another story.)
THE LETTERS
Dearest Cynthia,
Sometimes, if only for a moment, I forget you’re away, and am startled to find your bedroom lamp isn’t burning, and all the windows are dark. I must always remind myself that you’re coming home soon.
I hope your work is going well and that you’re able to do it with a light heart. I’ve never been to New York, and I’m convinced that my opinion of it is a foolish and rustic one. Surely much humor and warmth exist there, and I’ll restrain myself from reminding you to hold on to your purse, be careful where you walk, and pray before you get into a taxicab.
I’ve mulched your perennial beds, and done some pruning in the hedge. I think we’ll both find it easier to pop through.
To the news at hand:
On Saturday, Miss Pattie packed a train case with Snickers bars and a jar of Pond’s cold cream and ran away from home. She got as far as the town monument before Rodney found her and brought her home in a police car. It appears that riding in a police car was the greatest event of her recent life, and Rodney has promised to come and take her again. Good fellow, Rodney.
I have at last heard Dooley sing in the school chorus, and must tell you he is absolutely splendid. Cold chills ran down my right leg, which is the surest way I have of knowing when something is dead right. Our youth choir, by the way, will have a stunning program ready for your return at Christmas.
Barnabas pulled the leash from my hand yesterday afternoon, and raced into your yard. He sniffed about eternally, before going up your steps and lying down on the stoop. I can only surmise that he misses you greatly, as does yours truly,
Timothy
Dearest Timothy,
No, scratch that. My dearest neighbor,
I have been riding in taxicabs the livelong day, and have taken your advice. I pray while hailing, as it were, and God has been very gracious to send affable, entertaining, and kindly drivers. One even chased me down the sidewalk to return a scarf I left on the seat. Can you imagine? I look upon this as a true miracle.
O! the shops are brimming with beauteous treasures. I would so love to have you here! I would hold on to your arm for dear life as we looked in the windows and stopped for a warm tea in some lovely hotel with leather banquettes and stuffy waiters. You would overtip to impress me, and I would give you great hugs of gratitude for your coming.
My work is awfully labored just now. Sometimes it has the most wondrous life of its own, it fairly pulls me along—rather like windsurfing! At other times, it drags and mopes, so that I despair of ever writing another word or drawing another picture. I’ve found that if one keeps pushing along during the mopes, out will flash the most exhilarating thought or idea—a way of doing something that I had never seen before—and then, one is off again, and hold on to your hat!
I am doing the oddest things these days. I brought home a sack of groceries from the deli the other evening and, while thinking of our kisses at the airport, put the carton of ice cream on my bed, and my hat in the freezer.
Worse yet, I’m talking to myself on the street, and that won’t do at all! Actually, I’m talking to you, but no one would believe that. “Timothy,” I said just the other day when looking in the window at Tiffany’s, “I do wish you’d unbutton your caution a bit, and get on an airplane this minute!” How did I know a woman was standing next to me? She looked at me coldly before stomping away. I think it was the part about unbuttoning your caution that did it.
I am thrilled to hear of Dooley’s singing, and especially that it ran a fine chill up your leg. As for myself, I know something is right when the top of my head tingles. In any case, I am proud with you, and can barely wait to hear him in chorus when I come home on the 23rd.
A box has been sent to all of you, including my good friend, Barnabas, with a delicious tidbit for Jack, as well. If I were to send you everything that reminds me of you, you should straightaway receive a navy cashmere topcoat, a dove-colored Borsolino hat, a peppered ham and a brace of smoked pheasants, a library table with a hidden drawer, a looking glass with an ivory handle, a 17th-century oil of the 12-year-old Jesus teaching in the temple, a Persian hall runner, a lighted world globe, and a blue bathrobe with your initials on the pocket. There!
Oh, and I haven’t forgotten Puny. The truffles are for her, and do keep your mitts off them. They are capable of creating any number of diabetic comas.
Would you please have Mr. Hogan send my Muse subscription to this address? I suppose I could call him up again, but each time I’ve tried, there’s no answer at his newspaper office. I can’t imagine how his news tips come in; he must get them all at the Main Street Grill.
