When History Reached Me Across Space and Time
Years ago, when I was a young girl, I received a postcard from a dead man. Yes, you read that right. A man who died in 1988 sent me a postcard in 1946. It took me decades to realize that I had always been the intended owner of the postcard.
Have you ever felt something or someone reach you through space and time? I believe I have. I am not a supernatural, ghost-hunting fanatic by any stretch—far from it. I identify as a die-hard realist who uses statistics and strategy to explain my reasoning and actions. However, during the years I researched the origin of the postcard, my beliefs pivoted towards a more implausible realm.
It all started in my grandparents’ home. The previous owner, a widow, had left piles of books and belongings in the home’s attic when she moved out. In 1969, my mother stumbled upon an old postcard in the attic. Intrigued, she held onto it, and eventually gave it to me. Its message transfixed me from the first moment I read it:
Oct. 11, 1946
There was a time when your husband took a little interest in me.
But it is mighty lonesome these days.
Won't you put in a good word for me with him?
Tell him MY heart is still in the same place.
I’d always assumed a woman had written the postcard—until 2017—when I Googled the return address and my life turned upside down. I discovered that a man, not a woman, had written the postcard. I began a relentless hunt to find out why a man (who will remain anonymous) would expose a forbidden relationship with another man in plain sight on a postcard— in 1946!
A fascinating story was unveiled as I spent the ensuing years researching the two men’s lives. I chased their historical breadcrumbs across multiple states through historical societies, phone calls, neighborhoods, research libraries, online archives, and even graveyards. My research is the foundation of my upcoming historical fiction novel, Confidants.
Yet, I am still left with many questions.
Why did he write the postcard?
Even though my research is concluded and my manuscript is written, this biggest question remains unanswered. I will be asking that question for the rest of my life. I had hoped researching and fictionalizing the events surrounding the postcard would bring me answers and closure. The reality is, despite speculating and fictionalizing to the best of my ability, I will never truly know why he wrote the postcard. At least my novel comes as close to answering that question as anything can.
Would he want me to be writing his story?
This will forever be up for debate. None of my research ruled out the possibility that he intended for the postcard to be discovered. Though I cannot say for certain that he would be pleased with my fictionalization of his life events, I can say that I have written a story with honor and respect for his legacy that is the most plausible explanation for his life events.
Why me?
Why did I end up owning this postcard? The simplest answer is that it was destined to be mine. Who else had the curious stamina to chase such a story? And had the nostalgia of an old heart interwoven with the spirit of a new one? I didn’t pick this story; it picked me— long before I was even born.
Above all, I challenge you to stay open to curiosity and wonder. You are never too young, too old, too busy, or too grown up to find magic in this world. You never know what you might stumble upon in your attic.
“All sound heard at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal lyre, just as the intervening atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by the azure tint it imparts to it.”
— Henry David Thoreau, “Sounds,” Walden