Armchair travel

My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Mink, is to blame, or to be credited, for many things that would develop in my life past age 8. It was in her class that I wrote some of my most creative writing about the state of Rhode Island (which led to an uncommon knowledge of Roger Williams and Cliff Walk), painted some beautiful watercolor sunsets (complete with a wolf silhouette in the foreground), and developed a love for letter writing and postcard collecting. Needless to say, she was one of my favorite teachers and I wanted to be just like her. That was the year I wrote to one of my children's magazines for a penpal and was assigned to correspond with a girl from Indiana, with whom I would exchange letters well into my high school years.
But one of the most tangible things I got from my year in 3rd grade was the start of what would be my own sizable postcard collection.

I was cleaning out some drawers recently and wasn't sure what to do with this shoebox full of my postcards. Some of them were written personally to me. Some of them were given to me by people who knew I collected, with no note or postage. Others were from the times I would periodically raid my parents' or Oma's mail for the colorful cards from their missionary or jet-setting friends, marked with strange stamps and lovely cursive handwriting.

From my father I get my love for sentiment, but from my mother I get my desire to be free of clutter, so with those opposing traits I came up with a compromise for dealing with this collection. These are the reasons a blog comes in handy. I can document this collection before disposing of it or dropping it off to my local postcard peddler.

To begin, a postcard from my brother, Rich, and his wife Sally, written somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, where he notes that it is 9 p.m. Chicago time, but 4 a.m. German time. He also notes that this is NOT the actual plane they are sitting on. Promises to send more postcards when they arrive.

More than anyone else in my family, they fostered my postcard collection. They were probably also the most well traveled. I was 11 years old when Rich wrote this. He was 29. This was undoubtedly a unique way for an eldest child to correspond with his youngest sibling.

This one was from Mrs. Mink herself. She and her husband had an enjoyable weekend in Northern Idaho, which was a place that this southern Idahoan kid viewed as a different state entirely. Little did I know it would take me 15 years before I ever visited Lake Pend Oreille myself.







This postcard, sent from Great Falls, did not really dispel my belief as a 7-year-old that the state of Montana was purely comprised of cowboys and wildlife. I was sure that when my godparents and their daughters (one of whom wrote me this card) moved there that the only means of transportation was on horseback. This only made me think that perhaps mule deer buck were another option. Also not helping: "I saw a moose. I am camping in a camp. Love, Abby."

A note from my sister, who spent a summer here with Campus Crusade. She has heard that Mom and Dad are letting me stay HOME ALONE and has concluded that I must be feeling pretty grown up. She also notes that the beach water is like bath water...warmer and saltier than our pool. I remember when she sent this to me and how much I loved the colors. Purples and pinks with twinkling lights contributed to its high ranking, and it was one of my favorites for years. I don't think I ever noticed until now that it was basically hotels, highways and parking lots. Not much beach.

My dad climbed to the summit of Pike's Peak on October 24, 1992, and had this postcard stamped for me when he got there. "I made it, 4301 m - 14.110 ft." it says.

One of my most prized possessions. An autographed Sesame Street postcard from Bob. Remember him, the piano player/singer/all-around lovable guy? Another gem from my eldest brother, who met him while in New York.

"Hamburg is the Chicago of Germany! Exciting, prosperous," writes my Uncle Art, who was there to make a big speech at a conference.

To this day, this is the image that first comes to mind when someone mentions Kenya. It was sent to my family by a missionary. She'd had an extremely difficult year in Tanzania where she experienced severe health problems, none of which were specifically mentioned. She thus moved to Kenya to live and work in the slums of Nairobi, and her health returned. It would be many years later before I realized that Nairobi was actually a big city with a metropolitan skyline. The curse of postcards, I guess - using a single image to sum up a place gives people serious misconceptions.

"I miss you lots. And we just arrived!" wrote Laura, my best childhood friend. The rest of her message was about her cousins' cats.

That Mrs. Mink. She had no idea.

Many many more of these are posted on my Flickr account, complete with messages as I can decipher them.