by Mike Rosen
My Dad passed away in February and as we prepared for his memorial I found an entire collection of letters he wrote my Mom in the fall and winter of 1960 when she went away to Northern Illinois University and he stayed back to work and take classes at a community college. The Dad I knew most of my life simply wasn’t adept at loving expression, I can’t recollect ever seeing him cry. I know he cared deeply and for as many times he openly showed love there were many more abrupt, curt, almost cold exchanges. It was confusing at the same time I’ve long reconciled the paradox and its impact.
With this context, it surprised me as I read his letters to my Future Mom. He was a scared, lonely 18-yr old who wore his heart on his sleeve and seemed to have no hesitation in expressing his love. He talked about missing his friends who had gone away to school. He talks about crying on the drive home from DeKalb on Sunday nights, his weekend visits with my Mom ending. I was floored by the degree of vulnerability and transparency he expressed. Again, a stark contrast to the Dad I knew. At his memorial we had his letters at each of the guest tables for anyone to read. It was heartwarming to hear old friends share their recollections of his deep heart.
In the box of ‘stuff’ I’ve kept over the years, I have the letters my Dad wrote me the two years I lived on campus at Loras College. I remember the excitement of receiving mail, the anticipation of opening a letter or package. It was simple and powerful. Turns out Joel Ruggle, assigned to Loras College-Box 542 next to mine, would turn out to be a lifelong friend. To this day I begin my Marco Polo’s to him with “Joel, this is Mike Rosen, Loras College Box 541…” He does the same in return.
My three boys are all away at school and we’ve begun a habit of writing letters to each other and I’m pleasantly surprised by the rediscovery of the joy in the process. In an effort to make it as easy as possible, I include self-addressed, stamped envelopes with each of my letters to them. I figure reducing any barrier can help keep the momentum going.
It took a bit of an effort to get my younger two boys to get started. This was a FaceTime exchange with one before it got up to speed. Full disclosure, you will not find this type of guilt/shame-based approach in any modern parenting book.
Me: Hey, have a few minutes?
Child: Yeah, sure. What’s up?
Me: How long will you need to keep the cast on, 6 weeks, 8?
Child: Huh?
Me: The cast on your hand.
Child: (confused) What are you talking about?
Me: You must have a broken hand as I can’t fathom ANY OTHER REASON in the world why you can’t find 10 minutes to write me back!!!!
Child: (laughing) DAD! No one writes letters! This isn’t the 1920’s!!!”
Me: I DO and it’s fun!
Writing feels quaint, it carries an element of nostalgia and it feels like a benign act of defiance in today’s world of hyperspeed, algorithms, and feeds. I literally have to slow everything down, most importantly my brain. There’s a bit of magic I feel when I’m finished and I’ve easily filled the front and back of a blank piece of paper. I feel like I’m giving them a little bit of me with each letter, a simple act of love. I care about you enough to take this time and make this effort. I’ve found myself expressing myself in a deeper, more deliberate, and meaningful way. Plus, selfishly, it’s fun to get mail though I’d still write to them even if they didn’t write back. I can’t recollect if I ever wrote my Dad back, I like to think I did.
Make no mistake, I still text the boys, almost daily and we FaceTime regularly. I’m not anti-technology but since they’ve gone away I’ve become very pro-analog expression. Is there someone you know who might experience that thrill, the joy of seeing a letter from you in their mailbox? I invite you to consider writing. If you decide to go ahead, I’d love to hear how it feels. Drop me a line at miker@menliving.org and share or even BETTER write a letter to me at 637 S. 10th Ave., LaGrange, IL 60525. If you write I promise to write back.
