I have a friend in Ohio, Birdie, I've known literally since I was born. I don't remember living near her (we moved to Michigan when I was 13 months old) but after a trip to visit when I was around ten we started writing letters to each other. Long distance phone calls were too expensive for ten-year-olds, and email didn't even exist, so we wrote letters. I remember letters scribbled in pencil in spiral notebooks, ripped out with torn and ragged edges, folded in no particular way, and stuffed into an envelope. A stamp cost 25 cents.
Those days are burned into my memory. I'd put the stamped and addressed envelope into the mailbox and sit at the window waiting for the mailman to pick it up and put it in his big, blue bag. Then it was a waiting game. Starting the next day (okay, so I wasn't entirely rational) I'd check the mail as soon as it came, looking for a reply from Birdie. On the day I finally found a letter with my name on it I'd tear into it, read through it three or four times, and then run off searching for my spiral notebook and a sharp pencil.
In some ways my letter-writing has evolved. A stamp is 42 cents, for one thing. Somewhere along the way I adopted stationary and note cards. I make my own "fun" envelopes out of wrapping paper or magazine pages. I have many colored pens in several different cases, right where I know they are, instead of having to search for a pencil. I almost always put a sticker or two on the envelope. When I'm feeling particularly festive I sometimes put a pinch of confetti inside (people have learned the hard way to be careful when opening a note from me!). My handwriting is much more legible. Oh, and I'm paying for the stamps myself instead of digging through Mom's bill basket to find hers.
But some things haven't changed at all. I'm still obsessive about checking the mail. While I force myself to save the letter for last, opening the boring mail first, I still read a letter through several times as soon as it is opened...and then read it again an hour or so later. And, until about a year ago, I still wrote a reply within a day or two of receiving a letter from a friend.
And that's where my art is lost...or at least misplaced. When the Little Mister was born my outgoing mail, aside from a three-sentence note with a new picture of the bug here or there, dwindled from a rushing stream to a mere trickle. That's understandable: I was learning how to be a mom, getting to know my little boy, exploring Europe... Since the Sergeant left for the Middle East in April even the trickle has dried up. I write to him every night before I go to bed (yes, letters - you can't hold an email in your hand!), and I still hand-write thank-you notes (an issue for another post), but other than that...nothing. My brain is so frazzled from being a "single mom" that when the Little Mister goes to sleep all I want to do is sleep. Or possibly read blogs.
But I miss correspondence. I miss finding letters in the mailbox. Because, really, you have to write letters to get letters! Living so far away from all my friends, I miss seeing their handwriting on an envelope. I miss holding onto something they made just for me, something that has traveled across the ocean to find me.
So. My goal is to write a real letter to everyone in my address book (that's not as crazy as it sounds; while I keep old addresses in a different book, my current book is up-to-date) by the end of summer (the "real" end of summer, the autumnal equinox...gives me a little more time than saying Labor Day!). Can I do it? I don't know...but if I work on it I'll at least be writing again. I miss it.
Birdie and I are still friends, good friends, even though we've lived far apart since we were about my son's age (wow!). While I was in Michigan my mom talked to Birdie's mom, and found out that Birdie is having a rough time. And because I'd cut myself off, so to speak, I didn't know about it.
I think Birdie is first on my list.
Birdie, me, and Birdie's little sistera camping trip, early 1990s
