With my sister getting ready to move, she is uncovering all sorts of interesting things, one being a box of letters from me going back about 34 years when she was in Seattle. These are real letters . . . in envelopes . . . typed on a typewriter; a pouring out of emotion one only tells a sister. One sentence I loved was "I long for one of our long conversations that resolve nothing but covers everything."
These letters are about as close to a journal as anything I have. It's amazing to me how unfamiliar some of the drama seemed and at the same time, the rush of memories that began flooding me. One letter detailed a "crush" I had had on a violinist/conductor. The excitement of watching him perform; the invitation to a concert; my description of what fascinated me about him. "He enters through the exits and leaves through the entrance; he talks about things I seldom allow myself to think." I had no illusion of a relationship, per se, but saw it more as an affair, even though both of us were unattached. It was exciting to me but I don't remember much more than what was in the letter. My sister reminded me that's when she sent me this apron. I'm glad she kept the letters. I'm equally glad I kept the apron.