One of the unanticipated delights of having a book out in the world is hearing from readers. Every few months I’ll get an email or handwritten note. Most times, people want to tell me about their reading experience. Sometimes they have a question or two. Occasionally they have a complaint. And sometimes they want to share an extraordinary connection, such as the time I heard from a woman whose mother-in-law knew Marcel.

18 months ago, in February 2024, I received an email from a reader named Trudy. Her note began like many others, then transitioned to her core question: what was the plan for the safekeeping of Marcel’s original letters?

I’m used to that question. I’ve met with 70 book clubs, and the question of where the letters were has come up nearly every time. I’d tell people the letters were still in my safe deposit box. I’d usually add a comment about how that was not where they should be, but for the time being, the letters were safe and secure. 

Trudy’s email went on to tell me that she was an archivist, and offered help — for free, she noted — should I want help finding an institution to send them to. 

On the surface, her offer seemed lovely. But over the years, in addition to feeling delight from hearing from readers, I’ve learned to be skeptical of their claims. I’ve received emails from people claiming to be, or have, all sorts of things. So, I read Trudy’s offer with skepticism. 

Until I Googled her. 

Trudy Huskamp Peterson is not just an archivist. For decades she worked at the National Archives in Washington, DC, and she served as the director of archives and records management for the United Nations. Let me repeat that: she was director of archives for the United Nations. She served as president of the Society of American Archivists, and was the first woman to hold the position of Archivist of the United States. Did you know there was an official Archivist of the United States? Me neither. 

Trudy is, to put it mildly, a big deal. Similar to the way the Universe seemed to bring people like Dixie, Louise, Wolfgang and others into this project’s orbit, I wondered if the Universe had somehow pulled Trudy in, too. 

For a reason I still don’t understand, my emails to Trudy would never go through to her. She could email me, but I could not email her back. So I corresponded the old-fashioned way: through written mail. I told her that more than a decade ago I reached out to the French National Archives and another WWII museum in Paris (see page 316 of Marcel’s Letters) to inquire whether they might be interested in providing a permanent home for these letters. After months of waiting for responses that never came, I resigned myself to their disinterest. After that, I’ll be honest that finding a home for the letters fell off the top of my to-do list. Life happened. The letters remained at my bank. I knew they were safe. Marcel’s family knew they were safe. I wasn’t going to sell them on eBay or something. But the long-term care of the letters remained a loose end. I told Trudy about my hopes for their long-term protection, and conditions I had for any potential donation. Conditions included permanent physical protection of the originals, accessibility to the originals by his family members, and that the contents of his letters would be made available to those researching the experiences of WWII French forced laborers and Service du Travail Obligatoire. Marcel’s testimony of life inside a labor camp deserved these protections.

Trudy reached out to her network of archivists in France, and provided a short list of relevant institutions that might be considered. The short list included the Eure-et-Loir Department Archives in Chartres, and the Seine St. Denis Department Archives in the Île-de-France region. The first archive is near Berchères-la-Maingot, the rural village where Renee and the girls lived during the war. The second archive covered Montreuil, the city within greater Paris where the family lived before and after the war.

I composed letters to the archives. I heard back from one almost immediately, and the other archive a couple of months later. Both were interested and addressed all concerns that Marcel’s letters would be permanently cared for. 

In the end, the Eure-et-Loir Archives in Chartres felt like the right home. If you walked a short distance down the road from Marcel and Renee’s land on the edge of Berchères-la-Maingot, you could look due south and see the distant spires of the Chartres Cathedral (see page 309 of Marcel’s Letters). The Archive is about a half mile from those spires. Sending them to Chartres felt like these letters were returning to their intended destination. Or, close, anyway.

The next big step was to share the plan with Marcel’s family. The slowness of the process meant I had time to prepare to let these letters go. 98% of me was absolutely sure this was the right decision. 2% of me was sad at the permanence of the act. I’ve had custody of the first five letters for nearly 24 years. We’ve taken quite a journey together. But I’ve also long known my safe deposit box is not where these incredible letters should be. My tenure as caretaker was not permanent.

By early August everything was in place to finalize the donation. I spent two weekends gathering documentation on Marcel, and I created a braided timeline of French forced labor combined with dates of his letters. I outlined the dates Marcel had been in Spandau Prison, cross-referencing information provided by the Daimler archives in Stuttgart and the Arolsen Archives–International Center on Nazi Persecution in Bad Arolsen. I made note of significant passages in select letters. I signed multiple copies of the donation contract, and prepared a thumb drive with scans and documents.

