Letter short story

“Love Letter,” by George Saunders

Audio: George Saunders reads.

February 22, 202_.

Dear Robbie,

Got your e-mail, kid. Sorry for handwriting in reply. Not sure e-mailing is the best move, considering the topic, but, of course (you being nearly six foot now, your mother says?), that’s up to you, dear, although, you know: strange times.

Beautiful day here. A flock of geese just now came in low over the deck, and your grandmother and I, holding the bright-blue mugs you kindly sent at Christmas, did simultaneous hip swivels as they zinged off toward Rosley and, I expect, an easy meal on the golf course there.

Forgive my use of initials in what follows. Would not wish to cause further difficulties for G., M., or J. (good folks all, we very much enjoyed meeting them when you stopped by last Easter), should this get sidetracked and read by someone other than you.

I think you are right regarding G. That ship has sailed. Best to let that go. M., per your explanation, does not lack proper paperwork but did know, all the while, that G. did lack it, yes? And did nothing about that? Am not suggesting, of course, that she should have. But, putting ourselves into “their” heads—as I think, these days, it is prudent to try to do—we might ask, Why didn’t M. (again, according to them, to their way of thinking) do what she “should” have done, by letting someone in authority know about G.? Since being here is “a privilege and not a right.” Are we or are we not (as I have grown sick of hearing) “a nation of laws”?

Even as they change the laws constantly to suit their own beliefs!

Believe me, I am as disgusted as you are with all this.

But the world, in my (ancient) experience, sometimes moves off in a certain direction and, having moved, being so large and inscrutable, cannot be recalled to its previous, better state, and so, in this current situation, it behooves us, I would say, to think as they think, as well as we can manage, to avoid as much unpleasantness and future harm as possible.

But, of course, you were writing, really, to ask about J. Yes, am still in touch with the lawyer you mentioned. Don’t feel he would be much help. At this point. In his prime, he was, yes, a prince of a guy striding into a courthouse, but he is not now the man he was. He opposed, perhaps too energetically, the D.O.J. review/ouster of sitting judges and endured much abuse in the press and his property was defaced and he was briefly detained and these days, from what I have heard, is mostly just puttering around his yard, keeping his views to himself.

Where is J. now? Do you know? State facility or fed? That may matter. I expect “they” (loyalists) would (with the power of the courts now behind them) say that although J. is a citizen, she forfeited certain rights and privileges by declining to offer the requested info on G. & M. You may recall R. & K., friends of ours, who gave you, for your fifth (sixth?) birthday, that bronze Lincoln bank? They are loyalists, still in touch, and that is the sort of logic they follow. A guy over in Bremerton befriended a guy at the gym and they would go on runs together and so forth, and the first guy, after declining to comment on what he knew of his friend’s voting past, suddenly found he could no longer register his work vehicle (he was a florist, so this proved problematic). R. & K.’s take on this: a person is “no patriot” if he refuses to answer a “simple question” from his “own homeland government.”

That is where we find ourselves.

You asked if you are supposed to stand by and watch your friend’s life be ruined.

Two answers: one as a citizen, the other as a grandfather.

(You have turned to me in what must be a difficult time and I am trying to be frank.)

As a citizen: I can, of course, understand why a young (intelligent, good-looking) person (perpetual delight to know, I might add) would feel that it is his duty to “do something” on behalf of his friend J.

But what, exactly?

That is the question.

When you reach a certain age, you see that time is all we have. By which I mean, moments like those overhead geese this morning, and watching your mother be born, and sitting at the dining-room table here waiting for the phone to ring and announce that a certain baby (you) had been born, or that day when all of us hiked out at Point Lobos. Those baby deer, the extremely loud seal, your sister’s scarf drifting down, down to that black, briny boulder, the replacement you so generously bought her in Monterey, how pleased you made her with your kindness. Those things were real. That is what (that is all) one gets. This other stuff is real only to the extent that it interferes with those moments.

Now, you may say (I can hear you saying it and see the look on your face as you do) that this incident with J. is an interference. I respect that. But, as your grandfather, I beg you not to underestimate the power/danger of this moment. Perhaps I haven’t told you this yet: in the early days, I wrote two letters to the editor of the local rag, one overwrought, the other comic. Neither had any effect. Those who agreed with me agreed with me; those who did not remained unpersuaded. After a third attempt was rejected, I found myself pulled over, up near the house, for no reason I could discern. The cop (nice guy, just a kid, really, from my perspective) asked what I did all day. Did I have any hobbies? I said no. He said, Some of us heard you like to type. I sat in my car, looking over at his large, pale arm. His face was the face of a kid. His arm, though, was the arm of a man.

