It's hard, reading these letters from my mother. She is 48 in 1962. I still don't think I ever knew her very well. Right now, she is in a nursing home in southern Illinois, not knowing who we are, or remembering any of her life and the things that were so important to her. Here she writes about the class on "Faith and Wholeness" she is taking. She was always taking thought-provoking classes at church. I never knew how to talk with her about them. I would come down on the anti-faith side, and she, of course, would try to explain things to me. She writes, "I was wishing Pastor Paul could have been there to talk with him (the teacher, a psychologist, I believe). Some of those ministers have such closed minds and such a narrow approach. On the other hand, I think Dr. Mowrer has some things to learn about theology too." She talks about attending the constituting convention of Lutheran Church Women in Chicago. And I think of her now, hunched over in her wheelchair, looking like a little Norwegian gnome. She will take your hand and kiss it, over and over, and then begin to nip at it, like a kitten. I wonder where all her questions are now. Is her mind gone on ahead someplace, waiting for her? Or is it still inside, mulling things over, with no way to express itself. I'm afraid I will find out when my time comes, and I will not be able to tell anyone the answers either.

My poor, long-suffering mother. Very involved in church, sewing new dresses, and keeping up with all the kids (she had six of us). I, of course, don't write, and now she worries that I am ill. She is taking bridge lessons, but a less bridge-club person than my mother you never met. I don't know if she ever played. She just thought she should know how. If I am 19, then my youngest brother is 6, and I have to e-mail him the part where she writes that about his "little pocket book". My brother Dennis has a case of poison ivy, something we all suffered once a year at least. Randy got his basketball numeral, and is talking to some little high school chickie poo (he's 13, I guess - maybe 14? Freshman?) Mom asks after my fiancee' and says she has been in touch with the ex-pastor of our church, who tells Mom that he knows the fiancee's family well, and that they think I'm very lucky. Oh, goddess! No wonder I ran. My wonderful romance was being subverted by acceptance.

A letter from my sister, October, 1962. This must be the one where she and her best friend, Mary Ann, invite themselves for the weekend, and thank me so joyfully later.....see below. Joan mentions the "tapestry purse." She says, "You must know I want something...no, not the tapestry purse." I remember having this enormous tapestry bag, into which I shoved everything I owned. It was ugly as sin, but I must have thought it was cool at the time. I think I remember my mother and sister offering to buy me a new purse, if I would only get rid of the ugly old thing. I should have gone the way of my friend Jan, and gotten a book bag, like all the other young radicals. But I think I hung on to it. So I can't imagine Joan wanting it. Unless, of course, perhaps she wanted to burn it.