Imagine. Airmail envelopes with postmarks applied by the postmistress herself. Addresses with neither street numbers nor zip codes. Fascinating stamps. Inside, find layers of diaphonous onionskin pages covered with words in light blue ink that flowed from a fountain pen.

My mother saved my early letters – along with some from my correspondents – in a cardboard box in the attic. Written between 1962 to 1971 – high school to marriage – the letters from this box are refreshingly mundane. Basic communications. At the time, long-distance telephone calls were costly and reserved for emergencies. Everything else flowed in letters. In 2026, I’ll read through these “memory refreshments”.

Why are some posts password-protected posts? Inspired by a five-week personal history workshop in February, I depended only on memory to write three essays. A fourth, based on my letters, reveals how forgetting about one’s actions works. Since I write about my family, I’m going to share these with them first.

Check back soon. Password protection is temporary. Almost everyone welcomes private, old-fashioned letters. Few are enthusiastic about roles in someone else’s blog. Moreover, I enjoy drafting online and password-protected drafts goad me to finish.