Postcards, a life well spent

When I was a little girl, an older woman had a profound impact on my life. Her name was Martha Helmick.

Martha lived across the street from my family in West Virginia. After spending the better part of her life traveling the country, she settled down in her seventies. She moved in with her older brother and his wife in a humble home just a stones throw from my own. My mother needed a babysitter since she was working two jobs and found it difficult to manage the inquisitive, mischievous child I had become. My older brother and sister opted out from the job, so Martha offered to lend a hand and take care of me. That decision forever changed my life.

Martha and I spent every day together for years. She was a grand storyteller and had powerful axioms for every life situation. Each day I immersed myself in her presence, itching to learn anything she would share. Martha mesmerized me; her tanned skin wrinkled like a weathered road map, her bright blue eyes brimmed with a life begging to be examined. The connection we had was powerful and our relationship was fashioned after history repeating itself. It was like staring into a mirror - she was the woman I would become and I was the child she had once been.

Martha taught me to read books, write letters in cursive, spell words like "conundrum," and dream big. When I was four, she helped me learn all fifty states from left to right and name them by heart. She not only affected me intellectually, but also shaped the morals and values I inherently live by today. She never failed to remind me that I was special, that there was no one like me, and that I would go on to great things.

As Martha reached her mid eighties, and I grew into my teen years, she began to give me things; pieces of her past, things she held dearly. I believe she knew I would treasure them, love them as she did, and appreciate the life she lived through them.

When my parents moved our family to South Carolina in 1985, I was devastated. Martha and I wrote letters to each other on a regular basis, personal notes of anguish because we missed each other somuch. I had grown to depend on her – she was the one person that I felt understood me. To soothe my aching heart, Martha made a promise that each month she would send me a card and an allowance of two dollars. And when Martha gave her word, she did not waiver. First came the letters and cards, with the money of course, but then something else came in the mail. Every few months, Martha would send me postcards from her past travels. At the time, I did not understand the meaning of it, but for each one I received, I put them in a shoebox and hid them away. This handwritten dialogue and postcard exchange went on for almost 20 years, until she started going blind and could no longer write.

Martha lived to be 101. I was 30 years old when she passed. A few months later I was going through an old storage container that had a mishmash of papers. While rummaging through the mess, I found a stack of postcards, and a card with two-dollar bills. It was one of the last cards Martha sent me; her handwriting was frail and scattered, the thoughts intermittent. While frantically pawing at the cards, the most incredible thing happened. I was overwhelmed by Marthaʼs perfume. It literally took my breath away and I began to weep. It was like she was standing right next to me. I felt so lucky to have found more pieces to our narrative. By that time I was a graphic designer who appreciated the postcards not only for their stories, but the meaning, history, tactility, and beautiful design they embodied.

After conducting some research, I learned that the postcards she gave me were from her travels in the 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's. I maintain a large collection of these beautiful vintage postcards from decades past. Many have her handwritten remarks, like one from Custer State Park in Black Hills, South Dakota where she writes, "You can hardly believe the beauty of the West.” Another from Lake Louise and Victoria Glacier, Banff National Park, Canadian Rockies reads, "Rode snowmobiles here in Mts."

I am lost in admiration of the scenery in her postcards. I can see and feel the places Martha went even though most I have never been to before. The hopes and dreams that creep out of the words Martha chose to write, thoughts that were mischievous, contemplative, sometimes ornery. The moods she was in when she decided to share, paired with the shades of emotions I feel for her, come alive through these postcards. They stir a sense of wonderment and evoke a nostalgic response in me. These artifacts are tangible objects that keep our bond alive, and are permanent reminders of how precious print is. And the way we can prove that is by the gift that I have been given.