Were it not for the references to Falstaff beer I would never believe that my Dad – my stoic, emotionless, rational Dad – wrote three letters a day full of all the passion I have never heard from any man in my entire life.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” And then … expounding on that.
(There was even one part where Mom had to use the whiteout.)
Evidently the three letters a day drained him of all the verbal love because in all my life I never heard him say “I love you” to my Mom. Perhaps they said it behind closed doors.
(There was even a part in which he promised to love Dave and me, which made me choke with laughter when I read it, because he really was clearly waiting us out. )
The best thing he wrote wasn’t in a letter, it’s the notes he took when she called him in Saint Louis after their ten-year separation. He wrote down her name, then her phone number, then her phone number with exclamation points and circled, then another circled and underlined and with exclamation points… and the page is just eventually full of just her phone number. Well, except for the three times her number is interrupted with scribbled notes. (“Friends?” “Why unhappy?” “Staying?”)
It is just dear. Makes me like him a lot.
What’s really remarkable is that while Mom’s letters are full of teasing, humor, and guilt over using Jerry’s credit card to pay for the new tires she will use to drive away from Texas, Mom says I love you — once. On the last letter she sends, on the day of their wedding, she signs, “I love you, Your Wife Margi.”