I have years’ worth of cards and letters tucked away in boxes. Last Christmas, after carrying them from house to house for decades, I finally recycled the stacks of old Christmas cards. It felt practical at the time. Sweet greetings and family photos had served their purpose, and I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to sort through them someday.
Then this week I finished The Correspondent, and I absolutely loved it. The book turned my thoughts back to those boxes of letters I’ve kept all these years. Unlike Christmas cards, letters tell stories. They preserve my family history.
My favorites are the ones from my mom and dad. My dad had the most beautiful handwriting, steady, graceful, and unmistakably his. He rarely wrote about anything momentous. Instead, he’d fill the pages with funny stories about whatever mischief my brothers had gotten into, such as the summer my older brother went to survival camp and had to catch his own food. My Dad recounted stories of my brother cooking and eating squirrels for three weeks, he proudly brought home the pelts as a souvenir and hung them on his bedroom wall. Reading them now, I can hear his quiet humor and see the everyday life he captured without ever realizing how precious it would become.
My mother’s letters were just as wonderful but entirely her own. She delighted in telling stories as well, her pages were sprinkled with little drawings that brought every tale to life. One summer our town flooded so my Mom drew a picture of my Dad in a rowboat, oars in his hands, rowing to the office, his briefcase tucked neatly on his lap in the boat. Her letters never felt like correspondence; they felt like a visit.
Penmanship was taken very seriously in elementary school when I was a child. Each year we were given a small workbook written by Miss Kettle, with pages of lines to copy letters, words, and eventually sentences. In third grade we began writing in cursive. I loved the flow of the letters as they joined together to become words, although some letters, especially q and f, seemed strange to me. They looked nothing like their printed counterparts.
By seventh grade I had branched out and developed a style that was somewhere between cursive and printing. I had always loved my aunt’s beautiful handwriting and was determined to emulate it. Years later, as a kindergarten teacher, I came to appreciate just how important letter formation is. There is even an entire college course devoted to teaching aspiring educators how children should learn to write.
My youngest son, Stuart, attended Montessori school in Hawaii, where he learned the D’Nealian method of handwriting. I have always thought it was one of the best approaches because it bridges printing and cursive so naturally. Unfortunately, when we moved to Virginia, his kindergarten teacher wasn’t impressed. She insisted that he relearn every letter using The Palmer Method.
Stuart is a resilient person and managed to soldier on, thankfully. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether that experience helped shape his wonderful sense of humor. His artwork and writing have always contained a touch of wit and whimsy. Perhaps that was his quiet response to being told to fix something that was never broken in the first place.
Stationery was a necessity and always a welcome gift, especially if it was monogrammed. My bedroom was furnished with an antique French ladies’ writing desk, complete with tiny drawers for stamps and narrow slots for letters waiting to be answered. On the shelf above sat my grandfather’s tiny leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare beside his glass inkwell with its hinged silver lid. A small silver candleholder with an attached snuffer completed the ensemble, making the desk feel as though it belonged to Jo of Little Women.
I spent many happy hours there writing letters to friends and family. It was at that little desk that I discovered the pleasure of writing with a fountain pen. The ink flowed effortlessly across the page, turning ordinary handwriting into something that felt almost like an art form. Choosing the stationery, filling the pen, and carefully folding each finished letter into its envelope made correspondence feel less like communication and more like a cherished ritual.
When my daughter, Cece, attended college in London, she and I kept in touch the old-fashioned way. For four years, our relationship traveled across the Atlantic in envelopes. I was always on the lookout for funny or quirky cards while shopping, imagining how they might brighten her day. There was something comforting about choosing just the right one, adding a note inside, and dropping it into the mailbox. The wait for a reply was part of the experience, and each letter that arrived carried a little piece of home.
My mother faithfully marked every birthday and special occasion with a card. She understood that even a few handwritten words could make someone feel remembered and loved. I smile to see that tradition continuing with my granddaughter, Hazel, who lives in Chevy Chase. Whenever I send her a gift, she responds with a beautifully handwritten thank-you note. In a world of text messages and emails, her thoughtful notes are a reminder that the art of letter writing is not entirely lost. They are keepsakes, tucked away to be read again, each one carrying far more than ink on paper.
Those letter filled boxes no longer seem like clutter. They are a family archive preserving not just memories but personalities. The letters are priceless because the people who wrote them are no longer here. The Correspondent reminded me that letters are among the few things that allow us to hear someone’s voice long after the conversation has ended.
