A few years ago, buried in the bottom of a very old, worn, brown leather trunk, I found a little stack of old, unused postcards. The trunk itself was packed full of photographs collected from a lifetime. Snaps of happy people on a ferry, wearing suits and big skirts and lots of beige, men leaning against silver cars, women enjoying ice creams in deck chairs, children playing on the beach, a family waving merrily from their front door step. Black and white, muted colours, rounded corners, stills of life.
This case belonged to my Nana. My fondest memory of her is sitting on her lap in her lounge, sometime in the early hours of the morning before anyone else was awake, and watching the lights and shadows peel across the ceiling from cars going by, and listening to her stories. She would always have a plentiful supply of biscuits in her cupboard and millionaires shortcake as a treat. We would take the bus together into town and she would always stop and chat to people she knew.
Delving into Nana’s trunk was like journeying through a treasure chest. There were names on the back like Chris or Mary, lots of people we didn’t know. And through the wonderful pictures, were more wonderful postcards she had received. And then ones she had bought, but never used.
These postcards had all been collected on holidays. Scotland, the Lake District, Italy, France, visits to friends, even from her hometown. I love how they instantly show their age, physically with yellowed paper, and a fantastic smell, and through the images they capture, times subtly different to our own. Hairstyles, fashion, shop fronts, toys, furniture, cars, these things all change, but smiles and silliness and families are all familiar.
I loved finding these delights, and I love sending postcards. So I picked up my pen and have been sending them to friends ever since.