On pages 187–188 and 239–241 of Marcel’s Letters, I wrote about a custom linen-wrapped portfolio I had commissioned in 2012. After it became clear returning the original letters to the family was problematic, the portfolio went onto my office bookshelf, where it remained for more than a decade, pressed flat between two hardcover books on typography. It was finally — finally! — time to use it. 

On Saturday, August 16, I retrieved the letters from my safe deposit box. For as intimately as I knew the handwriting on these pages, they still held surprises. It had been years since I held them; I had forgotten how soft the paper felt. I had forgotten how intense the blue and red of the chemical censor marks were. Once back home, I took a few photos, then the letters went into the portfolio, which was tied shut with a red, white, and blue ribbon. 

On Monday, August 18, I took the box to FedEx. During the days that followed, I tracked the shipment. I received an email noting it was held up in customs, and wondered if it had been opened and inspected. I wasn’t surprised at the possibility of that happening, though I fretted about the letter with the hand-drawn backward swastika. Was there some regulation somewhere that made transporting artifacts with a swastika a problem? I wasn’t sure. I hoped the documentation showing it was headed to an Archive would provide a pass. 

Nine days after I dropped the package at FedEx I received an email from my contact at the Eure-et-Loir Archives assuring me the package arrived in perfect condition. He provided a newly assigned catalog reference number for the letters, and what felt like a sincere thank you. 

After more than a year of working on this donation, it happened without fanfare. Entry into the Eure-et-Loir Archive was quiet, confirmed by a simple email. But it felt like a big day. 82 years after the letters were written, the pages were finally back where they belong: in France, just 12 kilometers from their original destination. This time, though, their future was safe and secure.

Twenty-four years ago Aaron and I purchased the home where we still live. It’s a classic mid-century rambler with three small bedrooms and a full basement. Sometime in the 1980s, a previous owner converted the one-car attached garage into a large kitchen, and the oversize lot had big, magnificent trees. As the saying goes, it had good bones.  

As with any 70-year-old home, things need fixing and updating, and we’ve tried to tackle one project a year. Years when money or time was thin, we’d do something small like update a light fixture. Other years projects were bigger. One year we painted the exterior of the house. Other years we hired people to replace flooring, windows, the roof (twice), and we added a bedroom and bathroom in the basement.

But there was one project we never had the gumption to tackle: the main-floor bathroom. 

The room had issues. It didn’t have usable electrical outlets, and the light switch was in the hall. We tried to remember to tell guests where to find the lightswitch, though we presume somewhere along the line someone has had to go potty in the dark because they couldn’t figure out how to turn the light on.

Over the years the bathroom’s original linoleum floor tiles started to crack. A hole in the floor near the tub turned black. The tub leaked. Still, we put it off. To fix it right we presumed we’d have to take the room down to the stud walls, and the disruption seemed overwhelming. So did the price tag. One potential contractor told us projects like ours started at $75,000. 

———

In the fall of 2023, Aaron and I decided the bathroom had to be addressed. I reached out to a local kitchen and bath remodeler, Preferred Kitchens. Neither Aaron nor I wanted to spend $75k, yet neither of us had the interest or expertise to do it ourselves. We could do some things: demo, painting, hooking up a new faucet. But we didn’t know any tradesmen. When it came to a tiler, electrician, or carpenter, we’d be at the mercy of Google and we weren’t comfortable with that. We wanted to work with someone who had connections and expertise. 

The first planning meeting with Preferred Kitchens was in December, 2023. Aaron and I were told what we hoped to hear: they’d help select materials, order all the pieces and parts, then coordinate vetted craftsmen to provide top-quality work. 

I came to that meeting with a preliminary sketch, colors, and ideas. I hoped to be the client I wanted my clients to be: clear in vision, collaborative, decisive. Some of my initial ideas had to be abandoned due to cost, but our designer and project manager, Jaime, brought new options and ideas to the table. As suspected, the room would have to be taken down to the stud walls in order to update the original wiring. 

Three months later, in February 2024, Jaime and I had a third and final planning meeting. We reviewed detailed schematics and all material selections. The new bathroom would have small hexagon marble floor tiles, a dark blue vanity, a new oak linen cabinet, stone counter top, Kohler tub/toilet/sink, a fancy new light fixture, and … drumroll … electrical outlets. I handed over a deposit check. The remodel wasn’t $75,000, though it would cost half that.

COVID-era supply chain issues had mostly abated, but Jaime expected it might take two months before all parts were delivered. She said her team would put together a project schedule once they had confidence on timing. Weeks later, Jaime emailed the schedule. Demo was scheduled for May 15. After that, the carpenter would shore up flooring, then the plumber and electrician would do their work. She allocated a week for drywall and two days to tile the floor. The room would be painted, the carpenter would install the vanity and linen cabinet, then the stone vendor would come out to measure the counter top. Finally, the counter and sink would go in, and the carpenter would finish the trim work.

