Life in Longhand

Of all the mementos that have come down from earlier generations, I most treasure those that have been hand written. Letters, cards, notations on the backs of photographs, recipes jotted in margins of cookbooks – these are the things that are true wisps of the people who were here before – casual fingerprints left behind, echoing whispered voices that will never fade so long as they are handled with care.

When Incrediboy was 16 weeks old, I started a writing project. It will take me many years and I have no idea what will result in the end, but I knew I wanted to do it regardless. I bought a set of blank Flavia books. Each is a different color, each with a different little painting on the cover and a single word possessing a lovely, magical quality. Words like Dreams, Moments, Adventures, Passages. Within these books I have started a set of journals for him. All are written in letter form, but my approach varies from entry to entry. I have written about the house from which we moved – the house he was born in and will not remember. I have written about his first steps, first words, first haircut. About the time he was so ill that we were afraid we’d have to hospitalize him. About the day he wriggled out of his shoes, ran barefooted through the back yard, and first took notice of the variance between rough warm concrete and the soft cool spring grass. Stepping from one to the other, and back again – over and over, fascinated.

I don’t write just of these milestones, though. I have also written about our hopes and dreams for him. Tough lessons he will have to face and process. Values and virtues, advice and aspirations. Lessons for him, and lessons he has taught his father and me. Remembrances of how he handled himself in good times and bad, as they happen, from his Mother's viewpoint.

Dreams, Moments, Adventures, Passages.

Not just the tight honeycomb of our lives either. I also wanted to record the world as it was during his youth. Current events. Historical moments. The way they really happened, from a firsthand perspective. Who knows what our country and our world will be like when he reaches adulthood. Who knows how the authors of his history texts will portray what actually took place. I want him to know, and I want him to remember, the events of his life - both micro and macro.

Someday I’ll give these handwritten memories to him. Maybe when he graduates. Maybe when he gets married, or when he has his first child. I don’t really have a set time in my mind, but I will know when the time is right. I just want him to have a piece of me and himself that he can hold in his hands, leaf through, learn and reflect. When he is a grown man, rather than visiting my grave (because I will not be there) I hope that Incrediboy will remember me by opening these journals - my sometimes sloppy, always loving longhand bringing us together again. Most of all I hope that through the receipt of these journals he will more deeply realize and appreciate, on multiple levels, what a blessing it is to be gifted a life.