It was a letter of a different time; a lost conversation suddenly brought to life again when I found the envelope with my mother’s distinctive handwriting in a cardboard box stuffed in the attic.
“I baked brown bread today and later we drove into the city to see the buildings all lit up,” she said as she gave news of her first few days of a five week stay with my brother and his family in New York.
That his home was filled with the aroma of home-made brown bread makes me smile even now. I know my brother sat down to have a warm slice of bread almost straight out of the oven with Irish butter melting on top, and the home-made rhubarb and ginger jam brought from the store in the top shelf of the hall cupboard in Co Clare.
The next line: “It’s very hot every day and sometimes I think I will melt but at least there is air conditioning in the house.”
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My mother died a few weeks before my first novel was published in 2015, but reading that letter from the early 1980s brought back cherished memories of her.
The simple note went straight to my heart, and I saw Mam sitting down to take time to write me a letter
There was a comfort in the short, handwritten note which was to tell me she had arrived safely and was loving spending time with her American family.
I was transported by my mother’s handwriting, the flow of it across the page, the flourish at the start of each sentence and the sign off simply “Mam”.
The simple note went straight to my heart, and I saw Mam sitting down to take time to write me a letter. She would repeat the same ritual a few days later to write to my sisters, so we all got letters at different times and presumably all had different tales to tell of her US vacation.
Airmail pad
Letters and letter writing were part of my childhood. My mother, Anne, was the letter writer in our house. She had Basildon Bond notepads, a regular white pad for letters within Ireland and a special airmail pad with flimsy, almost tissue paper for the letters that were sent every few weeks to my Aunt Mary who had emigrated to the United States, when still a young woman. Envelopes were also in two categories, with the airmail stack a light-blue colour fringed in blue and red, and which were stamped Air Mail.
When we were very young, I remember every three weeks or so, an airmail envelope plopped on the front-door mat, and we all gathered around to hear news of Auntie Mary and her family in the United States.
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My mother always kept the letters safe and on a Friday night after receipt, she would sit down to pen a return letter answering any questions and imparting news of our family.
Letters had a special significance in our home. My uncle, my mother’s brother, emigrated to Perth in Australia and when we had not heard from him or his family for a very long time, she sat down and wrote to the editor of the biggest newspaper in Perth city asking him to print her letter looking for news of her brother. Within months of that letter being published, my uncle was back in touch and that connection remained.
It was letters I turned to in my latest novel, The Irish House for a grandmother to connect with her granddaughter.
Marianne is on the brink of a successful career in New York until she is called back to Ireland after the death of her beloved grandmother, Collie Keane.
She discovers that she has been bequeathed not only Collie’s beautiful mansion, Kilteelagh House by the sea with its avenue of trees and acres of wildflowers, but also custody of her orphaned cousins, teenager Rachel and five-year-old Katie.
She has one year to make it work at Kilteelagh House. The challenge is overwhelming, but once a month, a letter arrives from Collie, written during her last illness, bolstering her granddaughter’s confidence in herself as a mum, encouraging her to notice the seasons as they unfold at Kilteelagh House, and exhorting Marianne to take her chances in life.
As she struggles to keep Kilteelagh House, Marianne also learns the true meaning of love and friendship as well as community.
Final request
When her grandmother, in her last letter, makes her one final request as the year ends, the question arises as to whether Marianne is ready to step up to her biggest challenge yet, something that changes both her past and the future.
The letters penned by Collie Keane on her last days on earth brim with the love of place and home, much as my mother’s letters did as she documented life in our Co Clare home.
Emails and texts are fast, and new technology will even fill in the words and finish the sentences. There is no flourish, no personal touch and little excitement in an email
We are in an age where letters are regarded as old-fashioned and the practice of letter-writing dismissed as archaic.
Emails and texts are fast, and new technology will even fill in the words and finish the sentences. There is no flourish, no personal touch and little excitement in an email. Think back on the joy of receiving a personal letter in the post, the promise that lies within the pages, the connection made.
Maybe the two ways of communication can live side by side, but please don’t let the personal letter be confined to history.
I don’t have any set place to keep letters or greeting cards. They are stuffed among the books in my writing room.
I pushed my mother’s letter in on the shelf where I keep copies of my debut novel, The Ballroom Café.
Someday, I will come across the letter again. No doubt it will tug at my heart just as hard and rekindle those fond memories of my childhood and young adulthood.
Ann O’Loughlin’s sixth novel is published by Bookouture on April 14th.
