Return to Sender

The Christmas card I sent Helen Molnar got sent back to me. I was sitting at home in the living room Saturday, and I heard the metallic clink, followed by the whoosh of air, as the mailman dropped the mail through the slot. As usual, everything scattered in a hush on the hardwood floor. I jumped up -- excited as always to check the mail, but I'm even more of a maniac at the holidays -- and I recognized the envelope right away. I picked up it, saw "Return to Sender" on one of those rectangular yellow stickers, and took a moment of silence as I read Helen Molnar's name in my handwriting. Did she move? Had I written the address down wrong? Had she, indeed, passed away? So yesterday before work, I tucked the envelope in a larger envelope, sent it to Helen's old address by my grandfather's house, and wrote "Please Forward if Address Has Changed" next to her Alleghan Road address. Will this letter get sent back to me again? If so, I'll know that she's passed on.

I never really knew Helen very well: she lived two doors down from Grandpa John in Saugatuck, MI, and my family would usually stop by for a chat with her when we were in town. She was pushing 75 or 80 by that point, and cranky, and often negative, and she loved to gossip about everybody who lived on Silver Lake. We'd stop in to see her -- her home was nestled amidst a landscape of rusted car parts and overgrown weeds, right past the grove of pines -- and I was always in awe of her near-hoarder tendencies. Piles of newspapers kept you from maneuvering easily. Tons of household knickknacks -- from pens to coffee cups to Hummels -- were scattered over the counters and tabletops. And there was this old lady smell in the air, something like moth balls-meets-crinkly old dresses. But I loved it in there, the mix of shadows and loneliness and comfort and love. When my brothers and I were quite young -- I was maybe ten, eleven -- Helen would let us fish with her on her rickety pier that rested on the buoys. There was this unsafe little wooden walkway to get to the pier/dock/raft, and Helen had red metal chairs to sit on. I can still feel them against my skin in summer, rusty flakes sticking to my arms and the backs of my legs. We'd sit and fish with her, or sometimes we'd go down (with or without her permission) and fish on our own.

For many years, Helen sent Mom a Christmas card. She usually complained in it ("my son isn't taking care of me the way I want," "no one who lives on the lake is friendly anymore," "I sure do miss your grandpa down the road, even though he was such a grumpy fella"). I looked forward to seeing her scribbled writing, that trace of her smell on the card when Mom passed it to me to read. Something about Helen caught my heart, something about her hermit-witch life and something outside her that -- whenever we'd hear from her -- brought me back to the Saugatuck before Grandpa passed away and Mom and her sister had to sell the house, brought me back to the lake and swimming in summer and walking downtown and dashing into our favorite shops like the Old Post Office and stopping at Marro's for pizza. Helen brought me back to Grandpa John's house: the spiral staircase with the fan right there that sometimes nipped your skull, the upstairs balcony, Aunt Joyce's bedroom with the newspaper-style wallpaper, Grandpa's red saloon-style bar with the heart-shaped chairs, weird and sad clown pictures on the walls, so much more.

Over time, Helen's letters siphoned off then stopped arriving. And for a long time, she slipped past my radar. Years went by. Then, two years ago, she just bopped back into my brain like a bolt of lightning. I was in a lonely phase of life myself, and I got to thinking -- not in an unhealthy way, just a curious way -- what it's actually like to be in your 80s and to live alone in a house in the woods and to feel lonely and to wonder why your son doesn't visit. It made me sad in some ways, but as an adult I also admired her tenacity and her quirkiness and her strength to keep plugging along. Helen hadn't had an easy life, after all. What sticks out to me is her husband's illness -- I can't remember if it was cancer or something else -- and how he had to have both legs amputated, and how Helen took care of him until he died. So, two years ago, I asked Mom to dig in her old address book for Helen's address, and I wrote her out a card. I can't remember if it was Christmastime or not, but I do remember thinking, "Will she even remember who I am?" A couple weeks later I got a card back from her; there was her familiar handwriting, her cranky words about everything, her surprise and gratitude that I wrote. She was now living in Grand Rapids with her son since she wasn't able to manage on her own anymore. Last year, I sent Helen another card -- at Christmas time, for sure -- and she wrote me another letter back with her usual but endearing grievances.

This brings us to 2010. I sent a card, wondering as I have the last two years, how old is Helen now? Will she be alive to receive this card? And, as you now know, the card got sent back to me. I'm waiting to see if my second attempt this holiday makes any difference. I think I know the answer, but I'm curious every time I check the mailbox in this rush of holiday madness. I'll even give it a few extra days since the post office is swamped and it may take awhile.

But do know this, Helen Molnar, wherever you are: you are remembered. You are thought of still. You are a piece of others' history. You were complicated like all of us, and you will always be to me like a beloved character in a favorite book, someone to cherish and think about from time to time with fondness.