A Lost Art

The sign at the cash register caught my attention: postal rates to increase January 26^th – stock up on ‘Forever’ stamps today. Even though the purchase of a sheet of twenty stamps would only save me sixty cents, I asked for a packet to tuck into my purse, indicating that I may as well get some before the price went up. The ensuing conversation with the cashier was eye-opening, as she told me that she hardly ever uses stamps these days, for she does all her bill-paying on line and doesn’t even check her mailbox every day.

My exchange with the woman, only a few years younger than me, was a vivid reminder of how our world has changed – and continues to change. My mother tells me of an era when mail was delivered twice a day, and stamps were two cents if you tucked in the flap, and three cents if the mail was sealed (hopefully with a kiss). Mail was actually used to communicate with real people, and the arrival of letters and birthday greetings was an anticipated part of the rhythm of life. We marked our day by the slap of the newspaper on the porch, the rattle of the milk bottles being positioned in the milk box, and the clang of the mailbox when the letter carrier transferred his or her daily delivery into our possession.

The milk truck is long gone, the newspaper business is at risk, and the decrease in volume in personal mail doesn’t bode well for the future of the United States Postal Service, already swimming in a sea of red ink. They’ve attempted to tweak their services over the past few years, announcing in 2011 that first class mail would be slower in delivery, reducing the percentage of mail delivered the next day. That boded ill for the procrastinator in me, already known as the belated birthday card queen in our family.

What about greeting cards? The aisles of greeting cards aren’t disappearing (yet), but I suffered sticker shock when purchasing a card for my mother’s ninety-first birthday. While I was tempted to choose one from the dollar section, I gave in and turned to the full-price row marked birthday, female relative, for surely the woman who gave birth to me deserves more than a dollar remembrance. With postage, that folded bit of paper cost me more than five dollars, which I gladly paid for with cash, another endangered species in the world as we know it.

The art of letter-writing is nearly extinct, replaced by phone conversations and Facetime, e-mails and texts. I’m saddened by that loss, as I’ve been gifted with many precious letters over the years which have strengthened my resolve when I’ve wavered and preserved the words of mentors who have spoken wisdom into my life. In preparation for this column, I pulled out a few of those epistles and savored the sense of connection they speak to me still today. While I’ve printed out a few personal e-mails over the years, the words of a hand-written note or a painstakingly typed missive on blue airmail paper seem to carry a weightier message for me than a text message.

Eckhart Tolle said, “Some changes look negative on the surface but you will soon realize that space is being created in your life for something new to emerge.” I concur with his observation for the most part, but I also realize that we cannot abdicate our responsibility to extend both our counsel and our care to the next generations in ways that can be preserved in more than memories.

The lovely Madelyn Simone, now approaching her fourth birthday, spent the night with us this week, and as I watched her fiercely concentrating on a jigsaw puzzle, that image challenged me of my responsibility to help create the frame for the puzzling pieces of life she will face in the years ahead. Perhaps it is time to add letter-writing to my Nana arsenal of story-telling, song-singing, and cuddling. Just think, instead of dropping five bucks on a fancy birthday card, I can take out a pen and begin. My dear Madelyn . . .