A Real Letter

Letter I received yesterday

Yesterday I received a real letter. Yes, an actual handwritten (in cursive) letter. Not a typed letter and not a sales solicitation but a real letter from a real person.  

For those of us a certain age (old), remember when we used to communicate this way? Not that there is anything wrong with the way we communicate today, i.e. this blog posting, but it is sad that a cursive handwritten letter seems to have fallen by the wayside in today's digital world.  

I've always been a letter writer. I have save most of the letters I have received over the years. My father, who was always so dismissive of me in other area, actually made me a wooden box to save my letters when I was a teenager and had numerous pen pals. I still have that wooden box in my bedroom closet stuffed to the top with most of those pen pal letters.  Bill convinced me to throw out several hundred of those letters from pen pals when I moved in with him in 1965 but I did manage to save several packets from my favorite pen pals. I even save my Christmas cards.  I know, I know but I do enjoy going back and looking at them, especially the very old ones with notes.

The letter I received yesterday was from a friend of my longtime friend Don McK., whose co-op building Pat and I stay when we visit Philadelphia twice a year (spring and fall).  I had taken a photo of him with my new iPhone during our visit last year. I had the photo printed and framed and presented gave it to him for Christmas. Unfortunately he was in the hospital when we visited Don this past December so I left the framed photo with Don to give to David when he got out of the hospital.  He just found it and realized it was from me and not one of the old ladies from their co-op group. 

When I saw that envelope yesterday in my mail, which usually consists of bills and advertising circulars, I almost threw it away. Some junk mail comes in to me that looks like it was handwritten, from real estate agents and hearing aid salespeople, but aren't. I've been fooled too often by those fake hand written "letters."  I'm glad I didn't throw this one away.  

I don't know why I decided to get out my letter opener and read this one but I'm glad I did.

Thank you David for taking the time to write your letter to me, what a nice reminder of how life used to me. 

I wrote a letter back to him as you can see by the photo at the end of this post. The photo is of me, David and Don outside Don and David's co-op in center city Philadelphia. 

My wrist was a little sore from writing the letter, not like in the past when I was a long younger and could push out three or four page letters several times a day. 

Now I'm enthused about writing another letter to someone else.

My answer to David's letter

Weekly Roundup

Yet another very busy week.  As I mentioned in an earlier posting, I met with my cardiologist on Wednesday to go over the results of a series of test I took last month to check out the extra "blip" in my heartbeat.  He said I was in good health for a man "my age".  So for a 70 year old I'm hanging in there. He did say the "bottom portion" of my heart was beating at a slower rate but I should be all that concerned about that because that was "normal" for a man "my age."  However, he did say that if I wanted to "really be sure" he could schedule a catheterization for me (up through my groin yet).  No thank you doctor.

Friday I made another visit to my dermatologist (these visits are getting to be routine now) to have a small growth removed from my left forearm.  One stitch later and the offending growth is on it's way to the lab for analysis.

Where my father grew up - NOT the Beverly Hillbillies - this was the real thing

This was the week Bill and had planned our road trip south.  We were going to visit my ancestral grounds in the mountains of western North Carolina, hillbilly country where my father was born and grew up until he was ten years old at which time his father (my grandfather) scooped up his nine sons (no daughters) and wife (my grandmother) and moved to southeastern Pennsylvania to live and work on his brother-in-law's farm as tenant workers.  Two more sons (my uncles) were born in Pennsylvania making a total of eleven Tipton boys to pick those fruits and vegetables on their Uncle Don Byrd's farm. My father met my Mother on a double date in 1940.  They were married shortly thereafter (mom was only 16 years old).  I appeared one year later and the rest is history or as I tell my southern Tipton relatives, "that's why I have a Yankee accent."

Me in those North Carolina hillbilly mountains this past spring - cemetery hunting

So where was I?  Yes, we were going to road trip south.  I even had the Dodge Caravan rented at Enterprise Rental in Rehoboth.  We checked the weather and decided not to go after seeing a forecast of possible showers at least half of next week.  Instead we took a road trip to Pennsylvania today to Union Hill Cemetery, where my said hillbilly grandfather and grandmother are buried with his brother-in-law Don Byrd.  I had some Find a Grave photo requests that I wanted to full fill.  On our trip down south I was going to cemetery hunt anyway.  On this trip I was going to visit my great-great grandfather John Tipton's grave.  He was killed by a Confederate ambush while he and his brother-in-law Curtis Bailey were recruiting for the Union forces in them thar mountains back in 1863.  I never thought I would find where he was buried but I discovered the located a few months ago quite my accident through Ancestry.com.  My visit to my Civil War hero ancestor will have to wait until spring.  Spring is a good time to visit those beautiful mountains.

Confederate Colonel Vincent Addison Wichter - the man who ambushed and killed my great-great grandfather John Tipton in 1863

Bill and I had a good trip to Pennsylvania.  You know we used to live there.  We didn't visit the old homestead this time though, just the cemetery.  Today was a beautiful, sunny, brisk fall day for soaking up the history and peacefulness of a cemetery. One of my absolute favorite past times.  I was talking to Dr. Spo yesterday on FaceTime and he was quite puzzled as to what the fascination is with Find a Grave and taking volunteer pictures.  He asked "Do you get paid for taking the photos?"  I said "No."  He said "Then why would you do it?"  Ah, Dr. Spo, it is hard to explain.  All I can say is some people like the opera (not I) and some people like to roam cemeteries.

