Each day I waited for the postie. If his bike stopped at our letterbox, I’d run out to see if there was mail for me. Mostly I fished bills or letters for my Gran and Pop out of the letterbox. But at least once a week, there was an envelope with a funny sticker.
A letter for me!
I couldn’t wait to get back inside, so I ripped the envelope open at the letterbox. Carefully I studied each sticker before racing inside to find a grown-up to read it.
My Aunty Mary was working in New Zealand, and my special letter would arrive each week. Every letter was three pages; the first had a couple of paragraphs, followed by two pages of funny stickers with captions.
Uncle Ric’s feet made several appearances. So did various family members dressed for the races. On one, a purple sheep is captioned “Pusso with a purple coat on, doing a dance.” (Ironically, Pusso was a dog, and no, I’m not responsible for her name.)
Each week, I’d carefully paste the letter into an exercise book.
With the convenience and immediacy of e-mail, handwritten letters are mostly a thing of the past. Gone is the joy and excitement of waiting for a letter to arrive.
With a few quick taps, birthday wishes or other messages are conveyed simply without the more personal touch a letter brings. They have far less value than a physical letter. Once read, we often delete e-mails and messages or store them in a folder, never to be seen again. But a letter — they last and are read repeatedly.
My Aunty sent these letters forty-five years ago — and I still pull them out, read them and giggle.
When was the last time you sent a handwritten letter?
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Thanks for reading, Sandi xx