dear Polly one evening at church.”
His girl’s name was Miss Paulette Saxby, and according to Nestor, she was the prettiest and kindest soul he’d ever met. “Don’t know what she sees in a sod like me,” he liked to joke, his hearty laughter there, then gone, as memories of Polly took over his thoughts.
Not long after the pair met, Nestor decided to make his way across the Atlantic to America. Hearing there were untold riches to be had in New York and points farther west, he convinced Polly that his going was their best chance to start a new life together. As much as he’d hated to leave her behind, he knew it was better she stay with her family until he got settled in a place they could call their own.
He wrote to her nearly every night, penning letters to be sent out in the next morning’s post. I’ll bring you here one day soon, my love, I promise. Until then, thoughts of you warm my bones and my heart as I write, as I wait for your reply .
I’d known how to read for as long as I could remember, having figured out, first, the words Mama used on her notices, and then others as she read me ads from the paper. She’d run her finger along the text and say the words under her breath— curious, clean, lily-white, good, sweet, amazing! I soon knew all the words that got painted on signs or the sides of buildings, and anything to do with soap or baked goods, yet I’d never learned to use a pen. The only writing I’d ever done was to make my name in the dirt with a stick. Lines and hatches beside a game of hopscotch, M-O-T-H written to the right of the numbered court, my O looking lopsided and strange next to Eliza Adler’s graceful script that swirled inside the arch at the top spelling out the word Home .
Sometimes Mama would tell a woman who came to have her fortune told to write something down on a piece of paper. It was usually the name of a man, one whose affections might be turned, or who had wronged her, or who owed her money. The bits of paper she used for the ritual were tiny enough to hide inside a pocket-watch or, in the case of needing to forget the man, to be burned in a candle flame.
Pen and ink were luxuries, so Mama guarded them, even from me, keeping them locked inside an old wooden tea caddy. The box was one of her fire treasures, found intact but without a key. To open it, she’d insert a bent hatpin in the keyhole and give gentle tics with her wrist until it unlocked. There, nestled between the bottle and nibs were three small rolls of paper she’d cut from the margins and edges of the Evening Star and then carefully wound onto empty thread spools. Delicate and creamy, one edge evenly (barely) scalloped, it looked just as beautiful as fine French ribbon.
The paper Nestor used to write to Polly had been given to him by Mr. Wentworth. Each sheet was perfectly square at the corners and embossed at the top with a proud, weighty W . The envelopes had the same mark on the flap. It seemed to me that London was a terribly long way for a letter to travel, but Nestor assured me that far lesser paper had made the journey there and back. He showed me one of Polly’s letters to prove it, her words of love scrawled across sheets so thin the ink had bled through to the other side, making them nearly impossible to read. The day will come, my dearest, when we will have no use for pen and paper. We’ll be too occupied with being in each other’s arms. Your adoring Polly .
There is much to be learned from the ebb and flow of a lady’s script. No matter her words—all her hopes, schemes, aspirations, and inclinations are coded within her hand. Aside from the obvious cues of station set forth by the quality of the paper and ink, the writer gives further indications of her identity away when she puts pen to paper. Swift, short lines indicate distraction, bold strokes given to words such as Dearest, Yours , and until are hallmarks of true affection. Shakiness of script often portends weakness of
His girl’s name was Miss Paulette Saxby, and according to Nestor, she was the prettiest and kindest soul he’d ever met. “Don’t know what she sees in a sod like me,” he liked to joke, his hearty laughter there, then gone, as memories of Polly took over his thoughts.
Not long after the pair met, Nestor decided to make his way across the Atlantic to America. Hearing there were untold riches to be had in New York and points farther west, he convinced Polly that his going was their best chance to start a new life together. As much as he’d hated to leave her behind, he knew it was better she stay with her family until he got settled in a place they could call their own.
He wrote to her nearly every night, penning letters to be sent out in the next morning’s post. I’ll bring you here one day soon, my love, I promise. Until then, thoughts of you warm my bones and my heart as I write, as I wait for your reply .
I’d known how to read for as long as I could remember, having figured out, first, the words Mama used on her notices, and then others as she read me ads from the paper. She’d run her finger along the text and say the words under her breath— curious, clean, lily-white, good, sweet, amazing! I soon knew all the words that got painted on signs or the sides of buildings, and anything to do with soap or baked goods, yet I’d never learned to use a pen. The only writing I’d ever done was to make my name in the dirt with a stick. Lines and hatches beside a game of hopscotch, M-O-T-H written to the right of the numbered court, my O looking lopsided and strange next to Eliza Adler’s graceful script that swirled inside the arch at the top spelling out the word Home .
Sometimes Mama would tell a woman who came to have her fortune told to write something down on a piece of paper. It was usually the name of a man, one whose affections might be turned, or who had wronged her, or who owed her money. The bits of paper she used for the ritual were tiny enough to hide inside a pocket-watch or, in the case of needing to forget the man, to be burned in a candle flame.
Pen and ink were luxuries, so Mama guarded them, even from me, keeping them locked inside an old wooden tea caddy. The box was one of her fire treasures, found intact but without a key. To open it, she’d insert a bent hatpin in the keyhole and give gentle tics with her wrist until it unlocked. There, nestled between the bottle and nibs were three small rolls of paper she’d cut from the margins and edges of the Evening Star and then carefully wound onto empty thread spools. Delicate and creamy, one edge evenly (barely) scalloped, it looked just as beautiful as fine French ribbon.
The paper Nestor used to write to Polly had been given to him by Mr. Wentworth. Each sheet was perfectly square at the corners and embossed at the top with a proud, weighty W . The envelopes had the same mark on the flap. It seemed to me that London was a terribly long way for a letter to travel, but Nestor assured me that far lesser paper had made the journey there and back. He showed me one of Polly’s letters to prove it, her words of love scrawled across sheets so thin the ink had bled through to the other side, making them nearly impossible to read. The day will come, my dearest, when we will have no use for pen and paper. We’ll be too occupied with being in each other’s arms. Your adoring Polly .
There is much to be learned from the ebb and flow of a lady’s script. No matter her words—all her hopes, schemes, aspirations, and inclinations are coded within her hand. Aside from the obvious cues of station set forth by the quality of the paper and ink, the writer gives further indications of her identity away when she puts pen to paper. Swift, short lines indicate distraction, bold strokes given to words such as Dearest, Yours , and until are hallmarks of true affection. Shakiness of script often portends weakness of
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