Dear Little Daughter (Part 1)
Treasures come in many forms. Of all my favorite finds, the “Dear Little Daughter Letter” is precious to me because it changed the trajectory of my life.
Written in the early 1900s, it is but one of many treasures I found in a dirty cardboard box that had been unceremoniously shoved under a dealer’s table at the local flea market.
A hand-written sign taped to the side of the box said, “Photos – $1 each.” It was overflowing with photographs and letters – some from my era, many more from a distant time and place.
If the sign was accurate, the whole box would cost thousands. Maybe more.
I learned about the box earlier in the day from my friend, Kendra, who is 10 years my junior. It was early December 1994, and she had gone to the Tulsa, Oklahoma flea market in search of a vintage photo album to make a Christmas present for her Mom. When she came across the box, she called me, confused and emotional about how and why such a treasure – a box full of family photos – would ever be for sale.
“You see that kind of stuff all the time,” I said.
My comment was abrupt, probably stemming from my own disillusionment with life at the time.
She hung up on me, and when she did, I heard a clear, strong voice.
“There’s a story in that box,” it said. “And you need to go find it.”
I wasn’t sure where the voice had come from, but soon after, there I was: Sitting on the cold concrete floor at the flea market, digging through the box. Photographs and letters from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Correspondence between ‘Aunt Bess’ and someone named ‘Elizabeth’ who, I later learned, often signed her letters simply ‘E.’
I had so many questions. Who was Aunt Bess? Is she in one of these photos? And who was Elizabeth? How did this box end up here? And why was it for sale?
I sounded like Kendra.
Digging deeper, I found an album with a sharp steel binding, tattered grayish-brown pages, and no cover. The first page included a picture of a small house with an accompanying hand-drawn floor plan labeled ‘Our half — Mrs. Conelley’s half,’ with clear delineation between the two. Gold paint brushed across the floor plan seemed deliberate, as if it was made to make sure the color of the house would not be forgotten.
In the center of the page, written beneath the photo and the floor plan was this:
“We lived in this house in Red Bluff for two months AND THEN moved into the Tent at mineral, THE SUMMER HEADQUARTERS OF the Lassen forest …”
Who were these people? And why did they move into a tent?
I was hooked. Page after page told me more, though truth be told, it would take years for me to truly understand the magic that lived inside this box.
The album, pages clearly out of order, contained pictures of a young couple – she dressed in a long Edwardian-style coat, he in a three-piece suit and bowler – as they traveled up the coast of California from Los Angeles to Red Bluff following their wedding in March 1913.
Soon after, I found a telegram congratulating the young couple on the birth of their first child. The telegram was followed by labeled photographs of the little family: Mom, Dad … and Elizabeth.
So this was Elizabeth, ‘E.’
Then came the “Dear Little Daughter Letter”.
Mesmerized, I read the letter over and over again.
And there between the story about the people on Pine Street, the milk, mother’s washing, and daddy’s union suit, I discovered another treasure and an even deeper message: a father’s love for his daughter and his wish for her life — that she would find adventure in even the most simplistic moments, and embrace her world with curiosity, joy, and imagination.
I knew the box and at least some of its contents had to come home with me, but being a relatively young newlywed myself, I also knew we didn’t have the money.
Maybe she’ll just sell me the album, I reasoned, slipping some of the letters and other photos between its pages. But my heart knew that wasn’t right …
“How much could I pay you … for the whole box?,” I asked.
“Seventy-five,” she said.
“Sold.”
Thus began a journey that would last a lifetime, taking me – and the box – full circle.
Read the next segment of this story in Part Two.
