We pulled in the driveway yesterday and I announced to my husband I was going to run to the mailbox and check the mail. He snickered a little, stopped at the end of the drive to let me out. But before I had the chance to open the door he asked if getting the mail was like Facebook to me: I liked checking it. I snickered back. If he was a bachelor, they’d stop delivering his mail because the box would eventually burst at the seams from all the mail he didn’t retrieve from the box. This is a small way in which we differ.
But I smiled internally at his question. I am the mailman’s daughter.
Literally. My Dad worked for the post office for over 30 years and I realized then just how fun mail and real handwritten letters had always been for me. Back in the days when I was about five or so, my Dad delivered to farms, baby chicks that came in the mail. I remember warm spring days and Dad would stop for a few moments at our house before heading out on the road on his route. He knew how delighted I’d be to see those baby chicks, and oh, was I. I was fascinated and it was a rare treat to see them. This delivery was by far my favorite; second, being the Sears Christmas catalog. The fact that my Daddy brought that catalog and fluffy yellow chicks made him my hero. But best of all, were the days he’d stop after his route was complete and pick me up. I’d be his “assistant” back at the post office as he sorted mail for the next day. I loved that special time with my Dad. I felt pretty much like a princess right about then.
When I was a child of about ten, I caught the pen pal “bug”. Our fifth grade class became pen pals with another fifth grade class in Las Vegas and I ended up with a pen pal, Lisa Sylvestri. We exchanged letters for a few years and stopped at some point, though I can’t recall when or why.
Around that same time, my Mom was a subscriber to Sunshine magazine, a little Christian booklet that had lovely stories and in the back, a place to advertise for pen pals. Imagine that: Times were safe enough back then that my worst-case-scenario, making-worry-an-art form mother felt comfortable allowing me to place my name, interests, and home address in a publication that went at the very least, all over the United States. This little ad that described me as something like loving reading, writing stories, rock ‘n roll, and horses, yielded me three pen pals that I chose out of many to write to. And I absolutely loved it.
Heather Hahn (gosh, I hope these lovely ladies don’t mind my mentioning their names if they were to happen upon this post someday) was a sweet girl about my age and lived in our neighboring state of Wisconsin. This was an innocent era in our lives and also in time in general. We wrote letters about what we liked to do at home, what songs we currently loved, and sent stickers back and forth. Nan Towell lived in the south and we wrote for many years, even after she’d married. Her husband was a police officer…and that’s the last I remember. I’m sure busy lives and growing up caused us to lose touch.
Then there was Cecelia Oestriech. Oh, Cecelia. “Cec” she called herself. Though I never met her in person, she was a dear sweet pen pal and friend. When we first started writing and I was a tween, Cec was in her 70s. She lived in an assisted living home by the time we “met” and would send me beautiful words of wisdom and exquisite drawings. I recall her first letter explained that since there was such an age gap, I needn’t feel obligated to respond. But I so wanted to. She was a precious soul and I’m so glad we corresponded for several years. I never knew what happened to Cec but when she was in her 80s and her letters eventually stopped, I suspected she may have gone home to her precious Lord.
So when I run to the mailbox for the mail, I still think there’s part of me that’s hoping to find a personal letter once in awhile. I’ve always had a love of paper. Even now, in our age of all things technology, I make paper lists and love letters, write out blog posts and book chapters on paper. I love paper. Once, a teen boyfriend gave me stationery as a gift and it was a unique present and so fitting of me. There’s something about a crisp piece of paper and a perfectly smooth pen. It’s soothing.
When my husband pointed out my childlike anticipation of the mail, I made a silent promise to myself that I was going to send out a few letters now and then, real ones that require pen, paper and stamp. In fact, I purchased some stamps yesterday just for that purpose. And completely unrelated, when I opened our mailbox today, there was a surprise package from my sister, a knitted item and some treasured recipes in my Mom’s handwriting. I had real mail. How fitting that it would arrive today after my letter-writing declaration!
Letter writing can be done for many reasons: Obviously letters are correspondence for personal or professional reasons. It helps us stay in touch with friends and family. But it can serve a deeper purpose. Letter writing can be cathartic. Sometimes we need to forgive someone or vent and can’t muster up the words or strength to do so in person. We may regurgitate our feelings onto a page, spewing anger or hurt. And then we tear it up. The words never needed to be said aloud. That may have just perpetuated the ill feelings. But it was healing to get out the feelings and now, you can let them go. Sometimes, we can even write letters to someone who’s passed away. Certainly, they don’t read them. But the words can be so healing for those left behind.
Letter writing is indeed a lost art, isn’t it? Who would you write a letter to if I put a pen and some lovely paper down in front of you? Would it be a happy note to someone to say “hello”? A note of forgiveness to someone, maybe even to yourself?
