Time for Writing Letters

Time for Writing Letters

I was out shopping—not with the greatness of spirit in the enterprise but more as an obligation as I had been talking to a little boutique owner about what she might have in her shop to suit me.  I was looking for a certain shade of green in a new sweater. My hopes were high.  So after grocery shopping with the man, eating a sumptuous lunch (freshly made sushi made just to order for me), freshly baked bread from one of the vendor at the farmers market, tasty Bing cherries and fresh picked strawberries; I was willing to head out.

But first about the sushi, really, it is who you know. Or perhaps, it is the perfect alignment of the planets, stars and some god or goddess who is bored looking down at the right moment waiting for something to do. I was simply looking at the sushi at the market and was asked if they could make something special for me if I could not find what I wanted. So after a bit of discussion, a decision was made. I was told to come back in ten minutes. The result.  It was probably the best sushi that I have ever eaten with the exception of some that I had in Japan.  It was proving to be a great day.

Back at home after finishing up my green tea I watched briefly my husband weeding in the yard.  I let him know that I was heading out to the boutique.  I live in a small town so parking about a quarter mile away from the shops I enjoyed the breeze coming off of the ocean while I walked to my destination of beautiful clothes, soft to the touch, lovely to look at and hopefully, something to take home.  I tried several blouses, one sweater which was the wrong shade of green to finally settled on a pair of black leggings with a soft skirt attached. Saying farewell to the wonderful staff at the store I started to amble towards my car.  I didn’t make it far.

I stopped in another small boutique of odd and ends, cards, ornaments, lotions, etc. to look at the various greeting cards which they had on display.  I picked out several only to place them back before leaving the store.  Why? I don’t like spending money on cards which are quickly tossed after someone received it.  Cards are fun, beautiful and thoughtful but it is like throwing your money away.  I still send them, I like getting them but today I was not interested in mindless frivolities or so I thought as I walked back to my car.

I should write some letters, carefully written out since so many of my family are getting old and reading someone’s poor penmanship is not necessary a good thing.  Finding a young person with good eyes is even worse since learning cursive writing in school has not been taught for years, I rather not frustrate and torture my elderly family members with the duty of looking for a handwriting interpreter.  I have a good hand in cursive if I just remember to slow down. Getting myself to work at a speed of 33 ½ rpm versus 45 rpm or 78 rpm is not too difficult (here I am dating myself, some of you will remember records and phonographs). 

After all, I stopped to gaze at clouds in rain puddles after a storm, I prefer walking outside without earplugs in my ears in order to hear the chatter, trills, and longing calls of birds early in the morning. I enjoy the silence of my house in the morning without the negative blaring of the television news, reality TV and other brain drain events.

I still write letters though not as often as I should.  After all, how many of us rush to the post to check on whether or not we will have received something other than a bill.  Even my bills come on line as I am practicing green measures when I can.  I have a policy: pay the bill when it appears in my email.  Before I used to line the letters up, put a date on them waiting until I could send a check out for payment.  Checks, I use them rarely.  Donations to the church, paying for our acupuncture treatments as he doesn’t bill insurance or take credit cards.

So what is a letter? Why should I write one? How do I begin?  For me, it is a note telling snatches of my life to another human being just to let them know I still exist.  I have one sister who is partially deaf.  I don’t call on the phone as it would be a disaster with my soft speaking voice combined with her hearing loss.  I write.  I pick up the paper, sometimes a card; search for a pen and just start telling her bits and pieces.  She writes to me. She tells me of her life unfolding in her home that I don’t even remember visiting except for the hot homemade cinnamon raisin bread thick with butter. I haven’t see her since I was a child, I was probably, possibly 15 years old.  Today, I am 64 years old.  I have written to her yearly at least 3 times a year.  She used to send birthday cards. 

It is getting close to another time for me to write to her, perhaps I will start my letter tomorrow when I have more to say after all, she only gets a few letters a year from me.  When you think of it that way, tomorrow has already started.  It is time for writing letters.