Dear Ollie: Love, Florence

A bitter December breeze stung my face as my best friend and I walked through the parking lot of our local antique mall for an impromptu trip on the Sunday before Christmas. I had just finished redecorating my bedroom and was on the hunt for some reasonably priced, leather-bound books I could put on display.

I’ve always loved antique stores. Each item has a story to tell even though I may never know what led the object to the very booth it rests in, its life of adventure drawing to a close as it collects dust beneath a price tag. People are incredibly unique and the belongings they offer at antique stores are pieces of their pasts with history in tow.

My friend and I entered in with high expectations of some great finds. The aroma of must and memories filled the air. A kindly woman greeted us, her glasses resting at the tip of her nose. We said hello and began digging through boxes of antiques, never expecting to find what we found.

After admiring the library of old, loved books, my friend tugged me aside, her eyes wild with wonder. She pointed me to two, plastic bins filled to the brim with postcards that were stained yellow by the hands of time. We studied the pictures on the front, many of which were printed simply with black and white ink, devoid of any color. Others, opposingly, were adorned with every shade of the spectrum as they advertised cities from all around the world.

What struck me the most, however, were the notes written on many of the cards. Postcards from husbands to wives, from wives to husbands, from parents to children, from brothers to sisters. These very letters once greeted people from halfway across the world, memories captured by the simple handwriting of the senders.

As I thumbed through the boxes, one name caught my eye as it appeared repeatedly on card after card: Dear Ollie. I shrugged it off, not giving much of a second thought to whom this Ollie may have been. But there it was again: Dear Ollie. And again, and again, and again. Better yet, they were all written by the same person: Love, Florence.

Being a curious writer with stories constantly flitting through my mind, I couldn’t help but ponder the relationship between Ollie and Florence—who were they, and why did one travel while the other stayed home? With ideas scratching at my brain, I decided that I didn’t have time to write a story about them. So, I did what I had to do to stop the questions from flooding my mind—I left them in the bin and headed home with a few books with cracked spines.

But Ollie and Florence didn’t leave my imagination. Who were they? How did their postcards end up in an antique mall? Why did they end up in a plastic box in the back of the store? The two names kept me up at night until I finally decided to go back and buy the postcards.

That following Wednesday, I stood at the bin again, flipping through each card and plucking out the ones addressed to Ollie. Once I had been through both boxes twice, I clutched a dozen of Ollie’s postcards close and bought them all for three dollars.

I swore up and down that I’d write a story about them. About Ollie and Florence and how they might have been related. About Florence’s travels and Ollie’s staying home. Yet, much to my dismay, the tale never came and the cards laid stagnant on my shelf. For years, I wondered who Ollie was, though I never did find the time to solve the mystery of Ollie and Florence.

Back in December, I enrolled in a course devoted to novellas. It definitely wasn’t a class I was looking forward to, but it was necessary for my degree. I figured I would read Daisy Miller and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and maybe one or two I hadn’t heard of. However, on the first day of class, I was assigned to write my own novella, and I only had eight weeks to do so.

Panic quickly settled in. My book ideas usually come on their own—I have never had to force a plot idea out of me. But trapped inside my screen was my biggest fear: an assignment I wasn’t sure I could complete. I pondered for days what I could write 20,000 words about. An autobiography? A condensed version of one of my books that is already written? A novel-length idea shoved into just a few chapters? I drew a devastating blank.

Then it hit me like a semi-truck.

Ollie and Florence’s tale was yet to be told. I knew I could write more than a short story about them, but there was no way on earth that I could write a full, 80,000-word manuscript over it. So, the assigned novella quickly fell into place.

I learned, though, that writing about real people is a great responsibility. I didn’t want to write something that would end up hurting Ollie’s family, or even Ollie himself. I didn’t want to pen a draft that didn’t honor who he truly was. So, after some serious thinking and planning, I landed on an idea that would be sure to please (and shock!) the reader without coming even remotely close to the true story of Ollie and Florence while still getting inspiration from the postcards.

But what was Ollie and Florence’s story? How were they related? Why did Florence travel around the world, and why did Ollie stay home? I needed answers and decided to find them.

After hours of digging through Google, I had a relatively clear picture of who Florence was yet little more than a name and birth year concerning Ollie. After a final search on usphonebook.com, I found a list of people related to Ollie. My social anxiety begged for me to end the mystery here and leave Ollie’s life to himself, but I needed to know more.

So, thanks to the wonderful world of Facebook, I shot a message to who I assumed may have been Florence’s granddaughter. I waited patiently for her to respond, my mind spinning and my heart pounding. After all these years, all the answers I craved were just on the other side of the private message.

And finally, she responded.

I closed my eyes before opening it. I just felt it—that she was related to Ollie, that she was exactly whom I had spent hours searching for.

But alas, she hadn’t heard of either Ollie or Florence. She was super kind, though, so it was worth reaching out!

Back to square one with the phonebook. I found someone else who may be related named Julie. I didn’t have much hope, to be honest. I’d spent the whole day looking and found hardly anything. Nevertheless, I sent the message without expecting a response.

Little did I know that Julie was the very person I was looking for. She responded almost a week later with a simple, “I’m the daughter-in-law of Ollie and Florence.” All the hope that I once held bubbled to the surface again. Right in front of me was a remnant of Ollie, a rightful owner of the postcards I had kept for over two years.

Over Facebook, I asked Julie a few questions, yet kept everything at bay. The last thing I wanted to be was a bothersome and nosy writer. But she was so incredibly kind and open to everything I rambled on about. Nearly two weeks after I sent the original message, she came to me and asked to meet so I could learn all about Ollie and Florence.

On a normal basis, I wouldn’t even consider going out with a complete stranger, but Julie was the missing piece of the story. She was the answer to all my questions. So, without much of a second thought, I scheduled a day and time to meet with the daughter-in-law of Ollie and Florence.

On March 29, 2022, I found myself sitting across from Julie at a small coffee shop fifteen minutes away from my house. It was strange seeing her in person, knowing that she was the last piece of the puzzle I had been trying to solve. She held the key to knowledge and so graciously invited me inside the doorway of Ollie and Florence’s lives.

Julie and I talked for just over an hour covering all the little details about the sender and recipient of the cards. It turned out that Ollie and Florence were married in 1940 and had two children after Ollie was honorably discharged from the Coast Guard in 1943. Ollie was a paper carrier whereas Florence was a stay-at-home mother with a passion for traveling. The couple was married for sixty-four years before Ollie passed away in 2004.

While Ollie and Florence led ordinary lives, they unknowingly left an impact on my journey as a writer. I had always resorted to simply filling in the gaps with my imagination, but Ollie and Florence’s story was a mystery I had to solve. Perhaps it wouldn’t even be considered a mystery, but rather a morsel of someone’s history I got the honor of placing in the books.

Julie so kindly gave me full permission to write a story following Ollie and Florence, and even showed me pictures of them. After a sweet goodbye, I went home on the scenic route, my mind overflowing with ideas. I hope that one day I can pen a story following the couple, and I pray I can do them justice. Until then, I’d like to deeply thank Ollie and Florence’s family for their encouragement as I take on one of the most important stories I will ever write.

All my love,

L. Taylor