By Abe Villarreal
Writing comes with its own highs and lows. Sometimes words flow like a river. Other times, the blank screen is your worst enemy. Then, there are times, when you receive an email or a nice, handwritten letter in the mail. It's from someone you don't know but feels that he or she knows you.
I don't know most of my readers. You are out there somewhere. Reading over breakfast. Newspapers in hand. Coffee too. Reading on your phone. You are readers and that's enough for me to know that you all are good people. Good enough to read. We need more of you.
A couple of years ago, a reader sent a Thanksgiving card titled "A Time for Thanks." The front cover was a classic scene from woods in a place that didn't feel like home. There were trees with leaves of gold, oranges, greens, and browns. Pictures on cards always seem like places that you would like to visit.
The note inside was from a woman who wrote about her brother, Mr. Perez. How he has dementia and lives in a facility up in Rio Rancho. Every Monday she was nice enough to take the newspaper to share the column. "He is 76 years old, and I am his older sister," she wrote. "His reply to me is one-line phrases."
Every Monday, they shared the newspaper and shared the column. Even through old age and dementia, they had something to share with each other. Reading does that.
Another reader once wrote to me to share about his family. How his grandparents came to the US to escape the Mexican Revolution. How his grandfather became a barber in Bisbee, Arizona. He described his family as warriors. "Through their life had always been our protectors," he said. I was touched that he would share his history with me.
Then there's the grandma who wrote to me to say that she would hide her peppermint Christmas candies from her grandchildren by telling them that her pantry always smells like candy because she places peppermint oil to keep the pests away. I guess, even grandmas have to keep their secret candy stashes.
I remember a reader's email about his Noche Buena, Christmas Eve memories. He said that he was 80 years old and found himself remembering family time during Noche Buena years ago. The "smell of tamales, my abuela's abrazo and my tio's beer(s)." His holiday time sounded a lot like mine.
A nice lady named Darlene once wrote to tell me about her dad's service during World War II. Like my grandfather, he didn't open up too much about those days fighting as young men of the greatest generation. She said that her dad would share stories "if he had a few drinks on the weekend… he would get out his scrapbook and sometimes would start to cry but would not really tell us why."
Her dad, a Seabee, died young at the age of 52 and he was buried at sea. I know the words she shared meant that she really loved him.
There are times, not too many, that readers write to let me know how wrong I may be about something. About the way I look at life, or how I describe my thoughts on this or that. And to remind me of the correct use of a word or phrase. I appreciate it when you share those kinds of emails, too.
Each week, thanks to your kindness, writing goes from hard to easy. From sometimes seeming impossible to something I enjoy doing. From solitary, to communal. Writing, when it's read by people like you, can be the most unifying, uplifting kind of activity.
So, keep sending your friendly notes and thoughts. I love learning about you as much as I love writing to you. Happy Reading.
Abe Villarreal writes about the traditions, people, and culture of America. He can be reached at
