Miss Annie Stephens, 1909
October 11, 1909
Dear Annie,
Just tried you again Saturday and was always glad to hear from you. We are all well and hope you are well and enjoying yourself. We are having lovely weather now and every body busy. We expect to thresh this week. We were up Lincoln Creek yesterday. Clyde is feeling tired. Cant say much on a card. So…(unreadable)
— Lulu (or perhaps Lula).
Front of Postcard. Shows Rainier National Park
Miss Mary Morgan (unknown date)
Dear Mary,
This is just a line to let you know I’ll expect you (and Helen) Sunday at 1:00 for dinner and (?) afterword. (the question mark stands for the choices you have for being entertained.)
Well, I guess that’s all. Till Nov. 21.
Love,
Aunt Mae
I wonder what they chose to do that night?
Front of Postcard. The postcard seems to be somewhere between 1930-1950. Thanksgiving fell on November 21 in 1940…perhaps that’s when this “line was dropped”?
Mr. Warren Spitler, 1920
Am having the time of my life. Can you find me on the beach? Come down, the water is fine. All well and able to sit up and take notice (?).
Effy.
Front of Postcard, 1920
To Miss Alma Weber, 1912
My Dear Niece,
I am writing for the boys. They get so little time to write as they go to school at night. I expect Otto home Friday and they will all come Saturday morning the 26.
Lovingly,
Aunt Lena
(top corner): Meet them Saturday Morning, the 26.
Front of postcard
We are, all of us, the keepers of history. Family history, personal history, even world history. Each person reading this is the primary source of their life. When others are gone, you are the one who will remember them.
But age comes with problems that surpass aches and pains. Age comes with loss: of friends, of family, of work, of self-worth.
We should value the stories of elders, but in a hyper-productive capitalist society, stories of complicated lives aren’t condensed into 7 second clips meant to hold our attention.
But I encourage you to listen.
Graveyards are so much more than a final resting place
They are a collection of memories, shattered dreams, and half forgotten hopes.
A collection of consciousness laying underneath a curated lawn.
Perhaps that’s why, on the clearest day, a breeze always blows
It’s the whispered conversation of souls
It’s amazing, you know.
The extent to which women’s work is undervalued.
Take the Bayeux Tapestry
A stunning piece of work, handmade circa the 11th Century.
The tapestry tells a tale of knights and battles and victories and failings. A tale of kings and their conquests.
What remains? Steel and Armor?
No. Cotton and linen. Threaded and knotted and spliced and faded. It’s stalwart against the greedy hands of time.
Men. They are the ones remembered. Odo and Harold and Hastings probably. A tale of men, created by women. A history where the historians are forgotten.
Not the skills passed down from the old to the young. Not the time and effort and artistry. Not the artist(s) and historians and knowledge makers and holders.
Not the women. They are…overlooked.
But the tapestry remains. And so too does their memory, if you choose to look.
We drink our coffee
Skid into our parking spot
Late, by two minutes
The day is a drudge
Much the same as yesterday,
As will be tomorrow
Oblivious to
The obliteration of
An entire culture
That’s what we call progress
“Doctors” with no oath
Looking to make a profit
Will descend on those
Who want their own choice
Tik toks and others
Will film “do it yourself” clips
And prey off the clicks
Of desperate girls
Boys without knowledge and
Men with few consequences
Will not be party
To the new shadows
Haunting the world of women
Sitting on my shelf
Is an eclectic collection
Of various mugs
Chipped, bruised, and faded
Or beautiful and pristine
Squat and short, tall and lean
Representing a moment
A collection of past lives.
Past jobs, past people
Past holidays and vacations
The cups tell a story
In sips.
Hipstory 