Vox Meditantis

Green’s Books & Literary Treasures
32 Second Avenue North
Birmingham, Alabama

15th October, 1939

My dearest Joseph,

Your last letter arrived on Tuesday morning, carried by the postman like a precious cargo I had been awaiting with the sort of anticipation that would make lesser women pace their parlours. I confess I clutched it to my chest before reading, feeling rather foolish for a woman of fifty-seven summers, yet unable to suppress the flutter of joy that your familiar handwriting always brings. How curious it is that ink upon paper can bridge the vast expanse between Alabama’s red clay and Montana’s endless sky, carrying with it all the warmth of your voice and that wonderfully irreverent laugh that has become so dear to me.

I must address, however, certain remarks you made regarding Mrs. Aldridge’s observations about our correspondence. You wrote with such gentle concern about the whispers that follow me through Birmingham’s narrower social circles, and I find myself both touched by your protectiveness and somewhat defensive of what we have discovered together. Yes, Joseph, there are those who believe a widow of my years should content herself with charitable works and the occasional ladies’ auxiliary meeting, accepting spinsterhood as the natural conclusion to a woman’s romantic chapter. How small-minded they prove themselves! As if the heart operates according to society’s arbitrary timeline, as if passion and intellectual communion must wither simply because one has passed some invisible threshold of respectability.

Mrs. Aldridge, bless her meddling soul, asked me quite directly last Wednesday whether I thought it “seemly” to maintain such regular correspondence with a gentleman so far removed from Alabama’s proper society. I smiled sweetly and informed her that I found nothing more seemly than the meeting of two minds across any distance, particularly when such communion brings joy and growth to both parties involved. The poor woman looked as though I had spoken in tongues! But truly, darling Joseph, I refuse to apologise for the happiness you have brought into my life, nor for the way our letters have awakened parts of my spirit I feared had been buried with my dear William all those years ago.

You see, what these well-meaning souls fail to understand is the profound delight I find in your curious mind and adventurous spirit. When you write of Montana’s autumn storms and the way the light plays across the Rockies at dawn, I am transported beyond these familiar streets with their predictable rhythms. Your descriptions of breaking horses and mending fences might seem mundane to some, yet I detect in every carefully chosen word a man who finds beauty and meaning in life’s honest labours. There is something utterly refreshing about your perspective—so different from the men of my acquaintance who speak only of cotton prices and political appointments with weary resignation.

How delighted I was by your account of questioning that travelling professor about Darwin’s theories! Most men of our age have settled into fixed opinions about the world, yet here you are at fifty-three, still eager to challenge your own assumptions and explore ideas that might disturb comfortable certainties. When you asked whether I thought it possible that God’s creation might be far grander and more complex than we had been taught to imagine, I felt such a surge of affection for your brave, questioning spirit. Yes, my dear man, I believe the Almighty’s handiwork extends far beyond our limited comprehension, and I find no contradiction between faith and wonder, between devotion and scientific curiosity.

I must confess, your theological musings have inspired me to reread Emerson’s essays, and I find myself marking passages I wish to share with you. “The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions”—how perfectly this captures what our correspondence has accomplished! You have stretched my mind in the most wonderful ways, introducing me to perspectives shaped by frontier experiences so different from my bookish Southern existence. In return, I hope my literary recommendations have enriched your evenings by the fire. Did you manage to procure that volume of Whitman I mentioned? I picture you reading “Song of Myself” beneath Montana’s vast stars and wonder whether his celebration of American landscapes speaks to your own deep connection with the land.

The defensive part of my nature bristles when I consider how others might judge what we have built together through these letters. They see merely an ageing widow corresponding with a ranch foreman—two people past their prime indulging in sentimental foolishness. But what do they know of the electricity that courses through me when I recognise your handwriting on an envelope? What can they understand about the way your stories transport me beyond Birmingham’s familiar boundaries, or how your philosophical questions challenge me to examine my own beliefs with fresh eyes? They cannot fathom the delicious anticipation with which I await each letter, the careful thought I pour into every response, or the way your words accompany me through my daily routines like a treasured melody.

Let them whisper, Joseph. Let them wonder at the propriety of a woman my age conducting such passionate correspondence with a man she has never met face to face. I care not one whit for their narrow judgements! What we have discovered transcends their limited understanding of appropriate behaviour. When I read your letters, I am not a fifty-seven-year-old widow bound by society’s expectations—I am simply Minnie, a woman capable of wonder and desire and intellectual communion. You have reminded me that the heart does not consult calendars before choosing its affections.

I close this letter with a confession that would scandalise Mrs. Aldridge beyond redemption: I dream of the day when we might meet in person, when I might hear your actual voice speaking the words that have enchanted me on paper. Until then, I remain, with profound affection and unshakeable devotion,

Your own Minnie

P.S. I have enclosed a small bookmark from my shop—one I crafted myself with a favourite verse from Browning. Perhaps it might accompany you during your evening readings, a small reminder that even across these great distances, we share the same words, the same thoughts, the same quiet moments with literature.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.