On the back of an old postcard I read this salutation, " Dear Papa. " Written in pencil but still clearly visible it goes on to say," When are you coming home. I miss you so much. We are going to have a surprise for you when you come home. From your loving daughter,Cara."
The loving daughter was my paternal grandmother. She wrote those words on that card on August 21,1914. That was four days before her tenth birthday. She mailed it to her Papa, my Great Grandfather. He saved that card all his life. Why he was away from home I do not know. I do know where he was. He was in a place called Montauk. In 1914 there wasn't much in Montauk. I know they raised cattle there and grazed their other animals on the plains. A light house stands on Montauk point. It was there then and still stands today. It is a distance of twenty miles from his home. The home where my grandmother was waiting for his return. She says she misses him and I wonder how long he had been gone. And a surprise was planned. I found it interesting that it was only days until her birthday and no mention of that. The surprise was to be for him.
This postcard is the only thing I have from Grandmother. Exactly ten years and twenty eight days later she passed away. Ninety eight years later I read her words and wonder. She was just twenty four years old. She left this world the day after giving birth to my father. I'm sure my great grandfather and great grandmother missed her very much. My dad lived with them and was raised by them. A few faded photographs and this postcard was all he had of his mother.
This postcard has confirmed my desire to write my words down. A not quite ten year old girl once wrote a postcard to her father. She could not have known just how far that little card would travel. A one cent stamp sent it a long way. I don't know much about her but I know she called her father Papa. That must have been the fashion in 1914. Somehow I always thought of immigrants using that term of endearment. They certainly weren't that. And in another sense I feel the presence of my grandmother. Strange but I do feel a connection. A connection to the written word. That postcard wasn't much more than a " tweet " but it is a treasure to me.
I wonder if any of my writings and ramblings will hold as much meaning as her salutation, " Dear Papa."
Only time will tell.
The loving daughter was my paternal grandmother. She wrote those words on that card on August 21,1914. That was four days before her tenth birthday. She mailed it to her Papa, my Great Grandfather. He saved that card all his life. Why he was away from home I do not know. I do know where he was. He was in a place called Montauk. In 1914 there wasn't much in Montauk. I know they raised cattle there and grazed their other animals on the plains. A light house stands on Montauk point. It was there then and still stands today. It is a distance of twenty miles from his home. The home where my grandmother was waiting for his return. She says she misses him and I wonder how long he had been gone. And a surprise was planned. I found it interesting that it was only days until her birthday and no mention of that. The surprise was to be for him.
This postcard is the only thing I have from Grandmother. Exactly ten years and twenty eight days later she passed away. Ninety eight years later I read her words and wonder. She was just twenty four years old. She left this world the day after giving birth to my father. I'm sure my great grandfather and great grandmother missed her very much. My dad lived with them and was raised by them. A few faded photographs and this postcard was all he had of his mother.
This postcard has confirmed my desire to write my words down. A not quite ten year old girl once wrote a postcard to her father. She could not have known just how far that little card would travel. A one cent stamp sent it a long way. I don't know much about her but I know she called her father Papa. That must have been the fashion in 1914. Somehow I always thought of immigrants using that term of endearment. They certainly weren't that. And in another sense I feel the presence of my grandmother. Strange but I do feel a connection. A connection to the written word. That postcard wasn't much more than a " tweet " but it is a treasure to me.
I wonder if any of my writings and ramblings will hold as much meaning as her salutation, " Dear Papa."
Only time will tell.
How sweet,Ben~ I wish I had written things from my family.
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