Snail Mail: My Favorite Pastime

I started writing letters when I was in 2nd grade. 

I had a crooked smile back then. But believe me,

this was a great improvement from my 1 year old smile.

Side note: This necklace was from my Grandma, and I still wear it today.

My best friend at the time, Aimee Diehl, wrote letters.  

We had the same name, spelled it the same way (a rarity),

played on the same soccer team, and were both blondes.
She was about 6 months older than me. . .

. . .and I wanted to be just like her.

So we wrote letters to each other.  TONS of letters to each other.

  Our friendship was short-lived.  

I was abruptly replaced the next soccer season
with the likes of a Jenny something-or-other.

But the letter-writing stuck. 

This is me in 3rd grade.

Gotta love the school uniform/pigtail action happening here.

I quickly found other friends to write to: 
soccer friends, friends from school, and family.

JoAnna, Alison, Jessica & I. 1994.

Oh, and I have a huge family.

McMahon family reunion. 1985.

Cronin/Egan/McMahon cousins. 1986.

And with most of them on the east coast, it was the perfect way to stay connected.

My aunts, uncles, cousins, ANY and EVERYONE who would write to me. . .

. . . I wrote to them.

My Grandma thought it was a hoot. 

And I’m pretty sure that is the term she would use too. 

This is my Grandma. Snazzy glasses Gram.

Letter writing was the beginning of a beautiful gift. 

A gift to me. . .

. . .and a gift to the people I cared about.

So, thank you Aimee Diehl. . .
. . . I owe you big time.


I wrote up to 10 letters a day, sometimes more.

 And if you read my Father’s Day Post, you’d know,

I was happily encouraged and financially supported in this endeavor.
My mom bought me beautiful stationary,
and my dad did the legwork with postage and delivery.

I can only imagine how much postage my parents purchased over the years. 

I knew the mailman by name. George.

My mom gave me this book, and I loved it.

And he knew me by name too.

I was an eager little girl who lingered on the front porch mid-afternoon,
 awaiting the delivery of the days precious gifts. 

And more often than not, there were gifts to be had. 

He was a nice postman. 

He would listen to stories of my pen pals and my pets. . .

Brian and I with our cat, Muffin, aka Muffy. 1986.

Brian and I with Sadie, our golden retriever pup. 1988.

. . .and I would get him a cold glass of water on hot Summer days. 

It was a quick stop, but always a pleasant one. 

My enthusiasm was no secret.

I would immediately go into my bedroom, carefully open the envelope(s)
and read the words with the corners of my mouth turned up into a grin.

The words, written days earlier, still fresh, brand-new to me.  

The enjoyment I got out of it was endless.

And I was always quick to reciprocate the favor. . .
. . . more often that not, immediately taking out my pen and paper,
newly received letter in hand, and write back.

I answered all their questions, and even ones they didn't ask.
And then I asked questions of my own.


 My Dad once told me that letter-writing was a selfish act.
And at the time, I took offense to his comment.
 I genuinely cared about the people I wrote to. Later, I realized what he meant.
That I wanted to give, only to receive in return.
And that was true.

Letter-writing was not satisfying unless there was
an active participant on the other end.
Something to look forward to.  Something for the two of you to share.
 An intimate exchange of words. Feelings. 
A part of you is sent off and a message received.
However simple or complex it may be.

I've saved every letter I ever got.

Every. One.

Which I realize is somewhat impractical,

but how can I possibly get rid of that which I held so dear.

OK, but I promise I am not eligible to be on an episode of hoarders. 

I keep them neatly in two large totes in my garage.

Every once and a while I’ll sift through them, and it brings me back every time.
The crooked penmanship of my grade school friends on Hello Kitty stationary.
My Uncle John’s fancy cursive on lined paper,
and the sweet poems he wrote to me. 
The colorful doodling on envelopes from my friend, Carrie. 
I remember taking great care in such things.

Writing gave me a place to store my thoughts and offered clarity.

Now, looking back, I wish I could read what I wrote.

Letters to my Grandma. 

My Grandma and I at my Uncle Jimmy & Aunt Ellen's wedding. 1990.

Letters to cousins.

Me with my cousins, Shaun and Erin Cronin. Block Island, 1996.

Letters to dear friends. 

High school friends on our grad trip to Hawaii. 2000. 

Letters to a boy I met at Summer camp.

Scotty & I. 1998. This picture makes me smile.

We had pretty big crushes on each other.

 I wish that when you sent a letter off, you got to keep a carbon copy. . . 

  . . . capturing where you were in that moment of your life, with that person.  

I guess that is what email offers us now. 

And I am guilty of resorting to this modern convenience,

the action less sentimental than its former counterpart.

What was once ink to a pretty page,

is now fingers to a keyboard, plucking away as words populate on a white screen,

and are delivered by simply clicking the send button.

The delivery immediate.

The response within minutes. Hours.

Versus days. Months.

Now-a-days, it's rare that I send out a hand written note. 

And it is even more rarely received. . .

. . . dwindling to just birthday cards, season’s greetings, and thank you’s. 

But there is something to be said for the patience of snail mail.

Simple, handwritten notes.

Sealed envelopes and licked stamps. The smell of paper in transit.

Slipping an envelope into that blue metal box. . .

 . . . and the surprise and delight of someone receiving it on the other end. 

The corners of the envelope now crinkled, turned up, 

and the ink on the page transmitting something felt miles away.