Providence, RI, July 5, 1908
To J. L. Harrison; Princeton:
My Dearest J, — I was so proud to see the article about you in
the local paper this past Sunday alongside a handsome, though
small, picture of you. You have certainly made quite a name for
yourself at Princeton and I could not be more proud. The picture
was very well framed and it is so nice to be reminded of how you
look since I so rarely get visits.
As you know, every morning I follow the same routine: I have my
morning tonic, wait for the postman, then take the day's mail back
to the parlor — or to the porch on days when the weather is kind
— and begin my daily correspondence. But even with the letters
from distant family, friends, and your very prolific brother, the
pile seems empty without letters from my youngest.
Recently, a visiting salesman came by and sold me a brand new set
of letterhead. The kindly man said this new paper has a nice heft,
a pleasingly dimpled texture that more readily absorbs ink, and
creases with sharp purpose. I immediately bought a package of it
à grands frais and set it in the tray on my roll-top to use to
write to you. I do sincerely hope that if your esteemed colleagues
and friends see my letters they are impressed that you received
them on such a formal and elegant stationary. You can then declare
that your mother thinks enough of you to use the very best paper
and that she takes supreme care in the form and style of her
cursive. Her other missives will seem to have been merely a port
de bras of penmanship! A mother can dream, can she not?
Meeting with my Sunday brunch group has been difficult of late. My
bragging six irons are running dry! All I am able to tell them are
quotes that I find in the articles they write about you or in the
newsletters from Princeton. Last week I thought they were
beginning to get suspicious after I had told them about your new
class for the fourth time, save for Anabelle for whom the sun in
the sky is new revelation every morning and the moon every night.
You remember Anabelle's son Jeremiah? You used to play together
and I would make you freshly squeezed lemonade during the hot
summers.
The wonderful vignette in our town rag will give me a few more
petits contes to make the Sunday troupe jealous, but please write
soon. My delicate and frail spirit cannot take more days empty of
your post.
Your ever loving mother
P.S. – The salesman was right – the paper creases very neatly.
I desperately hope to use it more often.
