Before text messages, before email, before love could be reduced to a glowing screen and phrases like “Netflix and chill,” there were letters. Real ones. Written by hand, folded with care, sealed with hope.
Love letters were once the quiet architecture of romance, carrying longing across oceans and time zones, and sometimes across an entire lifetime.
During World War II, young girls and college-aged women were encouraged to write letters to soldiers stationed overseas. These were not meant to be declarations of love, but gestures of humanity, simple notes meant to lift morale and remind young men that they were remembered.
One such letter came from a sixteen-year-old girl in Huntsville, Alabama named Dorothy Patterson. Along with her words, she enclosed a small photograph of herself, never imagining what would follow. When the soldier received her letter, he showed the photo to a friend and made a bold declaration: he was going to write her back, and one day, she would be his wife. His name was Buford Whitt.
What began as an exchange meant only for encouragement soon became something deeper. Buford and Dorothy wrote to one another faithfully for four years during the war, their relationship built entirely on ink and paper, shared stories, quiet confessions, and the slow unveiling of dreams. They fell in love without ever sharing a meal, holding hands, or hearing each other’s voices in real time.
When the war ended and Buford returned home to Hazel Green, Alabama and the distance that had defined their relationship vanished almost overnight. Three months later, they eloped. Soon after, they moved to Auburn, where Buford pursued his studies in veterinary medicine, later becoming Dr. Buford Whitt, and then opened a Veterinary practice here in Huntsville where they worked together until retirement. Their life unfolded not in grand or dramatic gestures, but in the same quiet commitment that had been present from the very first letter. People would later describe Buford and Dorothy Whitt as a storybook romance. He was her knight in shining armor until the day he died, steadfast and devoted.
Together, they shared a love that spanned nearly seven decades before Buford passed away in 2013, leaving an irreparable void in Dorothy's heart. She now resides in Fleming Farms Retirement Community, and not a day goes by where she doesn't reminisce on her beautiful life with Buford.
There is something profoundly moving about a love story born not of convenience or proximity, but of intention. Love letters required time. They demanded thought. They left room for anticipation and interpretation, for rereading and remembering. Each letter was proof of effort, a tangible reminder that someone had paused their life to reach across distance and say, I Love You.
In an age of instant communication, the love letter still has something to teach us. Love is not rushed. Words carry weight when they are chosen carefully. And sometimes, a lifetime can begin with nothing more than a pen, a piece of paper, and the courage to write back.