My favorite aunt was my Aunt Eleanor, which I can say now that I am auntless. I had 17 of them, both Mother and Dad came from large families, and I don’t know what I’d have done without them, probably ridden freight trains and lived in hobo jungles and wound up in Leavenworth. Eleanor was a farm girl and loved animals, was a great gardener, could handle a gun, played sports, and was a nurse, so she lived life on a practical level. She was Dad’s favorite sibling and when he talked to her on the phone, he became a different person, told stories, was funny and uninhibited. And she was a beautiful letter writer.
Letter writing is a lost art but it’s been losing for a long time. Most people are hesitant to put themselves on paper. They say they’re too busy but really it’s a problem of reticence. Why embarrass yourself?
Eleanor wrote in fine declarative sentences, nothing about inner turmoil and nothing about national affairs. Only what she had seen or heard directly. She lived life firsthand. Family came first and neighbors.
