Mail - July 6, 2011

I was about five years old, and I could look right out of the mail slot in our front door without standing on my tip-toes or bending over; it was perfect. Going back as early as I can remember, I would sit in the living room watching for the mailman who did his rounds on foot with his mail bag and cart. He'd stop on the front walk, gather magazines from his cart and find the appropriate envelopes in his hand, and walk up the stairs to the front porch. By the time, he was on the porch, I'd be in the front hall, waiting for the brass slot to be pushed out and mail to cascade to the carpet below. I'd gather it up to bring it to my mother. I waited for the day I'd be tall enough to look straight out of that slot. I loved watching the mailman through the slot and would dart back as the magazine would shoot through the slot.

By the time I was twelve years old, I was penpalling. I put my name in the pen-pal column of very teen magazine that had one, and before long most of the mail was for me: pink, yellow, gingham, flowered, all sorts of envelopes filled with letters and pictures from all over the country and several foreign countries. Writing letters became my passion. I had a half dozen boxes of beautiful stationary at any given time, and I'd answer each letter in the order it was received. I kept a log of things I'd done and dates I'd written each friend, so I wouldn't miss sharing a moment of my life. I loved hearing from them too. I'd never had many friends, so they became my friends.

I pen-palled through high school despite maintaining and A average, participating in lots of clubs, taking German, piano, and voice lessons. By the time I was in college, I'd lost a number of them, but there were still a half dozen I maintained. As a young mom, I looked to penpals to be my friends and confidants again. I found new ones in magazines. Every evening, as my husband worked second shift, I'd sit at the kitchen table writing letters.

But times change. We got busy. Three pen-pals remained. Then in the early 90's one of them died - cancer. Two of my old penpals still send Christmas cards - one's a facebook friend now.

I look at the pile of mail at the post office (no door slots these days - not even a mailbox by the road) and I remember the smell of a perfumed letter, the joy of seeing a picture enclosed, and the warmth of knowing a friend had come to visit.