Jo-Ann Mapson

“We lay aside letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy them out of discretion, and so disappears the most beautiful, the most immediate breath of life, irrevocably for ourselves and for others.” Goethe, 1809

Old Christmas Letters

What are we supposed to do with Christmas letters? It seems a shame to throw them away. All that neat typing on nifty Santa paper, the glut of glowing family accomplishments—sometimes they seem like a throwing down of the gauntlet, daring the receiver to respond with something better. Face it, writers are moody people, most of us are hermits. Every holiday stresses us out, or makes us fall off our various wagons and head into the New Year steeped in regret. We think too much. We look too deeply into things. But the idea of Christmas letters is concise; it cuts down on carpal tunnel; the only problem is writing the letter. When I try to think of all the wonderful things that have happened to me in the past year all I can remember clearly are the trials. Maybe writers are hermits in order to spare the rest of the world our inherent gloom.

My mom used to get these Christmas missives from a woman friend in Massachusetts, Peggy. Peggy's handwriting was art—these beautiful, perfectly aligned letters. Unmarried, she lived alone in the woods with lots of animals. Every year she wrote passionately of her lifestyle, as if every tree had won an Outstanding in art class, as if her many dogs and cats had all made the honor roll, or were headed off to Ivy League colleges. I'd search through the card basket until I found her letter and read it over and over again. Peggy's ongoing story was a kind of character study. She didn't behave like women my mother's age. Even though they never saw one another, their friendship endured. Even if all she wrote were those letters, hers was an eloquent voice. Looking back, I can see she was a role model of sorts. My mother doesn't hear from Peggy anymore. She's in her 80's. She finally had to leave her woods and move to a place more suited to the elderly, but I often think she must have the richest interior life to keep her company, this Lady Thoreau.

Here in Anchorage, it's 6 below zero. The snow is looking a little drab. On my desk are Christmas letters from people way more organized than me. I might take them upstairs to see if Stewart wants to use them in a collage. I can't throw them away yet. The lull between Christmas and New Year's is like reaping the last fat crop of the old year – perspective – before allowing the ground to rest and become the past. Soon I'll stretch my writing muscles and edit my new book so it can go to press on time. I've heard writers say they feel separation anxiety when they finish a book, but me? From deep in the woods, I heard the next one calling. It's written in tall, interesting letters. It's a solitary creature, but it has lots of animal friends. And it needs me to type it into a long, passionate letter.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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