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Illustration by Catherine Chan
When I sent my friend Fred a letter last summer, he returned the gesture, mailing me a long, lined page that began with, “What was most appreciated was your handwritten note and that it was delivered by mail: a sign in today’s world that the sender took time and some effort to fix the content as something special.”
Previously, I hadn’t given my affinity for letter writing much thought, but as I read his letter, it dawned on me that letter writing is something special. The act of letter writing is more laborious, intentional and painstaking than any other form of communication in our modern repertoire.
In a letter, there’s more heart involved and less hurry. Unlike shooting a text or rashly typing an e-mail, letter writing requires me to reach for my favourite pen, select stationary, dig through my desk drawer for a stamp, collect my thoughts, write in the cursive I learned in Mrs. Church’s kindergarten classroom, fill and seal an envelope and take a trip to the mailbox.
I have a protracted history with letter writing, beginning when I was eight years old. My first pen pal was Abuela, my great-grandmother in Puerto Rico. Since Abuela didn’t know a word of English, I made my early letter-writing attempts with an English-to-Spanish dictionary, pecking my way through drafting a thoughtful message. Then I’d eagerly await her reply.
As I grew older, I began sending letters to my sisters, friends from summer camp, and even a friend who lived nearby: Amelia. I still have a box containing scores of letters we exchanged as teenagers – a time capsule of our adolescent rationales, personalities and dreams.
Ever since I met my husband on a Florida beach, he’s written me love letters. He’s prone to compose drawn-out pages to commemorate our every milestone – from our first date to the birth of our children – as well as “just-because” letters, which I find on my office desk or bedside table.
Today, I send letters whenever inspiration strikes.
Through my work as a biographer, I’ve witnessed how poignant letters can be. In one of the tenderest letters I’ve read, Doug, then a swooning 22-year-old fiancé, wrote his bride-to-be, Mitch, stating, “Last week was just a sample of how it’s going to be after we are married. Dance a little … walk together, enjoy each other’s company, laugh a little, cry a little, get teed off a little, and millions and millions of other wonderful things.” Fifty-nine years later, as I read faded ink on a brittle page, I was moved by his timeless message about his hope to live out what makes a marriage worthwhile.
Although I got to know 82-year-old Doug during in-person interviews at his kitchen table, I really got to know him through reading a stack of letters he’d written to Mitch. His unwavering devotion was evident in every old letter, just as it was evident in his devout daily visits to sit beside her in the memory care unit, despite the fact that she didn’t recognize him any more.
After I wrote Doug’s life-story book, he and I kept in touch. We lived 700 miles apart and periodically picked up the phone to talk, but more often, we wrote letters, purely because it brought us mutual joy.
This small, simple pleasure in life – letter writing – is something I’m unwilling to give up, despite the hustle and bustle and busyness of the ever-spinning world around me. It was something Doug was also unwilling to give up, despite struggles I knew nothing about.
Last Tuesday, when a letter arrived from Doug’s son, Bruce, my heart sank.
In this day and age, most people receive bad news by phone. But I felt the same sense of dread innumerable people throughout history have felt as I tore open an envelope, already knowing what the message would relay but holding out hope I was wrong.
When I reached the second page of Bruce’s letter, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The top line read, “In going through my dad’s things, I came across this enclosed letter he was writing to you.” Bruce went on to explain how Doug’s handwriting had become so shaky he’d resorted to typing, which was itself arduous as he had to uncomfortably strike one key at a time. Bruce wrote, “The fact that he was returning your letter is a testament to the connection he had with you.”
The more I read, the more I cried. It was clear that he’d had to stop periodically to rest. I don’t know if minutes, hours, or days elapsed between each jaunt at the keyboard, but his disjointed writing lurched rather than flowed as he offered heartfelt comments about a published story I had shared with him as well as updates on his family. Then, abruptly, his letter ended: “I promise you will be a little surprised …” It seems he never returned to the page.
It saddened me that I’d never know what he was going to write but then I remembered that when it comes to a letter, it’s not only the content that counts. It’s a sign in today’s world that the sender took time and effort to create something special.
Olivia Savoie lives in Lafayette, La.