How deep is the ocean?

My mother has a favorite word she uses to describe a hot day: scorcher. As in, "It's going to be a real scorcher today."

While not a malaprop of the kind I often write about here, it is a rather inventive description of warm weather. And it has other uses, one we came across recently after reading love letters between my grandparents, who were married in 1934.

We're talking steam heat. Hold these letters too long, and they could burst into flames, fed by note paper so passionately pulpy, it would be tinder for a campfire. 

In other words, scorchers. 

"I can't believe my parents wrote these things to each other," mom marveled. 

What my young teen grandparents couldn't say or demonstrate in public in the strict early '30s, they did in the private pages of their handwritten letters. These were not short expressions of love, but three- and four-page articulations of longing, fed by the fact that he lived in Philadelphia and she lived on a farm in Paulsboro. 

It might as well have been the distance between North Philadelphia and the North Pole.  

Here are examples from May of 1932 through December of 1933. (They married a month later). I've included the cheeky symbols, hand drawn then; emojis of yesteryear, if you will. 

She: Yes, I was happy thinking of our love affair, but not as happy as I would be if we could act it. I like the acting part myself. To have you hold me in your arms of love and say I love you ...  Oh, what a thrill to hear it from you. Come anytime you wish; the pleasure is all yours. U EVOL I

He: I had a good time last week with you, but it could have been better in a good many ways. I couldn't stand dancing with you for a while because it was making me feel like kissing you like you was never kissed before ... XXXXX 💔Here it is, my heart. It's broke.

Reality occasionally set in, but didn't cool the fire: 

She: No more paper. Out of ink. Depression has me. Our shop went out on a bum. God knows when we work now.   

He: I was sick Saturday night, but I guess now I would never get sick with you in my arms ...  Love is love and you can't stop it no matter what you do. 

Sometimes music came into play:

She: I can't explain love, it's a mystery. But do you know that song, How deep is the Ocean? 🎜🎝🎜 How much do I love you? I'll tell you no lie. 

The young lovers couldn't say these things aloud because they were never alone; worse yet, their dates were often chaperoned by one of her brothers or even broken by a father who sent my grandmother to her room the night of her wedding rehearsal for staying out too long that day. My grandfather went alone.

Through it all, their passion did not wane. Life wasn't easy; my grandmother got off the farm, her longtime goal, but she had to live as a new bride in a tight little rowhouse with my grandfather's parents and several siblings. The Depression went on. 

But so did the love, for 66 years, until his death in 2000. He promised her 1100,000,000 kisses in those letters; she promised 211,000,000. 

That's a lot of fuel for a fire.   

She: I hope our love continues for ever and ever dear. 

He: Yours forever. I love you.

                                                




 

 

 




   










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