Good Mail

I miss the days of good mail.

It used to be that at the end of each workday I’d escape from my office like an indentured servant whose contract expired after eight hours of computer-staring and politeness. I head home with two thoughts on my mind: What’s in the mailbox? I hope there’s some good mail in there.

My imagination takes off; I fantasize about my good mail potential. Though I know how crazy it would sound if I were to say it out loud, in my head, these ideas make sense. “Maybe my friend with the new baby had a minute to write a note.” “Perhaps my mom sent me an article from her local newspaper about the latest happenings in her town of 2,000 people.” Oh, the possibilities. They are as endless as they are unpredictable.

What is good mail? For me, good mail is the kind that makes all other mail look processed, impersonal and time-wasting. Good mail is timeless, careful, expressive and solitary. Good mail is a letter from a friend, whose sloppy penmanship identifies her even without a return address on the envelope. Good mail includes a 3x5 from a recent family gathering tucked inside a folded piece of memo-pad paper. Good mail has stickers on the envelope; in all different places at all different angles. Front and back. Good mail is blue, purple, or green. Good mail cares about presentation, message and timing.

My out-of-state sister has called me before to about Grandma Lewis’ comments about my sis’s lack of correspondence. “She just doesn’t write me much,” my grandma has said. My sister, frustrated with the insinuation that letter writing is supreme to phone-calling, (the latter being her extreme preference), promptly was compelled to explain the virtues of telephone thoughtfulness. But I have to agree with Grandma.

As for me, I keep up correspondence to my grandmother. I send her short notes informing her about our summer fun, or my new business venture. No matter the message, it usually is wrapped tightly around photos of her pride and joy: her great-grandson.

These days, most of us prefer to text or e-mail. At first blush, it’s a satisfying communication. But deep down, it’s temporary. It’s not colorful or personable. It’s gone in an instant and forgotten even sooner.

And so I continue to write my letters, at least once every two weeks I’ll pull out the stationery flavor of the day, and put my blue pen to paper and tell the story of my day, or my week, to a friend or loved one. It doesn’t take long, and I always feel better afterward. The best part’s knowing that over the next few days, I will make my loved one smile, at a moment that I can’t event predict. And for that, I’m happy. I’ve contributed to good mail.