1963 (Week One) - InkSpot.Com

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My Grandfather's Letters

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#1091294 added June 30, 2025 at 10:22pm
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1963 (Week One)

John sat cross legged in the attic of the old house, staring at the sea of dusty boxes stacked like forgotten memories. The summer heat seeped through the roof, mingling with the smell of mothballs and aged wood. He didn’t know where to begin.

For the better part of six months, John had taken care of his grandfather, Paul Lennon. There had always been a lingering rumor in the family a whisper passed around like a secret melody that they were somehow related to the John Lennon. That rumor didn’t lose any power considering John himself had been named after the late Beatle.

Now, just days after his grandfather's passing, the attic felt like a final puzzle to solve.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he surveyed the scene. Every box was sealed tight with thick strips of packing tape, each one a miniature time capsule. Somewhere in all this clutter, he hoped, was the story his grandfather had only begun to tell.

In the final weeks, Paul had opened up like a scratched record finally playing its song. He spoke of his youth how music, especially the Beatles, had shaped his life. Born in 1946, he’d just turned 17 when Beatlemania began to ripple across the world. It was a different time. The country was in the throes of civil unrest. Dr. King had been arrested. Segregation was being challenged in the streets and in the hearts of a generation.

And yet, amid the headlines and history, Paul had been focused on one thing: convincing the girl of his dreams to give him the time of day.

That girl, of course, was Vera Long. The same Vera who would one day become Vera Lennon his grandmother. Together, they had three children: Winston, Richard, and Paula. Winston was John's father.

His grandfather had told him about the letters, how he poured his heart onto the page, using Beatles lyrics and titles as inspiration to win her over.

John pushed aside a few boxes, most of them filled with forgotten kitchen gadgets and brittle yellowed Tupperware. He shook his head with a half-smile. There was no logic to how things were stored up here.

Finally, beneath a pile of old books some written by his grandmother he found it: a weathered box labeled “Vera” in faded marker.

His heart quickened.

Inside, among trinkets and keepsakes, lay a thick bundle of letters tied together with twine, knotted in the signature loops his grandfather always used. The paper smelled faintly of old cologne and dust, the ink faded but legible.

John picked one at random the first, perhaps. On the envelope, in his grandfather’s elegant script, was a single name:

Vera.

He hesitated only for a moment before sliding the letter free.

And as the attic sat silent around him, John began to read.

Prompt ▼

April 2nd, 1963

Dear Vera,

I hope this letter finds you smiling.

I know it’s a little old-fashioned writing a letter instead of just calling, but there’s something about paper and ink that makes things feel more real. And what I have to say, well...I needed it to be real.

The first time I saw you, I swear the world shifted. You were standing there by the jukebox at Morris’s Diner, your laugh cutting through the music and lighting up the room like a song I hadn’t heard yet but already loved. And I thought to myself, “Well, she was just seventeen...You know what I mean.”

I stood there like a fool, grinning like I'd forgotten how to use my legs. But I couldn’t walk away. I had to get closer. And when you turned and smiled at me, just a glance, really, I swear, my heart kicked into the next gear. You probably didn’t even notice me, but I saw everything. Your light blue cardigan, the way your fingers tapped along to the beat. The Beatles were playing. “I Saw Her Standing There.” Fitting, don’t you think?

Now, I know I might not be the boldest guy in the room, and maybe I’m not the one that always gets the girl. But Vera, I can’t keep this to myself any longer. I don’t want to play cool, pretend I don’t care. The truth is...

Come on, come on, come on, come on,
Please please me, oh yeah, like I please you.

I want to make you smile the way that song makes people dance. I want to take you out, not just once, not just for show, but to really get to know you. I’d take you to the park, or the record store, or even to my sister’s ridiculous poetry reading if it meant I’d get to see you laugh again.

I don’t expect you to say yes right away. But if you’d just give me a chance; just one date, I’ll do my best to be worth your time. Because you’re not just some girl in the crowd. You’re the melody stuck in my head. The one I keep humming to myself when the world goes quiet.

So, what do you say, Vera? Say you'll let me meet you at the diner Friday night? I’ll be the guy in the corduroy jacket pretending not to be nervous.

Yours (hopefully),
Paul

P.S. If you hate milkshakes, let me know now before I buy two vanilla ones and embarrass myself completely.

April 5th, 1963

Dear Paul,

I have to admit I didn’t expect your letter. It caught me by surprise in the very best way.

I read it twice before I even thought about what to write back. Then I read it again with that ridiculous smile on my face that I usually reserve for chocolate cake and records that haven't been scratched.

So, thank you. Really.

I remember the night you mentioned. I did see you looking. Honestly, I was hoping you would. Linda teased me afterward, of course. Said you had that same look boys get when they see a new model of a car in the showroom. I told her she was ridiculous but secretly, I liked it. I liked the way you didn’t try to be someone else. You just looked...real.

When I saw your name on the envelope, I laughed out loud. I guess if anyone should be writing love letters inspired by Beatles songs, it’s a Lennon.

But more than the name, it was your honesty that struck me. You didn’t try to be flashy or clever you just wrote what you felt. And that pleased me.

You said you weren’t one for show, and I believe you. But if I’m being honest, Paul, I’m not always the easiest girl to impress. I’ve been asked out before usually by boys who think charm is something they can borrow from the movies. They never ask what I’m thinking. They don’t care what kind of records I play when I’m alone.

But you well, you wrote me a letter. You asked. And you made me feel like maybe someone actually wanted to know me, not just win me.

You told me to please please you, and I smiled, because for once, someone was asking for something real. Not just a chase or a moment but something mutual. You said you didn’t want to sound silly, but maybe silly is exactly what the world needs a little more of.

So yes, Paul. I’d like to meet you at Morris’s this Friday. I’ll wear the sky-blue cardigan again, just so you’re sure it’s me. And I’ll even let you buy me that vanilla milkshake but only if you share a few of your sister’s poems.

And who knows? Maybe we’ll find we’ve got more than a song or two in common. Maybe we’ll find a rhythm of our own.

Yours (curious and cautiously hopeful),
Vera

P.S. You do look a little nervous near the jukebox. But it’s endearing. Don’t change it.

John was impressed by his grandfather’s boldness. There was something raw and earnest about the way he put his heart on paper no hiding, no second guessing. Just truth.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and turned the next envelope over in his hands. The ink had faded, but the familiar script still danced across the page with confident strokes. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't expected to find this a whole romance archived in ink and folded paper. What surprised him even more was the discovery that it hadn’t stopped with the courting letters.

Word Count: 1451

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