Remember when it was actually fun to open your mailbox? OK, so maybe that might be a slight exaggeration.
But you never knew what you were going to find in there, so there was always an element of adventure to it.
Maybe a letter from a lost love you saw last in Central Park in 1969, after you had that argument. You know the one.
Maybe a check you weren’t expecting. (Kids, ask me to explain how checks work.)
Maybe a missive from your foreign pen pal. Remember those? My pen pal was in Sao Paulo, Brazil, and we wrote each other faithfully for many years. I was always excited to get that envelope with the exotic stamp on it, signifying that it had crossed thousands of miles to reach me.
Maybe a package you’d ordered for which you’d been stalking the mail carrier every day. I always think about that scene in “A Christmas Story” where the kid Ralphie anxiously awaits the secret decoder pin he’s ordered, only to find out it spells “Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.”
Maybe a sweet card from your grandma with a crisp $5 bill in it.
Maybe an invitation to the party of the season. Hooray! Oh, dear. What should you wear? Time to go shopping.
Maybe a postcard of the Eiffel Tower from your friend on vacation in France. I always loved looking at the unusual stamps.
Maybe the Sears Christmas catalog, fresh from the printer — shiny and new. By the time the holidays finally roll around, it would be tattered and dog-eared by eager children. In my house, we kids were allowed to pick out one (and only one) moderately priced toy from the wish book as our Christmas gift. This led to endless flipping back and forth of the colorful pages until we were tired of dreaming and they were in shreds.
Maybe a report card from school, which could be proudly displayed or hidden in the bowels of the earth, depending on the contents.
Maybe your fan magazine with all the dirt and details on your favorite new obsession.
Maybe a letter that you’ve been waiting for, telling you whether you did or did not get into (a) the school that you wanted (b) the job that you wanted or (c) the camp that you wanted.
Maybe a draft notice. Yes, kids, ask your grandfather.
Maybe a thick envelope with fancy calligraphy and sealing wax, inviting you to the wedding of your former true love. Hmm. You don’t really want to go, but the venue has incredible food and there will be free champagne. Hard to pass that up.
Maybe a brochure on how to ride the train to Mexico’s Copper Canyon, that you’ve been waiting for since you clipped the coupon out of the back of Westways magazine and mailed it in.
Maybe an anonymous note telling you that your next-door neighbor is secretly a serial killer. (Oh, sorry, I’ve been reading too many detective novels lately.)
Maybe a card from your doctor telling you she has the results of that test you took last month so call her urgently. Eeek.
Maybe a reply from the bed-and-breakfast in Scotland that you sought to reserve for August. You mailed them a reservation request back in March, enclosing an international reply coupon, so they could write back to you and confirm. Now, you’re excited to go.
There’s no question that we can all contact each other so much more easily today, what with the world of instantaneous communications. Need to get hold of someone climbing Mt. Everest? No problem. Want to know if your hotel in Peru has room service? Just email.
But that means that our mailboxes today are just sad and gloomy things. No one rushes to see the contents. If I went out and opened mine right now, it would contain the electric bill, the gas bill, a renewal notice from the DMV, circulars on the fabulous offerings at the local grocery stores and a full-color card inviting me to dinner with Forest Lawn, for pre-need planning.
Yes, we can email each other in the blink of an eye, but is that really the same as holding a piece of paper in your palm that was once in the hand of someone you love? Someone who took the time to sit down with a pen and ink and compose a message to you? If you rub it, maybe you can even rub off a tiny bit of their DNA that will stick to you.
That’s why I keep sending out greeting cards, even though they’re now just a relic from the past. Not entirely, of course. Hallmark stores still exist. Don’t send me any irate emails.
But I always have to show my clever, young adult children how to address an envelope, and where to put the stamp. To them, it’s just a lost art form, as obsolete as a telex machine.
In return, of course, they show me how to use my smart phone, so it’s an even swap. Antique versus modern technology. Who wins?
Related links
Frumpy Mom: Sometimes life still holds a few surprises
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I’m gimpy but I’m getting ready to travel
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I’m back and I’m buying too much at Costco
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: No one in my house would notice if my hair were on fire
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: Can you please, please just be quiet? No one wants to hear your blather