How often do you write? I mean really, truly write. Do you write for the art of it? Does anyone send cards, letters, write a blog, journal or even write out your monthly bills?
It seems to me the written word and I do mean the old fashioned written word has gone the way of modern technology. It has been a pet peeve of mine for quite some time now. I have written about it, ranted over it and just plain felt frustrated by it all. Yet there are times even I succumb to the quick way to communicate and send a text or such.
I am a letter writer, the old fashioned kind where you open your mail box and there awaits a good long letter. I have fond memories of sending and receiving those types of letters and have shoe boxes full of them. However, in the past several years, I can honestly say, the letters have dwindled to almost nothing. Hardly ever do I find a gem waiting inside for me to discover.
Our family moved a lot and I do mean a lot, and not because we were a military family either. I have credited this to my mother who just plain “got bored.” When I say I moved a lot, at last count, (After awhile you just stop counting.) I attended twenty-two different schools.
I was a shy, quiet young girl, afraid to make friends due to the fact in a few weeks we might be on to another location, another home, and another school. I had little time to make friends and when I did, we often lost touch. It was the letters from my grandmother, her name was Goldie and she surely had a heart of Gold. She would pen me letters, short, sweet and with longing to see her granddaughter. I loved the tidbits of news and once I devoured the letter, I would scurry off to my room in search of lined notebook paper in which to answer her.
It was during this time I wanted something that did not look like school paper, but real stationary. Believe it or not, there used to be something called Stationary Stores. I would walk in and be totally overwhelmed with the choices, the colors the textures. I would try to find sets with matching envelopes and occasionally splurged and some really delicate paper with complicated designs. That type of paper was treasured, stored and saved for the most important letter receivers of mine. I loved the intricate designs and often hated to part with any.
I am not sure anyone enjoyed my letters as much as I did in writing them. I do know on the odd chance someone might write me back, it would forge me on no matter what was going on in my life. There were letters written in childish penmanship I would find after my grandmother’s death. She had saved these letters throughout our writing journey together and it touched me. It meant my words meant something to her and I carted them home after her death to re-read and re-live those parts of my past.
Having moved around as much as I did and being shy, afraid to lose more friends, I wrote a lot, kept a diary (which my brothers stole and broke into) and tried my hand at poetry. I disappeared into the world of writing and words, often penning my thoughts and feelings to no one other than myself.
Later on, life got in the way, I became a young bride, then a young mother, more children came, many more moves and lots of tragedy. All of which made me lose my way into my little world of writing. I stopped the letters due to the simple fact I had little time and seldom received answers back. After Grandmother died, I just gave up.
I will admit, reluctantly, for a few years, I stopped writing and joined the troops of e-mailer’s, bloggers, and texters. After the first embers of excitement waned, I lost interest even in the technology. I found it did not satisfy the writer in me.
So, my journey back into the land of writing letters returned with a new fever. I no longer cared if I found a letter in my mailbox I found instead a new joy in the act of penning a letter. I would write in long-hand or simply type my life in words out to the recipient.
I sent cards to my own grandchildren, hoping beyond hope that I would instill in them the act of a good letter or simple thank you card. I often enclose stickers, coins or dollar bills along with words of love and interest in their small lives. Once in awhile, I get one back. I don’t worry about it.
What does concern me is how easy we have given up these things in life. What worries me is they no long teach our children ‘cursive’ handwriting, therefore they can not read my handwriting. I know I should move on with the times, yet I struggle with giving up those simple pleasures in life that are going the wayside of technology. I fight this urge to throw in the towel simply because every one else is.
My grandmother taught me many things. One of the most treasured lessons was the fact that things that are truly important in your life should never be given up. She raised many children in difficult times, nursed her husband during his many illnesses and still clung to the Word of God and the family she so loved. She never stopped loving or doing the very things she enjoyed.
Grandma, thank you. Lesson taken to heart, this is my love letter to you.
Teresa Gale
2011
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