Our first letters to each other, April 1972

     Not long after we'd met at that dance, I'd travelled down to Florida with my friend Harry, thanks to his willingness to drive us down there in his car during spring break.  

     But I was truly smitten, simply couldn't stop thinking about her, our wonderful hours-long talk that evening, and her quick kiss on my cheek when she said good night (once her Dad had arrived to pick her up)! 

    So while Harry and I worked our way down the eastern seaboard  —  wherever and whenever we stopped  —  I'd check for scenic postcards to send to Kathleen Mary Chisholm at her school's address (since I didn't know her home address, nor the Chisholm's home phone number for that matter). 

     I don't remember how many of those postcards I sent, but it was only once she was back attending classes, following her school's break, that she actually got them! 

     Nevertheless, once I was back in Massachusetts, I didn't waste any time in writing her "a real letter".

               KC had been on Spring Break from Newton College of the Sacred Heart, had seen my postcards as well as my first letter, and lost no time in responding back to me.

               It was now about two and a half weeks since we'd met...

Dear Peter,

    This is sort of in answer to your last letter, but also to say thank you for coming all the way from Woburn to see me, which I forgot to say, and for the clams, and helping at Lechmere's, and sticking out the marathon we me.  But no thanks for making me go down that hill.  I suspect you have a stubborn streak in you, somehow, 

    Oh, my sister Eileen (yes, just like the book) is such a comedienne.  She wears a Bruins shirt, a Greek sailor's hat, yellow and navy shoes, and purple pants as part of her get-up.  She is the extrovert, I am considered the introspective one.  I speak of her because she just walked by and it is impossible to ignore her. 

    I am doing a paper on Emily Bronte for English and one of the things I came across in my research was her poetry, some of which is quite beautiful, if I may quote:  

           "The sun has set, and the long grass now 

            Waves drearily in the evening wind; 

            And the wild bird has flown from that 

                          Old grey stone,

            In some warm nook a couch to find. 

            In all the lonely landscape round 

            I see no sight and hear no sound, 

            Except the wind that far away 

            Comes sighing o'er the heathy sea." 

    After that, what can I say?     

    Have you ever read any of Michelangelo's poems?  They are very beautiful, very masculine, yet incredibly gentle at the same time. 

    I looked up that picture of Dürer's to see if I was right.  The similarity is there, probably enhanced by the beard.  Which reminds me of something funny that I said in Art History the other day to my girl friend which I will tell you some other time. 

    Would you like to hear the joke about Pavlov?  No, probably not. 

    I have a friend who sings country-western stuff, do you like that?  I rather doubt you do, somehow.  I mean Glen Campbell and Dave Brubeck don't move in the same circles, oui? 

                    Love, Kathy

P.S. If I dare to say, your moustache tickles.  Kathy

Peter,

    I have to add this because I know that whenever one lends 

another person books one always wonders if they will appreciate 

them or even better to read them at all: 

    You see, I had a most beastly morning you can imagine and 

I came home to an empty house absolutely disgusted with 

everything.  I couldn't find anything to read and then I 

remembered C.S.L. and now I have read the 1st 5 chapters 

of the 1st book and I feel much better.  If only we were studying 

him in school, I would find it quite a bit more enjoyable, 

with quite a bit more literary value.  (Quite a bit more than 

Henry James.) 

    Did you ever read any of Edith Nesbitt?  She is very good, very 

similar to Lewis, has titles like The Five Children and It. 

    Which for some reason reminds me of the Story Tale 

Rooms in The Wax Museum in town which is another thing 

for you to see in Boston.  It is one of my favorite places and 

I think you would like it.  It's on Tremont St., across from the 

Common, near the theater district. 

    Pardon my handwriting which deteriorates rapidly when 

I'm in a mental funk. 

                    Love, 

                    Kathy

Kate Greenaway, do you like it?

Dear Peter,

    Like as not your letter arrived before you expected it to and probably I shall talk to you before you get this.  But I imagine you share my conviction that talking on the telephone is one thing and answering a letter quite another. 