How would you know about that? I said.

Have a good night, sir, he said. Stay off the computer.

Good Lord, his stupidity and bulk there in the darkness, the metallic clanking from his belt area, the palpable certainty he seemed to feel regarding his cause, a cause I cannot begin, even at this late date, to get my head around, or view from within, so to speak.

I do not want you anywhere near, or under the sway of, that sort of person, ever.

I feel here a need to address the last part of your e-mail, which (I want to assure you) did not upset me or “hurt my feelings. ” No. When you reach my age, and if you are lucky enough to have a grandson like you (stellar), you will know that nothing that that grandson could say could ever hurt your feelings, and, in fact, I am so touched that you thought to write me in your time of need and be so direct and even (I admit it) somewhat rough with me.

Cartoon by Tom Chitty

Seen in retrospect, yes: I have regrets. There was a certain critical period. I see that now. During that period, your grandmother and I were doing, every night, a jigsaw puzzle each, at that dining-room table I know you know well, we were planning to have the kitchen redone, were in the midst of having the walls out in the yard rebuilt at great expense, I was experiencing the first intimations of the dental issues I know you have heard so much (too much?) about. Every night, as we sat across from each other, doing those puzzles, from the TV in the next room blared this litany of things that had never before happened, that we could never have imagined happening, that were now happening, and the only response from the TV pundits was a wry, satirical smugness that assumed, as we assumed, that those things could and would soon be undone and that all would return to normal—that some adult or adults would arrive, as they had always arrived in the past, to set things right. It did not seem (and please destroy this letter after you have read it) that someone so clownish could disrupt something so noble and time-tested and seemingly strong, that had been with us literally every day of our lives. We had taken, in other words, a profound gift for granted. Did not know the gift was a fluke, a chimera, a wonderful accident of consensus and mutual understanding.

Because this destruction was emanating from such an inept source, who seemed (at that time) merely comically thuggish, who seemed to know so little about what he was disrupting, and because life was going on, and because every day he/they burst through some new gate of propriety, we soon found that no genuine outrage was available to us anymore. If you’ll allow me a crude metaphor (as I’m sure you, the King of las Bromas de Fartos, will): a guy comes into a dinner party, takes a dump on the rug in the living room. The guests get all excited, yell in protest. He takes a second dump. The guests feel, Well, yelling didn’t help. (While some of them applaud his audacity.) He takes a third dump, on the table, and still no one throws him out. At that point, the sky has become the limit in terms of future dumps.

So, although your grandmother and I, during this critical period, often said, you know, “Someone should arrange a march” or “Those f___ing Republican senators,” we soon grew weary of hearing ourselves saying those things and, to avoid being old people emptily repeating ourselves, stopped saying those things, and did our puzzles and so forth, waiting for the election.

I’m speaking here of the second, not the third (of the son), which, being a total sham, didn’t hurt (surprise) as much.

Post-election, doing new puzzles (mine a difficult sort of Catskills summer scene), noting those early pardons (which, by the time they were granted, we’d been well prepared to expect, and tolerate), and then that deluge of pardons (each making way for the next), and the celebratory verbal nonsense accompanying the pardons (to which, again, we were, by this time, somewhat inured), and the targeting of judges, and the incidents in Reno and Lowell, and the investigations into pundits, and the casting aside of term limits, we still did not really believe in the thing that was happening. Birds still burst out of the trees and so forth.

I feel I am disappointing you.

I just want to say that history, when it arrives, may not look as you expect, based on the reading of history books. Things in there are always so clear. One knows exactly what one would have done.

Your grandmother and I (and many others) would have had to be more extreme people than we were, during that critical period, to have done whatever it was we should have been doing. And our lives had not prepared us for extremity, to mobilize or to be as focussed and energized as I can see, in retrospect, we would have needed to be. We were not prepared to drop everything in defense of a system that was, to us, like oxygen: used constantly, never noted. We were spoiled, I think I am trying to say. As were those on the other side: willing to tear it all down because they had been so thoroughly nourished by the vacuous plenty in which we all lived, a bountiful condition that allowed people to thrive and opine and swagger around like kings and queens while remaining ignorant of their own history.

