Part Three

Is it just me or does everyone miss getting real letters? Computers are great, I wouldn’t be without one, but I do miss opening a real, handwritten letter.

It used to be when the mail arrived, I would put it aside until I had my mid morning coffee, then I would sit and go through the mail. The window envelopes were quickly perused, bills were a necessity of life, but not a thrill to read. Next were the unsolicited stuff, fliers, shiny coloured advertising material and offers for bargain prices on carpet cleaning or new reading glasses. These were quickly scanned and put aside.

Last would be the letters, fat envelopes with news from far away friends, maybe a photograph or two. Sipping on my coffee I would open the letters and settle down to read them. Friends in far away places always seemed to be having a more exciting life than I but, even if the news was unexciting, I savoured the words as they rolled off the pages. It was one of the best parts of the day. I could recall fun days spent with this special friend, in a less busy time and I knew they had been thinking of me when they put pen to paper, not as a chore to be dashed off, but a good friend, seldom seen, to share news with.

Email is a great way to go, I use it often and cannot imagine my life without it now. All four of my daughters work and have busy social lives so, no way do they have the time to sit and write letters. I do not phone them for the same reason, they are either working or out doing other things. Sometimes we do call one another, but email is the usual form of communication. However, there is really something wonderful about a letter through the regular mail.

Nowadays, the pleasure of a letter is as rare event. Of course, there are always greetings cards for birthdays and various other events but, they very rarely have anything other than the greeting, no news, no recalling fun events of the past, just a hasty greeting from someone with a busy life.

I have fallen into the same habit as most of my former correspondents, email or a quick card, so it is no wonder that I do not get the wonderful replies of a less busy time. The same care I used to take reading and enjoying mail, was spent replying to those letters. My imagination knew no bounds as I told my English friends about my life in Canada and all the differences of life in another country, I could fill page after page of mainly drivel, but I knew that my friends would enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed reading their news.

Today’s mail seldom has anything worth saving until coffee time. We do not even have the satisfying “thunk” as the mail hits the mat. Today’s mail is delivered to a box on the corner of the street, to be collected when coming home from a shopping trip or walking the dog. It is a hodgepodge of fliers and advertising junk, oh wait, there is a postcard, someone sending me tales of an exciting trip they are on. But no, it is addressed to the dog, from the vet, reminding her to tell me it is time for her shots. Great, the dog gets more mail than I do.

We emigrated from England over forty years ago and for many years there was all sorts of exciting mail for several weeks before Christmas. However, over the years, this has changed to a form letter that is written to all and sundry. It contains news of the achievements of grandchildren that I have never met, and inlaws that are all new additions to their families. Nothing much about what our friends are doing, apart from tales of vacations in exotic lands.

I have always faithfully sent of my Christmas letters and cards, with a current photo of Dave and I, showing our white hair and wrinkles, however, last year I didn’t send out cards and didn’t write letters. I had a bout of depression a couple of months before Christmas and the thought of writing letters seemed such a monumental chore that I just skipped the whole thing. I really enjoy writing to people but the idea of trying to come up with interesting news, when I felt so awful, seemed ridiculous.

Probably some of our friends thought we were dead as the letters have been written in good time to arrive before Christmas for forty years, then nothing. We got our usual number of cards and form letters, but I didn’t feel guilty about not sending letters as I read the meaningless words. Our friends from forty years ago are still in my thoughts but it was obvious that they really had nothing left to say.

What a pity that the art of letter writing is now a thing of the past. I honestly do not think that my grandchildren realize that it can be done. Email is so fast and so is the phone, it seems that life is now just one long instant message. I still enjoy putting pen to paper and frequently write to dear friends, I know that they will make the time to enjoy reading a letter and wait until they have their morning coffee, before they can devote a little special time to think of me.