Letters

Letter writing, as a form of communication, has been relegated to the list of lost arts. People don't write to each other any more, they just talk. Some folks feel that we are poorer for this development.

Well, I think that the main reason people used to write so many letters is that they couldn't talk to each other. There were no telephones and transportation was such that getting together for lunch with a friend from, say, San Jose, was a major undertaking. Phoning is easier and cheaper.

But, letter writing does have its advantages; you can plan out in advance what you want to say; you can scratch something out, back up and start over again; and most importantly, you don't have to look the other person in the eye while talking to them. Its remoteness is, perhaps, the letters most attractive feature.

A letter can be the paper equivalent of digging your toe into the rug and avoiding eye contact while you deliver the bad news. Of course, the best way to avoid delivering the bad news at all is to just not write the letter in the first place. And while you're at it, don't phone either.

It certainly can eliminate a lot of unpleasantness. Very few people like to be the bearer of bad tidings (just meter maids and tax auditors). So, complete avoidance of the situation is the best of all worlds.

Of course letter writing requires more effort than picking up the phone, so, in our hectic, stressful, and suspicious Civilization, letters disappears.

I'm as guilty as the next person here. I just don't write letters very often. Hell, sometimes I get too out of it to even send Christmas cards. I'm from the Midwest and not sending Christmas cards is as bad as... moving to California.

If you skip Christmas cards for even one year the Family starts scanning the obituaries to see if you pop up in the "Out of Town Deaths" section. And then after three years of no cards they hold services and toss a wreath out into the nearest lake.

At least in my Family I'm not the only one who falls down in the communications area. Even when we lived next door to each other we wouldn't keep in touch. I have two cousins I never knew about until they were teenagers. Even then I only learned about them from the Police report. The little bastards had stripped my car. Family meant nothing to them.

Over time, because of this communications failure and also, maybe with the constant feuding between Fathers and Sons, Mothers and Daughters, Plaintiffs and Defendants, we have drifted apart. Relationships strain, connections break and finally interest disappears.

The cliche is wrong: absence does not make the heart grow fonder. It becomes a case of, "Out of sight, out of heart". And the longer the connection is broken the harder it gets to re-establish. The reasons, if any, for the separation fade from memory and may be replaced with phantom memories of some insult, slight or shadowy injury.

Time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes it creates them. "Why hasn't he written? He must be angry about (fill in the blank). " (Other person) "He hasn't written for so long. He must be angry about (fill in the blank)." (First voice) "Well if that's the way he feels, to Hell with him." (Second voice) "The jerk, who needs him?" And so it goes, on and on, over the years until you don't even know if the other person is alive or dead.

Now, as I've admitted already, my Family and I tend to be this way. It shows us to be a stubborn, petulant and, arguably, pretty damn dumb lot. But that doesn't excuse it. That doesn't make reconnection any easier and it doesn't make the pain any less real.

Things can happen and you don't even know about them. For example: my Mother died and I didn't find out about it for about six months. Doesn't that kick it?

My brother and I haven't had much contact for about twenty years. Why? I don't know. I'm here, he's there, we're both... members of this Family that does things like this.

And our Mother, who was in a nursing home back in Virginia (three miles from my brother's house, he added parenthetically), had a renal failure and died.

Six months later an aunt of mine in Cleveland wrote (a rare occurrence) and told me about it. The details aren't important anymore.

That was quite a few years ago. The mourning is done. The anger has cooled. The pain has been put on the shelf with the other pains that come from living.

I know what I should do. I know what he should do. But knowing what to do and doing it are two different things entirely.

Oh well, so I don't know when my Mother died. What's more important is that I know when she lived, and what she did while she lived. And that I do know.

We don't write letters any more. We could, but we don't. And I do think that we are the poorer for it. Not writing makes it too easy to just forget that we are not here alone, that we are connected to other people and they to us.



