10 Good Reasons to Write More Letters

1. Writing a letter shows that you care enough about the recipient to take a little extra effort: choosing the right stationery, handwriting the message, addressing the envelope, adorning it with an interesting stamp, and transporting it to a mailbox or post office.  All of that "work" vs. turning on your computer, dashing off an email and hitting Send. In a comment I received from Janet Aldrich, she said, "When I was in Peace Corps a few years ago - in the middle of the South African bush, an hour's walk from my post office village, I sent 1,004 pieces of mail and received nearly as many replies."              She added that everyone saved her letters.                                                                                                                                                                                                            
2. In the United States, a colorful history of mail delivery recalls the short-lived Pony Express of 1860, whose horseback riders relayed mail between St. Joseph, Missouri and Sacramento, CA, in just ten days, switching horses every 15 miles of the 1800-mile journey. Even our modern blue-suited postal people seem vaguely heroic, in light of the postal service's unofficial motto inscribed on the James Farley Post Office in New York: "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."  Note that this quote is credited to the Greek historian Herodotus, who was referring to the mounted couriers of the ancient Persian empire. Nevertheless, it seems appropriate to support this historic profession.
3. Writing a letter is a meditative act that requires introspection and intention. Thinking about what's important or interesting in your life is always a good idea. Trying to put that perspective into words enhances understanding, for both writer and reader.
   
4. Children need good modeling in the area of correspondence, and a sense of joy in writing and receiving letters. Rather than forcing young people to write letters, they could observe their parents and friends engaging in this creative act. Every young person seems born knowing how to operate a *smartypants phone or game controller, but do they know where the stamp and return address go on an envelope? (*thanks to Ramona White for this great phrase)
5. Handwriting a letter is an opportunity to practice your penmanship, or even calligraphy.
6. Creative choices abound for correspondence: handmade paper stationery, art card or picture postcard; writing implements, from quill
   
   and ink to color-changing markers; rubber stamps and stickers to embellish letter and envelope; colorful and interesting postage; even scent and glitter, should you be so inclined.                                                                                 Emoticons can't compare :(
7. A personal letter, handwritten and penned with care, can be a treasured keepsake.   Letters are meant to be read and reread, savored and saved. 
8. As writers, we can all use practice. Letter writing is an opportunity to shine as a writer, in whatever ways you like. Have fun with rhyme, get ultra descriptive, make plays on words, decorate your words with drawings. There are no rules.
9. Writing a letter is a vulnerable act, helping to create possibilities for deep connections between writer and recipient. 
   
10. If you write more letters, you will almost certainly receive more letters, and isn't that fun? 
     

Mama's Day Every Day

Dear Mom ~

Ellie in Cabo San Lucas, October 2012

Happy Mother's Day to an amazing woman, my mama Ellie. As you recuperate from hip surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, I just want to say ~ mama's day is every day. You deserve no less.

You are seriously considering a move to Portland!  I'm surprised that you are willing to consider leaving sunny southern California for Puddletown. However, I think you'll find out that Portland is one of the most beautiful and entertaining cities one could ever want to live in.

The exciting news is that your house sold quickly, and for a great price. Now comes the hard part, emotionally and physically. Deciding what to take and what to leave, letting go of things, can be a struggle. We will be there to help you through the sorting and packing.  I believe that your new simplified life, whether in California or in Portland, will lighten you in ways that you have not imagined.  Know that if you do move to Portland, you will be surrounded by your Oregon family and friends.

Candace's peonies, May 2013

I know how you love the Dogwoods in the spring, and luscious peonies in bloom.  I'm looking forward to sharing my garden (and my friends' gardens!) with you.  It will be fun to be close enough to just pop over and visit, to share special dinners, and to get you out to enjoy all this city has to offer.

Looking forward to celebrating Mother's Day 2014 in Portland with you.

