Last autumn, when a friend was setting off on a long period of travel, I reminded him to stay in touch by writing letters. “I’ve never really written a letter,” he said. As someone who recently caused an incident at airport security due to a typewriter in my carry-on luggage, I was apoplectic. In his defence, he was born in 1992. A postcard arrived the other week, which he had sent in November. The thing about letters, is that they don’t necessarily update you on the present, but on the past.
During the coronavirus pandemic lockdowns, curtailed by the travel restrictions, I began writing to my very physically distant friends. As a result of their responses, I now have an epistolary archive of what the songwriter Lisa O’Neill calls The Great Pause. When I read these letters now, they remind me of where our heads were at as we struggled with the existential crisis into which we were plunged. Moods and states of mind may not last, but letters do.
I recently learned that a prolific letter-writer to The Irish Times, Graeme Guthrie, of Kilmeena, Westport, Co Mayo, died. I’m told letters he had written to the newspaper were read out at his funeral. Searching through the archive, Guthrie’s letters spring forth, a consistent flow of funny, beautiful, inquisitive and charming insights and observations.
His letters were often rooted, as many to The Irish Times are, in nature, gardening and the changing of the seasons. The letters page is its own calendar, with readers alerting others to the sound of the cuckoo, arrival of swallows, budding of blossoms and the emergence of snowdrops and daffodils. These markers of time in nature, form underground tributaries to the stream of reaction to the political, social, and economic themes and events of the day.
In May of 2022, Guthrie wrote: “The sun is shining, the swifts and swallows are nesting, the cuckoo is calling and the mayflower is in full glorious bloom. The only problem is the grass needs cutting so I will have to get up off the garden chair and switch on the robot mower. So stressful.”
In his letters, Guthrie sometimes assumed a joshing persona that intentionally ribbed at the perception of the person who consistently writes to a newspaper. In January of last year, when there was a flurry of letters preoccupied with the folds in the newspaper, he wrote: “I’m creased laughing at your letter writers seeking solutions to the folds in The Irish Times. I solved the problem long ago. I get my butler to iron each separate sheet of the paper before he brings it to me at 9.30am, along with my breakfast in bed and a small cognac. He then draws my bath while I read the paper. It seems such a simple solution that I cannot understand why everyone doesn’t follow suit.”
What’s intriguing about this style is that it has been created by readers themselves, a feat of crowdsourced pun-loving tone and joviality that has been honed over decades. He was also a master of short-form letters. Among a series of correspondence to the letters page where readers suggested an alternative term for “Irexit”, Guthrie wrote one-word, “Éireannectomy?”
[ The Irish Times Letters pageOpens in new window ]
Guthrie was often in dialogue with other letter-writers. In April 2020, in response to a letter from a younger reader, he wrote: “Sir — Stephen Donelan (‘Young, anxious and resilient’, Letters, April 22nd) explains the difficulties of being part of today’s young generation but concludes ‘our generation will overcome our current stress’. As a cocooned, anxious and resilient 80-year-old, I would like to commend Stephen for his attitude and tell him he and his generation will indeed overcome the crisis. One of the many benefits of being old is that our generation has seen, and survived, many, many crises in the past and we have learned that however distressing things were at the time, including for some the tragic loss of family and friends, life does indeed go on. Experience has taught us that life can be very hard at times and all we can do is learn from each experience, ‘overcome our current stress’ and move on to make the best of whatever the future brings. I wish Stephen’s generation every success.”
He excelled at infusing observations from his garden with the surrealism of the pandemic: “Yesterday morning, when I was weeding the garden, two fledgling robins, with a total disregard for social distancing, came to within six inches of my spade. They were watched from a much safer distance by one of the anxious parents. As is so often the case, it is difficult to control the youngsters.”
I have no doubt, given their dedication, some of the keener observers and contributors to The Irish Times letters page may, in time, notice Guthrie’s absence. One can only hope he is somewhere where the sun is shining, the swifts and swallows are nesting, the cuckoo is calling and the mayflower is in full glorious bloom. Perhaps Guthrie himself should have been a columnist. He certainly never struggled with finding things to write about, week in, week out, for many, many years. In lieu of that, Sir, — I give you this record.