What would you have had me do? What would you have done? I know what you will say: you would have fought. But how? How would you have fought? Would you have called your senator? (In those days, you could still, at least, record your feeble message on a senator’s answering machine without reprisal, but you might as well have been singing or whistling or passing wind into it for all the good it did.) Well, we did that. We called, we wrote letters. Would you have given money to certain people running for office? We did that as well. Would you have marched? For some reason, there were suddenly no marches. Organized a march? Then and now, I did not and do not know how to arrange a march. I was still working full time. This dental thing had just begun. That rather occupies the mind. You know where we live: would you have had me go down to Waterville and harangue the officials there? They were all in agreement with us. At that time. Would you have armed yourself? I would not and will not, and I do not believe you would, either. I hope not. By that, all is lost.

Let me, at the end, return to the beginning. I advise and implore you: stay out of this business with J. Your involvement will not help (especially if you don’t know where they have taken her, fed or state) and may, in fact, hurt. I hope I do not offend if I here use the phrase “empty gesture.” Not only would J.’s situation be made worse, so might that of your mother, father, sister, grandmother, grandfather, etc., etc. Part of the complication is that you are not alone in this.

I want you well. I want you someday to be an old fart yourself, writing a (too) long letter to a (beloved) grandson. In this world, we speak much of courage and not, I feel, enough about discretion and caution. I know how that will sound to you. Let it be. I have lived this long and have the right.

It occurs to me only now that you and J. may be more than just friends.

That, if the case, would, I know, (must) complicate the matter.

I had, last night, a vivid dream of those days, of that critical, pre-election period. I was sitting across from your grandmother, she at work on her puzzle (puppies and kittens), I on mine (gnomes in trees), and suddenly we saw, in a flash, things as they were, that is, we realized that this was the critical moment. We looked at each other across the table with such freshness, if I may say it that way, such love for each other and for our country, the country in which we had lived our whole lives, the many roads, hills, lakes, malls, byways, villages we had known and moved about and around in so freely.

How precious and dear it all seemed.

Your grandmother stood, with that decisiveness I know you know.

“Let us think of what we must do,” she said.

Then I woke. There in bed, I felt, for a brief instant, that it was that time again and not this time. Lying there, I found myself wondering, for the first time in a long while, not What should I have done? but What might I yet do?

I came back to myself, gradually. It was sad. A sad moment. To be, once again, in a time and place where action was not possible.

I wish with all my heart that we could have passed it on to you intact. I do. That is, now, not to be. That regret I will take to my grave. Wisdom, now, amounts to making such intelligent accommodations as we can. I am not saying stick your head in the sand. J. made a choice. I respect her for it. And yet. No one is calling on you to do anything. You are, in my view, doing much good simply by rising in the morning, being as present and kind as possible, keeping sanity alive in the world, so that, someday, when (if) this thing passes, the country may find its way back to normalcy, with your help and the help of those like you.

In this, you are, and I am, I hope, like cave people, sheltering a small, remaining trace of fire through a dark period.

But please know that I understand how hard it must be to stay silent and inactive if, in fact, J. was more than just a friend. She is a lovely person and I recall her crossing our yard with her particular grace and brio, swinging your car keys on that long silver chain, her dog (Whiskey?) running there beside her.

I feel I have made my preference clear, above. I say what follows not to encourage. But: we have money (not much, but some) set aside. Should push come to shove. I am finding it hard to advise you. Please let us know what you are inclined to do, as we find that this (you) is all that we now can think of.

With much love, more than you can know,

GPa. ♦

The Mysterious Letter – A Short Story by Villo Bernad – Reedsy Prompts

“Ah not again” you murmur angrily as you search through your bag the hundredth time. “Where the fuck are you” you angrily murmur into your bag. Book, no. Pens, no. Wallet, no. Make up, no. Random receipts, no. “It must be here”.

After ten more minutes of shuffling your bags content from one side of the bag to the other in the hope that the key will suddenly appear even through you already thoroughly checked twice and it is clearly not there you final remember that you put it into the minuscule inside pocket so it will not get lost and you will find it no problem next time.

“Finally”. You open the mailbox while cursing whoever it was that sent you this letter. “Who the fuck still sends letters anyway have they not heard of email.” It has been weeks maybe even months since the last time you had to open your mailbox, as you open it an avalanche of sale ads take away brochures pure out. “Where are you letter” searching for the white letter that started this whole thing. You saw it as you were going upstarts after work the edge of the white envelop peeking out from your mailbox. “Who sent me a letter” you try to go through the list of people who it could be casting away each in turn. This lead you on the quest of finding the key, it was frustrating, long but it is worth it just to find out who sent the letter. Of course, at first you tried pulling it out by the peaking out edge of the letter but even after the intricate planning, the slow approach the careful use your fingertips it was in vain. As soon as you touched it the letter slipped and plummeted out of reach.

