This past weekend, I was sorting through things that I needed to put away.  And there in the middle of other things, was a manila envelope marked “Old Letters.”  So, of course I stopped what I was doing, just to check them out. And of course, that took up a lot of my time and I abandoned my sorting to reminisce. 

I used to be quite the correspondent.  I wrote to friends and family and also had pen pals.  I guess you could still say that I still write letters in a way, because I like to get into written conversations with people that I never see in person.  Sometimes the people are even in town, but our paths never cross. So email was the first such vehicle for my missives. But Facebook is my method now. It is easier.  And there are pictures!

It is also wonderful that you can do facetime on Facebook.  I do appreciate all these ways of communicating, because that is who I am, a communicator.  And I strive to keep my relationships going as much as I can.

But I digress, as usual.  Back to the letter-writing.  Reading old letters made me nostalgic for that special kind of communication, which is practically a lost art now.  I still try to write someone once in a while, but it doesn’t happen often anymore.

Recently though, I began to write to a friend that was grieving.  We lost someone who was very dear to us both. We have written back and forth a few times now, and every time I receive a reply, I feel a warm rush of feelings and nostalgia sets in.  We have commented that each time, there is a wistful feeling when we receive mail from each other. I’ve missed that.

A letter can bring you back to a particular place and time. And reading it can bring you back to that moment when you were a kid, or a college student or a new parent.  The movies of your life can play in your mind. And it is so wonderful!

The fact that someone sat down and put pen to paper, folded that paper with their words and feelings on it, and took the time and effort to put it in an envelope is special.  And the writing on the outside with addresses inscribed and the stamp in the upper right corner also takes time and care, and that is special too. There is a little piece of ourselves that is in that letter we send.  It is significant, and I remember it well. And I think I am going to start doing it again.

In my family, I am the second Lora.  My grandmother was the first, followed by me as number two, and finally, my granddaughter as the third.  My great-grandmother was the first Mary, my mother, the second and my daughter the third. We are six generations of Mary-Loras, a maternal line of women in my family.

The first Lora, (my grandmother) and my grandfather came to the United States from Sicily, in 1919 through Ellis Island with two young children in tow.  The arduous journey was made more difficult by the fact that one of my uncles got an ear infection while en route, causing the family to be separated as my grandmother and uncle were placed in quarantine.  This caused extreme hardship as they remained in that situation until they were released after spending all their money trying to get them out. Because of this, they could not join their relatives in Chicago until money could be wired to them.  

Thus began their life in America.  And the experiment of building a better life had begun.  They worked hard and long to make the future brighter for their six children. Through their labors, they were able to make an easier life for them.  They lived through many a hard time, through World War II and the Great Depression. But my mother remembers her childhood as a happy time playing in the streets with all the other Italian kids in the neighborhood.  Even though they were poor, she said, “We didn’t know it, because everyone was ‘in the same boat’.”  

My grandmother and grandfather moved from Chicago to the city of Mishawaka, Indiana, where a very small house provided them with shelter away from the big city.  The house eventually had two additions built on, which didn’t add much square footage, but gave them indoor plumbing and a bigger kitchen.

My grandfather worked at the Ball Band which was a factory that made rubber products many of which were used in the war, while my grandma cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, did the washing, of course, and ironed everything!  She made all their clothes. When I say all, I mean everything but socks, which she darned to make them last longer. How she sewed! She made suits and coats and beautiful dresses for my aunt and mother.  

She was neat as a pin and her house was kept meticulously clean and orderly.  Her cooking was amazing and the aroma of sauces and freshly baked bread would often greet you at the front door.  Love was food and food was love. And there was plenty of both.

My grandma was so smart, but she had never had the opportunity to go to school.  She was the one in her family that had to stay home and help her mother while growing up.  She never learned to read, which hurt her deeply. But she could figure out how to do anything just by looking at it.  She would buy a pattern and material and tailor a garment so that it would fit perfectly. And she could look at a picture of a crocheted item and figure out the stitches by studying it with a magnifying glass.

When life became somewhat easier economically, my grandfather tried to get her to move to a bigger house.  But she would have none of it. I envision her kissing the ground when they got to their little property, vowing that she would never leave it.  She would go no further. She had traveled from Sicily, across the ocean, to New York, then Chicago, finally to arrive at the little house in Mishawaka.  This was her home and she would not budge. And there she stayed, and lived, and died having made a home of warmth and love. And so the next two Loras thrived because of her voyage and sacrifice.  Her legacy would live on into all the generations that followed. Perhaps there will be more Loras and Marys in the future. I am her first namesake and I am so grateful that she made the journey.   

