Moultrie

As a child, I never realized a letter could cause so much contention or enjoyment.

I considered my father to be a champion letter writer. He wrote letters to newspaper editors, businessmen, local and national politicians, school board members, friends, family, college students away from home, etc.

Dad’s writing tools: paper, pen, penmanship. Dad’s stationery felt rich and luxurious with a high linen count and a creamy white color — the “Cadillac of correspondence.”

His pen — a fountain pen with the nub and heft such that it rested comfortably in his hand as the black ink flowed across the paper. As for Dad’s penmanship, not too flowery but elegant enough to hint that at some time in his schooling, a teacher drilled him on proper alphabet formation.

Dad supported many issues: bicycle safety, mosquito abatement, a banning of burning wet garbage in burn barrels (rotting potatoes, onions, moldy meat that produced a smoke thick as the smudge pots on Florida citrus farms during times of freezes, and not as fragrant as orange blossoms), etc.

The most heated debate centered on sidewalks.

A few rows of new, modest homes replaced the temporary housing built during World War II. At the completion, the builder announced homeowners had an option to have sidewalks installed. One catch — each homeowner had to pay for their own and it had to be done all or none in the neighborhood. A majority vote decided — sidewalks or no sidewalks — with heated discussions preceding.

Dad lobbied hard for sidewalks.

“They provide a safe place for children to ride trikes and mothers to push baby buggies.”

Sidewalks won. Fifty years later the sidewalks remain in good condition with children roller-skating, playing hopscotch, riding trikes, parents pushing strollers, and seniors strolling on them.

When Dad wrote a letter to the newspaper editor about the value of Bonneville Power, a reader responded by calling Dad a “crackpot.” I expected a terse response from Dad. Instead, he shrugged off the comment with a smile and took no offense.

Dad’s most intense writing project he worked on for years: Preservation of the Columbia River Gorge.

“Hey, Dad,” I asked, “what are all those books for?”

“I’m sending these with my letters.”

The books, a compilation of photos of the pristine beauty of the gorge. Legislators and the U.S. president each received a copy.

While Dad was performing “good works,” the family didn’t achieve the same level of letter-writing dedication that he did. Mom — a wonderful, caring person. Handwriting — well, a challenge to decipher. While at college, she mailed me a letter. Struggling to decipher it, I wasn’t sure if my dog had enjoyed a tasty supper or had died.

During this time of year of giving thanks and expressing gratitude, I assemble a list of acquaintances I’ve known and send notes of thanks on how they impacted my life — several are former teachers.

A letter from abroad after a VLB (Very Low Budget) travel trip said, “Don’t send any more letters. It’s not safe for me to get mail from America.”

Then there is the rejection letter after I submitted a proposal to a publishing company for a collection of poems.

Publisher response: “Whatever you do, never send us poetry again. This is the worst poetry we’ve ever seen. You have to know the rules of poetry to break the rules of poetry.”

Me: “Poetry has rules?”

Was I offended? More filled with resolve. After taking poetry writing classes, another publishing company published two of my poems, including a sonnet on gardening with compliments on rhyming the word “anthracnose,” a disease of dogwood trees.