When you finally open the mailbox, you get your reward the snow-white letter. There is now no chance that it is not for you, it has your name and address in a beautiful flowing handwriting. You hold it in your hand staring at it. You want to open it. But not yet. Now nature is now calling for you. And you do not want to get distracted when you finally read it. Oh, no this need to be savored.

You spend the next twenty minutes frantically running around in your apartment to take care of everything that urgently needs to be doing before you finally get to sit down in your armchair and open the letter.

My dear bellowed

I am sure this letter will have taken you by surprise as we had not had the chance to meet in this lifetime. I did want to meet you, so badly, I have been planning it for months, out first meeting. I wanted to be perfect, romantic something to remember for many lifetimes to come. However, I was not sure of the best way to do it , At first I was thinking of running into you in a coffee shop sitting down across from you making flirtatious eyes contact as we drink our coffee then I will go up to you say how much I like the book you are reading. We will then stay there for hours discussing the book then ourselves and falling in love again. So romantic. But what if you don’t feel like talking. What then? It is so much harder at this age, remember the old days with those beautiful balls where you could just ask one of your shared acquaintances to introduce you to a that beautiful girl across the room. Oh, how I miss those balls. There are no more balls only clubs. And there I feel our distaste is mutual. I kept thinking and thinking of the best way but it seems I have overthought it and missed my chance.

A few days ago, I have been diagnosed with cancer, a lethal and fast acting kind they give me to the end of the year at most. A truly cruel kind of punishment that I cannot even meet you before I die. I of course want to meet you before I go but I am afraid if we do even for a moment we could not help but fall in love and I could not bear to inflict on you the pain of having to watch me die. I have done it so many times and there is no pain greater even if I know that I shall see you again in the next life, and you do not even have that.

I am writing this letter for you because I am afraid the punishment that is ahead of you in this life. There has been lives when we have not meet before I of course do not know what had happened to you but in the lives after you were always sadder more guarded so I am afraid what is ahead of you. I am afraid that without me your life is just suffering without even love. so, I am writing to you to tell you that no matter what happens in this life to you there is someone out there who loves you. I have loved you for fifty lifetimes and I shall continue to love you for all eternity.

I hope that your life is bearable without me but remember when it is hard when it is unbearable that there is someone out there who is happy to take a millennial of punishment to just spend another minute with you.

Your beloved

See you in the next one

After you read that letter you just laugh at the absurdity of it. “What a mad person”. Still, you do not throw it out. It is there for you when you lose your first child, when your marriage false apart, when you are left alone in the world. You read it and read it again and again cheered by the fact that maybe you will indeed meet your beloved at the next one.

A Brief History of Writing

People have always sought to record and pass on to posterity information about the experience accumulated in various spheres of life. This is clearly demonstrated by the history of almost all countries of the world.

The simplest and most visual form of recording is a drawing. Ancient artists depicted real objects. Scientists believe that the rock art in the cave of Lasko testifies to a religious ritual.

Gradually, the images became more and more conventional and symbolic. The drawing turned into a sign, which gave impetus to the emergence of writing.

We bring to your attention a brief history of writing.

The rapidly developing trade and crafts that require accounting led to the creation of writing. The most ancient type of writing is pictographic.

A pictogram is a schematic drawing that depicts the things, events and phenomena in question. This letter was very graphic and quite suitable for conveying small messages.

But when the need arose to convey some abstract thought or concept, conventional icons began to be included in the number of pictograms. Let's say the sun was depicted as a circle inside another circle, and water as a wavy line.

The history of writing begins around 3200 BC, when the Sumerians in Mesopotamia first began to think about the transmission and preservation of information. In the beginning, they used pictograms to represent words.

Initially, Egyptian writing was pictographic: each sign depicted some object. Later, the drawing was no longer associated with the meaning of the word, but with the sound. For example, the drawing of the mouth denoted the letter "p".

Gradually, the icons looked less and less like drawings, standard symbols appeared. Mesopotamian scribes wrote on slabs of raw clay, since there was a lot of it in Mesopotamia.

Signs were applied with styluses - reed pens with a triangular end, so the Sumerian writing began to be called cuneiform. After the tiles were dried in the sun or fired in a kiln, they became durable and could be stored for thousands of years.

The writing of the Sumerians, Assyrians and Babylonians was cuneiform. It was adopted and used for two thousand years by the ancient Persians.

