My E-mail is Overflowing, But My Mailbox is Empty

When's the last time you sat down and penned a long, thoughtful letter to an old friend?  And put a stamp on it and stuck it in the mail? 

I'm fairly certain my kids equate letter-writing with smoke signals, Morse code, and the Pony Express. I can't honestly say that any one of them has mailed an actual "letter" to anyone.  I fault myself for not setting a better example.

Now that email, texting, Skype, Facebook, Twitter and text messaging are the norm, it seems letter writing has become a lost art.  

When I was growing up, I have fond memories of receiving long, flowing letters from my grandmother, who lived on a small farm in northern Pennsylvania. Even with all the daily chores of a farm wife — feeding the chickens, canning, and making meals from scratch — she managed to make time to write to each of her many grandchildren. She never forgot a birthday or important event.  

Grandma was a naturalist with a poetic turn of the phrase.  Her letters almost always set the scene with a reference to the weather or the changing seasons. I loved the mental imagery she created as she described the "flaming forests" or the first hint of spring as crocuses pierced the moist earth.

I wrote back with clumsy attempts at poetry, while Grandma shared her pearls of wisdom and told of the goings-on at the Purple Brook Farm. We became almost like penpals. I would recognize her distinctive handwriting anywhere.

I actually had a "real" penpal in third grade. Her name was Robyn and she lived in San Diego. We became penpals through a school English program. I remember the thrill of getting her first letter and school photo. Here was a blonde surfer girl who lived in a romantic and exotic place like California, yet she had hopes and dreams like me. We traded letters and 8-year-old girl stories for more than a year, long after the assignment was over.

Later I became penpals with a cousin who lived 2,000 miles away.  We wrote for the better part of two decades, sharing everything from first crushes to marriages and the challenges of child-rearing. When I finally connected with her face-to-face as an adult I felt like I already knew her.

Of course, there were love letters, as I poured out my heart and wept over summer separations.  I wrote so many letters I even had a fancy wax sealer with a monogrammed cursive "L".

Now my poet grandmother has passed on. I try to remember my nephews' birthdays, though it's hit or miss with the stresses of the job and kids. I e-mail and text my friends and family. I post photos and clever sayings on Facebook. I recently surrendered and signed up for Twitter. 

My contact with my cousin is limited to an annual Christmas form letter, which goes out at the eleventh hour, or sometimes not at all.

I look longingly at the lavender writing papers in my desk drawer and think of all the things I should say in a more permanent way, that can be tucked in a keepsakes box instead of lost in cyberspace.

I'm sorry I lost touch with my penpal, Robyn, and I wonder where her life has taken her.

Maybe I'll find her on Facebook.

The word that is heard perishes, but the letter that is written remains - Proverb