Vox Meditantis

1247 Grand River Avenue, Detroit, Michigan
15th November, 1940

My Dearest Grace,

The autumn wind carries more than fallen leaves through these Michigan streets tonight—it bears with it whispers that have reached even the corridors of River Rouge, whispers that suggest our correspondence has become a matter of local curiosity. I find myself compelled to set pen to paper not merely from my usual evening ritual of communion with you, but from a fiercer need to defend what has blossomed between us against the small minds that would seek to diminish it.

Mrs. Rosenfeld from the boarding house mentioned, with that particular brand of neighbourly concern that masks judgement, that folks are “wondering about all those letters from Oklahoma.” The postmaster, it seems, has noted the regularity of our correspondence with the sort of attention typically reserved for matters of national import rather than affairs of the heart. Let them wonder, my darling Grace. Let them count each envelope that bears your careful script, each package wrapped in brown paper that contains your pressed wildflowers and thoughtful gifts. Their arithmetic cannot calculate the sum of what we have discovered in each other.

I write to you tonight from my small kitchen table, the same scratched oak surface where I have penned every letter these past eight months, beneath the warm glow of the lamp my mother gave me when I first came to Detroit. The familiar ritual soothes me—the careful selection of paper, the methodical preparation of ink, the moment of quiet contemplation before I allow my thoughts to flow towards you across the vast expanse that separates Michigan from Oklahoma. Yet tonight, this warmth is tempered by something more urgent, more necessary.

You asked in your last letter whether I ever doubt the wisdom of what we’ve undertaken, whether the voices of practical concern ever penetrate the sanctuary I’ve built around thoughts of you. The answer, my beloved, is that I have never been more certain of anything in my fifty-five years upon this earth. Not when I chose engineering over the farming life my father envisioned for me, not when I made the journey from rural Michigan to Detroit’s industrial heart, not even when I stood before the massive machinery of Ford’s assembly lines for the first time and knew I had found my calling.

What we share transcends the narrow definitions others would place upon it. When they see our letters, they see merely an aging engineer and a businesswoman conducting some inexplicable correspondence across state lines. They cannot see what I see when I unfold your pages—the brilliant mind that challenges my assumptions about Roosevelt’s agricultural policies, the warm heart that remembers to ask about my colleague Becker’s wife during her illness, the adventurous spirit that describes Oklahoma’s changing skyline with such vivid poetry that I feel I’m standing beside you on Tulsa’s streets.

The critics of our affection speak in the tired language of convention. They tally years as if love were bound by the same rigid tables that govern pension plans and insurance policies, as if the heart obeyed the rules of ledgers and timetables. But I have spent my career studying the intricate mechanisms behind complex systems, and I can say with conviction that love follows a logic far more refined than mere chronology.

Your curiosity about the new assembly line modifications we’re implementing has led to some of our most engaging exchanges. When you write of your observations about the changing role of women in Oklahoma’s business community, you demonstrate an intellectual sophistication that would humble many of my university-educated colleagues. These conversations, conducted across miles and mediated by paper and ink, possess an intimacy and depth that surpasses most face-to-face encounters I’ve experienced in decades of social interaction.

The warmth you bring to my life extends far beyond mere sentiment. Your letters arrive like carefully timed deliveries of essential materials, each one containing precisely what I need to sustain me through another week of industrial routine. Your account of successfully negotiating the grain storage contract with the Hollinger Grain Company reminded me why I find such profound admiration for your combination of practical skill and principled stance. When you described standing your ground against Hollinger’s attempt to reduce payments to farmers, I felt a surge of pride that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with recognition—the deep satisfaction of knowing someone whose character aligns so perfectly with one’s own values.

I defend our correspondence not because it requires defending, but because I refuse to allow others’ limited vision to cast shadows upon something so fundamentally right. When my shift supervisor mentioned that I seemed “distracted by personal matters,” I felt not embarrassment but a fierce protectiveness over the source of that distraction. Yes, I find my thoughts turning to you during the long afternoon hours at River Rouge. Yes, I discover myself anticipating the evening when I can sit down to compose my response to your latest observations about local politics or your amusing account of the new secretary who insists on reorganising your entire filing system.

These thoughts do not diminish my professional effectiveness—they enhance it. The joy your letters bring colours even my most mundane technical calculations with an underlying current of purpose. I work with greater efficiency because I know that evening will bring the possibility of your envelope in my postbox, the promise of your voice speaking to me across the miles through carefully chosen words.

The world grows increasingly uncertain, my dearest Grace. Europe’s conflicts cast long shadows across even our American certainties, and whispers of economic changes reach even our industrial corridors. In such times, the critics would have us abandon anything that cannot be immediately quantified and verified. But I argue the opposite—in times of uncertainty, we must hold most fiercely to those connections that provide genuine sustenance.

What you offer me, and what I hope I provide in return, cannot be diminished by geography, age, or the narrow imagination of those who have forgotten that the heart operates according to its own elegant logic. I remain, as always, your devoted correspondent and increasingly, your devoted admirer.

With unwavering affection and absolute conviction,

Frank

---

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