Number systems

The basis of the Babylonian number system is the number 60, so in Ancient Babylon the number 87 is 60+27. Over time, the decimal number system prevailed in the world: the number 87 is 8 tens and 7 units. However, 87 minutes for our contemporaries is equal to 1 hour 27 minutes, that is, the same as the ancient Babylonians. And this is not a coincidence. To measure time, as well as angles, we use the sexagesimal number system of the ancient Babylonians.

Egyptian writing

At the next stage in the development of writing, a sign (symbol) began to designate not only a specific object, but also a sound.

The type of writing, in which the image denoted sound, was called hieroglyphic.

History claims that hieroglyphic writing was created in Ancient Egypt in 3100 BC and did not change for 3 thousand years. Ancient Egyptian scribes used a reed pen to write their inscription on papyrus.

Later, hieroglyphic writing became widespread in the Far East - in China, Japan and Korea. Hieroglyphs appeared in China around 1700 BC. Their styles became more conventional during the Zhou Dynasty (1122-256 BC).

With the help of hieroglyphs it was possible to reflect any, even the most abstract thought.

However, anyone who wanted to learn how to write had to memorize several thousand characters, so few could write and read in antiquity.

Ancient Egyptian scribes kept writing implements—ink and slanted-end reed styles—in wooden pencil cases that were convenient to carry around.

The first true alphabet (proto-Canaanite) appeared in the Near East around 1700 BC. It consisted of 30 characters, each of which denoted a specific sound.

At the end of the 2nd millennium BC. e. the ancient Phoenicians invented the alphabetic sound alphabet, which served as a model for the Hebrew, Arabic, Latin and ancient Greek alphabets.

How numbers were written down

The history of writing is also fascinating because ancient people tried to learn how to write down numbers to indicate quantity.

A wolf bone was found on the territory of the Czech Republic, on which approximately 32 thousand years ago an ancient man scrawled 55 marks (5 groups of 11 marks)

An ancient man calculated something in this way. But what? This we will never know. Historians suggest that he counted the animals he managed to kill while hunting.

Symbols for numbers greater than 10 appeared in Egypt in 3400, and in Mesopotamia in 3000 BC. e.

In Mesopotamia, they wrote with reed sticks on wet clay tablets. Under pressure, the trace was wider and deeper, and where the style was taken out, thinner. This cuneiform tablet is dated 1900-1700 BC e. A proverb was written on it by the teacher, which the student had to copy on the back.

In the ancient Egyptian number system and in cuneiform for numbers 1; ten; 100; 1000; 10,000; 100,000 and 1,000,000 used different symbols, and in order to designate a large figure, the numbers were repeated.

This was the case with the Etruscans, and then with the ancient Romans: X meant 10, XX - 20, XXX - 30, C - 100, CCC - 300, etc. But in no number system there was a symbol zero , and the story of its appearance is a separate fascinating story.

Among the cuneiform tablets discovered by archaeologists, “school notebooks” have survived, so it is known that the multiplication table was known in Mesopotamia.

The Egyptian disciples only knew addition, multiplication and division by two. To multiply by, say, four, they would multiply the number by two and add (double) the resulting answer.

Main dates

BC	Event
3400	Decimal number system invented in Egypt.
3100	Invention of hieroglyphic writing in Egypt.
3000	The emergence of cuneiform in Sumer.
1700	Ancient Chinese writing. Proto-Canaanite alphabet.
1000	Phoenician alphabet.

The history of writing is the history of the amazing development of human thought from the simplest forms to extremely complex abstract languages.

If you liked this article, share it on social networks. If you like interesting facts at all, subscribe to the site I nteresnye F akty.org . It's always interesting with us!

Did you like the post? Press any button:

10 letters that went down in history. Part one

Ideas

Laughter, tears, cursing and cakes

A look into the past

Today, letters are mostly work and advertising. And once they were the only thread that connected people.

Old letters are a keyhole through which a piece of the past can be seen. We have opened the most famous of these letters. We found laughter, tears, mastery of correspondence and a bunch of obscene curses there.

But first things first. This part contains the first 5 letters of our ten.

The first letters appeared before our era. It is interesting that since then their structure has not changed much.

Roman soldier Anthony Maxim Apion 2000 years ago wrote to his father Epimachus. Evaluate how this is similar to modern letters.

Interesting:

• This is one of the most ancient letters that have survived to this day.
• For 2000 years the structure of the letter has not changed.

Do you know how the word “laconic” appeared?

