And none will hear the postman's knock Without a quickening of the heart. For who can bear to feel himself forgotten? ~ W.H. Auden
I am a Baby Boomer. Doesn't that just about define me without my having to add anything to it? Born in the post WWII era. My Dad was a veteran who served his time loading armaments onto bombers at an airfield in the UK that would fly over to the Continent. He came home in 1945 after idling around the UK for a few months before he was deployed. He married my Mom in February 1946. They were from New Hampshire but embarked on a cross-country drive of a lifetime out to Washington State where jobs and housing were much more available to vets than on the East Coast. They lived in Olympia for a short time, then in the Aberdeen area which is on Grays Harbor and just a short ride from the ocean. Then, when I was maybe 4, we settled in a small town just a few miles from Aberdeen, and that was where my brothers and I spent our childhood years. My oldest brother was born in 1947. My second brother in 1951. Myself in 1953. And then the 'afterthought,' our youngest brother who was born in 1960.
My dad had a Texaco station for a while but I've heard it didn't succeed because he was such a nice guy. If someone would give him a sob story, he'd pump some gas for them or do a repair for free. Eventually he became an insurance agent and spent the rest of the years we lived there driving all over the area. On rare days, he'd let me ride along. We drove to Camp Grisdale, an old logging camp tucked back in the woods. We went to the Quinault Indian Reservation where I had my first experience with extreme poverty, seeing what deplorable conditions they lived in back in those years. As Dad would park his car along the curb he'd tell me, "Now, don't honk! I'll be out in a minute!" and he'd gather up his briefcase and go inside to talk 'insurance'. I'd roll the windows up and down, I'd sit behind the steering wheel and 'drive'. I'd jump around on the big bench seat of the sedan. And still no Dad. I'd hold off until I couldn't stand it anymore, then "Toot! Toot!" Sometimes I'd have to "Toot! Toot!" again. And maybe again. He'd get in the car and tell me, "Didn't I tell you not to honk?" and I'd give him a little side-mouth smirk. But I don't recall ever getting in trouble. Mercy, that man could talk, and he did a lot of it. Maybe he was in there 15 minutes. Maybe an hour. But it seemed an eternity. One time one of his clients came out to the car when he did, and she told me she had a new litter of puppies...did I want to see them? I think that was her way of saying, "Sorry."
Where am I going with this? I was going to write about the lost art of letter writing because it truly is an art that's dying fast. I can't remember the last time I wrote a letter...it was at least a few years ago when a friend who lives in the Panhandle of Idaho and I agreed to write one to each other, just to have something besides bills and junk in the mail box. That was really lovely, really. But it didn't inspire me to keep writing by hand. I have so much arthritis in my hands now that it would take me days to write more than a few pages. A keyboard is my mode of communicating anymore.
But once upon a time, in 1964 I believe it was, our teacher gave us a class project. We each were given a pen pal. When I opened the little piece of paper and saw the name of my new-to-be-friend I was in awe! It was a little girl names Cathy from Rochester, New York, and she liked to read and play with Barbies, just like me! We wrote a short time...we could only talk about Barbies so much. But another year I was given a Japanese girl in Osaka, Japan, named Michiko and we wrote for several years until she entered university and her work load was so huge she didn't have the time to write anymore. I had a wonderful pen pal named Robin from Red Wing, Minnesota, who I actually met! And a Marine I also met. And a few others through the years. I had hundreds...sometimes a few, sometimes 40 or 50 at a time.
That was my way of traveling...reading their letters, exchanging pictures and sometimes little gifts. It was amazing, learning about countries all over the world and America and Canada. Some days our mail box was stuffed with letters! I learned firsthand through their eyes, their words, that we humans were basically the same no matter where we lived.
My last pen pal died a few years ago. She was the mother of my childhood best friend. Angie, her daughter, was awful about writing, but her mom shared my passion for writing letters and I believe it was when I became a young wife and sent off a Christmas card to Babe and her husband one year with a chatty little note inside that she responded and our letter friendship grew from there. We must've written to each other regularly for 30 years at least. And then she wrote and told me she was sick. She was moving from our little hometown in Washington to live with her daughter's family in Maryland. I got one more letter when she made it there...and then silence. I tried writing to Angela to see what had happened but never got a response. It was finally, a few years ago, when I connected with a hometown friend on Facebook, that I was told Babe had died. I had suspected she had, but I still grieved deeply for her. She was at least 25 years older than me, but honestly...true friendship knows no age boundaries. She was one of my dearest friends.