I was elated to have a solid plan. Jaime assembled a three-ring binder for our project. Every detail — down to the placement of the knobs on the vanity — was carefully documented. Each tradesman could consult his section in the binder to see a list of tasks, supplies, and schematics.  

My OCD graphic designer heart was thrilled.

———

On a Tuesday morning in mid-April, one month before demo was schedule to take place, I called to make a dermatology appointment. Similar to changing a furnace filter or cleaning out gutters, it was routine “maintenance.” Also similar to those tasks, it was a to-do that had been easy to fall behind on. The receptionist looked up my medical record and noted it had been more than five years since I had been seen, which meant I was considered a “new” patient. She told me they weren’t scheduling appointments for new patients until February — of 2025. 

“Unless,” she added, “you could come in today at 1:00.” She explained they had a cancellation that morning.

“I’ll take it,” I said, feeling lucky. 

Three hours later I was sitting on the exam table. The dermatologist I had seen previously was no longer with the practice, so a new doctor was looking me over. 

All previous dermatology appointments had been uneventful. Any spot or lump was met with confident assurance that it was a dermatofibroma or a senile purpura — a.k.a., nothing to worry about. One dime-size spot on my breast had been assessed by my previous dermatologist; she assured me it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. If I ever wanted, she said, I could have it removed. 

Over the previous year or so the spot on my breast had changed enough that I wanted to have it looked at and, as she had suggested, have it removed. I showed the new dermatologist the dime-size spot and pointed out a few other spots and bumps: one on my left ankle, another on my right shin, a dry spot on my abdomen, and a small bump at the base of my left nostril. I wasn’t particularly concerned about the bump below my nose. It wasn’t discolored. It didn’t have an irregular edge. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t have any of the characteristics we’re told to watch for. I explained it was like a zit that never turned into a zit. I had recently seen a photo of myself where the spot seemed more noticeable than usual and when we discussed removing the spot on my breast I asked if the spot under my nose could be removed, too.

The dermatologist looked at it through her hand-held scope and said she was “55% sure” it was nothing to worry about. She said it would be easy to remove and offered to remove both spots right then and there. 

The following afternoon I was scheduled to review graphic design student portfolios at UW-Stout. I was vain enough not to want to sit across from students with a Band-Aid below my nose, so we scheduled the appointment for the following week. The appointment lasted all of 10 minutes. After numbing the two areas, the spots were shaved off. I was surprised the tissue from below my nose was put in a specimen vial. The dermatologist had seemed so unconcerned about it. Sending it for analysis was standard procedure, I was told. No one seemed worried.

When I got home I looked at the excision below my nose. I was thrilled. It was so small it didn’t even need a Band-Aid. It seemed small enough it might heal in days. And it did. By Friday morning it was barely visible. 

———

Carolyn & Aaron, October 2023, six months before biopsy

———

Shortly after 5:00 on Friday, April 26, I received an email saying biopsy results were available. I logged in to the secure online health care portal.

The dime-size spot removed from my breast was, as expected, benign. 

The small spot below my nose? 

Basal cell carcinoma. I had to Google it.

A sidenote to healthcare companies: it doesn’t make for a fun weekend to send test results showing cancer on Friday after close of business.

The dermatologist’s office was closed on Monday, but a gentleman called early Tuesday morning. He explained the next step was Mohs surgery, which is where a doctor cuts the cancer away bit by bit until they get clear, cancer-free margins. Because of where the bump had been, they offered the option of plastic/reconstructive surgery. 

The words made my blood run cold. It had been such a small spot. The thought of needing plastic/reconstructive surgery seemed so … serious. 

Aaron works in surgical services at Regions Hospital and he jumped into action. The next day he approached a plastic surgeon he trusted who specialized in ear/nose/throat cases, and asked if he would do my surgery. He agreed. 

By the time I got a call from the surgery scheduler, which didn’t happen for another long, sleepless week, I was able to tell her Dr. Harley Dresner had agreed to do the reconstructive surgery. In the following weeks I would hear nothing but glowing reviews of his work. “If I had to have my face cut open, I’d want Harley to do it,” two different people remarked.

Days later the scheduler called again: Mohs surgery was scheduled for Tuesday, June 18. The plastic/reconstructive surgery with Dr. Dresner was scheduled for the following day.

