Letter writing is a fine art.
It is almost a non-existent art in the 21st century.
Feel free to click on this letter to capture the full meaning of it.
Feel free to click on this letter to capture the full meaning of it.
This is a letter I found that my brother, Iilya, wrote.
We were living in Argentina - it was our first year there, but hardly our first revolution.
Iilya wrote this to our childhood friends living in East Whittier, California.
They never came to visit us.
I always wondered why.
11 comments:
Funny....I guess they listened when it said not to come....
I thought this was really cute until I read the rest of your post. I think we're all very fortunate in this country to never have had to experience something like this. However, it was interesting to see this through the eyes of a child. I think it's amazing that you still have it!
We can sure understand why the friend never came to visit...
Big Sloppy Kisses
Gus, Louie and Callie
What a wonderful letter! Your brother definitely had mastered the fine art of letter writing.
Tracy, "the eyes of a child"--yes, the perspective is everything here.
Also, I wish I had a witness: I was pretty sure that was the handwriting of a male, not Brenda.
Very intense and very expressful!
Banjomyn, yes, it is my brother's letter/handwriting. Besides wanting to be a spy, he wanted to be another Hemingway. He just didn't use enough words to tell the story...
You've got such treasures in your memories trunk! He sure was explicit. Just great. Not your 1st revoluction.
(As to not getting visits, it was probably the price of a ticket to get there that stopped them...well, maybe.)
PS - I liked to watch Emergency too. Haven't thought about it for years though. Good reminder.
How wonderful to have this letter from long-ago childhood. I DO love to get an actual note or letter from friends! It's going to be a lost art.
You give me a taste for history. It's not just that we see it from a little girl's eyes, we see events quite apart from their arguments. Keep going.
What a fascinating childhood.
I was adopted and my mom was full blooded German. She had many war stories that she never liked to talk about. She met and married my dad in Stuttgart and I remember later how we would write letters to her family back in Leipzig. We would write letters and she would translate them to German and then we would have to copy them over. I guess our grandparents enjoyed them.
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