April 2nd, 1925.
A letter, addressed to Edith, is postmarked with that date.
There were many, many, many letters addressed to her. Boxes of them. Years of them.
Edith was a major-league saver.
She kept every single note, letter, card, and newspaper clipping that she ever received.
Including sweet ephemera like this innocent love note from her classmate Keith.
She bound them in pretty ribbons,
taped them in scrapbooks,
and put them in boxes.
This is Edith.
Or at least, I think it's Edith.
I never knew her. But it was neat to get a sense of who she was (packrat) at her estate sale.
All these written words clearly meant a lot to her, so in no way was I going to let those beautiful handwritten letters make it to a dumpster.
Edith would not have been happy about that.
I divided them into 4 collections and placed them in the shop.
A unique montage of letters, cards and notes to peruse, display, or use in some creative way.
I could waste an entire day reading them.
Screw the novels on the NY Times best seller list.
I'm reading letters to Edith.
