Phoning It In ... Or Not

A few weeks ago, in the run-up to the most recent phone call between President Biden and Russian President Putin, NPR host Scott Simon commented that it almost seems unusual for people to make phone calls any more ... with the advent of smart phones, they text or send typed messages using any number of communication apps that dispense with the need actually to talk to someone.

It used to be said that nobody wrote letters any more, they made phone calls. Now, we've come ... well, maybe not full-circle, but at least part circle ... people still use their phones, they just use them to  ... write.

As many of you have cause to know, I enjoy writing personal letters to my friends. I like the immediacy of phone calls, too (as many of you also know), but there's a relative permanence to a letter that goes beyond the few minutes of the phone call. A letter can be tucked away to be read again later, a physical reminder of the depth of friendship and love that inspired someone to organize their thoughts, turn them into permanent marks on a page, and then pay the going first-class mail rate (58 cents per ounce as of today*) to send them. In the words of comedian Paula Poundstone,

“I enjoy writing letters to people that I love. I choose the stamps carefully. I put the envelope, or postcard, in the mailbox myself, so I can actually feel a little piece of my heart go with it."

People love to receive letters, although very few people love to actually write them. Our friend Marcel in Switzerland wrote back in his response to my Christmas letter, 

Die Schreiebkunst von Bill, die werde ich nie erreichen, dazu fehlen mir die Ausdauer und die Ideen. ("I'll never reach Bill's level of writing ... I lack both the endurance and the ideas.")

Over the course of the last month, I sent out more than 30 Christmas letters to family and selected friends. These letters, because of their sheer number, are the only personal letters I routinely type. I begin with a letter to my long-time friend Toni**, who always wants to know absolutely everything that has happened, then edit that master letter for each other recipient, depending on what I think they'd be interested in. I also write a version of the letter for our German-speaking friends (which is dutifully edited by Agnes to clean up my errors of grammar, spelling, and expression). In response, we received two letters which were actually original (from Marcel in Switzerland and from our friend Martina in Germany), as opposed to the generic Christmas letter most people send. Several other friends sent generic letters, but added hand-written extra comments.

Now, I'm not complaining, even though it may sound like it. I enjoy writing more than most people, and - being retired - I have the time to indulge it. If I write to you and you don't write back, that's okay ... I accept phone calls and e-mails and SMS's, if with a sigh. But I enjoy getting something other than bulk mail in the old mailbox, too.

Someday, my great-grandchildren and their children and grandchildren may want to learn more about that old guy named Bilbo who lived through interesting times*** and had a good life full of luck, fun, friends, and adventure. I like to think that the letters and the journals I leave behind will let them know about me, warts and all.

Have a good day. If you would like to have a personal, handwritten letter to liven up your mailbox, e-mail or PM me your mailing address. If nothing else, we can raise a paper finger together to Louis DeJoy before he finishes dismantling the postal system.

More thoughts coming. 

Bilbo

* Which is actually not a bad deal when you think about it ... how much would it cost you to travel there yourself to deliver 58 cents worth of information?

** We met 42 years ago at the baggage carousel in the Montgomery, Alabama, airport as we arrived to attend the Air Force's Squadron Officers' School. We have not laid eyes on each other a single time since the early 1980s, but keep our friendship alive via the annual Christmas letters.

*** That's supposed to be a Chinese curse, although it really isn't.