The Pen Pal
Dear Ms. S,
I do not know who you are or understand all of the contents of your letter. It has come to someone other than for whom it was intended. I am not sure how you received my address, or name, as I am not listed in the phone book, but the only thought that crosses my mind is that you are responding to an ad I placed on craigslist looking for a ‘PEN PAL.’ Maybe the computer changed my listing from ‘pen pal letter writer wanted’ to ‘penis letter writer wanted’ and such an intimate story featuring a man’s parts. Stranger things have happened, dear. It is San Francisco, after all.
Anyway, I pride myself on being pretty web-savvy most of the time. I was a landlady at the beginning of the ‘dot com era’ and met many computer types when I was in my late 60s. Now I’m in my late 80s dear, and to my niece and nephew’s chagrin, I still have all my wits about me and I am as sharp as a tack. (I say to their chagrin because sometimes, they have mischaracterized me as cooky, and others, they have even called my mental acuity into question). But, thanks to my good fortune, or misfortune—if you want to look at it that way—I have outlived most of my immediate relatives and most of my peers and I have curtailed their efforts to inherit my place when I die.
My nephew and niece-in-law are both hot shot lawyers and I know that they are just chomping at the bit waiting for me to kick the bucket so they can get their hands on this place—my little Victorian piece of paradise in the heart of the Mission district that was willed to me by my first late husband. I have put it in a trust to my current tenants—most of whom are older, or on fixed income, or are just plain working class good folks.
Anyway, they all bring me groceries but at the same time, I think they are all waiting for me to die—some with glee and others with anxiety over what will happen to them.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I tell myself stories to pass the time. Not usually of a sexual nature, but I tell myself stories none the less. Since my husband passed away I have been somewhat of a recluse. But I do get out from time to time. But it has been terribly lonely as well.
My neighbors have changed all around me and I have lived among them, a self-proclaimed ‘crazy cat lady’ surrounded by newfangled people. For about five days, not a single person has spoken to me though. I have been in and out and to the store. I have started to wonder if I am invisible.
I have always wanted to be a writer, but…when I was a young girl, my father told me that I shouldn’t think about those things. We were from an old-world family you see. Girls didn’t become writers in those days. I shouldn’t have listened to him.
Instead, he sent me to the business college on Mission and Second Street to take typing classes and I landed my first job as a secretary at a law firm. I met my husband there. And soon we were married and I had a child and dropped out of the workforce. Tragically, our son passed away too a few years ago from cancer—the big C I call it.
Now, I find myself sitting, most of my days, at my little red writer’s desk with the little orchid on it, staring out the window of my second floor apartment at the passerby.
I enjoy sitting there as I think. I think of all the stories of my life and how they are building up inside of me, about how my father brushed off my idea of becoming a writer and about the loneliness that gnaws on me from the inside out and my fingers become paralyzed sometimes and my chest gets tight.
I think of my favorite writers—of Edna St. Vincent Milay, the poet—and I open one of her thick tomes. I have a signed first edition of her work that I found years ago. And on the difficult days, I open it and I read through it. Then I switch to Gertrude Stein’s work. When I was a young girl, my brother used to deliver milk to her lover’s house in town. One time, he ended up with one of her books as well. I keep them in my curio cabinet. I treasure them. I wonder who will get them when I die.
My one regret when I read them is that I let my father dictate my future. I wish I had started writing sooner, dear. At the same time, I have been reflecting on my life and how I have used words and the nature of words themselves.
In this world, I have found that words can be a weapon, a shield, a talisman, or a magic wand. They can get you into or out of a jam. They can be beautiful, harsh, or ugly. They can be healing and cathartic. They can be soft or loud or steady. They can connect you to people or they can set you apart. They are life's utility tool and yet, if you come to think about what they really are, they are just squiggly lines on a page or strung together sounds from your mouth.
It's kind of wild to think about—not as wild as the story you sent me, but a different kind of wild. I like to think about that sometimes. I think of all the ways words have failed me in my life and I hope I live long enough to say all the words I want to say.
What do you think about when you are alone and/or lonely? Please write back. I’ll read whatever you send.