I'm off of work next week which I am greatly looking forward to.  Even though I only work two days a week, it is nice to have a WHOLE WEEK off.  No phones calls about towel shortage, or questions about where is the best place to eat in Lewes, or "where can I park?"  Thank goodness the phone calls asking "Do you have a pool" stopped. I think that question ended when the kiddies went back to school, thank God.

Hey!  Did you all see the VP debate this week?  I loved Joe Biden! He wiped the floor with Paul "Lying" Ryan.  Who cares is Joe laughed?  He was LAUGHING at the ridiculousness of Paul Ryan's lies.  He wasn't going to let Lying Ryan get away with anything.  Go Joe!

"You're not getting away with ANYTHING tonight Lying Ryan."  Joe's got your number.

Now this week we get back to Barack "Barry" Obama.  Somehow I can't see Barry getting into Mittsy's  face.  Oh how I would love to see him call that phony out once and for all but I just don't think Obama has it in him. But we'll see won't we?

This evening I was going through my old letters.  I didn't realize how valuable they were until a few months ago.  Now hardly anyone writes letters.  I'm looking at these letters and they tell my life history.  I'm thinking about publishing all my letter in a separate blog.  If any of you want to see that blog e-mail me directly.  Everyone reads this blog, including some of my co-workers and I DON'T want them reading about some of the more salacious details of my younger days.  However, I don't mind if some of my gay (and straight) friends read them.  After all, I won't be on this planet much longer and it would be a shame if all that history (mine) was lost forever because I am quite sure when I am dead and gone someone will throw out all my saved letters.  No one in my family will be interested in them once I'm gone, especially since I'm gay and many of them would probably feel more comfortable if "Uncle Ronnie" and his "lifestyle" disappeared along with his demise.  Not trying to be maudlin folks, just realistic.

"We (I) Get Letters!"

Now I do believe it is time for me to pop in my Netflix DVD of Season 5 of "Six Feet Under."  I need me someone else's drama tonight.

The End

Letters

When I was sixteenyears old, my father built me a wooden box to hold my pen pal letters.  The year was 1958 and I had been writing to pen pals since I was twelve years old.  I had a lot of letters.  There was nothing fancy about the box but I so appreciated him building it for me.  It was one of the few times in his life that he showed he cared for me.

Over the years I have used this box to store my letters.  For the past fifty-four years I have rarely gone into that box.  Why did I save those letters?  Now I know why.

A few months ago my longtime friend Larry and I decided to write our autobiographies.  Larry and I are the same age.  We became friends when we were in third grade in elementary school.  We were best friends until 1963 when we had a disagreement (mostly my fault) when I came out.  Larry is straight, I am gay.  I won't go into the details of that disagreement at this time, that is a subject for another blog (or several).  We renewed our friendship again after Larry's mother sent me a Thanksgiving card in 2001 suggesting that I get in touch with Larry because he was feeling pretty low after losing his banking job.  Since I had also lost my banking job (I worked in Philadelphia, PA and Larry worked in Wilmington, DE), she thought I could uplift his spirits.  I contacted Larry and we have renewed our friendship.

Ron Tipton 1959 Graduation Photo

Larry Meredith 1959 Graduation Photo

I am very happy to say that today, with the exception of my Bill (my spouse), Larry is my best friend.  Larry knows me as I am, the good and bad.  What makes him my good friend is that he accepts me as I am.  He doesn't run for the exits just because something I did offended or angered him.  Larry is a True Friend.

Larry and I talk to each other almost everyday on FaceTime.  A month ago we decided that now is the time to write our autobiographies as blog entries.  Both of us have separate blogs specifically for our autobiography entries.

Larry Meredith - Civilian 1962

Ron Tipton - Army Private 1962

Both of us were having some trouble remembering names and dates for certain events early in our lives.  That's when I had the wonderful idea of copying Larry's letters to me and sending them to him by e-mail.

This has turned out to be a very interesting endeavor.  For one thing we are coming up with names and dates to match those names.  The downside is we are also reliving experiences that were best forgotten. Indeed, this is proving to be a very interesting experience.

This morning I took out the box that my father built for me lo those many years ago to hold my letters and took all the letters out and spread them on my bedroom floor.  Wow, what memories.  I have letters from old affairs.  I have letters from girlfriends who are berating me for "dropping them like a hot potato".  Ironically, most of the girls I don't remember.  However, I remember all the guys, ALL OF THEM.  Now that tells me something.  What it tells me is that I am 100% gay.

So here is the deal.  I will eventually scanned all these letters (or at least most of them) into my computer.  I realize that when I die, whoever goes through my things will throw out these letters.  I know they are of no interest to anyone but myself.  But I still feel the need to memorialize my past history.  I plan to eventually put all those letters in book form.  Who knows?  Maybe fifty or hundred years from now someone will find them of interest.

Ron Tipton - Retired 2012

Larry Meredith - Retired 2012

I remember well when I worked in my bank trust department and I came across a series of letters written by an old farmer who wrote about his childhood on his farm in the late early 1900's.  He wrote his history on a dozen pages of notebook paper in longhand.  I found reading it fascinating.  After reading it, I wanted to read more.  At that time I decided that if I ever wrote my personal history I would provide more detail.

I feel good about this.