A sweet, lovely gift arrived in my mailbox Saturday, a letter addressed to me from my dear friend, Phyllis. Letter writing is considered somewhat of a lost art these days, so it was with great delight I opened the lengthy missive to read the salutation that began,
Dear Kath
As I curled up in my favorite comfy chair to sit in front of the warmth of the fire and leisurely read the newsy details of a family Christmas, a grandchild's soccer game, a younger brother living in Oklahoma , and movies , a warm , easy feeling fell upon me ; one so familiar between trusted friends.
Phyllis also shared her thoughts about an article she recently read in the
Los Angeles Times titled
A love letter to the letter where featured columnist, Simon Garfield laments the loss of letter writing , and what society misses by only texting, tweeting and email. I , too, lament the loss of letter writing and have blogged on this subject before. Garfield rightly points to Keats and Dickinson suggesting what we know about their lives , their creative talent and style primarily from letters they wrote.
The same holds true not only for people of fame - authors, poets, politicians, but those within our own life circle.
I thought about the box of letters I have from family and friends dating back to the late 1950's , and how they describe place and time, activities and adventures, mood and emotion . Sometimes they express encouragement, other times great sadness. But what they always do is leave a history , if even a glimpse, of who we were, and how we lived.
To write a letter takes some effort, it is sharing, a giving of oneself. There was a time, for 30 years or more I received a letter from my Grandmother Vera Cooney every week. She was always interested in how we were doing - mother, my brother, and me. Then she'd write about her activities - catering a big wedding and decorating cakes, China painting, church, an Altrusa club meeting, and news about aunts, uncles and cousins, and about the weather in Council Bluffs. I always looked forward to a letter from Grandma, and am happy I kept so many of them. There are other letters in my box - from Grandma Blanche, Aunt Nor, Dad, Uncle Lloyd, Grandma Viv, and cousins , including Lynn, Shauna and Nicole, and long time friends who wrote about their summer vacation at the beach, or some feeling of great angst or delirious joy. Each letter important, and held very dear. Each one a small part of the larger story of family and friends.
I once considered myself a good letter writer, too, but must admit in recent years have fallen victim to the quick and easy text and internet as so many others have, where texts never linger long, and email deleted. In his L.A. Times article, I appreciate what Garfield writes:
And if we replace simple letters with their instant always-on alternatives, we relinquish so much epistolary architecture too. The elegant opening address and sign off, the politeness of tone and the correct grammar and spelling. And before this there is the nice flowing pen and the stationery, and after it the scuttle for the stamp and the rush to the last post.
Receiving Phyl's letter helps renew my hope for letter writing. I'm grateful to my friend for her letter, and the joy it brought me, and because of my friend's letter, I'm prompted to take pen and paper in hand and write a letter, too.
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