Puzzles

My mother collected postcards from wherever she went throughout her life, and used them in her latter years to send notes to people where she lived — notes about who has the bridge scorepad, or enclosing some of her recent writing, or just happy birthday. She offered me a huge stack of postcards when I was there last year, which I took happily (Postcrossing is a passionate hobby of mine).

There were lots more, though, which I picked up and deposited in the box I was sending back to Davis last week. One was partially written to “Pete.” I think I know who Pete is: her date at a dance, the only person tall enough to dance with her, or maybe he wasn’t, but he later went on to work for NASA or somewhere fancy. She was traveling around Europe with her friend Marianne, and this postcard is of the Place de la Concorde in Paris, black and white, serrated edge. In her cryptic style (which got ever more cryptic as the decades passed), she writes: “Dear Pete – Am ver’ sorry I haven’t written in such months but what I have to say would burn up the page – so I’ll tell you all about the rivers valleys and sunsets again & let you guessabout the rest. We have been to Nice which is ideal for peoples like you – there are islands all over & you can sail between them till you get out into the Mediterranean” [text ends abruptly here, though more than half the available space is left, no address is written in]. I’m guessing the year is 1954.

I don’t think she liked Pete much, and I’m wondering if this was a draft of a dear John postcard, which I can’t imagine her sending, because that’s like breaking up with someone by text (which everyone including the mail carrier can read). I wish I could ask her about this, but this is my life now: wondering about things (mostly trivial) I could have asked but never did. Whoever you are, Pete, I hope you found a good life partner, someone who respected and valued you. And I hope you respected and valued them.