A Lost Art

There is a certain thrill I have going to get the mail everyday.  It is an event, something to look forward to, a little like Christmas because you never really know what is in store for you.  Things have changed a bit, because when I was growing up in the Midwest we had a mailbox right by the front door with a mailman walking with a huge leather bag (filled to the brim at holiday times) to deliver the mail.  The mailman had a uniform and was revered by some, feared by others and hated by most dogs.  The mailman always had a friendly wave and sometimes stopped to chat and pass on valuable information that had been accumulated over his route.  Receiving mail has been revolutionized with the invention of the “cluster box” and perhaps receiving a key for the bigger box that holds a package, an anticipation almost more than a person can manage on a daily basis.

The other day as I gathered my dogs and husband to make the trek halfway down the street to our cluster box that we share with 14 neighbors, giddiness and pleasure engulf me as I notice that a key for one of the big boxes is missing and I fleetingly imagine it placed within the confines of my mail bin #12.  I hungrily inspect the contents that somehow magically appear everyday, I say this because I have actually only seen once, from a distance, the mail carrier (note the name change) depositing the goods.  We were not to be blessed that day with “the key” but by something much more precious.  Hidden deep in the pile of the usual and non-descript bills, USA Today, catalogs and magazines was a handwritten envelope… a letter.

In our world of instant gratification a hand written letter with a stamp that was lovingly chosen from the wide assortment the postal service now offers and a return address that isn’t on a sticky label, was like hitting the jackpot and this was before I had even opened it.  I ripped apart the envelope as my husband and I began the ascent back to our house (it does take 4 minutes).  Not only was there a several page, handwritten letter but photographs.  Sent from a friend in Colorado, I read the words of her latest adventure, committed the photographs to memory, laughed out loud and imagined in my head her voice, her mannerisms and her enthusiasm.  Then I re-read the whole thing again and again.

Then I thought about how our society has lost the fine art of letter writing.  We send e-mails, phone or instant messages.  We want responses back to our questions within minutes.  The etiquette of these new fangled communication types barely allows you to find out how the other person is health wise, less find out what they are actually feeling.  We don’t hold dear most of the correspondence we receive on the computer, unlike the many love letters that my dad painstakingly wrote to my mom while they were courting. She kept each and every one of them, wrapped them in tissue and tied them with a pink bow. We may print off a particularly funny joke, a recipe or a note from a friend, but the starkness of printer paper compared to special stationary (sometimes lightly scented) leaves little to one’s imagination…that is if we can even conger up an image.  A person’s handwriting can reveal so much about them and their feelings – shouting out in CAPITALS on a keyboard just doesn’t convey the same meanings.  Maybe now is the time that we take time to reconnect on a personal level and let another living soul really know us.  Make it something that makes them feel important and they will cherish, keep and maybe someday share with their kids.

My friend made my day in more than one way.  I am going to write her a letter right now and let her know just that.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life. Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-