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This post first appeared on aud.life

My granny was something of a Letter Writer, as I imagine all of her family will attest. She had to be, what with four children who went away to boarding school, two of whom moved from England to North America, and with grandchildren and great grandchildren scattered around the world.

Letter writing has become a lost art perhaps, now that we can easily and cheaply make international phone calls, now that we can shoot off an email, now that we can just post a status update on Facebook. Letters are different; they feel somehow more thoughtful, more special. Of course, I don’t want to sound too nostalgic for Granny’s letters; some of them were pretty banal: who she’d had tea with, what she’d eaten for Sunday lunch, that sort of thing.

But some of her letters, to borrow a term from J. K. Rowling, were “Howlers.” A Howler, for those unfamiliar with the Harry Potter series, is a magical letter that comes in a red envelope. A Howler expresses great disappointment or anger. Its contents are enchanted to be read aloud – very loudly – in the writer’s voice. The letter gets hotter and hotter upon delivery and eventually bursts into flames. You cannot ignore a Howler as it will still insult the recipient, even if it’s unopened.

Granny’s Howlers didn’t come with a red envelope, which was a pity as but sometimes you weren’t expecting that sort of message from her. I mean, sometimes you knew what was coming – I received my fair share of Howlers from Granny, I admit. Earlier this summer when my brother and I were cleaning out my dad’s house, we found stacks of letters – those that Granny had written Mum, those that she’d written Fred and me. He asked if I wanted to read them again, and I said “My god, no,” sort of lamenting that they hadn’t burst into flames like the magical Howlers did. You don’t need to hear those messages twice.

I don’t have as many memories of Granny being cross in person. Firm, yes. But not howling mad. Perhaps I tried to be on my best behavior when I was with her in person. Perhaps I was too intimidated to do otherwise. My dad, incidentally, never called her “Betty,” but always said “Lady Pretty” – a sign of deference and distance.

The geographical distance that separated us from Granny meant that much of the time we were together were spent – with great intention and planning, no doubt – doing “fun activities.” As we lived so far apart, growing up I saw Granny mostly on summer vacations – we’d visit England or Canada, or she’d come to the States. We went to the Grand Canyon with Granny. We went to Yellowstone with Granny. We went to Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace so on.

Memories are shaped in part through photos and stories. I come from a long line of letter writers and scrapbook makers. So to my memory, in my mind at least, Granny was always doing things. Or at least the letters and the scrapbooks sure made it seem that way.

And I learned from Granny as we all should – I mean, she lived to be 98 – to stay active – mentally and physically. Go for very long walks. Do the crossword. Learn the two-letter ascrabble words. Enjoy the garden. Enjoy a glass of wine with dinner, by all means.

Live life. Like me, Granny was widowed young. And I learned from her, implicitly I suppose, that death of a loved one should not ever stop us from living. Indeed, it provides us an opportunity to examine what we do and don’t do and what we need to do better. (To be clear, I mean, reflect on yourself for yourself. No writing Howlers.)

Audrey Watters


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Audrey Watters

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