I had the same penpal for 35 years. He was a kind soul with a foul mouth named Brian. His Grandmother called him Brine and when she passed away, I started calling him by the same name. We met on a Project Close UP trip in Washington DC.
In high school, I was pretty caught up in the web of romantic intrigues so it took me quite awhile to realize that a boy writing me long letters on a regular basis wasn’t rooted in romance. I blame teen romance novels for this skewed worldview (I’m open to a class-action lawsuit, if anyone is interested). Luckily, I didn’t let my idiotic mindset keep me from staying in touch with him. Handwritten letters turned into emails in 2001 and we wrote to each other consistently until his death this Spring. We talked about dating, politics, religion and unsolved mysteries like Ron Tammen. It’s a very strange thing to be connected to someone in only one way — Brian didn’t do any social media that I know of so I only knew something was wrong because our communication ceased.
I have 580 emails from him and dozens of letters. I realized (in a foggy state) that his words are my words now. There will be no more transmissions from the young man from Alaska with the low voice and the big smile.
I’m sorry I didn’t write more.
