I should probably use this prompt to go off on a tangent. There are many controversial subjects itching at my fingertips, but instead, I’m gonna write about this:

The handwritten note.

I remember in fourth grade, our entire class had pen pals. They lived in San Bernardino, California. Mine was a boy….I think his name was Derek. It could just as easily have been Daniel. Or David. Or Eric. Or Steve. Who knows, the letters are long gone but I remember wanting to continue writing after we finished our required number of correspondence. Of course we didn’t. He was game, but somebody has to take initiative and no doubt, I had a horse to brush or a book to read. I wonder what ever happened to him. Where our lives have taken us since those long ago carefree days. He could be a firefighter or a lawyer or a park ranger. He could be pouring asphalt or working on cars or cutting up asparagus.
He could have a houseful of kids or maybe he’s in prison for beating his wife. He could be a jewelry maker or living under a bridge. He could be living in Portugal or Paris, or maybe even East Tennessee. It’s untelling. And he could be gone already.

I’m a big believer in thank you notes. And I still owe a few. If you’ve ever received one from me, you probably had to decipher it the best you could, as I am not known for my fine penmanship. I’ve been told I missed my calling as a doctor (by my nurse friends, who would know). But I love writing them. I have a whole drawer full. And of course, my famous wax seals for the finishing touch. I’m not elegant, but my letters are! I got the idea from the only pen pal I have now, Miss Cheryl.

I met her, as I have so many, through the Co-op. I knew her husband first, as he called on me for herbicide expertise. We got some vicious plants in these here hollers. They were from arid Texas, where you can’t hardly get stuff to grow, and you definitely don’t want to kill what you do got. So Tennessee has been a bit of a challenge. But I know the correct ratio of methyl ethyl bad shit to kill it dry as the Mojave (and there is an herbicide by that name, it’s the knockoff of Sahara) and so I became somewhat invaluable to him. I called him LA, for Lower Alabama, except neither of us can recall why nowadays. But lemme tell you, his wife is fabulous. We share a similar taste in jewelry and books and love of travel. Needless to say, we always have plenty to talk about….or write to each other about. I owe her a note presently, as a matter of fact. She always makes a point to attend book club when she’s in town, and she fit right into our little group like a round peg. What’s not to love about someone who adores books and writes letters?

Dear friends and followers,

I hope this post has found you well. Perhaps it has persuaded you to head out to your local pharmacy for some nice cards and a pack or two of stickers. I encourage you to drop a line to someone who’s on your mind. I bet they’ll remember it much longer than they would a text (although those are nice, too). If you don’t have anyone worthy of a stamp, maybe think about a soldier or a kid at St. Jude. Never underestimate the power of the written word. They will endure when we are only dust, because life is but a vapor.

Farewell,

Amy of Appalachia