A New Beginning: My Journey with Addy

I know what it feels like to miss my father after only a few days away from him, but I can’t imagine how much worse it would feel to have no idea where he even is. That’s exactly what Addy is living through, not knowing where Poppa or Sam are, so I want to help Addy write a letter. After Addy, Sarah, and I finish eating lunch together, I hang back from recess to ask Miss Dunn for a sheet or two of paper.

Miss Dunn shakes her head and tells me supplies are limited, especially with the war going on, and she has no paper to spare. I stammer my thanks anyway, thinking how my own teachers complain about needing computers or projectors, never about running out of paper. Miss Dunn pauses, thinking it over, then remembers she has some brown wrapping paper left over from a package she received the day before. I wonder if wrapping paper is really right for such an important letter, but I don’t have much choice, so it will have to do.

Miss Dunn cuts me a stiff, thick piece of paper from the folded sheet, more like a grocery bag than writing paper, and hands over a stubby pencil to go with it. I thank her again, though I’m quietly worried nobody will take a pencil-written letter on paper this rough seriously. Worse, Addy mentioned there’s more than one freedmen’s camp, so I don’t know which is the right one.

Before Addy comes in from recess, I ask Miss Dunn how we can be sure the letter reaches the right place. She assures me the Quaker Aid Society can help, and if we bring the letter to their office, someone there will pass it along. That solves one problem. When school lets out, Addy and I say goodbye to Sarah, who hurries home to help her mother, and we set off together into the chilly afternoon wind.

I tell Addy I want to help her write a letter that afternoon, one that might help her find Poppa and Sam. Her whole face brightens, and she says that would be mighty fine, though she mentions she may need to run a few deliveries for Mrs. Ford first. Then I remember the problem I haven’t solved. I have paper, but nothing to write with. I ask if Addy has a pen, and she says no. Because she and Momma are just learning to write, they don’t need one yet. And ink is expensive. But Mrs. Ford probably has a pen!

Addy leads me into Mrs. Ford’s dress shop, a small room crowded with cloth, ribbons, and lace trimmings. Mrs. Walker sits at a long worktable hemming a skirt, while Mrs. Ford, an older White woman in wire-rimmed glasses, sits near the window and frowns at our sudden entrance. Addy greets her cheerfully and asks if there are any deliveries, but Mrs. Ford says there are none today, so we’re free to do as we please. Momma says that means there’s plenty of time to study.

Addy asks Mrs. Ford if we can borrow a pen and some ink, and her eyebrows shoot up like she might object. I step in and explain that I want to help Addy write to the freedmen’s camp to ask about her family. Momma’s head jerks up, and she looks at Addy with wide eyes, while Addy smiles at her hopefully. Mrs. Ford says that’s very good idea. She then fetches a pen and a bottle of ink from a little desk in the corner. She even offers a crisp sheet of smooth white paper, and I gladly accept it over the rough brown paper instead.

Up close, the pen looks nothing like anything I’ve held, old-fashioned with a sharp, pointed tip, and I’m not sure I know how to use it. Hopefully Addy will know.

Addy and I climb the stairs to the cold garret, where the afternoon sun streams through the window but does nothing to warm the room. I confess I’ve never written with such a fancy pen, and Addy suggests I practice first, since she’s watched Mrs. Ford use one and it didn’t look too hard.

We spread Miss Dunn’s brown paper across the table, and Addy shows me how to dip the pen and fill it with ink. At first nothing comes out, and when it finally does, it leaves an ugly blob instead of a letter. My fingers are clumsy from the cold, and I splotch ink across the paper again and again, but after nearly half an hour of practice, my scratches slowly start to look like real writing.

Once I’ve figured out the pen, I ask Addy what I should write, carefully printing the date at the top of Mrs. Ford’s good paper. Addy leans forward with her elbows on the table, watching me closely, and suggests we start with “Dear Friends,” since anybody willing to help them is a friend as far as she’s concerned. I write it down and wait, pen hovering, but Addy has gone quiet, her face suddenly sad.

She asks what happens if we never get an answer, or if the war never ends, or if her family never finds its way back together. I think about what Gran and Grandpa always tell me, and I remind Addy that this is only temporary, that she’s going to get through it. She sighs and admits it already feels like forever since she last saw Poppa and Sam. I tell her she still has a strong family, thinking of Dad’s emails and the notes Mom leaves on my nightstand while I’m asleep, since even when we’re apart, we’re always thinking of each other.

Addy asks if I really believe that, and I tell her I really do. I tell her to keep hope in her heart, and I feel her settle beside me, ready at last to tell me what she wants this letter to say.