Hand Written Letters (The Heart of a Writer)

my ink drawing of an anatomically correct human heart 

My cousin and I grew up under a cloud of tragedy which we somehow turned into a variety of opportunities to take advantage of uncommon freedom. We were not exactly orphans, but we didn't exactly have functioning parental role models to draw upon, either. We stood side by side through thick and thin in our younger years, always enjoying a mutual friendship that was underscored by a certain type of tender-heartedness towards each other. We could both be troublesome, to be sure, but usually never to each other. We both had tempers back in the day, but usually never did we let them go towards each other and when they did flare, there was always good reason for it. In our own ways, we have looked out for each other. 

Our relationship is underscored by a variety of wild memories (driving cars all over New Brunswick, mostly) and times that were so fun we still talk about them with extreme fondness. We knew how to stay out of trouble while getting into so much trouble we should have likely been arrested once or twice, if not grounded, at least. We were never grounded nor arrested, thankfully, but we have always kept an eye out for each other and even as we both drift along our upon the seas of our mutually isolated worlds, we have this tether that  keeps us connected to each other and that tether has a name. Its name is love. My cousin, who is more like a brother to me, is a person whom I will love forever, from the bottom of my heart, imperfections and all. And I feel he shares the same perspective towards me. It is unconditional. We are family. Case closed. 

I approached him recently to ask if he would write a letter of recommendation for me for an art project I have been planning because I know he has a hidden talent for writing–he has the heart of a writer, in fact. He writes with clarity and he recalls history in ways that are brimming with vitality. Much to my joy, he not only met my challenge of writing a letter of recommendation, but went above and beyond to offer a humbling and fortifying glance into my life as he sees it, spooky stuff and all. It is a very strange feeling to be seen and to be understood in the way he understands me, my history, and what makes me who I am today. These notes are not merely a simple recommendation, they are letters that see inside my heart and soul for all that I have been and all I have become and perhaps even all I hope to be in the future; a treasure trove of insight.

There has always been a mutual kindness between us laced with unspoken understanding that we have both been to hell and back, we know darkness we dare not describe out loud, and we know this world to primarily be one of loss, loss we both survived by pretending not to notice, meanwhile being viscerally aware of it within each other. I notice his silent grief and he notices mine. We don't talk about it. Knowing is enough and what we know about each other is this: when we were both of a young and formative age, we lost parents. He lost his mother and brother in a house fire, in fact. I lost my father in a tragic accident. Both events were dark and grim, snuffing out the lives of three very important people to us all, far too soon, and effecting the lives of those remaining forever. We know these things about each other, but we never let it get in the way. We simply understood this and put it aside, with utmost respect for the painful boundaries we carry. We seem to simply hold space for each other, the way they say you're supposed to when you care for someone genuinely. It is quite incredible, really. We have a bond that cannot be broken, this much I know. 

I asked my cousin for his permission to share these letters (and it was granted).  They reveal more detail about the history of my family, my grandfather specifically, from a perspective different from my own. These are raw memories, the story that comprises the building blocks for who we now are, miraculously telling a story that stood every chance of being totally snuffed out. As for my grandfather? He had many dark things haunting his footsteps: severe abuse, abandonment, trauma from war, and illness. But he had a force of life within him that was stronger than average. He had a mind sharp and keen. He was far from perfect, but my story begins within him and it has taken me on a journey of unimaginable proportions. 

The man in these letters, Caldwell Hatheway (my grandfather) made himself known to me from well beyond the grave and basically dragged me by the hair of the head out of the situation I was in prior to 2020, which I firmly believed saved my life. I experienced a force so powerful, I had no choice but to go along with him, kicking and screaming all the way. It was like he dragged me out of hell itself. I don't know how else to describe it. 

The following images are of hand-written letters by Steven K Hatheway (grandson of C.H.). 

Click on each image to enlarge it.  

Post Script (also by Steven K Hatheway):

"... Philip Hatheway (brother to Caldwell). Declared dead in WWII... was sent in a pile of dead soldiers, not sure of when or where but as a dedicated God-fearing Christian I think he had not the capacity to lie or embellish a story such as this. He was declared deceased and many hours later clawed his way out from under a pile of bloody corpses only to return to the front lines to fight again. That was the Hatheway tenacity... 

... Grampy Hatheway (Caldwell) and Gram were out at the camp on the range–where they built that beautiful long cabin out back of Johnville. Gram said Grandfather was really sick most of the time so he must have been nearly (in) kidney failure. He lived on Cheese Whiz and toast. He tossed 3 Johnville boys around like rag dolls. Gram said all she saw was boots and butts that couldn't get in the car fast enough. The police was there the next day and he said you better warn those boys not to come back because if they step foot on this property again, I'll drop em where they stand..."

Steven K Hatheway