So...some days I go out to the mail box. Some days it's empty. Some days full. I sort through it. No letters.
I can't help but feel a little disappointed. Mail has truly lost its appeal to me.
My dad had a Texaco station for a while but I've heard it didn't succeed because he was such a nice guy. If someone would give him a sob story, he'd pump some gas for them or do a repair for free. Eventually he became an insurance agent and spent the rest of the years we lived there driving all over the area. On rare days, he'd let me ride along. We drove to Camp Grisdale, an old logging camp tucked back in the woods. We went to the Quinault Indian Reservation where I had my first experience with extreme poverty, seeing what deplorable conditions they lived in back in those years. As Dad would park his car along the curb he'd tell me, "Now, don't honk! I'll be out in a minute!" and he'd gather up his briefcase and go inside to talk 'insurance'. I'd roll the windows up and down, I'd sit behind the steering wheel and 'drive'. I'd jump around on the big bench seat of the sedan. And still no Dad. I'd hold off until I couldn't stand it anymore, then "Toot! Toot!" Sometimes I'd have to "Toot! Toot!" again. And maybe again. He'd get in the car and tell me, "Didn't I tell you not to honk?" and I'd give him a little side-mouth smirk. But I don't recall ever getting in trouble. Mercy, that man could talk, and he did a lot of it. Maybe he was in there 15 minutes. Maybe an hour. But it seemed an eternity. One time one of his clients came out to the car when he did, and she told me she had a new litter of puppies...did I want to see them? I think that was her way of saying, "Sorry."
Where am I going with this? I was going to write about the lost art of letter writing because it truly is an art that's dying fast. I can't remember the last time I wrote a letter...it was at least a few years ago when a friend who lives in the Panhandle of Idaho and I agreed to write one to each other, just to have something besides bills and junk in the mail box. That was really lovely, really. But it didn't inspire me to keep writing by hand. I have so much arthritis in my hands now that it would take me days to write more than a few pages. A keyboard is my mode of communicating anymore.
But once upon a time, in 1964 I believe it was, our teacher gave us a class project. We each were given a pen pal. When I opened the little piece of paper and saw the name of my new-to-be-friend I was in awe! It was a little girl names Cathy from Rochester, New York, and she liked to read and play with Barbies, just like me! We wrote a short time...we could only talk about Barbies so much. But another year I was given a Japanese girl in Osaka, Japan, named Michiko and we wrote for several years until she entered university and her work load was so huge she didn't have the time to write anymore. I had a wonderful pen pal named Robin from Red Wing, Minnesota, who I actually met! And a Marine I also met. And a few others through the years. I had hundreds...sometimes a few, sometimes 40 or 50 at a time.
That was my way of traveling...reading their letters, exchanging pictures and sometimes little gifts. It was amazing, learning about countries all over the world and America and Canada. Some days our mail box was stuffed with letters! I learned firsthand through their eyes, their words, that we humans were basically the same no matter where we lived.
My last pen pal died a few years ago. She was the mother of my childhood best friend. Angie, her daughter, was awful about writing, but her mom shared my passion for writing letters and I believe it was when I became a young wife and sent off a Christmas card to Babe and her husband one year with a chatty little note inside that she responded and our letter friendship grew from there. We must've written to each other regularly for 30 years at least. And then she wrote and told me she was sick. She was moving from our little hometown in Washington to live with her daughter's family in Maryland. I got one more letter when she made it there...and then silence. I tried writing to Angela to see what had happened but never got a response. It was finally, a few years ago, when I connected with a hometown friend on Facebook, that I was told Babe had died. I had suspected she had, but I still grieved deeply for her. She was at least 25 years older than me, but honestly...true friendship knows no age boundaries. She was one of my dearest friends.
So...some days I go out to the mail box. Some days it's empty. Some days full. I sort through it. No letters.
I can't help but feel a little disappointed. Mail has truly lost its appeal to me.
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