Going Postal

After the high of the West Cork Literary Festival, I am running out of steam.  I go back to work tomorrow.  In fact, the Leaving Cert results are out today and my heart goes out to all students and their parents this morning as the minutes crawl towards 9 o'clock.  School yards around the country are filling up, as I write, with anxious parents and their equally anxious children.    I've been through it twice and have another in two years time.  It's inspiring to witness those who get what they want:  last year I saw one boy come bounding out the school doors, clear the yard in three strides and sprint all the way home to tell his parents. And, heart breaking to see those who don't: I saw another boy get into his mother's car, put his head in his hands and cry.    

I work in a University and from today, the phones will be hopping all day, everyday right up until the end of September after which time it will slow down to merely going berserk until Christmas.  I love my job but the next four months will be draining to the point of being toxic unless I make it my goal to retain my joy of writing. 

To do this, I have set myself a challenge.  From tomorrow, Thursday 18th August, I will write a letter a day to a friend, any friend, and post it.  Big deal, you might say.  I know it's not a big deal, particularly for someone with my ego, but I can't take a year off and live in Dingle nor can I live on five Euros a week since I still have semi dependent children and a job.   

The reasons to write letters:

               My friend, Betty - whose tulips I destroyed in 1965 - told me recently that out of  her Over 55's Group, she was the only one to receive a letter in the post in the last twelve months, and it was from me.  I think that's sad.  There's something heart warming about getting a crisp, warm, fat envelope landing unexpectedly in your door complete with stamps, postmark and your name hand-written.

               My friend, Mary - who slapped my face when we first met in 1979 - passed away this October three years ago.  In July 2012, on the train to Dublin, I sent her a text, 'I know you are in Robert's Cove at this time of year, when would be a good time to call down?'  Mary texted back, 'I'm very sorry Geraldine, I've just been diagnosed with cancer, I have three weeks to live.'  I realised at that moment I loved her but had never told her.  I wanted to jump off the train and run all the way back to Cork.  When I did get back home, I called in.  Her husband, Tony, her children, Russell and Katie, her amazing neighbours, extended family, and friends were taking care of everything.  Everyone had a role, everyone seemed to know what to do whether it was keeping the house spotless, ensuring minimum disruption to the household routine, minding the two younger of her four children, or cooking meals.  Tony took compassionate leave from work and never left her side.        What could I do?    I decided to do what I always did when I sense a distance I can't leap; I wrote to her.  Every morning, before work, I'd go into the Student Centre in UCC, buy a pretty, funny, witty card and fill it with words.  During my lunch break, I would type a longer letter: Mary had complained back in the days when I lived in London that my hand writing was awful and, conscious that she might be speaking for all my 'lucky' letter recipients, I typed when I could.  Mary lived for another 15 months and I kept up the correspondence until she died.  Even when I knew I would see her that day, I wrote a letter and tucked into a card.  She told me when she was too sick to read them herself or was in the middle of treatment, Tony would save them up and read them to her in date order.  Sending someone a letter is an act of love.  And it's so simple.  You are only sacrificing time.

               Completing the circle.  I wrote my first letter, when I was 10 years old, to my grandfather in London.  He was dying, although I don't think I realised it at the time but I knew he that he must be very sick as my mother had gone over to visit him.  My mother she told me afterwards my letter made Granny cross but it made Granddad laugh.    

Lonely and homesick when I left home at 21, writing letters got me through it.  Writing bridged the gap between feeling helpless by maintaining a connection with the people that meant the most to me.   I shall call it The Daily Dose because that's what it will be for the poor unfortunates who will be at the receiving end and don't yet know it!

P.S.  The very best of luck to all Leaving Cert students today, I hope you all get what you want.