Aaron and I had several long conversations about what surgery might mean. I tried not to obsess about what ifs, but the possibility of having part of my nose removed kept me awake at night (…for those of you who read Marcel’s Letters you know I’m not a good sleeper to begin with). Losing part of my nose was a legitimate concern. With melanoma — which is a more aggressive cancer than I had, to be clear — Aaron said they often take a one-inch margin to ensure they get all the cancer cells and roots. He didn’t know what the typical margin was with basal cell carcinoma. If they had to take an inch, the entire left side of my nose would be gone. If they took a half inch, I’d lose the nostril and nasal sill. If they took a quarter inch I’d lose part of the nostril and part of the nasal sill. Even if they only took an eighth of an inch, I’d lose something.

But what was the option? 

“They’ve got to get that shit out,” Aaron stated one day when I questioned if the surgeon really needed to remove so much. “We’ll deal with whatever’s left.”

It felt easy for him to say. It wasn’t his face.

———

Demolition of our bathroom was scheduled to begin the following week. I reframed the mess they were about to make. To use Aaron’s words, the demo crew would be “getting the shit out” to make space for our beautiful new bathroom. Rather than looking at demolition as an inconvenient mess, I tried viewing it as a fresh first step.

In less than an hour, the three-man demo crew removed the vanity, sink, tub, toilet, linen closet, and linoleum floor. In a handful of more hours the room was down to stud walls. 

The three-yard dumpster in front of our house was full. The shit was out.

The next morning the carpenter began shoring up the sub floor. Days later the tub was installed, then drywall went up, then the tile floor went in. The care and craftsmanship that went into the rebuilding felt like a good omen.

———

Only a handful of friends, immediate family, and a few clients knew about my upcoming surgery. I didn’t tell others because I didn’t want to under- or over-theorize what the outcome might be. Aaron reminded me I might not even need reconstructive surgery. Maybe the first round of Mohs would be all they’d need to get it all. Maybe they could whip the spot together with a few stitches. 

The short list of people who knew included Jaime. As soon as surgery was scheduled I asked her to block off the week of surgery. I didn’t know what I’d need on the days of, or after, surgery, but in case I needed a quiet house, I didn’t want people coming and going, hammering and sawing. She assured me none of the tradesmen would come to the house that week and modified the schedule accordingly. I was grateful.  

In the weeks after the diagnosis, I berated myself for not having scheduled the dermatology appointment sooner. I berated myself for the blistering sunburn I got the summer I was 13; I had recently learned a bad burn before the age of 18 raised my chances for skin cancer. I berated myself for having used a tanning bed in the spring of 1987 before high school prom, and in the spring of 1991 when I was finishing my last semester of college. I berated myself for not having a daily practice of applying sunscreen, and for the various sunburns I had gotten on vacations or when doing yard work. To say I was unkind to myself would be an understatement. During those weeks, one of Aaron’s favorite sayings from his decade working as an ER nurse kept coming to mind: “If you’re gonna be stupid, you gotta be tough.”

I steeled myself to be tough. Cancer seemed an inevitable outcome of my stupidity. Disfigurement seemed like apt punishment. 

The hardest part was the unknown. Would I walk out of surgery with a few stitches? Or would I walk out missing part of my nose? One night I went down a rabbit hole of researching silicone prosthetic noses. Helpful tip: Don’t do that.

What I desperately wanted was a Jaime-like three-ring binder with detailed, specific plans for demolition and reconstruction. Instead, I’d meet the doctors moments before the procedures. There would be no advance planning, no reviewing schematics, no making selections. Instead, it felt like I was signing up for one of those home makeover reality shows where you hand over your keys, leave your home for a bit, and cross your fingers that you can live with the end result. 

The weekend before surgery I blocked off time each day to do yoga and meditate. I wanted to go into the week with the best possible mindframe. One of the guided meditation sessions, by happenstance, had a theme of forgiveness. The woman leading the session asked us to think of a person we wanted to forgive. With a sweep of uncharacteristic self-grace, I tried to forgive myself for all the cruel things I had said to myself the previous weeks.

Then I cried. 

———

Aaron drove to the Mohs surgery appointment. I was anxious, but calm. Maybe I was in a shocked state. I hoped to keep my nose, but if I couldn’t, I wasn’t going to stop the doctor from taking it. More than anything I wanted the procedure to be over to have clarity on what would be left. 

After a brief consultation with the surgeon, Dr. Tan, his assistant injected lidocaine into my nose and upper lip, and he removed skin surrounding the site of the original biopsy. The procedure only took minutes. The assistant bandaged my face, then escorted us to a special waiting room. Meanwhile, the specimen was mapped and sent for microscopic examination. Aaron and I were told it would take 60–90 minutes before they’d have results. 