I will close and go searching for my slippers, which h
ave been missing since yesterday morning. Perhaps I should look in the freezer.
With fondest love to you, and warm hellos to Dooley, Barnabas and Jack…
A Light in the Window, Ch. 4
Dearest Timothy,
We’ve had snow flurries all morning and everyone on the street below is bundled in furs and hats and mufflers, looking like a scene from It’s a Wonderful Life.
But, oh, it is not a wonderful life to be in this vast city alone!
Sometimes I think I’d like to fling it all away and go somewhere warm and tropical and wear a sarong! I would like to live in my body for awhile instead of in my head!
I’ve been working far too hard and find it impossible to turn off my thoughts at night. I lie here for hours thinking of you and Mitford and Main Street and the peace of my dear house—and then, the little army of creatures in the new book starts marching in, single file.
I review the tail of the donkey I did this morning, the snout of the pig I’m doing tomorrow, the heavy-lidded eyes of the chicken, wondering—should a chicken look this sexy??!
This can go on for hours, until I’ve exhausted all the creatures and go back and start at the beginning with the tail of the donkey that I’m afraid looks too much like the tail of a collie. That’s when I get up and go to my reference books and find I’m wrong—it looks exactly like the tail of a jersey cow!
This is the price I pay for calling a halt to the Violet books. Yet, I should jump out the window if I had to do another Violet book! She, by the way, lies curled beside me as I write, dreaming of a harrowing escape from the great, black dog who lives next door in her hometown.
I’m thrilled at the thought of coming home and spending my second Christmas in Mitford. It is the truest home I’ve ever known.
I’ve looked and looked for a letter from you, and if I don’t have one soon, I shall ring you up at the Grill and tell you I’m absolutely mad for you, which will make you blush like crazy while all your cronies look on with amusement.
There! That should compel you to write. I’m sure I’ll hear by return mail!
With love, Cynthia
Dear Timothy,
Thank you for the note that might have been written to a great-aunt who once invited you to a tea of toast and kippers.
Yours sincerely, Cynthia
A Light in the Window, Ch. 5
My Dearest,
You can’t know how the living freshness of roses and lavender has rejoiced my heart. The whole apartment is alive with the sweet familiarity of their company, and I’m not so loath now to come home from the deli, or the newsstand, or the café.
Thus, I’m not thanking you for the roses precisely, which are glorious to look at, nor the vast bundle of lavender that appears to have come from the field only moments ago. I thank you instead for their gracious spirit, which soothes and calms and befriends me.
I tried to call your office after the flowers arrived, but the line was busy again and again. And so, I take this other route, this path made familiar by pen and paper, reflection and time.
What a lovely thing it is to begin to love. I shall not dwell on the fear, which seems always to come with it. I shall write only of victory, for that is what is on my heart tonight.
When I met you, Timothy, I had no thought of loving anyone again. Not for anything would I pay the price of loving! I had shut the door, but God had not.
I remember the evening I came to borrow sugar. Though I did nothing more than gobble up your leftover supper, I felt I’d come home. Imagine my bewilderment, sitting there at your kitchen counter, finding myself smitten.
* * *
“All my soul follows you, love…and I live in being yours.”
—Robert Browning to Elizabeth Barrett, 1846
* * *
Over your home was a stillness and peace that spoke to me, and in your eyes was something I hadn’t seen before in a man. I supposed it to be kindness—and it was. I later believed it to be compassion, and it was that, also.
Yet, I sensed that God had put these qualities there for your flock and your community, to help you do your job for Him. For a long time, I didn’t know whether He might have put something there just for me.
Years ago, I went to Guatemala with Elliott. While he was in meetings, I was on the road with a driver and a sketchbook, slamming along over huge potholes, our teeth rattling. We drove in the jungle for miles, seeing nothing but thick, unremitting forest. The light in that part of the world was strange and unfamiliar to me, and I felt a bit frightened, almost panicked.
Suddenly, we drove into a clearing. Before us lay a vast, volcanic lake that literally took my breath away. The surface was calm and blue and serene, and the light that drenched the clearing seemed to pour directly from heaven.
I shall never forget the suddenness and surprise of finding that hidden and remote lake.
