There were five letters waiting for me at my post office box yesterday (Post Office Box #2, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816), I took them home and sat in the living room at the end of a frazzling day and read them one by one. One was from St. Paul, Minn., one from , Greenfield, Rhode Island. another from Caseyville, Illinois, one from Ohio, one from Mississippi. I see the Bedlam Farm idea reaches far and wide.
The letters are gentle, touching, thoughtful, each a slice of life that reflects in some ways, where they come from, who wrote them. They are different from e-mail and social media messages, they are fuller, warmer, more complete. I never meant for the post office box to solicit contributions – I don’t now, they are not necessary for my P.O. Box, but there is often some money tucked into the letters – a check for $20, a $20 bill, a $5 bill. For the most part, these are not people with money, they are not well off, their contributions and letters are all the sweeter for it.
Patricia Lucas writes from rural Rhode Island that she just wanted to write and say “your writing soothes my soul, it really does! Wish I could send more, but things are not too good now. Enjoy this beautiful October weather.” Uncharacteristically, I am speechless at this note, this $5 bill. I put it in my wallet to carry around and remind me of the goodness of people, an antidote to what they like to call the news. At first, I wanted to send the money back, to tell her the letters are enough, there is no need to send money she needs. But I thought it was something she needed and wanted to do, I will keep it with me.
Paula Forman wrote a beautiful letter in script from St. Paul, two pages on white lined note paper. “I begin every morning (after greeting my husband and my border collie pup Eli) with a cup of coffee and your blog. Even mornings when the coffee doesn’t sound good, your blog does. I know you said it’s unnecessary to send money,” she wrote, “but this is the thing: I’ve wanted to subscribe to the blog because I believe in paying people for their work. Sparing you the particulars, a monthly installment arrangement is not a good idea right now..”
Paula copied my recent writings on “Spirituality And Creativity” into her journal, she says and she refers to it daily, she also refuses to downsize her life to meet the small expectations of others. She is contemplating leaving her home of 32 years and moving to a farm, it would perhaps be a blessing for her brother, who she would like to come and live with her.
The inspiration for her letter, Paula wrote, was a photograph I posted on the blog of some of my mail from Post Office Box 2. “I, too, love the handwritten word, and the sense of the person behind the writing.” This is so true, Paula, I love more than imagining conjuring up a picture of the writer, imagining them sitting at their desk or kitchen table, reading my blog.
There was a letter from Kelly Kosa in Illinois, she loves the blog and hopes it never completely replaces the book. Me too. Her plans to subscribe were interrupted by a large vet bill – she almost lost one of the beautiful dogs she sent me a photo of. A $20 bill fell out of the envelope as I was reading. (I will remind her that the blog is and will remain free to those who are struggling, they have never turned their backs on me, I will never turn my back on them.)
I am much affected by these messages from the Lost World of the very real America, of a time when messages required care and thought – from the sender, from the receiver. I see that they are radioactive jewels of creativity and inspiration, powerful seeds of connection and feeling. Each tells me a story from a place I will likely never see and a person I will likely never meet. These are the forgotten ones, not yet driven by banks and government onto computers to send e-mails and text messages. Letters live, and so do words. All you see on the so-called news is fear and anger, but that is not what I see in my letters, I see hope and affection and community, things you will never see on the thing they call the news.
It is my soul that is getting soothed. I appreciate the gifts, but I appreciate the letters more, they have opened up a closed and dormant part of me that very much wants to live. You letter writers out there, you really don’t need to send me money, why is it always the ones with so little that sometimes seem so generous?
I am the lucky one here, the recipient of these gifts, appearing magically in my Post Office Box Number Two. Yesterday, when I went to collect my letters, an elderly woman was standing next to me fumbling with the key to her box and I helped her open it and saw she was crying. What was wrong? ,I asked.
Oh, she said, I am 82 and live along with an old dog and two old cats and we all live on my Social Security check, my husband died 20 years ago, and I asked the woman at the counter if Congress will take my checks away and she said she just didn’t know. It frightens me.
I told her – I don’t know why, I know nothing – that no one will take her checks away and she and her dog and cats will be safe and have food to eat. Whatever happens, I thought, at least she might have some peace of mind now. For some reason, she believed me and said “thank you, dear.” I took down her P.O. Box Number and I think I will send her a letter telling her not to worry.
Yours Truly, Jon Katz, Post Office Box Number 2, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816.