I was called back to the exam room in just 45 minutes, so I knew the news wasn’t good. The specimen showed cancer cells along the margin. Dr. Tan needed to remove more. 

The front of the nasal sill had been removed during the first round, but that was all he was going to need to take. The cancer was growing in the direction of my lip, not my nose. In that moment I felt one thing: extraordinarily lucky.

The second round of removal didn’t get all the cancer. Nor did the third. By the time the fourth round of removal was completed, an oval of skin that extended half way from my nose to my lip had been removed. Any notion of closing the hole with a few stitches was long gone. In fact, Aaron said Dr. Dresner had a bit of a “meat puzzle” ahead of him.

But by day’s end demo was over. Dr. Tan got the shit out.

———

The next morning Aaron and I headed to Regions Hospital. For fifteen years I had told Aaron that if I ever needed surgery, I refused to have it at Regions. If I had to get naked in front of his co-workers I would never — ever, ever, ever, ever, ever — go to another one of his holiday work parties. 

But there I was. Fixing the hole in my face was more important than pride or privacy.

We were escorted to a pre-op room where I changed into a gown. Vital signs were checked. My medical history was reviewed. As Aaron’s co-workers cycled in and out of the room to conduct various pre-surgery checks, Aaron tried not to be “on duty,” but when we were alone he adjusted the tape holding my IV in place, the position of my bed, my pillow. 

Fifteen minutes before surgery, Dr. Dresner came in and introduced himself. He took a thin marker and drew on my face to show how he suggested we approach the reconstruction. To get enough skin to close the hole, he needed to cut from the outside of one nostril to the inside of the other, and all the way down to the lip in the shape of a letter ‘V’. The two sides of the ‘V’ would be pulled together to create an ‘I’. Combined with the incisions around the nose, it would create the letter ‘T.’ It was a good way to explain the procedure to a someone who works with type. 

A sidenote for the nerdiest of my type nerd friends: The ‘T’ of stitches ended up looking similar to the capital T in the typeface Malliandra Script. 

Dr. Dresner asked if the plan sounded ok. 

“I trust you,” I said. 

What was the option? I knew less about surgery than I knew about tiling or electrical work. I had no basis to counter his approach. I had no option but to trust him.

After completing final paperwork I was wheeled into the operating room. 

Renovation was about to begin.

———

Surgery lasted an hour and a half. Or so I was told. As expected, I woke with a ‘T’ of stitches that extended from nostril to nostril and down to my lip. 

After a brief stay in a recovery room, I changed back into street clothes. Aaron and I headed home with a supply of Vicodin, antibiotics, and medicated ointment. Once we got home I put ice on my face.

By the next morning the left side of my face had swelled so much the inside of my top lip faced out. I drank a Vicodin-laced iced coffee, pressed a fresh ice pack to my face, then lay on the couch. The house was quiet, and I was grateful Jaime had modified the schedule.

Before Aaron left for work he made a spreadsheet for me to follow with times to take painkillers and antibiotics, and times to apply the ointment. He occasionally texted and called to check in. I told him it was as if I had gotten the most extreme lip filler imaginable — on one side of my mouth. “I do not recommend this esthetician,” I mumbled.

The truth is I was feeling the same thing I felt the day before: lucky. I could not yet picture what my face would look like once the swelling subsided. The swelling was significant enough that it would be days before I even realized that Dr. Dresner had cut down into my lip. It would be another two weeks before I realized my philtrum was no longer centered below my nose. But I felt grateful Dr. Dresner had done the work; it seemed he had done a skilled and careful job.

———

The following Monday the carpenter showed up to re-start work in the bathroom. I wore a surgical mask while he was in our house; he didn’t need to see the stitches or swelling. 

Two weeks earlier we discovered the linen cabinet had been ordered with the wrong color finish — a small bump in Jaime’s otherwise airtight plan — and the big task of the day was for the carpenter to install the correct new cabinet. I felt buoyed. My surgery was in the rear-view mirror and all energy going forward — mine, Aaron’s, Jamie’s, the carpenter’s — could be spent rebuilding.

———

———

Twenty-three days after surgery, the last big step in the bathroom project was completed: the countertop was installed and the sink was re-connected. All that was left was a bit of touch-up painting. The project took longer than planned due to an additional hiccup with the counter top; thankfully it was something that could be fixed by shipping the stone back for one modified cut. We were grateful for Jaime’s project management, and the slight delay was less important than having a beautiful end product. 

