First up, Tales from Cravant. Until a few years ago my blog appeared regularly, often daily, sometimes weekly, with shorter reads and longer reads. Then I stopped. Things happen. But the arrival of 2019 has brought with it the realisation that I've missed the process. So I'm resurrecting my blog.
Writing was for a long time part of my working life, speeches, copy for newspapers, magazines, brochures etc. I also enjoyed writing letters, long-hand only, never typed, sometimes with a fountain pen, sometimes a biro. Luckily I had a couple of pen pals who shared the same enthusiasm. The first, Aunt Dolly, lived in San Diego, the other, Helen, lived in Tel Aviv, although she spent a fair bit of time away in Europe. She and I met by chance whilst travelling in Canada and America.
On average we wrote four times a year on single sheet airmail paper. Not for the faint-hearted, because each fattish envelope that arrived in our respective mail boxes, contained 15 or 16 pages. I don't know how the others approached writing their letters or where they liked to write. Mine were always written at home, seated at the dining room table, which had good light coming in from the side. Each took a whole day to complete with time allowed, in between, for the mundane essentials. If the writing took time, so did the reading.
The act of placing a pen on paper is a huge commitment. There isn't the same pressure perhaps as writing commercially or completing an exam paper where the collection of words has the capacity to change your future, realising some dreams, undermining others, if thoughts aren't succinct enough or original enough. Writing a letter nonetheless carries a heavy responsibility of being entertaining as well as interesting. Blogs in this respect are the same.
Aunt Dolly and I were pen pals for at least twenty years. Eventually the arthritus in her hands made anything more than a single-sided letter, impossible, and that was painful enough. I kept writing as always, until finally she wasn't there to write to any longer. Helen and I kept writing to each other for nearly ten years after we met. I learnt much from her. Helen's last letter was long. 1995. She had been to the Rabin rally in Tel Aviv and was standing at the front embracing a young Arab man. Both had been inspired to believe that peace was possible. Minutes later, Rabin was murdered in front of them, by another Israeli, Yigal Amir. Helen walked back to her apartment and started a letter. This wanton act of destruction that she had witnessed, kept Helen writing through the night. I still have it. Twenty pages long.
I treasure it.
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