My last real letters were written in the 1970ās. They were a lifeline when I was in college to the people and life that I had once had before going off to college. I suppose that I first began to develop a sense of having a past at that time.
Writing a letter was a sweet communion with that past and those people, a sacramental sharing. Youād sit down and invest time in it, filling several pieces of paperā¦on both sides! Then youād drop it off at the mailbox and wait, knowing that it would be several days to a week before you could hope for a reply.
The waiting time was sweet anticipation, too. Every day youād troop to the student mailboxes, hoping that perhaps a reply would be there. A few lucky ones would get them, and they were treasures, tangible things that you could hold, keep, and carry around in physical form.
There were no cell phones or personal computers then, and while there were landline phones, long distance calls were expensive, and so limited in the time that you could spend on them, and they were relatively rare and purpose-driven. A written letter was a communication from the heart, and modern society is the poorer for having moved away from themā¦