Before attacking Sparta (Laconia region), Philip of Macedon sent a letter to the enemies. He invited the opponents to surrender and listed the indecency that he would commit if he captured the city.

In response, the Spartans sent only one word: "If."

Verily, brevity is the sister of talent. But some people outdid the Laconians. This was the famous master of lengthy descriptions, Victor Hugo.

Only true connoisseurs of literature are capable of breaking through his novels. In "Notre Dame Cathedral", there is a chapter "Paris from a bird's eye view". There, 40 pages are devoted exclusively to the description of Paris. I mastered two.

So, Hugo wanted to know the reaction of readers to the novel Les Misérables. He sent a letter to the publisher, which consisted of one character: "?".

True, and the publisher did not lose face by sending back: "!" So there was the shortest correspondence in history.

Interesting:

• The shortest letter in the history of correspondence was written by a well-known master of lengthy descriptions.
• A letter even from one character can reach the goal.

Almost no one has read this letter. But everyone knows how it was written.

Ilya Repin once heard from a friend about a bold and even daring letter. After some time, the first sketches came out from under his pen. Later they turned into the famous painting "The Cossacks write a letter to the Turkish Sultan."

The letter itself is no less curious than the picture. Here is a version in Russian. If you read aloud, make sure that there are no children around.

Reply of the Zaporozhians to Mohammed IV

Zaporizhian Cossacks to the Turkish Sultan!

You, the sultan, the devil of Turkey, and the damned devil's brother and comrade, secretary of Lucifer himself. What the hell kind of knight are you when you can't kill a hedgehog with your naked ass. Damn you, you * wound your face. You won’t, you son of a bitch, have Christian sons under you, we are not afraid of your army, we will fight with you with land and water, spread your mother.

You are a Babylonian cook, a Macedonian charioteer, a Jerusalem brewer, an Alexandrian goat, a swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, an Armenian thief, a Tatar sagaydak, a Kamenets executioner, a fool of all the world and illumination, the grandson of the asp himself and our x ** hook. You are a pig's face, a mare's ass, a butcher's dog, an unbaptized forehead, well, fuck your **.

That's how the Cossacks answered you, shabby. You will not even feed the pigs of the Christians. We end with this, because we don’t know the date and we don’t have a calendar, a month is in the sky, a year is in a book, and our day is the same as yours, for this, kiss us in the ass!

Signed: Kosh ataman Ivan Sirko with the entire Zaporozhye camp

It is unusual to see so many ornate and highly artistic curses in diplomatic correspondence, where every word is usually thought out. But the Cossacks are a free people, and the very idea of ​​​​the possibility of surrendering to the Sultan seemed wild. This is how they put it in the best possible way.

Interesting:

• Repin was so inspired that he wrote a masterpiece himself.
• Filled up the treasury of curses.

Indeed, “what else can be said here?”

Even the losers remember the first lines of Tatyana's letter to Onegin. For interest, I myself tried to tell it from beginning to end - it worked out. Pushkin wrote in such a way that even after years he does not fade from memory, let alone some list of products ...

Tatyana's letter has another important merit. Previously, ladies from high society were afraid to once again look towards the opposite sex. And Tatyana speaks openly about her love, does not wait for Onegin to take the first step. A sincere soul, capable of strong feelings and bold deeds.

What is interesting:

• Millions of people remember the first lines of this letter by heart.
• Without Tatyana's letter, the image of a modern woman would be incomplete.

And now let's talk about cooking.

In 1957, the Queen of England was visiting US President Eisenhower. Not to be indebted, she invited Dwight and his family to her place in Scotland two years later.

The US President enjoyed visiting Elizabeth. He was especially delighted with the royal cakes.

After the departure of the guests, the Queen wrote a letter to the President. She shared her own recipe for cakes, designed for 16 people. Conclusion: the powerful of this world are not alien to simple joys.

What is interesting:

• The real queen knows a lot about politics and cakes.
• Presidents are people too and love to eat delicious food.

Related materials

Share

FRESH ARTICLES

Other materials from this category

Do not miss new articles

Subscribe to social networks

We share news and fresh articles, talk about new service

Articles by mail

Once a week we send a selection of fresh articles and news from the blog.

Learn more

• 
  How to set up a playdate
• 
  Kids rhymes and stories
• 
  Goldilocks and bear
• 
  Getting ready games
• 
  Free short stories to read
• 
  Short vowel i activities
• 
  Coloring sheets of the planets
• 
  Goldilocks and the three bears chairs
• 
  Writing activity for toddlers
• 
  Game car police 3d
• 
  What words have the short a sound