Love from your daughter,
     Laurie

Postcard Stories

Venice, Italy, July 1983 ~ Nearly 30 years ago, I achieved my childhood dream of visiting Venice, that astonishing city built on water.  I sent this circular postcard to my co-managers at Food Front Co-op, and was able to reclaim it upon my return. Reading it brings back the wondrous trip I took through Europe, on the back of a motorcycle driven by my boyfriend:

"Venice is magical, unreal - but muggy, insanely crowded.  We avoided the usual tourist sites, swam in the Adriatic, wandered aimlessly through narrow alleys and over canals, slept in the home of an old Venetian woman who spoke no English and treated us like honored guests."

Whenever I travel, I thoroughly enjoy sending postcards to friends and family, describing sights and recounting adventures.  It gives me an excuse to sit at an outdoor cafe with a cup of coffee and watch the world go by while writing to friends far away.  

My parents traveled widely, but their most unusual trip took them by ship to Antarctica, where Mom wrote, "Boy, it's cold here.  Icebergs everywhere.  The Drake Passage was very rough, people falling all over and lots of sea-sickness.  We've been on Zodiacs every day - the scenery is fantastic."






Postcards depicting beautiful scenery are lovely to receive, like this view of Goat Mountain and Mount Shuksan in the North Cascades of Washington state.  It was mailed to Food Front Co-op by a friend who has a creative way with words.

Two of the most unusual postcards in my collection  were sent from Tortilla Flats, Arizona, to my children by my parents.  These cards are covered with a copper relief and crimped around the back to enclose the writing surface.  They were mailed almost exactly 15 years ago, in May of 1998.




My high school friend Alice Weisser, formerly Alice Wysell, has been making her own holiday postcards for several years, showcasing her talent as an artist and adding to my collection of favorites.

In the summer of 1983, Kevin McGillivray (my first husband) traveled around Europe on a motorcycle, ending up in his ancestral home of Scotland, where he wrote:

"I am home again!  That is my feeling as I gaze across the deep dark lochs and the wild verdancy of the glens to the green and rocky mountains that dominate the landscape.  Purple heather alternates with swashes of fern in open, grassy fields, divided by the brown peat-colored brooks that feed the lochs, surrounded by leafy trees of evergreen.  All things are embraced by the softly passing mists that seem so much a part of the landscape.  I'm glad I am here.  Cheers, my lass, Kevin."

Art postcards are fun to buy and keep as mementos of a trip.  This sculpture of Il Bacchino (Little Bacchus) was a highlight of the Giardino di Boboli in Firenze (Florence, Italy).  He seems to say, "No, don't touch my feast!  I'm just taking a little rest here with my attack tortoise."
 
A chance to be poetic, pithy, or even a bit zany - postcards encourage creativity.  The writer only gets a small amount of space, so words must be chosen wisely.  As with haiku poetry and tweets, less can be more.

Keep those stories coming.

Remembering Emmett

Emmett Chase was unforgettable ~

A special education teacher who excelled in his work with autistic students, he changed his name (twice!), learned to read and speak the almost forgotten Native American language called chinuk wawa, and listed the locations of Monkey Puzzle trees he spotted around Portland (mementos of the 1905 Lewis & Clark Centennial Exposition).  When we were married in 2005, he presented me with a bunch of dandelions, roots and dirt attached, with the promise that he would always be in my life like those prolific weeds, ineradicable.

Sadly, that was not to be.  Just before our fourth anniversary, Emmett was diagnosed with brain cancer.  Determined to beat "those alien bastards,"  he received 55 radiation treatments and agreed to an experimental drug with a potential side effect of brain hemmorhage, because the doctor said it was his best chance.  Despite his optimism and the best efforts of his doctors, Emmett died at home on December 23, 2009.  One of my most treasured possessions is the letter he wrote to me during the last year of his life.

Our wedding day, March 12, 2005

We met in the summer of 2003.  An accomplished square dancer and former president of River City Dancers, Emmett invited me to attend square dance lessons that fall, and I surprised myself by saying yes.  Over the course of the next few months, I learned that this smart, funny, romantic man shared my love for literature and the theater.  After he recited T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" from memory on our first date, I knew I was hopelessly hooked.

