On November 28, 1955, a summery evening made for romantic thoughts and words, I wrote: "Perhaps I am foolish to use such a night for writing words, a far more permanent and irrevocable way of saying things that may be ill-considered. I am still brooding, as I will until I see you again, about Distance and Enchantment. Men have always idealized their women, that they may better idolize them. If I don't take care I will do that to you and the half-remembered fragments of your personality... may be unrecognizable alongside the reality. Yet I don't think so. What you have had to say in the letters I have had from you has only confirmed my convictions." Wendy wrote on December 4, before she received this: "It is such a wonderful day I feel I must share it with you. How I wish you could be here, with leisure to enjoy... I have been thinking so much about you that I feel, as I have twice as much spare time as you have, it is only fair that I should write to you when the spirit moves me, and not wait each time for your reply. In that way you will have a better chance of getting to know me." I remember well how my spirits were lifted the first time I read this - it was a pretty clear indication that she was interested in me, perhaps not far from being as interested as I was in her. Perhaps I'll post extensive excerpts later.
Over the next few months as our friendship blossomed, our letters back and forth across the Tasman Sea between New Zealand and Australia often ran to 6, 8 or 10 pages, and soon became more affectionate, despite that cautionary note in Jan Wendy's second letter to me, which I quoted in my last post. By early April 1956 she had become Dearest Wendy, although she, more restrained than I, still addressed me as My Dear John. We were excited about her impending flight from Christchurch to Melbourne. She phoned me on the first Saturday in April 1956 - my letter written immediately after we hung up is the only undated letter in the collection, and the date of the postmark is illegible. That letter and Wendy's written the same weekend crossed each other, as many of our letters were doing by then, because we each wrote often, sometimes several times a week. We never ran out of things to say to each other.
Louise Zuhrer was working in Melbourne when Wendy's flight from Christchurch arrived, and I took her with me to the airport. In my letter of May 28 I wrote: I'd like to have you to myself when you step off the plane but for your sake, to spare you any awkwardness or embarrassment, it would be better for Louise to be there too." Louise's presence might have inhibited me slightly: if she had not been beside me when Wendy came out of the door from Customs and Immigration I might have tried to sweep Wendy into my arms, with goodness knows what sort of reaction. As it was I well remember that Wendy and I gazed at each other, but then, and all the way back to Adelaide in my little Morris Minor, we talked, talked nonstop. We had so much to say to each other! As we came through the Adelaide Hills and saw the city below us on the plains between the foothills and the sea, I put my arm around her, and watched as she broke out in an urticarial rash, like hives. For a horrified microsecond I wondered if she was allergic to me, but realized it was a blush that extended beyond her face. We got used to it as our courtship advanced. Her "Pash-rash" as we called it. It persisted into the first few months of our married life.
Over the next few months as our friendship blossomed, our letters back and forth across the Tasman Sea between New Zealand and Australia often ran to 6, 8 or 10 pages, and soon became more affectionate, despite that cautionary note in Jan Wendy's second letter to me, which I quoted in my last post. By early April 1956 she had become Dearest Wendy, although she, more restrained than I, still addressed me as My Dear John. We were excited about her impending flight from Christchurch to Melbourne. She phoned me on the first Saturday in April 1956 - my letter written immediately after we hung up is the only undated letter in the collection, and the date of the postmark is illegible. That letter and Wendy's written the same weekend crossed each other, as many of our letters were doing by then, because we each wrote often, sometimes several times a week. We never ran out of things to say to each other.
Louise Zuhrer was working in Melbourne when Wendy's flight from Christchurch arrived, and I took her with me to the airport. In my letter of May 28 I wrote: I'd like to have you to myself when you step off the plane but for your sake, to spare you any awkwardness or embarrassment, it would be better for Louise to be there too." Louise's presence might have inhibited me slightly: if she had not been beside me when Wendy came out of the door from Customs and Immigration I might have tried to sweep Wendy into my arms, with goodness knows what sort of reaction. As it was I well remember that Wendy and I gazed at each other, but then, and all the way back to Adelaide in my little Morris Minor, we talked, talked nonstop. We had so much to say to each other! As we came through the Adelaide Hills and saw the city below us on the plains between the foothills and the sea, I put my arm around her, and watched as she broke out in an urticarial rash, like hives. For a horrified microsecond I wondered if she was allergic to me, but realized it was a blush that extended beyond her face. We got used to it as our courtship advanced. Her "Pash-rash" as we called it. It persisted into the first few months of our married life.
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