Ink and Paper
Several weeks ago while roaming around Staples in search of clear packing tape, I found myself in an aisle stocked with yellow lined pads. I stared at a pack of three legal sized pads and then at a portfolio intended for holding a pad and providing a firm writing surface.
When I graduated from high school my parents, knowing that I loved writing letters, bought me a brown writing case. One side had a small blotter—the assumption that all letter writers, or at least the ones using this case, would use an ink pen was obvious. The other side provided places for stamps, address book, pen, and stationery. An additional pocket allowed me to store letters. A zipper around three sides secured everything inside. This was not a case intended for yellow pads.
At one time I corresponded with at least a dozen people. I kept a record of when I received a letter and when I wrote back-- my little black book.
After college the number increased. Some people were twice a year correspondents, while others were once a month and two were several times a month. My side pocket often bulged with letters. One friend kept a copy of all letters she sent out. I relied on my memory--no sense in saying the same things twice.
Later on there was Irene who owned a women's bookstore in Ithica, New York and Jean who ran the book department of a department store in Chicago. And someone I met at a writing conference who lived at a rather run down Hotel in Manhattan until she moved to California-- address unknown. She once sent me a funny and poignant letter about eating a pizza in her room as she watched the peeling plaster fall.
There were letters and postcards from Anna as she traveled around Europe. She wrote in the smallest of script so that her travelogs fit on a postcard. My friend Miriam, who once called me in the middle of the night to talk about cows, disguised herself and traveled in Switzerland and Italy. Her husband worked for the government.
There was Linda who lived in Rome and taught Italians English. We met at another writing conference. Another correspondent lived in Shreveport, La and worked in a print shop. Eventually she moved to Somerville and after a winter here moved back, " Your winter," she said," settled in my bones."
Over time attrition set in and the numbers dwindled to fewer letters and more emails or Facebook accounts. Instead of sitting down with a cup of coffee and visiting with someone by penning a letter letters morphed into quick bytes.
I still have one letter writing friend who eschews emails and social media. Our correspondence isn't frequent, but when I sit down and write the very act of writing has an organic richness.
When I graduated from high school my parents, knowing that I loved writing letters, bought me a brown writing case. One side had a small blotter—the assumption that all letter writers, or at least the ones using this case, would use an ink pen was obvious. The other side provided places for stamps, address book, pen, and stationery. An additional pocket allowed me to store letters. A zipper around three sides secured everything inside. This was not a case intended for yellow pads.
At one time I corresponded with at least a dozen people. I kept a record of when I received a letter and when I wrote back-- my little black book.
After college the number increased. Some people were twice a year correspondents, while others were once a month and two were several times a month. My side pocket often bulged with letters. One friend kept a copy of all letters she sent out. I relied on my memory--no sense in saying the same things twice.
Later on there was Irene who owned a women's bookstore in Ithica, New York and Jean who ran the book department of a department store in Chicago. And someone I met at a writing conference who lived at a rather run down Hotel in Manhattan until she moved to California-- address unknown. She once sent me a funny and poignant letter about eating a pizza in her room as she watched the peeling plaster fall.
There were letters and postcards from Anna as she traveled around Europe. She wrote in the smallest of script so that her travelogs fit on a postcard. My friend Miriam, who once called me in the middle of the night to talk about cows, disguised herself and traveled in Switzerland and Italy. Her husband worked for the government.
There was Linda who lived in Rome and taught Italians English. We met at another writing conference. Another correspondent lived in Shreveport, La and worked in a print shop. Eventually she moved to Somerville and after a winter here moved back, " Your winter," she said," settled in my bones."
Over time attrition set in and the numbers dwindled to fewer letters and more emails or Facebook accounts. Instead of sitting down with a cup of coffee and visiting with someone by penning a letter letters morphed into quick bytes.
I still have one letter writing friend who eschews emails and social media. Our correspondence isn't frequent, but when I sit down and write the very act of writing has an organic richness.
2 Comments:
Those ruled yellow pads call to me still, as do notebooks and blank books. Your descriptions of friends who sent letters and postcards evokes memories. I still wrestle with the paper/trees and natural versus petroleum products.
But the lure of pads and pens and prose remains.
I do like "organic richness". I can feel that.
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