There’s nothing that captures the imagination like hidden surprises lurking in ordinary objects. Wardrobes that lead to secret worlds. Keys tucked into stone walls that open secret gardens. I spent my childhood, (okay, let’s face it… my whole life) looking for the mysteries that are right in front of our noses.

So when I visited a friend in Portland, I was wowed by the antique cabinet she’d just bought. I oohed and ahhed as she showed me the fold down writing desk with rows of little mail cubbies, each of which could hold its own tucked away secret.

Then she turned to me with a sparkle in her eyes and said, “I haven’t even shown you the best part.” She opened the bottom door on the cabinet and pulled out two shoe boxes full of letters.

They looked just like the old boxes in my closet. Like mine, these boxes were stuffed full of cards and notes from friends. And love letters.

My hands immediately reached for a rubber banded stack of envelopes. They were from 1957, a series of love letters from  George to Carmen. Holding my breath, I smoothed out the yellowed paper and began to read.

Evidently, George had taken Carmen to senior prom, but hadn’t gotten up the nerve to kiss her that night. Two years later, he was in the Air Force and posted to Morocco. It was only then, far from everyone and everything familiar, that he realized what she meant to him. He wrote her with the desperate hope that she might feel the same way. That he might be able to see her again when he was on leave. He sent her perfume and questions about her feelings for him.

My friend and I wanted them to get together. When one of George’s letters wrote of dangerous hush-hush things happening around the Air Force base, I wanted Carmen to drop everything and find a way to get to Morocco to be with him. I imagined a passionate scene in the desert, complete with elegant scarves and planes buzzing overhead.

But this was life, not a story. While the shoe boxes didn’t contain Carmen’s replies, there were also letters from George to Carmen’s mother. And my friend and I were able to get a sense of what was happening through them. Carmen was away at college and not very interested in George. While he was writing about his Air Force pay being able to support her and their potential kids, Carmen was busy studying to be a teacher, going skiing with her friends, and generally being a college student.

I don’t think she ended up with George, because though there was a copy of her graduation announcement in the shoebox, there was nothing about a wedding. Six years after George’s letters stop, Carmen was still writing notes home to her mother about her roommates, her job, her record-breaking bowling scores.And then I realized that the story I was reading was more extraordinary than the one I’d hoped for.

Carmen, a girl in the 1950’s, had chosen to go away to college. Had chosen a career over a husband she didn’t love. Had made a life for herself in a new town. At the end of this small, intimate snapshot of these people’s lives, George had my sympathy, but Carmen had my admiration. It turned out that this was her story, and she was going to write it the way she wanted to.

Posted in Nifty happenings, Writing

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