Prick

Prick

    Defined by the Oxford dictionary as a verb, to "...make a small hole in (something) with a sharp point; pierce slightly" (ex.--"prick the potatoes with a fork"); as a noun it is "...an act of piercing something with a fine, sharp point." (ex.--"the pin prick had produced a drop of blood").  Of course, as with every language, there are slang versions of this word which was exactly the version that we had heard (usually meaning someone who's a jerk or has done you wrong).  But our friend was laughing and saying that she hadn't even heard that word used in years; and thus began a series of words and things we felt had more or less faded into the background...pluck, sloe gin and Galliano, even wry.  Here's how the late David Brinkley (of the famed broadcast team Huntley-Brinkley) put it in his biography, Brinkley's Beat (ironically, published in the year he died): One of the words people often used to describe me when I first became well known in the late 1950s was "wry," not a word much used anymore--or even then.  Its literal definition is "lopsided," "misdirected," "ironic," or "humorous."  I suppose I was sometimes all those things.  I was always attracted to the comical, even the ridiculous.  And although much of what I covered over the years was serious, even tragic, I tried never to lose sight of the pretension and folly that was always there, even in the gravest situations.  In the troubled times in which I have finished this book, I think it's still important to be a little detached, to keep an eye out for the foolish and the ridiculous, and to avoid accepting everything at face value.

    And so it was that somehow during the past few days I have found myself shredding old papers, from tax receipts to business correspondence, and from articles to letters from friends, all of which has caused my shredder to overheat twice (thus forcing me to stop...temporarily).  But it was the latter that struck me the most, for just as I did at my mother's I was now going through hidden files and folders only this time the memories were mine; in a sense I was cleaning out a garage only there were few physical objects other than letters and papers, each jogging my memory back to a period of time when people and relationships were young and fresh, their faces and voices popping into my head as if they were there in front of me.  More than a photo, these letters were done in the age of pen and paper, the script flowing across the page as they detailed events from their lives.  Thank yous from aunts and camping notes from bumped-into friends, letters from men and women now off and married and their children off or perhaps now graduated from college...but here they all were, still young, their children still children, my aunts and uncles still alive...and most of the stories headed for the shredder.

    Some of course, were headed back to their original writers (or in the case of my aunts and uncles, back to my cousins, just in case they wanted to peek at their parents' lively notes); yet a good friend summed it up best for me in one of her letters from some ten years ago, all in response to me sending her a batch (as in three or more dozen) of her past letters when she was off traveling the world: I haven't even looked at the old letters--simply put the stack in the basement with old journals I've kept but never read.  And it is not a matter of high emotion which has relegated these historical documents (I'm smiling) to the pit -- to be perfectly frank, I have so very little interest in the past that it borders on disdain, the present being so full and alive as it is.  My personal journey has been one of marked inner changes which, though possibly hinted at in such letters, could never have been put into words.  I'm afraid my primary emotion when reading old stuff is one of acute embarrassment and nothing more.

    At this point in my life, my feelings are much the same, even as I treasured having the chance to re-read some of those collected writings (at least there's that benefit to my hoarding so many things).  It took (and is taking) quite awhile, affording me a glimpse into both my past and their pasts.  Fun times, for the most part.  And to read something from 20+ years ago and then have your mind jump forward to how you know those people today, well, that alone is quite the ride.  But what struck me most was how little of this practice will possibly remain to future generations, for this was all in a time when paper could be easily written on, placed in an envelope and sent on its way, all with the receiver just as eagerly opening said envelope and reading the words.  More importantly, it was a time when people wrote extensive letters, each having little to do with weather or how-are-yous, but more with what was going on in their lives, how they were feeling, in other words taking the time out of their day to actually catch up via writing.  It's a lost art these days, even the occasional long phone conversation has dribbled down to a text message, something that just as with the long letter is now pretty much gone.  Today's greeting cards, if they come at all (usually during a birthday or holiday) are limited to a few initials or a signature or perhaps a single line such as "let's get together."  But there is no time...or so we think.  Game of Drones is on...

    There are still a few people I enjoy writing to, even if it might be over the computer (more often I still print out the page and mail it, all due to my growing proficiency in hieroglyphic-style script writing, one even pharmacists now seem unable to discern).  But it is still a piece of paper they open from an envelope.  Think of your own experience, that rare pleasure when you receive a letter --a real letter-- from a distant friend, distant in actual distance or distant in time.  As in the days of youth, that letter becomes like a love letter, a re-connecting of bonds perhaps frayed but not severed...and suddenly, you are back, back laughing and reminiscing and recalling why you were both friends in the first place and all that you once shared so tightly.  Of course, that is my version of things, my habits of keeping a few precious letters over the years (who knows why, since I buried them in the backs of cabinets, the cabinets themselves relegated to the backs of closets, and the letters and papers only now being brought out to toss away).  Perhaps in this age of quick deletes and quick clearing of caches, such practices will be gone.  But it seems that even the long email letter is growing rare.  We have moved on, it would appear, and time and our priorities have left little room for solace and writing...we escape rather than return.

    This practice of saving such letters likely wasn't (and isn't) for everyone since many of my friends would have tossed away such letters long ago.  Open, read, toss.  And don't ask me why I kept such letters.  But it has been a fun peek for me, this brief jumping back onto the ride of my earlier years, to chuckle (another one of those words you don't hear anymore) at old times and now to let it go.  Times have changed and in watching my mother, apparently so will our memories.  These hard copies of letters have proved a refreshing jolt to my own memory battery, a recharge and restoring if you will.  And perhaps it might be a good time for you to pick out an old friend from way back, perhaps one across the seas, and take an hour to write (as in "write") an update of yourself.  Picture optional.  Who knows, you may just get a reply and maybe even start a new trend...the smile that comes to both of your faces will simply be a bonus.