We were married on March 12, 2005, the day before my 50th birthday. We bought a house and blended our families: my 14-year-old twins, his 14-year-old daughter and 13-year-old son.  A wonderful storyteller, Emmett loved to fabricate bedtime stories for his son Alec and daughter Laura.  He often did the same for me, but I rarely heard the end of his stories because his melodious voice lulled me to sleep.

When Emmett and I first met and we were both at work, he emailed me dozens of poems by various authors and on many topics.  During our marriage, his special occasion cards and daily notes were sweet, like this Valentine's Day card: "I would propose to you if we weren't already married."

Near Mt. St. Helens, fall 2006

Our short time together was rich with experience: travels to Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas and Lake Chelan, WA.  Time at home with our four children and three cats in the yard.  Gardening together - those amazing giant sunflowers we took pictures with, using a tall ladder!  The terrific community of square dancers that Emmett welcomed me into.  Swing dance lessons, East and West Coast.  Accompanying him to Camp Cody on Mt. Hood, where he dug in the dirt with the Oregon Archaeological Society while I hiked around the lake, happy to be there with him.

In July 2009, Emmett sat down to write letters to his children, his siblings, and me.  He typed them, because his handwriting had gotten hard to read.  When he finished the letters, he placed them in long plain envelopes with our names written in Sharpie. We weren't to read them until he was gone.

This is a portion of my letter:

My wonderful wife, friend, helpmeet, support, lover, companion:

Here, in the closing days of a hot July, I take pen in hand to write what I trust are not anywhere near my final words and thoughts at this time.  In a few weeks I will experience a risky therapy and I take great comfort in knowing that you will be there with me, come what may. 

At our wedding in the park, as you will recall, I declared my undying love for you to be like unto a dandelion, a stubborn prevalent weed, ineradicable, ubiquitous, impossible to vanquish.  So it remains.  Let me into your life, and here I stay.  Your symbol for me at that moment was a flower, the sweet rose, beauty beyond compare.  My symbol was a little goofy, but apt, don't you think?  Only fate will remove this Dandy Lion from you now.

For the times I have distressed you, I am dreadfully sorry.  When I pleased you, made you laugh, comforted you, inspired you in turn, surprised or delighted you with a song or a poem - for these moments I shall carry the memories always.  I know you will do the same.  Did I mention that I love you immeasurably?  Get used to it.

Losing Emmett was the hardest trial I've ever faced, but I'm grateful to have known and loved this wise, unforgettable man.  I shall carry the memories always, and keep his letter close to my heart.

And yes, dandelions are taking over my yard.

What Makes a Great Letter?

What makes a great letter?

A letter doesn't need to be witty or speak great truths about life.  Letters can't always recount great adventures and daring deeds.  And a love letter doesn't have to be the greatest love letter ever written, as long as the love it expresses is true.  .

A great letter may be profound or exquisite, but it can also simply be one that was written just for you.  This letter fills you with anticipation as you remove it from the envelope and devour the words on the pages.  A great letter may simply chronicle the details of everyday life, sharing life stories.  Life letters.

In a New York Times editorial from 2011, "The Fading Art of Letter Writing", Catherine Fields wrote about her mother-in-law's letters, which she eagerly anticipates.  She writes:  "Her letter often takes four or five days to reach me but the feel of it instantly breaks through time and space.  Sitting with the letter in my hands, I immediately envision her:  There she is at the dining table, a cup of tea to her right, the radio switched off or turned down, her thoughts flowing through her fingers and onto the page."

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/04/opinion/04iht-edfield04.html?_r=1&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1350921685-0yYAsR2H7xynx9QEeon48Q&

Her mother-in-law, who had recently been widowed, writes about the weather, the kindness of neighbors, the bureaucratic hassles relating to her husband's death, the condolence letters she has received.  Writing through her grief, says the author, was an expectation for her generation ~ courtesy prescribed that such letters be written. I believe that the healing power of writing was thus preserved by social convention.  

We admire the published letters of famous people, especially when they are full of wisdom, humor or historical significance.  But we can also relish the simple correspondence that connects individuals regardless of what they write about or how well they craft their sentences.  Fields calls a handwritten letter a creative act, because it is a visual and tactile pleasure, but also because it is "a deliberate act of exposure, a form of vulnerability, because handwriting opens a window on the soul in a way that cyber communication can never do.  You savor their arrival and later take care to place them in a box for safe keeping."

