Handwritten letters — memories and a personal imprint

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In the attic, buried in an old box or crate. Long lost or forgotten pages of life and time. Tattered, yellowed or faded, they whisper secrets. Of love sweetly christened on summer breezes and star-lit nights once upon a time. Express rarely spoken, deep truths.

The outer shells that guarded their precious contents for miles and miles — sometimes across the sea — from sender to recipient — still bear a permanent timestamp, after all these years. Even if the scents of “his” alluring cologne or “her” intoxicating perfume have long since faded like the sensation of a first kiss.

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A letter handwritten — signed, sealed, delivered.

It bore one’s personal imprint. It was an extension of oneself. Whether ordained with the special curvature at the end of her Y’s or S’s. Or the ornate, painstaking cursive lettering by her hand — perfectly blocked paragraphs as if it had been electronically justified. Mama used to write like that.

Letters to hold. Inhale.

Some remember letters from the war. Letters from home. Letters spilling with nostalgic longing, love and loss. Letters lined with syrupy sophomoric poetry and blushing bliss back when oxygen was secondary to a lover’s touch.

Handwritten letters predate Gutenberg. They will surely outlive Zuckerberg.

Letters.

Pen to paper. Plain white sheets, of the striped notebook variety, or personalized stationery.

Words pondered, carefully calculated and chosen to convey — after time and thought, and sometimes through salty tears — something special. Not mere words when perfectly completed, but the personification of the soul. Something to cherish, behold.

I was reminded of this, reclining in the chair at my orthodontist’s South Side office. In casual conversation, Dr. Eric M. Barnes recalled how handwritten letters seem to have become mostly a relic of the past. A mostly bygone practice.

How in a microwaveable instant world of tweets, texts and technological innovation the art and practice of good old-fashioned letter writing have fallen through the cracks. Back in college, Barnes recalled how he sometimes waited by the mail station for two special letters from back home: one from Mama with a $20 bill, and the other a love letter from a girlfriend.

I remembered the letters passed in second and third grade class: “I like you… Do you like me? Check Yes or No.”

In between the tightening of my braces, I drifted between scented memories of letters past and these unfragrant modern times of a more impersonal Times New Roman existence of thumbing thoughts, love and passion on a smartphone keyboard.

A grave new world of abbreviated 140-character quasi-thoughts that ought to die on the early-morning bathroom throne of our presidential tweeter-in-chief rather than end up as breaking news, impacting public policy and international relations.

Letters. The act of writing and crafting them causes pause. Dictates the ingestion and review of one’s own words, thoughts, and intent. Necessitates before and after thought rather than the instant thumbing of a fleeting quip before pressing, “send.”

I am reminded that it wasn’t always this way. Reminded that once upon a time we stared into each other’s eyes and said what we meant and meant what we said. And that which we didn’t say, we often saved for sacred letters.

I am reminded that we used to take the time to think — and write — in complete sentences and thought. Reminded of my anticipation of a new letter’s arrival. Of finally inhaling it — its words and scent while holding it between my fingers.

I remember the letter Mama gave me early that morning on my high school graduation. The expression of her regrets, of her hope, love and dreams for me. Though long lost, I still remember Mama’s letter.

Email: Author@Johnwfountain.com

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