Also, twenty-three days after surgery the bulk of the swelling in my face was gone. What remained was a swollen knot — a knot that would take another five months to resolve. I hoped to regain movement, feeling, and pliability soon. Talking at length was still a challenge and smiling could be painful, but I was no longer having to drink through a straw or cut my food into toddler-size bits. On the days I was frustrated by the slow pace of recovery I tried reminding myself of the lessons from the wrong color cabinet and incorrectly cut countertop: slight delays didn’t matter as long as there was hope for improvement.

It was still unclear what the final “after” would look like: how obvious the missing part of the nose sill would be, how visible the scar between my nose and lip would be, how obvious my repositioned philtrum would be. I was warned it could take a full year for all residual swelling to go away. Dr. Dresner’s office provided contact information for an esthetician who specialized in masking surgical scars. But her office wouldn’t schedule my appointment until six months had passed since surgery, so it wouldn’t happen until December.

Overall I continue to feel lucky. And grateful. Lucky I called for the appointment the day the dermatologist happened to have a cancellation, and lucky the cancer grew the direction it did. I feel grateful for all of Aaron’s support, grateful to work out of home office so I could heal with privacy, grateful to have good health insurance. And grateful that all summer we were surrounded with caring and skilled craftspeople — carpenters of wood and skin alike. 

As for the consultation with the esthetician in December?

It turned out it was just in time for the Regions holiday work party.

———

Today, Valentine’s Day, marks the 10th anniversary of the release of P22 Marcel Script, the font based on Marcel Heuzé’s beautiful handwritten letters. Calling the anniversary ‘monumental’ would, perhaps, be an overstatement. ‘Meaningful’ is a probably a better word. The release was, for me, a meaningful personal and professional milestone. Over the years the font has been used on book covers, wedding invitations, greeting cards, in magazine articles, and more. The delight I feel when I see it in use does not subside. If you’ve used the font, I send a sincere thank you. 

Want to see some samples of the font in use? See samples here.

Let me describe the handwriting sample to you:

The book is 14.5″ x 10.5″, hand bound with string along the left-hand edge. There are 13 thick sheets of paper (including the cover). Each interior page has an ‘essay’ of sorts on topics such as Idleness, Progress, Hope, Man, Virtue, Fame, Wealth, Resolution, and Envy. Each page has a decorative header followed by 6-11 lines of text. The decorative headers are ornate beyond what I had expected based on the eBay listing. Quite frankly, they are extraordinary.

I’ve included a selection of pages below: first the header, then the header in more detail so you can see the detail in the type and decorative scrollwork.

Since I haven’t been able to find anything about William M. Parr or the Brook House Academy, I’ve let my imagination run. To me this feels like some sort of capstone project. But what was the class? Was it a penmanship course? Or a class on character and virtue? Who held on to this book for the last 169 years? And why? What are your guesses?

Last fall I loaned a box of those wooden letters to long-time friend Christy Nesja of Nesja Press. Christy and I went to design school together, and recently she and her husband Paul started a boutique letterpress studio (learn more here). Neither of us knew exactly what she’d make with those letters, but I trusted she’d do something fun, and I think she looked forward to playing.

Earlier today Nesja Press revealed the final product: “Love, Hugs & Kisses XO” cards. I love ’em! You might, too. Check ’em out!

Here’s a link to order a box of your own.

———

Photo showing some of the letters “locked up” in Christy’s letterpress:

And the final Nesja Press card:

Last night I had the honor of attending Louise Dillery’s 98th birthday party. And it was indeed a party: she wore a tiara, received a pile of gifts, and the room sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to her first in English, then in French. Her three surviving children were there, including her daughter, Denise who lives in Las Vegas (shown in photo above), and she was surrounded by long-time friends and neighbors. There were also a handful of Louise’s former French students — people who graduated high school in the 1970s — who were inspired to become French teachers themselves. The woman I sat next to taught French for 27 years — all because of Louise.

The sentiment in the room was unanimous: we all love this amazing woman, and were so happy to be able to celebrate with her!

———
Want to read an essay I wrote about Louise’s time in tuberculosis quarantine? Here’s a link.

It’s been a tear-filled two weeks in our home. On Friday, September 22, Aaron and I had to say goodbye to Watson: guardian of the treat closet, unapologetic bed hog, peanut butter connoisseur, reluctant nose booper, grumpy observer of backyard rabbits, drool factory, 110 pound couch potato.

Readers met Watson on page 318 of Marcel’s Letters. At that point he was a tiny, roly-poly nameless ball of black fuzz. Why was he nameless in the book? Read this blog.

Aaron and I learned early on that Watson had a tender heart. We could not yell at him; he’d wither under criticism. We learned this when he was just a few months old, and after doing something wrong (I forget what it was, to be honest) we couldn’t find him. We finally discovered he had crawled into the bathtub and was hiding behind the shower curtain. It was as though he was anticipating a scolding. It was a revelation for us, and after that we tried to redirect him without raising our voices. He was a gentle soul in a big body, and he tried so very hard to be a good boy.

