Last Sunday, before Heather left for the last time, we went to a few open houses near my apartment. They were all either very very small, very very dark, or very very expensive. Dark and expensive don’t work for me so if I want to buy an apartment, it will have to be small.
I have a lot of junk that I saved up over the past 15 years, including a library that has long since overflown the available shelves. To fit into a small apartment, I will need to shed some of my possessions, and since I will not part with a single book, it’ll have to be all the other junk.
I spent a few hours today throwing out credit card statements, receipts and other once important documents that I have saved since 1992. Most are neatly filed away in white plastic binders, the way that I learned to file at MoFo. But the oldest were stored in hanging files. I dumped 25 pounds of paper in the recycling.
Also stuffed away in those hanging files are letters I received from friends and family from 1990 until about 1998, when e-mail finally killed the personal letter. The earliest are all handwritten, often on colorful stationery. By the mid-90s, many were printed on a computer.
My efforts at throwing things away quickly ebbed as I read some of these old letters. There’s just something about the feel of the old paper, the scribbles and scratches and emotion conveyed by a handwritten note. Reading a letter from Alia–my college girlfriend–about our decision not to stay together brought back all the pain and agony like it was only yesterday. Reading a letter from Eric discussing the end of his two-plus year crush on T**** reminded me of the joy of having a friend for over 20 years, and brought back all the feelings of sadness and betrayal at it ending. Reading letters from women too beautiful to ever be interested in me confessing–when I had, of course, safely moved away–of how much they had longed to date me brought back that empty stomach and pointless cursing from when I first read those words.
So many old friends, so many lost opportunities.
I just don’t think an e-mail could bring back those kind of feelings. The written word is powerful, but to see it written by hand on a piece of paper somehow brings the words to life.
I can’t remember the last time I received a letter in the mail. It was something so special, to check the post box knowing there was a chance of finding a little love from a friend or family member sandwiched between the junk mail.
So in tribute, here are a few quotes.
Uncle Jim took your grandfather to an adult day care center last week to see how he’d like it. He hated it. Jim said he kept asking about grandmom. Jim thinks he wanted to complain to somebody about the way he was being treated. Jim plans to take him there again this week. It will be a good test of his memory. If he begins to protest as he sees the building, that will be a good sign.
22 July 1993, from JoeI’m still stationed in the Golan Heights as a boring public relations secretary… in the evening when I walk or jog, the hyenas yelling is so clear that it seems they’re only a few meters behind me. Usually I’m not scared, but I’ll admit to breaking into a (slightly panicky) jog or run back to the base once or twice… I’m sure you’ve heard of the "almost war" we had with Lebanon. The Katyusha missiles didn’t fall in my area, but the sound of their coming in contact with the ground could be heard very close by. I also broke into a (slightly panicky) jog or run when I heard the missiles falling during a few mornings.
12 August 1993, from JasmineRule #7 from Parenting a College Freshman: "Do not tell your student these are the best years of their lives." So far we still hear all that positive enthusiasm and excitement in your voice. I envy the philosophy courses, your a cappella group, the architectural surroundings, the thrill of all the new experiences, the rush of new freedoms. So no midterm exams (yet), no all nighters (yet), you and your roommate keep a socially appropriate distance… let’s face it: rule number seven is for November after procrastination has built up and there’s been seven straight days of gray, biting weather and you’ve missed the bus three mornings in a row. Then you’ll know that these are not the best years of your life, because life has got to get better!
16 October 1992, from MomI made a wondrous discovery today. The Spanish know about peas in pods. "Big deal," you say. You see, the Germans didn’t know. They thought that peas only came out of boxes or cans. Today I went to the Farmer’s Market, filled with fat 50-year-old women selling their eggs, lettuce, carrots, cheese, an occasional live chicken, and peas to other fat 50-year-old women. Since they’re all Spanish, it was picturesque rather than a little revolting.
6 June 1991, from ChanelI spent the weekend in Martha’s Vineyard at Ethan’s smelly hovel which he shares with two other sweaty beer drinkers. As you might well imagine, I spent Friday night puking my very soul onto the dirt road about 50 yards past Ethan’s place. Foaming torrents. So Saturday was not exactly easy, but lying in the sun on the beach certainly wasn’t too trying. The only problem is that I am now the color of a lobster. Today at work, my sunburn started itching so bad that I had to sprint to CVS and buy this foaming shit which doesn’t do anything and I was clawing at myself like a plague-stricken infidel for the next hour. It’s better now. A little slice of Duane’s life for your chewing satisfaction.
24 July 1995, from Eric