I’ve always been an avid letter writer. I’m not going to post an actual letter here, because for me they are very personal and directed to one person only. I don’t know where it all started. I remember, as a child feeling so excited when letters addressed to me popped through the letter box. We used to collect the stamps as well as my Uncle Doug lived in Malawi and traveled all over the place, as did my Nan Elton when she retired.
When Doug became ill with Parkinson’s and had to got into a Nursing Home I used to write a monthly letter to him, just small snippets, chatty conversation, as it was difficult for him to chat on the phone. I didn’t receive any letters back in return but that wasn’t the point.
Before Simon and I started living together we wrote to each other every day. Yes, every day. And when I was sorting through my mum and dad’s stuff last month I came across a boxful of letters from the two years before they got married, between 1955-1957. I did start to read them, but it felt a little intrusive.
I’ve written letters to my stepsons when they have lost someone very close to them, and all so young, too young to go through that grieving process but I’m told that it helped them.
And I write regular letters to my grandson and granddaughter and have done since moving here to Italy in 2007. I include photo’s of us and the animals to share and also copies of the letters and drawings received from a girl I sponsor in Machu Pichu. I began to sponsor her when Caitlin was born and feel it’s important that my granddaughter knows that she has a gifted life, that everyone isn’t as lucky as her. I hope to take her to visit Maria when they both reach eighteen, they were born within days of one another.
Letter writing is one of those activities that have lost their place in life especially with the advent of social media. My grandchildren would much prefer to message over Facebook or send me photo’s on Instagram. It’s much more instant I know but I prefer the old fashioned pen and paper myself.
Ciao for now,