Stamped with Love: A Gift of Unwavering Support

The present was heavy. I knew it was a book. But which one? I ripped off the wrapping and there it was: The Letters of Emily Dickinson.

My parents nailed it.

My parents have always supported every interest I’ve ever had, no matter how fleeting or obsessive. The time I wanted to play the piano at age ten? They signed me up for lessons. When I set my heart on playing centerfield for the Red Sox? They drove me to endless baseball and softball games, cheering me on from the sidelines. (I was recruited to play D1 in college, so, for a girl at the time, that’s as close as you could get to playing for the Red Sox.) And when I told them I wanted to be a writer? They handed me a red pen and made sure I knew how to actually write.

More specifically, my dad did.

He was my first editor, my most ruthless one. In high school, I’d hand him my essays, and they’d come back looking like a crime scene, blood-red ink slashing through my sentences. He didn’t just correct; he challenged. “Make this clearer.” “Tighter.” “More compelling.” I’d revise, return it to him, and the cycle would repeat. Only when there was no red left on the paper did I know it was done.

That lesson stuck.

In college, when I was a weekly columnist for The Daily Collegian at UMass Amherst, I’d sometimes fax my columns home (yes, fax—don’t judge. It was the early 90s). My dad’s edits would come back with his distinct, no-nonsense handwriting in the margins. He never told me what to write, only how to write better. He taught me the process, the discipline of revision. I still use a red pen when I edit. To me, red doesn’t mean “wrong”—it means progress. It means work harder. It means make it better.

So when I unwrapped The Letters of Emily Dickinson, I knew this wasn’t just a book. It was another way my parents were saying: We see you. We know you. We support you.

They know I’ve loved Dickinson since my Amherst days, when I lived just down the street from her home. Reading Dickinson’s letters, I’m struck by her sharp wit and ability to capture longing and life’s contradictions in the space of a few words. In one letter, written August 16, 1870, to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, she wrote:

“I will be at Home and glad. The incredible never surprises us because it is the incredible.”

I get that. When I am home, with my parents, I am glad. They are incredible. Their unwavering support has shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to fully appreciate. Every dream I followed—they never told me it was silly or impossible. They just helped me get there.

And I have proof of that love—their words, their handwriting, their presence on paper—tucked away in boxes. Of the hundreds of letters I’ve saved over the years, dozens are from my parents—filled with support, advice, and most of all, love. Letters from my dad encouraging me to keep writing (along with his ideas for converting the basement into a tie factory when I painted and sold neckties). Notes from my mom reminding me that I’m stronger than I think (and reminding me to wear sunblock).

It’s easy to take that for granted. Not everyone gets that kind of support. Not everyone has parents who, when their grown child embarks on yet another project (say, handwriting 365 letters in a year), don’t roll their eyes but instead buys them a book of letters, new stationery, and a sheet of stamps to cheer them on.

Portion of a Letter from my dad to me at Larry Bird’s Basketball camp, July 1981: “Listen, show them what you can do with a basketball, and a baseball, and a softball, and a tennis racket. You don’t have to be the best, just have fun, and do the best you can! I love you, as always…Dad.”

So, Mom and Dad, consider this my love letter to you. Thank you for the piano lessons, driving me to games, and the endless red ink. Thank you for always asking, “How can we help?” And thank you for this book—one more way you remind me that I am, and always have been, fully supported.

With gratitude (and a red pen always within reach),

Felice

P.S. YOUR WEEKLY LETTER WRITING PROMPT: Write a Thank You letter. Maybe to a friend who bought you dinner, a family member for a gift, a mentor, or even a barista who makes your coffee just right.

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Each week I’ll share a song that mentions mail or letters. This week: Please Mr. Postman, by The Marvelettes. Enjoy!

A NEW WEEKLY ADDITION!
A fan suggested that I ask readers to post in the comments (or email me) a photo of their mailbox. (Or a cool one in their neighborhood.) So I thought I would start. I know this mailbox (I just saw it in Miami, FL) is pretty basic looking, but I was struck by the text on the bottom from of the lid. “Approved by the PostMaster General.” Has anyone ever seen that before? And would a postal worker NOT put mail into a mailbox without having those words on it? Let me know what you think. And please send a photo of a mailbox!