Will Miracles Never Cease?
From the Archive: Saturday, January 15, 1977
All the Names We Carry draws on over three hundred family letters spanning more than fifty years.
In this one, my mother wrote to my sister Diane in Vermont in January of 1977. Most of the news is small: the snow, the dog, my new room, my father with his nose in a book. But she is talking around something specific—my sister Fran’s mental illness. And trying to be cheerful about it all.
Dear Di,
All of your letters received, and thanks so much. They were enjoyed by all. Dad loved hearing from you personally, and I told him that he should sit down and answer your letter, but he said that I should thank you for him and tell you he enjoyed the letter and is very happy that you are thinking about him. He doesn’t think you could understand his writing. Excuses, excuses.
Last week on Monday, Dad got as far as Perth Amboy and had to turn around and come home because the roads were so bad—snow—so he missed Monday. Also, the previous Friday, then Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. On Tuesday he had to stay home because I had to go to unemployment. He just was going crazy being home so much.
So, I was leaving to go to unemployment. He said, “I just feel so guilty not going to work.” So, I said, “Why don’t you enjoy it—make a tape or read a book.”
So, I went to Red Bank and collected my $70, and when I got back, lo and behold, there was himself with his nose in a book that he got from a book club 35 years ago and never read. I thought I was going to faint—and he’s still at it. He finishes his dinner and rushes to read the book, Sir Pagan, about knights in shining armor and the Crusades. Will miracles never cease?
Boy, oh boy, have we had snow and cold this year. I bet it’s just like Vermont in Oceanport this year. Bitter cold and snow, snow, snow—but it’s fun, fun, fun.
Amy and Coco and I went skating on the river one day. Coco was a riot. There was a long crack in the ice, but the ice was very solid, but she cried and cried and would not walk over that crack. I told her it was all right, and she saw Amy and I walk over, but all she did was cry until we finally told her that we were leaving. And with a mighty surge of courage, she jumped over the crack and came with us. Can you imagine that? She knew instinctively that it was a sign of danger and didn’t want to go on it. I am so amazed.
Fran called me on Wednesday from Peggy’s. She went from Redwood City to Arcata, 100 miles, in a boxcar. Wow. She said she was all right though, and a bit tired. Peggy was glad to see her and took her out to dinner to a Mexican restaurant, and then they went to a movie and saw three Katharine Hepburn movies for a dollar. She said it was a nice evening.
The doctors in Redwood City gave her medication to take with her and a note she can take to a clinic to get more when she thinks she needs it. She sounded a bit better than other times. Peg is going to school, so she doesn’t see too much of her.
Tonight Dad was holding Amy’s hands and dancing around with her, and Coco started jumping up on Dad and barking until Dad had to take her front paws in his hands and dance with her. Dad said, “I don’t think Coco believes she is a dog anymore. She’s just one of the people who live in this house.” What a dog.
Went for a walk tonight and it is cold. The wind is bitter and blowing the snow all over. When I came back, I sat in a nice hot tub. Now I’m all tucked in bed with my afghan and my heating pad. I shoveled snow yesterday, and though I felt great while doing it, my muscles were stiff as a board today. Hence the heating pad. It feels good.
Amy’s room has a new look. It has one wall in a pink and yellow patchwork design, and the other three walls are painted pink—also trim and doors. She still needs curtains and spread, and Dad is making shelves for books and toys. Pretty sharp. Now if we can only convince her that it’s safe. She loves the room but is not too anxious to move away from Chris.
So now you can split firewood. You’re going to be a jack of all trades, eh? It must be nice to have a fireplace going on a bitter cold night.
Glad to hear that your VW is in good shape. It certainly has been a good car for you. I see so many that look just like yours, and the driver always seems to be girls with long blonde hair, and I always think it’s you. Alas, it is never you.
I really must close now. I’m getting quite sleepy and tomorrow, Monday, will be here before you know it. Can’t sleep late tomorrow, as Amy will be off to school.
By the way, she likes school a lot. Most of her fears have been alleviated and she is growing accustomed to the long day. She is quite happy and doing very well.
So, Di, take care and write me all the news from Vermont. We all send our love. We think about you all the time.
Love,
Mom
This digital scene was brought to life with the help of AI to visualize a moment from my family’s letters.