December 15, 1969

As the days passed toward our one month anniversary, it was time to get serious about writing thank you notes. The task was daunting, and in 1969, tradition dictated that the bride wrote them all. I loved to write and didn’t have trouble saying what my heart was feeling, but several hundred of them? Overwhelming.

Nate encouraged me to write 5 each evening, starting at the beginning of our gift record book and proceeding straight through. “Maybe on the weekends you could write a few more than that,” he said. “And then they’d all be done by the end of March.”

Keeping up that kind of steady pace sounded like a test of self-discipline I didn’t have, but I set up a little “writing corner” on a metal TV tray in our still-sparse apartment – a pen, note cards, and our record book.

When we’d ordered the wedding invitations, we’d also requested note cards with our married title on the front, and envelopes to match. So as I opened the first one to begin writing, I got sweet encouragement by reading that lovely new identification: Mr. and Mrs. Willard Nathan Nyman. Looking at that over and over would spur me on.

One side benefit of writing thank you’s was the regular conversations I had with Mom when I called for addresses. She encouraged me to go at it with enthusiasm, although she added some healthy pressure. “People were very generous to you and Nathan,” she said, “so try to be generous with your words as you write. Make each note card very personal.”

And so I began…. but by the end of the first week, I had already fallen behind. After a long day of teaching with an hour commute at each end, the higher priority for my evenings was to spend time with my new husband. He, too, wanted to be together “to play a little” after a day of high stress.

Also, I was still figuring out how to cook, and after we’d eaten a minimal dinner, we’d often take a long walk around the neighborhood. Holding hands as we went, we’d dream out loud about some distant day when we might own a house like the ones we passed as we walked.

Pointing to an English Tudor I’d say, “That’ll be my house.” He preferred a saltbox colonial or anything else with symmetry. Talking about owning a home some day and a togetherness that stretched that far into the future warmed me in some hidden place deep inside, and both of us felt a gentle peace in knowing we’d always be together.

“In all toil there is profit.” (Proverbs 14:23)