Is there any joy quite like receiving a real card or letter in the mail? This milestone occurs at the mailbox at the end of the driveway—usually when you have gone out in your old slippers to bring in the mail. Amongst the rectangular, frowning bills and the shouting ads of junk mail, you see a square, a handwritten envelope. The ink is blue, or black, or occasionally a colorful marker. The shiny stamp, manually applied and slightly askew, has been bought by a person, likely from a person behind a counter who brought out soft binders of clear plastic sleeves holding thousands of stamps from which to choose—fish, wildflowers, jazz in America, breast cancer awareness, holiday, vintage cars. Stamps are their own works of art. On this envelope, you have to squint to see beneath the wavy black lines left by the postal machine, but in little multicolored dots the stamp proclaims, “Celebrate.”
Before noticing the recipient’s address in the upper left hand corner or on the back, your eyes fall on the main address with immediate recognition of the sender. The writer is almost standing before you. Oh, hello, sister… mother… son… old friend. It’s nice of you to stop by.
There’s a distinct feeling of relief and exhilaration that you have something other than bills to pay and ads to recycle. Dog barks. You wave to a neighbor. The day, though drizzly, has cracked a smile. You walk back in the house, having placed the little square on top of the pile in your hands.
In your eagerness to open the envelope, you struggle to get the corner started with your finger, resulting in a paper cut. Couldn’t you wait to walk to your desk and grab the letter opener? If you were able to muster such patience and foresight, you would slice the envelope with clean satisfaction, then put the letter opener back in its place, in a ceramic mug that says “Stay Calm and Carry On,” the handle of which broke off some years back.
You gently pull the card from its casing; it is artsy or cute or inspiring, with a folded-up letter on ruled notebook paper inside it. That handwriting. There it is again, adorning the card, filling the page. You even hear the writer’s voice somewhere in your mind as you read.
There is the time delay factor to manage. Written time vs. Real time. Four or five days or maybe a week has passed from the time the letter was penned until this moment that you hold it in your hands. When you read the line “By the time you read this I will be in [city, state, or country]…” you have to wonder, “So where is she? Is she there yet?” But then again, time doesn’t matter. The essence of the person captured in those lines leaps out at you. A holograph. Timeless, singular, and almost real.
And how is it possible that even though we all (of a certain generation) learned penmanship in elementary school, handwriting can become so unique to each of us? Almost like snowflakes and faces.
There might be occasional mistakes in the writing. Oops, that word was spelled wrong! That word didn’t fit on the line and couldn’t be hyphenated. An “h” is crossed instead of the “t.” The mistakes remain, crossed out with the pen because there is no “delete” key. The imperfections last, like scars and wrinkles and varicose veins.
You sit at the counter and read the card quickly, then start over again, slowly.
You can read it as many times as you wish. You can read it aloud to your dog.
Then you place the card on the table, or perhaps the mantelpiece. How long will it stay there? A day? A week? A month? I tend to keep cards for a year, minimum.
Does every home contain a shoebox of cards and letters hidden somewhere in the attic, under the bed, or in the basement? I have boxes and boxes (and boxes) of letters and cards. I’m not proud of this, but I’ve found no way to discard the papery versions of my sister, mother, son, or friend. Don’t cross me! I love them! Call me a hoarder, museum docent, or even a graveyard keeper, I’ve been tending this mausoleum of correspondence for over half a century.
I apologize to those who will have to deal with my boxes of letters and cards some day in the future. You have my permission to dispose of them, light a bonfire, or make a book out of the ones that are important to you.
For now I will delight in every card I receive and every one I write. And I trust you will always recognize my handwriting.