Dear Readers, Last week, I dropped a few cards in the mail — one for my friend Sara’s 35th birthday, one for my Valentine’s crush and one for my son, who turns 16 today, Feb. 16. As I dropped them in the outgoing mail slot, I considered how rare it’s become these days to send and receive personal mail. For me, the excitement of discovering an envelope with familiar handwriting in the stack of bills and junk mail feels almost like finding the prize in the Cracker Jack box!
In New Orleans, I performed a few times in a show called Lost Love Letters, celebrating the beauty of handwritten correspondence. There’s something uniquely intimate about ink on paper, the weight of a letter in your hands, knowing that someone took the time to sit down, form their thoughts and send them out into the world with the patience of not knowing when or if a response will be received.
I make a point to send letters to my sons often. It’s a habit I’ve formed during train rides, sitting in waiting rooms or while taking coffee at a sunny cafe. I want my kids to have pieces of their mother’s handwriting, stories and reflections, even if they don’t fully appreciate them now. My older son keeps a shoebox of the letters, cards and drawings sent to him over the years. My younger son, on the other hand, treats my cursive writing like it’s hieroglyphics and asks, “Bruh, why don’t you just text?” *cry-laugh emoji* He may not cherish my letters now, but I hope one day, when he’s older, he’ll come across them and see them as a little time capsule of love and history. I was talking with some 20-somethings recently, and they admitted they’ve never received personal mail. Not a single letter. Not even a birthday card from a grandparent with a crisp bill inside — unless it was handed to them directly. That blew my mind! When I was a kid, not only did we get birthday cards, but we also wrote endless notes to each other. Folded-up messages exchanged in school hallways, letters passed between summer camp friends…We had a whole pre-texting language of doodles and abbreviations: 2Sweet 2B 4gotten, LYLAS (love ya like a sister), and the classic ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no.’
To this day, my ability to read messy handwriting is far superior to most people I know. As a teacher, it was my superpower for grading barely legible essays. I even earned my first stand-up comedy special — a VHS tape of Paula Poundstone — by saving up Kellogg’s cereal box tops and mailing them in. Remember when mail connected us to opportunities, rewards and each other in a way that was tangible and exciting?
When I taught college students, I made them write letters — to the editor of a newspaper, to a government official, to a CEO. Many had never done it before, and some resisted at first, but in the end, they admitted it was empowering to put their thoughts into words, to send something out and know it would be read by someone on the other end.
So, as I celebrate my son’s 16th birthday, I know he might roll his eyes at another one of my letters, but one day, years from now, he’ll find one tucked away and take a moment to read it, hearing my voice through the ink on the page. Letters are pretty great like that — they wait for us. They preserve a moment in time, and they’re ready to be revisited when we need them most.
This month, I challenge you to send a handwritten note. A card, a letter, even just a quick “thinking of you.” Drop it in the mail and see what happens. You might just make someone’s whole month. And who knows? Years from now, that little ol’ note could become a keepsake they never expected to treasure.
XOXO,
Kelly Stone is an educator, comedian, mother, and author who loves the heck outta the river. She welcomes e-letters at kellystone.org or kellystonecomedy@gmail.com and adores handwritten notes and postcards via good ol’ snail mail: R das Combatentes da Grande Guerra 47, FRAC R, Aveiro, Portugal 3810-087.