Exercise can be quite complicated when going to the gym. Using a treadmill, or elliptical machine or stationary bike are just 3 options for cardio exercise.  Then, there are machines to tone every muscle, build strength and improve endurance. One of the things I dislike, is just getting there.  It takes 15-20 minutes each way depending on traffic. And that’s because I live pretty close. It’s just a pain having to get in the car.  

Before, when I was in really good shape, I just got up, put on whatever was loose and handy, warmed up in my bedroom and then walked downstairs.  I walked in circles around an island in my kitchen. I really walked fast and went one way, then switched and ran around in the other. I was younger then and I would run up the steps to the 2nd floor and then back down to the first floor, down the basement stairs and up to the first floor again.  I would continue the pattern for 30-40 minutes and it kept me fit.

After exercising, I would just run upstairs and take a shower.  I’d dress for work and be done in just under an hour. Those were the days.

Since then, I have developed arthritis (in one knee especially), because I have fallen on it on concrete so many times.  So, the steps are history. And now, I have gained a lot of weight, making everything much harder to do. If only I could have stuck with the walking, I probably wouldn’t have gained the weight.  But there’s no point in dwelling on that! It makes me want to eat just thinking about it.

The other thing that’s great about walking, is that if the weather was nice, I’d walk outside.  In the early morning, everything is quiet and maybe still dark. My neighborhood is pretty safe and there is the added benefit of fresh air.

But the best thing about walking is that it’s free.  That makes it even more attractive. So why am I not doing it?  I am not sure, but I mean to find out! I must remember why I daily decided to ”just walk.”  Or else I will have to justify to myself, the reason for this madness. “Just walk, Lora.” “Just walk.”

Last night I attended my 50th High School Class Reunion.  It was extremely well-planned and everything went beautifully.  Classmates reacquainted themselves with other students that some  had not seen since graduation. Some of us had friends who lived in the same town, while others travelled from far away.  Many of us needed those specially-made tags with our names and faces from our graduation photos on them. Regardless, it was a time of memories shared, with smiles, laughter, and some wistful moments of remembrance of those who had passed on.

It was refreshing to see people from our past who may have not been friends in high school be so friendly and happy to see each other.  Now, after 50 years, there were no cliques, or affiliation with sports or clubs that may have separated us and consumed our time and thoughts then.  Now, there were only happily surprised and friendly faces looking to reconnect after the passing of so many years of our varied lives.

How wonderful to see nothing but comradery among us.  How amazing to see all of our differences meld together into an incredible mosaic of our collective lives.  It was so good to see old friends that I had not seen since graduation and hear about their lives. I also enjoyed connecting with people I barely knew, but recognized because of their pictures on their name tags.  Easy conversation flowed because the passing of years somehow took away some of the hesitation caused by shyness or fear of rejection one might have had when we walked the halls of our school.

For me, the passing of years had removed the awkwardness I’d felt at times when I compared myself to others and focused on the talents I did not have.  Maturity, life experiences and a sense of humor has made me comfortable in my own skin. There are definite advantages to growing older, sloughing off our inhibitions, and growing into the people we are meant to be.  Reunions can draw attention to all the blessings in our lives. They do for me. And I am so grateful.

If you are into soul and the blues, you probably are familiar with the song, “Try a Little Tenderness.”  It has been recorded by many artists, but my two favorites are the Etta James and Otis Redding versions. This song is about a guy showing tenderness to his girlfriend when she is feeling sad and discouraged.  But, I think that this phrase is powerful. What if we made these words a “go-to” for times when we see someone in need? What if we chose to think of tenderness instead of succumbing to knee-jerk reactions when we see a situation that we could not possibly understand without knowing more?

Tenderness is something to think about in times like these when people disagree on so many things.  It is so easy to see behavior in others and make judgments without knowing the whole story. There is a negative media and rudeness is commonplace.  But behind all these actions is a story unseen. There are many reasons for behavior. It seems like ‘tenderness” could be an antidote to some of the negatives we see displayed.

Even a kind look at someone who is struggling can help ease pain.  Looking at another person in a tender way can have a positive effect on another person.   It can be like a balm that eases a worried soul, if only for a moment.  

Tenderness is not seen and felt as much as it is needed.  There is much work to be done to make our world more loving and kind.  Once, I had a moment when I chose tenderness instead of judgement. And an uncomfortable situation was changed in an instant.  I have never forgotten how that made me feel. I felt so grateful for that decision at the time. But since then, I am even more grateful for the lesson it taught me.

If we want things to be more peaceful, kindness and understanding are necessary.  Tenderness is just one way of showing this. It can’t hurt and it’s certainly worth a try.