All of us can write great letters.  All we need is time and intention.

Travels with Ellie

 Dear Mom:

Today I've been reminiscing about all the wonderful travel adventures we've shared.  I'm especially remembering the trip we took in December of 2010, almost exactly a year after my husband Emmett died.

Emily had been studying in Spain, and you and I conspired to meet her there and travel together for a couple of weeks.  Our itinerary included Seville, Malaga, Lanzarote in the Canary Islands, and Madrid, where we would spend our final night on New Year's Eve.


So here we are on the volcanic island of Lanzarote, outside the home of local artist Cesar Manrique. Remember that amazing house built around volcanic bubbles, and those curved white subterranean rooms with azure swimming pools and tropical flowers?



And what about that other-worldly bus tour of Timanfaya Narional Park, the enormous moonscape where volcanic activity has transformed and continues to shape the landscape?  We marveled at the powerful ocean lashing the shoreline, and the dramatically sculpted landscape where intense volcanic activity occurred as recently as the 18th century.

We were especially delighted by the restaurant in the park called El Diablo (the devil), where chefs in whites cooked chicken over a pit dug into the ground, using the volcanic fire inside the earth as their heat.

Despite your bad knees, you were such a good sport, traipsing through the streets of Seville or Madrid.  In Seville and Malaga, many of the streets were so narrow that the taxis couldn't navigate them, so we found ourselves dragging our suitcases many blocks to hotels.  Seville was so intriguing and beautiful; I snapped this photo of you and Emily walking through the scenic Jewish quarter.

And then there was New Year's Eve in Madrid.  Remember dancing in our hotel room as we dressed to go out on the town?  We had been told that the place to be on New Year's is Puerta del Sol, where everyone goes to party, much like Times Square in New York.

Little did we know what kind of a scene it would be, like Mardi Gras, with huge crowds, drinking in the streets, and people decked out in giant glasses, glowing headdresses, and all kinds of unusual costumes.  Emily made some friends among the crowd, a group of students from San Francisco, and they immediately surrounded you to protect you from the jostling crowd.  Nevertheless, you fell and injured your shoulder, but that couldn't stop you from donning some giant glasses and toasting midnight with all the revelers that night.

Together we've visited Mexico, Hawaii, Portugal and Morocco; we've cruised to Alaska and played in Palm Desert.  When I moved to Oregon in 1979, you helped me drive cross country from Kentucky, and we detoured through Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, floored by their beauty.

It's always an adventure, when we get to explore the world in one another's company.  I look forward to more travels.

Your daughter,
     Laurie

Art of the Stamp

Beautiful postage stamps are like jewels, designed to grace an envelope with artistic flair. 

They tell us where in the world the letter originated, and provide an interesting record of inflation in their ever rising prices.

United States postage stamps have certainly become more varied and colorful since the '60s, when many featured American presidents, the Liberty Bell, the American flag or the Capitol in Washington, D.C., all produced with a single dull color.  A dour George Washington glared from the 5 cent stamp in the late '70s.

In 1987, this vividly colored stamp depicting a Girl Scouts sash with badges came with a letter from my friend Candace, who always seems to choose interesting postage.  Another favorite from Candace is a highly detailed mauve-colored shell called a Frilled Dogwinkle.

In the late '90s, photographic images of sports figures such as Vince Lombardi and Pop Warner were pictured on 32 cent postcard stamps, reflecting our country's idolization of sports, especially football.

Looking over my collection of letters, I see that the price of first class postage was a mere 5 cents in the '60s, up to 10 cents in the mid '70s, 13 cents in 1976, and 15 cents by the end of the decade.  Now, with first class postage at 43 cents, it's not surprising that people choose free email and text messaging for most of their communications.  It's also clear why the U.S. Postal Service had to come up with Forever stamps that can always be used for first class mail, regardless of inevitable price increases.

