Yesterday I wrote about all the letters I received in the late 70s and early 80s. I guess I was a better correspondent back then. Probably writing a letter was a great way to procrastinate all the reading I had to do during my endless years of higher education, because the minute I got out of grad school, the productivity ended.
For a while I would write Christmas letters and send cards, especially when my kids were little. And I did always write long letters to the kids’ grandmother in Ireland, since it was too expensive to phone them.
But wow, I stink at mailing things to people these days, or at least I did for a decade or more.
Why do people keep their old love letters, breakup letters, heartbreaking letters…? Heck if I know. To be honest, I didn’t realize I was one of those letter-saving people until tonight.
Anita and I were doing our weekly box opening, when we found a box of a variety of personal treasures. I found Lee’s first novel. I found some cards from my children. I found this box, all sealed up.
I did not recognize it. It was just a box. Anita said it was a treasure, so I came to look. I opened it and thought, huh, letters. They must be from my mom and grandmother, because no one ever wrote me.