Exactly two years ago, I turned the key to our P.O. box in Maine and discovered, to my delight, a stash of handwritten envelopes with return addresses I didn’t recognize. I’d asked readers to write to me… and you did! I received over a dozen hand-scrawled letters and cards, postmarked from Canada, Mexico, and across the U.S., some short, some longer, a few from subscribers I know, but most from those I don’t.
Are you up for letter writing again? Remember, I promise to write back. Maybe it will take your mind off the unrelenting heat, in Europe, in parts of the U.S., and elsewhere. Scroll to the bottom for my mailing address.
I recently rediscovered a trove of love letters from my husband, written during the summer holidays of our college years. They were sent over 50 years ago when we were young and newly in love. His handwriting was atrocious, barely decipherable then, and still a spiky scrawl today. I love its familiarity—a reminder that I’m still in love with this man.
Somehow these missives have survived storage in a handful of damp basements. I only thought about them recently when I was discussing with my editor Erin Shetron how I wanted to write a short post about the appeal of handwritten letters, so infrequent these days.
Inspired by our conversation, I crawled into our cellar here on the coast of Maine and found the ones from Sam in a small box labeled “Private.”
It’s not the first time I’ve laid eyes on these letters, but it was still remarkable to handle these envelopes again; they’re a tiny, tangible reminder of our half-a-century love story (yes, with its ups and downs and permutations). I did read through a handful of the letters, or I tried, given Sam’s penmanship. Many are travelogues sent while he was touring around Europe. They’re not especially poetic; there’s an “I love you” thrown in now and then.
That very much fits with the Sam of today. He’s not exactly sentimental, but he’s wonderfully steady, pragmatic, and caring, just like these letters. That’s really the thing about letters, actually. It’s often not the specific words that matter.
More recently, I received, somewhat to my surprise, a handful of written condolence notes after my father’s death in late May 2024. Some are perfunctory, a quick note on the inside of a card, but others are truly meaningful, a memory or anecdote about my dad captured by the letter writer. I treasured these words about my late father, rereading them at least twice. But I was equally struck by the care and effort it took to write each one of these notes, procure a stamp, and send it.
You could say I’ve been swept up in nostalgia around letter writing. Professing love, describing the weather… it doesn’t matter. It’s the act of handwriting, then the effort of finding an envelope, the snail mail address, and a stamp–and carrying the missive to the post office or a post box–that makes them so special.
If you feel inspired, might you write a letter or card to someone in your life this summer? If you need a little practice, or you feel so inclined, write to me as well. I would love to get a letter or postcard from you! I promise to write back (even if it takes me several weeks).
Lengthy, existential messages to me or anyone else are not required. Tell us where you are in the world, what the weather is (heat waves for you??), and one thing you’re loving during these slower months.
Here’s where to reach me via snail mail:
Debbie Weil
P.O. Box 786
Stonington, ME 04681
USA
In a discussion post last week about the childhood mementos my mother saved, to my great surprise, I mentioned the many letters I wrote my parents, while away at camp, at boarding school, and as a new mother, still hungering for a career as a journalist.
Be sure to read the heartfelt comments on this one, from readers with similar experiences—and mixed emotions—when they stumbled on childhood keepsakes.
Do you still write and send postcards or letters?
Do you keep letters sent to you?
What about other mementos, either from your own childhood, or that of your children?
In [B]old Age, I write about the bittersweetness of old age, from the blessings to the bullshit. Paid subscribers are supporting my work and can read my revealing Personal Essays and my popular Q&As with [B]old Women.
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