In 1985, stamps bearing the likenesses of composer Igor Stravinsky, Senator Henry Clay and mental health activist Dorothea Dix mingled with a series of stamps celebrating democracy on a postcard mailed for 14 cents.  The democracy series stamps pictured here read: "The ability to write - a root of democracy" and "A public that reads - a root of democracy."  Reverence for reading and writing on a stamp - I love it!

Some of my favorite stamps were affixed to letters from England, Italy, France and China.  They entice me with visions of fascinating places yet to be seen.

The art of the letter: writing from the heart, preferably by hand, on beautiful paper chosen by the writer, enclosed in an envelope and completed with a magnificent stamp.

Amy "J.T." Bodian ~ Forever Friends

Amy Bodian at Vassar Lake, 1976

Amy Bodian was the most exuberant, creative and zany person I've ever known.  She called herself and everyone else J.T. She talked of mysterious ideas, like the third eye, and played her flute for me within the weeping branches of a willow tree.  She was my best friend and confidante through high school and college, and she was there with my family when I graduated from Vassar in 1976.

Although our lives kept us geographically apart after college, we carried on a 20-year correspondence full of silly rhymes, great affection, and heady philosophy about men and careers and life.  She visited me in Portland in 1990, just after my twins were born, and was so taken by the kiwi vines growing in my backyard that her subsequent letters were all addressed to Kiwitown, USA.

Amy died in 1993 of lung cancer, having never smoked.  I am so grateful to have her letters to remind me of the wonderful friend that she was.

Exuberant ~ that's the word for Bodian.  Whether she was riding her bike through drainage ditches, imagining her next art project or espousing Eastern spirituality, she was passionate about it.  She was open to new ideas, free spirited, the kind of friend who made me think. We had been writing our letters in rhyme for years when she mentioned in a card: I'm doing a new kind of psychic channeling that when delivered is delivered in rhyme - yes I know - it's been our secret all this time.

A talented artist who worked in many mediums, Amy adorned her letters and envelopes with the most expressive beings drawn with just a few lines.  Art was her passion: she attended art school in San Francisco and Ann Arbor, Michigan, but she often questioned whether a career in art was right for her.  I am very confused about my art and the act of creation, she wrote.  I want to experience the power of the spiritual through the channel of the subconscious.  I want to experience it in my own creating, and along these lines work with children and adults.

In her search for a fulfilling vocation, she taught yoga, healing and meditation, created a "sheet project" involving heiroglyphics and ancient hymns, participated in a project for peace in the Middle East to calm that raging beast.  With workshops relating to love, I affirm new signs for that hawk to be made a dove.  In later letters, she wrote with excitement about art therapy with the terminally ill, and she pursued many creative ventures, including plans for an illustrated children's book.

She was wise in ways that still astonish me.  In the late '70s she wrote: Often it is the love I feel for you that gives me such exhilaration in my letters.  I do not think with my brain, nor with my heart.  I absorb with something that is a little bit of both, but neither.  Much greater, much wiser, much more exacting and accountable.  I call it soul, I feel it as power, some know it as spirit.


Throughout the decades of our letter writing, Bodian always made me feel good about myself.  Shortly after I got hired by The Charlotte Observer to take phoned-in obituaries, she wrote:

I must tell you, you yourself are turning into a wiz kid giant, and I expect within the near future you will possess with your winning charm an esteemed and highly acclaimed job working for the New York Times or perhaps even the more radical Village Voice.  Those are the qualities my dearest J as in T does possess.

She often expressed how much our friendship meant to her, addressing me as My Darling J.T. or Dearest Watson or even:

With strange foreshadowing, Bodian once wrote:

It's 1983 / Sing along with me / We're friends till the end / Till death do us part / And far beyond the end to the start. 

Surely Bodian never knew that her time on earth would be so short.  Her wise and beautiful letters help keep her unique spirit alive.  These words from one of her cards say it all:

This season let us rejoice in what we have earned and learned.  Let us celebrate abundance of love and mate, friendship and fine estate.  For you my thoughts and wishes are never late.  Always in your heart am I alive, as one J.T. to another can only realize.
               I love you dearly,
                           Amy