In fact one of my favorite things to do was to whisper, “who’s my good boy?” when he’d be nearby. By all appearances he could be deep asleep when I’d whisper that, but inevitably his tail would start sweeping back and forth.

Watson had a complicated medical life. He was just over a year old when he had his first grand mal seizure. Over the following eight years we’d witness 145 more. He was on four different medications to help keep the seizures at bay. If he went a month or two between seizures we knew we’d had a good run.

A downside to taking such high doses, though, is that the meds took a toll on his system. We’ve always known he wouldn’t be with us as long as he should have been, so we gave him big love while we could.

Aaron and I still have moments where we’re overcome with tears, and we’re getting used to a home without his presence. But we’re not there yet. We still catch ourselves looking for him or wondering why he isn’t lurking nearby. I’ve overslept a couple of times these last two weeks. It’s something Watson wouldn’t allow; five minutes after the alarm went off he’d be licking my ear to nudge me to get up. After I got up, he’d look at me with wide, innocent eyes as if to say: “Oh look, you’re up! What a coincidence! It just so happens to be time for breakfast!”

We know losing a pet is all part of loving a pet. Someday the loss won’t sting as much as it does right now.

But we’re not there yet.

To: Madame Pierre Hericher, Paris, 20e, de Ménilmontant 110
From: Monsieur Pierre Hericher, Prisoner No. 21.523, Stalag 19

At camp. May 2, 1943

My little wolf¹, 

I got out of the infirmary this week. My fingers still need to be massaged to get back their movement. I get them massaged every evening after work because I am now living in the camp. I work in a military store with paper supplies, light work that suits my hand that was handicapped² by these two accidents, the one of last June and this one. I think that I will be fine working in this new job until the liberation. I was thinking a bit that I might be discharged but I’m probably not injured badly enough. No problem, I’ll just wait.  

I received your cards and letters of March 17, 21, and 25 and April 5 and 13. Last Sunday I sent your parents a card with a photo to thank them for their excellent package, received on Thursday the 22^nd. On Saturday the 24^th I also got your package of the 31^st with the pink label containing brioche rolls³ Everything was in excellent condition.  

Poor Daniel must have suffered. I know what that is, myself. Have him get massages and physical therapy to make his finger move again. Sending hugs to help him get better. I should get another package tomorrow but I don’t know yet where it came from. The day before yesterday I received a card from Mom, dated April 4. Thank you very much for the photo of Robert and his family. That happy and lucky guy! 

Love and kisses, your Pierrot

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Notes from the translator, Janet:
1. A personal term of endearment for this couple! It rhymes with a familiar term of endearment, mon petit chou (literally ‘my little cabbage’).
2. Ma main andiquapée [handicapée]. Pierrot didn’t know how to spell the English-origin word correctly, but wrote it phonetically. It works!
3. A sweet, rich bread with a distinctive ‘topknot’ of dough. She sent him French bread!  
4. The unique feature of this letter is the dried sprig of Lily of the Valley. Pierrot sent the flower because May 1 is a French holiday, La fête du muguet (the holiday of the Lily of the Valley), a flower that symbolizes love and friendship. In Paris there is a huge military parade on the Champs-Elysees for La fete du travail. I saw Charles de Gaulle there in 1965. It is also the day when people set up little tables along the street to sell sprigs of Lily of the Valley, as a symbol of friendship and love. I learned later that it’s the only day when you don’t need a permit to sell something on the street.  

The book is a manifesto on Lynne’s life-long passion for letter writing. She shares recollections of receiving letters from friends and relatives, and makes the case for emotional connections one can make through written correspondence. She talks about the joy of anticipation, the mental health benefits of slowing down, and informs readers of things like the tradition of “round robin letters” (never heard of that?! Me neither!). The book includes chapters on family legacy letters, letters as miniature works of art, and some quirky bits about the history of letter writing (never heard of the 500-year-old Bridegroom Oak in Germany?! Me neither!). Lynne makes a compelling case that handwritten letters have a relevant and irreplaceable role in modern communication. Be warned: she may turn you into a letter writer. 

The launch party was the first time I met Lynne in person, though she and I had a delightful chat via Zoom a couple of months earlier. Lynne read my book, learned I was local — and that I had designed the font used on her book — and reached out to connect. We chatted about marketing and promotion and the publishing experience in general, but we also talked about a mutual love of handwriting. When I showed her a 100-year-old handwriting specimen I bought on eBay that had arrived the day before, she laughed with delight when I held it up to my computer’s camera. I immediately knew I had found one of my people. 

