Just found a stack of my mom's old postcards from the 60s...

I was cleaning out her attic last week and came across a shoe box full of postcards she sent to her sister during a trip to San Francisco in 1968. One card had a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge, and on the back she wrote about the fog being so thick she couldn't see 10 feet ahead. That got me thinking about how much more honest people were back then, not trying to make everything look perfect. It changed my mind about tossing old stuff away... I used to think letters and cards were just clutter, but now I see them as little time capsules. The details she included, like how she paid 25 cents for a bowl of clam chowder, felt so real. That one bad foggy day in her postcard made me realize how much we edit our lives now. Has anyone else come around to keeping old correspondence after finding a gem like that?

3 comments

3 Comments

angela_harris1mo ago

My grandma had a shoebox full of letters from when my grandpa was stationed overseas in the 1950s. The one that got me was a letter where he complained about the terrible coffee on base and how much he missed her homemade apple pie. It was so ordinary but it felt like I was right there with him for a second. I used to think old paper stuff was just junk too, but now I keep every handwritten note my kids give me. It's like those little details make the past feel closer than any filtered photo ever could.

the_harper1mo ago

Is it possible that letter was talking about the coffee in the mess hall and not the whole base... My uncle used to say the officers had their own fancy coffee while the regular guys got the burnt stuff. It's funny how the smallest details like that stick with you more than the big war stories.

grantp141mo ago

The coffee thing really hits home for me. My granddad was a cook in the Navy and he used to tell this story about how the officers got real cream and sugar while the enlisted guys got powdered milk and whatever sugar was left over from last week. He said it created this weird little hierarchy over something as simple as a cup of joe. It's wild how those small indignities stick with you, like the burnt coffee becomes a symbol for the whole divide between ranks. My dad still complains about bad coffee to this day and says it reminds him of his own time in the service. Funny how a bitter drink can carry all that weight, you know?