I’m a letter-writer. That should surprise no one since I’m part of the last generation of Americans to have been birthed and brought up on letter-writing. As a child of the 1940s, I remember so well the joy of my mother as she opened letters from her sister and mother on the Alabama farm. Living in the coal fields of far-off West Virginia, Mama missed her family so much. Aunt Sis would often include a couple of sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in the envelope. Mom would tear off a piece and make those two last a week.
When I went off to college, I wrote letters–to my parents and to my girlfriend.
Somewhere in my files now are personal letters to me from Dr. Billy Graham, Cartoonist Charles Schulz, and western author Louis L’Amour.
I’m 81 years old (don’t look it–ha–and certainly don’t feel it) and count it a privilege. Five minutes ago, I put in the outside mailbox four envelopes: two of them paying bills, one to a minister in Alabama and one to a cousin who is battling cancer.
I believe in letter-writing. But it takes effort.