				Letters

			Letter writing, as a form of communication, has been relegated to the list of lost arts. People don't write to each other any more, they just talk. Some folks feel that we are poorer for this development. Well, I think that the main reason people used to write so many letters is that they couldn't talk to each other. There were no telephones and transportation was such that getting together for lunch with a friend from, say, San Jose, was a major undertaking. Phoning is easier and cheaper. But, letter writing does have its advantages; you can plan out in advance what you want to say; you can scratch something out, back up and start over again; and most importantly, you don't have to look the other person in the eye while talking to them. Its remoteness is, perhaps, the letters most attractive feature. A letter can be the paper equivalent of digging your toe into the rug and avoiding eye contact while you deliver the bad news. Of course, the best way to avoid delivering the bad news at all is to just not write the letter in the first place. And while you're at it, don't phone either. It certainly can eliminate a lot of unpleasantness. Very few people like to be the bearer of bad tidings (just meter maids and tax auditors). So, complete avoidance of the situation is the best of all worlds. Of course letter writing requires more effort than picking up the phone, so, in our hectic, stressful, and suspicious Civilization, letters disappears. I'm as guilty as the next person here. I just don't write letters very often. Hell, sometimes I get too out of it to even send Christmas cards. I'm from the Midwest and not sending Christmas cards is as bad as... moving to California. If you skip Christmas cards for even one year the Family starts scanning the obituaries to see if you pop up in the "Out of Town Deaths" section. And then after three years of no cards they hold services and toss a wreath out into the nearest lake. At least in my Family I'm not the only one who falls down in the communications area. Even when we lived next door to each other we wouldn't keep in touch. I have two cousins I never knew about until they were teenagers. Even then I only learned about them from the Police report. The little bastards had stripped my car. Family meant nothing to them. Over time, because of this communications failure and also, maybe with the constant feuding between Fathers and Sons, Mothers and Daughters, Plaintiffs and Defendants, we have drifted apart. Relationships strain, connections break and finally interest disappears. The cliche is wrong: absence does not make the heart grow fonder. It becomes a case of, "Out of sight, out of heart". And the longer the connection is broken the harder it gets to re-establish. The reasons, if any, for the separation fade from memory and may be replaced with phantom memories of some insult, slight or shadowy injury. Time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes it creates them. "Why hasn't he written? He must be angry about (fill in the blank). " (Other person) "He hasn't written for so long. He must be angry about (fill in the blank)." (First voice) "Well if that's the way he feels, to Hell with him." (Second voice) "The jerk, who needs him?" And so it goes, on and on, over the years until you don't even know if the other person is alive or dead. Now, as I've admitted already, my Family and I tend to be this way. It shows us to be a stubborn, petulant and, arguably, pretty damn dumb lot. But that doesn't excuse it. That doesn't make reconnection any easier and it doesn't make the pain any less real. Things can happen and you don't even know about them. For example: my Mother died and I didn't find out about it for about six months. Doesn't that kick it? My brother and I haven't had much contact for about twenty years. Why? I don't know. I'm here, he's there, we're both... members of this Family that does things like this. And our Mother, who was in a nursing home back in Virginia (three miles from my brother's house, he added parenthetically), had a renal failure and died. Six months later an aunt of mine in Cleveland wrote (a rare occurrence) and told me about it. The details aren't important anymore. That was quite a few years ago. The mourning is done. The anger has cooled. The pain has been put on the shelf with the other pains that come from living. But my brother and I still haven't talked or written. And that is sad, isn't it? I know what I should do. I know what he should do. But knowing what to do and doing it are two different things entirely. It's like juggling. I know how to juggle. I really do. But I can't do it. Oh well, so I don't know when my Mother died. What's more important is that I know when she lived, and what she did while she lived. And that I do know. We don't write letters any more. We could, but we don't. And I do think that we are the poorer for it. Not writing makes it too easy to just forget that we are not here alone, that we are connected to other people and they to us. I'm sad that I have forgotten this. I have injured myself, and that is stupid.