By: Marlene Oxender
Montpelier, Ohio
The last time someone made my day, she did so at 9:37 p.m. when I checked email. She’d written something that was quite nice to read, and I thought to myself that my day had just been made.
I looked at the clock on my computer and realized I didn’t have much time left to enjoy the day that had been made.
I wrote back to her and told her she’d made my day, and since it was late, I would read her email again in the morning so tomorrow’s day could be made.
A few days later, I was shopping at a local flower shop when I stumbled upon a prayer plant. I felt as though I’d found the perfect gift for a perfect friend, and I was going to make her day. Not wanting to be left out, I bought two prayer plants. One for me. One for my friend.
My family, like many, knows what it’s like to pray for those in the military. My oldest brother Ed left for the service when he was 19 years old, and I was his six-year-old little sister.
I have plenty of memories of my big brother being somewhere far, far away. A place where it was probably too warm and somewhat jungle-like.
My older cousins were in the service as well as others from Edgerton. I was too young to know how very young those men were – many of them still teenagers. All I knew was how strong and capable they were. They knew how to drive, work on cars, and take us places when they were home.
For as long as I can remember, a world globe sat on a shelf in my parents’ living room. We could find the little country where Ed was stationed by searching for it on the other side of the globe.
I remember not being interested in knowing more about what was going on. I was glad to live in a small town where everything and everyone was just normal. I felt a sense of safety because I lived in modern times. No more of that war stuff after this one was over.
A few years ago on a Sunday evening, I found a box of letters Ed had written home to his family. I sat in my parents’ living room and started reading them one by one. In a letter dated January 5 of 1970, Ed began a paragraph with my name.
He wrote: “Marlene, I don’t know how to answer your question. I suppose he makes all the flowers. Is that all you have to write to me about? Jeanette, why haven’t I got a letter from you, yet?”
The words Ed had penned decades ago stopped me in my tracks. Earlier in the day, I’d been writing about the creation of flowers. About how they were designed with color. With form. With fragrance. With a frequency that really does heal the body. And to top it off, medicinal qualities were built right in.
If we could read the letter I’d sent him, we’d see the handwriting of a seven-year-old little sister and the words she’d used to ask a question about flowers. But Ed couldn’t bring our letters home, because he’d have needed an extra suitcase.
Mom had written a letter to him every single evening, letting him know what was happening at home. Back then, there was no easy button. No way of texting or sending photos.
Letters were written in cursive and placed in an envelope. Postage stamps were affixed on the upper-right corner. The Post Office made the delivery.
If you’ve ever read a collection of letters written by one person, you’ve read their questions. You’ve read their answers. But the questions don’t get answered in the letters, and the answers don’t tell you what the question was. It’s a real-life game of Jeopardy.
In Ed’s case, categories would be: What kind of car is Ed going to drive when he gets home? What’s going on in Edgerton? Who is getting married? Who is already home?
I texted a picture of Ed’s letter to Jeanette, and she pointed out that she was only four years old so she couldn’t write a letter to him.
But Ed was probably thinking that a colored picture with Jeanette’s name on it would be the best. A good reminder to the rest of us: We can help the little ones with their coloring and letter-writing projects.
Anyone who moves away, especially to the other side of the world, would be glad to find an envelope with their little sister’s custom-made artwork enclosed. Children tend to draw the best pictures with things that perk us up.
It’s fun to daydream of the ways we can build connections with those around us, to think about how deeply we care for them, and how they in return touched our lives in one way or another over the years.
There are times in life when we think we don’t know the answer. But maybe we do. And times we don’t know what the question is.
But maybe we do. We think that when we grow up, we’ll have the answers. But we grow up and grow older and decide we don’t know much.
There’s a song about not knowing much. A song that many of us don’t mind singing along with. A song that tells us what a wonderful world this could be. A world where people are caught up in conspiracies to surprise one another. To enjoy life. To make someone’s day.
———————–
Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie, and “Grandma, You Already Am Old!” are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com