The old letter, written on faded white construction paper, is dated June 11, 1977.
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“Dear Gramma and Grampa, how you guys doing? I heard you’re sick. Hope you get better soon!”
The one-page dispatch is written in sloppy print, not cursive.
“This is the day we have Joe’s open house party. Joe’s graduation was great. He was #65 out of 238 students. Afterwards we ate at Ricochet, our favorite pizza place in Gary,” the letter states.
It was addressed to “Gramma and Grampa Berlien” in San Mateo, Calif., a suburb of San Francisco, with a return address of 4513 Miller Ave. in Gary, Ind.
The letter concluded, “I hope you could come for my graduation in ‘80.’ Really hope you get out of bed soon! Try to write back. Love, Jerry”
After slowly reading the letter, and then rereading it two more times, I tried to picture its author – me, at 15 years old. I couldn’t do it. Not only did I forget writing that letter, one of many sent to my grandmother in my youth, I also forget that boy for the most part.
My memory is horrible. Spotty about most things, selective about everything else. I seem to recall images from my past more through Polaroid snapshots than through streaming videos. I’m sure my life has had its fair share of Kodak moments, but I simply don’t recall many of them.
Some days it’s a blessing to be so forgetful about my past. Other days it’s a curse to not remember things that should matter to me. I’ve been apologizing for my lack of memories for as long as I can remember (pun intended).
Last week, a box delivered to my mother’s home was filled with memories that were forgotten long ago. It was mailed from my mother’s siblings, who found stacks of old cards, letters and photos from my grandmother’s belongings, long after she died.
“Hi Gramma, how you doing,” I wrote to her in December 1985. “Just wanted to drop you a note and make sure you knew I was alive. Life is pretty good here. The kids are incredible in every phase and I’m doing a lot of reading. Love, Jerry”
When I wrote that letter, I was 23 with two children in diapers. I should have been reading about proper parenting, not the memoirs of Friedrich Nietzsche. Oh well.
“Dear Grandma, long time no words, huh?” I wrote one year later. “Did your pen run out of ink or your mind out of words? How have you been emotionally, financially, physically, spiritually? And how’s the town by the city by the bay?”
“OK, enough for the interview,” I joked to her, a decade before I first began interviewing people for newspaper stories.
I forgot how curious I was in my younger days, at times to the point of interrogation. It’s no wonder that interviewing strangers – sometimes at the worst time of their lives – comes so naturally for me. My favorite class has always been Genuine Curiosity 101.
“Grandma, how’s it been goin?” I wrote to her in another letter on yellow paper. “Everything’s fine and dandy on the edge of this town. The food business is business and the folks are still kicking. I’m on the food truck so I’ll get back to work. Love, Jerry”
My envelope was made from a brown pint bag, the kind used by liquor stores. Our food trucks used the same bags for hot dogs. Again, I totally forgot these details of my former job, and my former life, until I opened that box.
It’s as if I unearthed a time capsule from myself, to myself, via my grandmother. It’s the best gift she ever gave me. Have you ever received such a gift from a relative, delivered after their death or after their memory has faded away?
“P.S., I need to know your birthday, grandpa’s birthday, and the day he died, please,” I wrote in one letter. “Sentimental reasons, you know.”
“If you don’t mind, I would really appreciate a picture of you and Grandpa together. I noticed there’s not a picture in my wallet of the man I admired and respected the most.”
Sadly, this warm, bittersweet memory also escaped my recollections. My grandfather, Robert Gerald Berlien (I was named Jerald Robert in his honor) is someone I looked up to the most as a kid and young adult.
He used to sneak me loose change from his ever-jingling front pockets with a special handshake so my father wouldn’t catch us. He also helped describe the world to me, from star constellations to ships in the San Francisco Bay to baseball scorecards at Giants games.
“Sit down, senor!” my grandfather once yelled to a Hispanic man who kept standing up in front of us at Candlestick Park.
I clearly remember cringing in my seat, hoping the “senor” didn’t kick my grandpa’s butt in public. He didn’t. He sat down and apologized. My grandpa nodded in triumph.
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I haven’t thought of that tense incident or that baseball game or, heck, my beloved grandfather in too many years. Shame on me. Nonetheless he came alive again when I opened that box, which included photos of him, my grandmother and even me.
Nothing clears up a foggy memory like an old photograph. Words pale to images. I found myself studying the photos like an archeologist at a dig site. Where was that photo taken? Who shot it? How old was I? Why was I frowning, again?
I tried to recall my attitude at the time, and my fashion choices. Are those overalls I’m wearing? Oh man. Thankfully, viral videos didn’t exist when I was young. I would be forever embarrassed.
I ended most of my letters by asking my grandmother to write back. I don’t remember if she ever did. So, in an odd way, I became a pen pal with an old forgotten friend — myself.