    They have taken my darling man away from me and replaced him with Englebert Humpergump or whatever his stupid name is.  I refer of course to Secret Agent Man as the man whom I shall miss.  Is there no justice? 

    Did you ever see The Fearless Vampire Killers, Roman Polanski’s movie?  I saw it twice; it was one of the funniest things I ever saw.  I rather figured you for a Sherlock Holmes’s lover, as I am myself.  Basil Rathbone did the part so well.  I like Sherlock Holmes’s movies and one-star horror stories.  You must have watched all the old  Johnny Weissmuller movies.  Remember what Tarzan went to New York and he couldn’t stand wearing shoes?  As a child who hated shoes (and my grandmother told me that was why my feet grew so big) I was always stricken with great sympathy for his plight.  But I hated cheetah as I’ve always disliked chimpanzees.  I don’t think they are the least bit cute; they are smelly and have fleas. 

    Your postcard really broke me up.  Peter, how can you be so funny!  Ah, yes, when you put it like that, the difference between coincidence and fate is indeed Buster Keaton sticking his head in a Civil War cannon.  In fact Eileen and I saw that movie in living green on my next-door neighbor’s colour TV set one night when I was babysitting.  As you would say, enjoyable. 

    And in regard to your stubborn refusal to translate the Russian, I say Pa tzu chi so hsüeh ti chiao kei pieh jen, yeh shih chang chih shih ti fa tzu!  Which I will be so good as to translate for you, as it may benefit you: “Teach others what you yourself know, as it is a way of extending one’s own knowledge.”  

    Do you practice your sax and read Tarzan of the Apes at the same time?  My father, who is an avid fan of Burroughs, by the way, has the 1914 edition of it (Tarzan of the Apes). 

    Glad you liked the New Yorker bit, and no, I didn’t know William Evans Calhoun as Yusef Lateef.  And please, that was not a suggestion for you, you are fine as you are. 

    Oh, I feel very collapsible right now.  The circulation in my hands is off today, with the result that my hands feel like blocks of ice.  There is no way that I want to go to school tomorrow. 

    Eileen and I were considering the possibility that our next-door neighbor is a vampire.  Did I tell you about the time the bat was in our house? 

    One early morning in summer I woke up to find something flapping in the dusk over my face.  I pulled the covers over my head but the flapping noise would not go away.  So I grabbed my glasses (I wore glasses, then) and made a dash for what was then the spare bedroom, where eventually I fell asleep again.  What else could I do?   When I got up later that morning I wondered if the whole thong was a dream, but the bat reappeared in my parent’s bedroom, where my mother, brave woman, knocked it out with a can of ether, then burned it in our backyard fireplace. 

    How’s that for a true-life adventure?  But, I did not see any tall, dark men in long capes… 

    So, now, you practice speeded-up-goofing off, eh?  Well, it’s the only kind. 

    Oh, dear, dear heart, 3.4 at Newton and 3.85 at Northeastern are two slightly different things, as you know perfectly well. 

    I thought the smock without my head was more charming.  Anyway, all my self-portraits make me look slightly neurotic.  However, I can give you a portrait taken a few years ago that you might like.  The expression is the real me, that is, my inner spirit, always slightly hesitant. 

    “Hi,” said my father just now, “it’s probably me.” 

    “Yes,” I said, “I imagine it is.” 

    That is the general tone of conversation around here on a Monday afternoon. 

    Oh, before I forget, if you thought there might be a chance for you to bring some of your water music with you so that I could slip away for an hour and hear it I wish you would. 

    The other night I heard the New York Times radio station for the first time; it was quite good.  The man played Vivaldi, which I liked very much. 

    Strangely enough I have an extremely poor classical music selection, but then I never knew what I liked before, now my tastes are defining themselves. 

    Well, enough is enough.  As always, with fondest, 

Love, 

Kathy 

P.S. Re: Your first letter: you write marvelous letters; unlike most people, you write as though you actually intended for someone to read them.  ♡ KC. 

That’s a compliment, yes, I’m not sure it comes across as one.