I feel that I have come upon a hidden place in you that is vast and deep and has scarcely been visited by anyone before. It is nearly unbearable to consider the joy this hidden place could hold for us, and yet, tonight, I do.
“Love is like measles,” Josh Billings said, “…the later in life it occurs, the tougher it gets.”
May God have mercy on us, my dearest Timothy!
I close with laughter and tears, the very stuff of life, and race to the drawing board with every hope that I can, at last, make the zebra stop looking like a large dog in striped pajamas!
I kiss you.
Love,
Cynthia
Dearest Cynthia,
At the library today, Hessie Mayhew announced that Latin American dance classes will be held at the Community Club, sometime in February. I told her I have my own private Latin dance instructor, which she found to be astonishing.
Then I popped into the children’s section and talked to Avette about reading Miss Coppersmith.
“Violet Goes to School and Violet Plays the Piano are my two personal favorites,” she said, “although Violet Goes to France is hilariously funny. What will it be?”
“The complete works!” I said.
I must tell you that Hessie Mayhew is no dummy. When she saw my selection, she approved. “The Proust of juvenile authors!” were her exact words.
Now I have innumerable photographs of you, though they are all on the backs of book jackets. I am currently displaying the backside of Violet Goes to the Country on my desk in the study, where I meet your winsome gaze as I sit and write this letter. I’m afraid the author herself looks exceedingly juvenile, and if that’s what writing children’s books can do, then I’m willing to have a go at it.
I shall begin this evening at the top of the pile and plunge straight through to the bottom. Never think that I dismiss lightly the hard work and devotion that go into each small volume. I feel privileged to see behind the scenes, if only a little.
Uncle Billy asks about you and says they’d like to have us over when you come home. You and Dooley can go along for the homemade banana pudding he mentioned as a refreshment, and I’ll meet you there later.
He was telling me about the money he keeps hidden between his mattress and box spring. He says Miss Rose usually asks him for ten or fifteen dollars on Monday. On Wednesday, she wants twenty, and every Friday she asks for twenty-five.
When I asked him what she does with all that money, he says he doesn’t know; he never gives her any.
I believe that’s his newest joke, though he didn’t say so.
Your letter spoke of victory, and I hesitate to end on a note that is less than uplifting. Yet I can’t ignore your allusion to the hidden lake.
Your analogy was extraordinary to me and made me feel at once that I should surely disappoint you. The lake you discovered in Guatemala was tropical and warm. The lake you say you have found in me suffers a climate entirely of my own making—and there is the rub.
Please pray for me in this, my dearest Cynthia. I am well along in years to have such a terrific case of measles. In truth, I am broken
out all over and no help for it.
You are ever in my prayers.
Dooley asks after you, as do Emma and Puny. A candle flame has gone out in this winter village, and we count the days until you are safely home.
Love,
Timothy
Dearest Timothy,
It was lovely that you called tonight after reading Violet Goes to the Country. That is my personal favorite, and I’m so happy it made you smile.
I’m happy, too, that you read it to Barnabas and that he approved. For one as steeped in Wordsworth as he, I’m not surprised that he could appreciate the pastoral setting, though I’m sorry he was upset when you showed him the picture of Violet chasing the sheepdog.
Violet receives a great swarm of attention wherever we go. I put her in the little carrying case with the top undone, and there she rides, licking her paws. The ladies behind the cosmetic counter at Bergdorf’s come crowding into the aisles to give her lots of free samples—both salts for her toilette and mascara for her lashes. They like to spray her with French perfume so that I can hardly bear to be in the taxi with her on the way home!
When James was here, he asked me to do Violet Goes to New York.
He took me to such a vastly expensive restaurant and gave such a persuasive argument that I was fairly undone. I did not tell him I would do it, though I did say I’d think about it. The advance would be the largest amount I’ve ever received. I will appreciate it if you’d pray for me in this. It’s confounding to be asked to do something I said I’d never do again!
Thank you for liking my work and finding the fun in it. I look forward to having the letter you wrote tonight before you called—altogether an embarrassment of riches!
Here are those ridiculous pictures taken in a booth on the street. In the spring, you could tack them on a post in your garden to keep the crows away!