I wrote letters through elementary school, high school, college, and beyond. It got to the point where I could comfortably expect to receive a letter a day. The daily mail delivery was, for me, like a beacon at sea – something toward which my thoughts began to move upon waking. What quickened my blood, of course, was the element of surprise: From whom would the letter be today? And what would the news be?
And then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, the earth shifted. E-mail had arrived. Despite being intrigued by the new technology, I promised myself that I would never stop writing letters by hand. However, I had no control over the proclivities of others, and slowly, inexorably, and then with quickened pace, the letters disappeared from my mailbox, having been replaced with electronic “messages” (a totally different beast —in contrast to letters, all e-mails look alike).
And so, like a shipwrecked man stuffing notes into bottles, tossing them into the waves, and hoping for the best, I continue to write longhand, licking envelopes, sticking stamps, and handing my outgoing mail to the carrier who regards me with a curious eye, as if he is perceiving the last member of a species on the brink of extinction. But he must share the pathos, for the moment he takes my letter he invariably says, “Thanks for your business.”
Yes, it’s clear that he feels sorry for me, a man continually spitting into the wind and not learning any lessons from it. But I feel bad for him as well, trudging through the snow, only rarely bringing me a letter from a friend, and more likely delivering advertising circulars or an unsolicited “Open Right Away!” announcement congratulating me for having reached the final tier in a million-dollar sweepstakes.
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