Sincerely,
Margaret Grabowski
Lowell High School, Class of ‘45
Dear Ms. S,
I do not know who you are or understand all of the contents of your letter. It has come to someone other than for whom it was intended. I am not sure how you received my address, or name, as I am not listed in the phone book, but the only thought that crosses my mind is that you are responding to an ad I placed on craigslist looking for a ‘PEN PAL.’ Maybe the computer changed my listing from ‘pen pal letter writer wanted’ to ‘penis letter writer wanted’ and such an intimate story featuring a man’s parts. Stranger things have happened, dear. It is San Francisco, after all.
Anyway, I pride myself on being pretty web-savvy most of the time. I was a landlady at the beginning of the ‘dot com era’ and met many computer types when I was in my late 60s. Now I’m in my late 80s dear, and to my niece and nephew’s chagrin, I still have all my wits about me and I am as sharp as a tack. (I say to their chagrin because sometimes, they have mischaracterized me as cooky, and others, they have even called my mental acuity into question). But, thanks to my good fortune, or misfortune—if you want to look at it that way—I have outlived most of my immediate relatives and most of my peers and I have curtailed their efforts to inherit my place when I die.
My nephew and niece-in-law are both hot shot lawyers and I know that they are just chomping at the bit waiting for me to kick the bucket so they can get their hands on this place—my little Victorian piece of paradise in the heart of the Mission district that was willed to me by my first late husband. I have put it in a trust to my current tenants—most of whom are older, or on fixed income, or are just plain working class good folks.
Anyway, they all bring me groceries but at the same time, I think they are all waiting for me to die—some with glee and others with anxiety over what will happen to them.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I tell myself stories to pass the time. Not usually of a sexual nature, but I tell myself stories none the less. Since my husband passed away I have been somewhat of a recluse. But I do get out from time to time. But it has been terribly lonely as well.
My neighbors have changed all around me and I have lived among them, a self-proclaimed ‘crazy cat lady’ surrounded by newfangled people. For about five days, not a single person has spoken to me though. I have been in and out and to the store. I have started to wonder if I am invisible.
I have always wanted to be a writer, but…when I was a young girl, my father told me that I shouldn’t think about those things. We were from an old-world family you see. Girls didn’t become writers in those days. I shouldn’t have listened to him.
Instead, he sent me to the business college on Mission and Second Street to take typing classes and I landed my first job as a secretary at a law firm. I met my husband there. And soon we were married and I had a child and dropped out of the workforce. Tragically, our son passed away too a few years ago from cancer—the big C I call it.
Now, I find myself sitting, most of my days, at my little red writer’s desk with the little orchid on it, staring out the window of my second floor apartment at the passerby.
I enjoy sitting there as I think. I think of all the stories of my life and how they are building up inside of me, about how my father brushed off my idea of becoming a writer and about the loneliness that gnaws on me from the inside out and my fingers become paralyzed sometimes and my chest gets tight.
I think of my favorite writers—of Edna St. Vincent Milay, the poet—and I open one of her thick tomes. I have a signed first edition of her work that I found years ago. And on the difficult days, I open it and I read through it. Then I switch to Gertrude Stein’s work. When I was a young girl, my brother used to deliver milk to her lover’s house in town. One time, he ended up with one of her books as well. I keep them in my curio cabinet. I treasure them. I wonder who will get them when I die.
My one regret when I read them is that I let my father dictate my future. I wish I had started writing sooner, dear. At the same time, I have been reflecting on my life and how I have used words and the nature of words themselves.
In this world, I have found that words can be a weapon, a shield, a talisman, or a magic wand. They can get you into or out of a jam. They can be beautiful, harsh, or ugly. They can be healing and cathartic. They can be soft or loud or steady. They can connect you to people or they can set you apart. They are life's utility tool and yet, if you come to think about what they really are, they are just squiggly lines on a page or strung together sounds from your mouth.
It's kind of wild to think about—not as wild as the story you sent me, but a different kind of wild. I like to think about that sometimes. I think of all the ways words have failed me in my life and I hope I live long enough to say all the words I want to say.
What do you think about when you are alone and/or lonely? Please write back. I’ll read whatever you send.
Sincerely,
Margaret Grabowski
Lowell High School, Class of ‘45