The Handwriting's On the Wall

They say that the sense of smell is our strongest bridge between today and the past. Even now, I can recall the sweet scent of a fellow bus rider from 25 years ago, and how it made me think of my Grandma Raglin.

So, where does handwriting fit into the "memory lane" equation? Because it most certainly should.

Yesterday, an envelope arrived from our most excellent former neighbors, the Johnsons. It was addressed to Eric and me, a curious thing, considering we're mother and son. Inside, it became clear why.

Jeanne Johnson scrawled a quick note, saying they'd been thinning out their piles and had found the enclosed mailing. She thought we might like a copy. Indeed.

As I unfolded the enclosure, I found myself looking at my dad, who was looking at Eric, who was no more than a few hours old at the time. My dad was in hospital garb, recovering from prostate-cancer surgery, his lips a joyful coo.

I've mentioned in a past blog about how my dad and I were hospital mates at the time, my mom a bouncing ball of support between floors. Apparently, my dad created a mailing to let folks know that all was well. Of course, the newspaperman in him included a headline.

RAGLIN TYPES DOMINATE ST. E'S HOSPITAL:

And then, it goes on. . .

While I was counting the staples in my body, in the room directly below, daughter Jane gave birth to Eric Carlson Holt (8b 11oz.) on Sun. Oct. 18. And, good news: All hands are doing well! Thanks for your prayers, flowers, books, gifts, cards and more. --Jim

Ah, but then things get really personal, because the Johnsons, bless their hearts, also copies the hand-scribbled personal note my dad had written to them on the other side of his card. And they even included the return address, written in my mom's blocky, beautiful handwriting, surprisingly like my own.

The note begins with my dad's shorthand, acknowledging that all the Johnsons' first names begin with "J." Despite this fact, they really are good people!

J-J -other Js, it begins. . .
What a moment it was to hike down one floor and find this angel. Thanks & love to you two 5-star neighbors. Now, about those leaves--
Jim

I had not seen my dad's handwriting since before his death 17 years ago. I had forgotten how he looped his j's and squished his other letters together. Turns out there was one thing in his life that was right leaning--his cursive. And to see it so close to my mom's all-caps printing, hers so beefy and unafraid, well, let's just say it made me pause a bit, and then I walked across that bridge between now and then, taking my time along the way.