P22 Marcel Script

Lynne’s book has some of the loveliest uses of the P22 Marcel Script I’ve seen. It’s used on the cover and for interior chapter titles. Lynne mentioned that her designer had considered a number of typefaces before suggesting Marcel. Marcel seemed to have the right blend of history and legibility for her project. I love that she and her designer chose this font!

Here are some lovely examples of the font in use in “Please Write”:

Launch party! 

One of the things Lynne and I chatted about during our Zoom meeting was whether or not to have a launch party. Lynne seemed to be on the fence — I speculate her Midwestern modesty was coming out when she thought of throwing herself a party. I suggested she think of it as a way to celebrate all the people who helped her get to that point. Besides, I reminded her that publishing a book is a big effing deal; she should throw a party! 

The launch party was a delight. After a few words about the book, Lynne, her husband, and a longtime friend read excerpts from various letters from Lynne’s collection. It was a way to demonstrate how the handwritten letter can build connections decades after the writer first put pen to paper.

The party was also a delight because Lynne went all out. She had old letters and stamps on display, gave out blank notecards and pens with a little envelope charm. Cards and letters hung from the walls like garland. Cupcakes had tiny stamp-adorned envelopes that had been sealed shut with wax seals. (Were there tiny little notes in the tiny little envelopes?! Of course!)  

Here are some photos from the “Please Write” launch party:

“Please Write” is a delightful book, and the author’s enthusiasm for handwritten letters is likely to rub off on you. If you’re looking for a gift for a letter writer — or looking for a bit of inspiration to counter the chaos, meanness and loneliness in the world — “Please Write” may just be the perfect antidote. 

We’re all familiar with the business term “letterhead,” right? But what about “billhead”? I’ll confess I only learned the word a couple of months ago. 

I had seen billheads before — often collaged into photos as black and white art that featured type, ornamentation, or handwriting — but I didn’t have a word for what I was seeing.

So, what are they? Wikipedia defines billheads as “receipts commonly used in business transactions from the late 1860s through the early 1940s … Many billhead receipts were illustrated and decorated with fancy steel engravings, while others carried no illustrations. In either case, the receipt was important, as it stood as your proof of delivery. Most billheads would bear the company’s name and address, a unique invoice number, the payment terms, line items for products or services, a total, and (optionally) handwritten notes.”

The name makes perfect sense, right? It’s like a letterhead, but instead of a letter, the page shows a bill or receipt.

During the previous weeks I’ve spent a bit more time looking at billheads. It’s far from an obsession; let’s just call it a passing interest. But the combination of ornate typography, detailed illustration, and old handwriting hits all the notes I enjoy about old ephemera. 

Here are some common design motifs I observed:

1. Buildings. Whether it be a single paddle-wheel-powered building, a row of factory buildings belching out smoke, or a multi-story store people can shop at in person, it seems as though showing a physical location was key to establishing credibility. 

2. Illustrations that reflect the product, such as wheat, a carriage, a piano, or a rolled-up carpet. Considering 20% of the US population in 1870 was unable to read or write, I wonder if these images served as pictograms. Imagine a wealthy merchant sending illiterate staff to go pick something up: they would know they were bringing home a receipt for the correct item, even if they couldn’t read it. (Source: ourworldindata.org/literacy, “Literacy rates 1820–2010” which measures the share of the population older than 14 years that was able to read and write).

3. Cartouches that contain a list of products, addresses or categories of goods. These cartouches might be illustrated to look like stone or a scroll of paper or an ornamented banner. I was surprised by how many billheads contain these types of design elements. I was also amused at how random some of the product lists were.

4. Patriotic imagery. I’m not sure what a screaming eagle surrounded by a ring of stars has to do with ladies corsets. But I suppose seeing that imagery makes sense: in the first full century of our democracy, architects and business/political leaders consciously chose to associate the nation with iconography that was reminiscent of classic Greek and Roman culture (think: laurels, shafts of wheat, formal symmetry, folds of ribbon). This is just a wild guess, but I wonder if this imagery would “Americanize” businesses founded by immigrants.

5. More is more. I am amused by how much “stuff” is on some of these billheads: addresses, lists of goods sold (croquet sets to iceboxes!), a list of owners or founders, founding dates, features, animals (check out the greyhound on the billhead for the New Home Sewing Machine). It reminds me of the Iris Apfel quote that is currently making the rounds: “More is More and Less is A Bore.”

What else do you see? Which one is your favorite? 

P.S. My favorite is the billhead where carriages are being shot out of a cannon.