Half of the holiday cards I’ve gotten this year are obviously part of a Hallmark pack that someone signed, addressed and mailed. A quarter of the rest are printed in some fashion — some bear no sign of ever having been touched by human hands before I opened the envelope.
It’s the thought that counts, I suppose: the fact that someone was willing to add your name to their mailing list means that they thought about you at some point, I suppose. But it does seem that holiday cards, and letter writing as a whole, are dying out.
I’m fighting it tooth and nail. I design my own cards, handwrite lengthy messages and use my best handwriting to address each envelope. All I want in return is a couple of nice, long, newsy pieces of mail. People seem to think it’s weird, but, while I adore the fast nature of email, I also like knowing that someone took time out of their day to write to me. Just finding a letter in my mailbox is enough to make my day.
I only have one real pen pal at this point — my seventy-something grandmother. I write letters to cousins, sisters and various other relatives and routinely get phone calls or emails in reply. I’m also the only family member who sympathizes with Grandma’s mutterings about grandchildren who don’t send thank you notes. While other relatives may not care so much, I think that it’s only right to acknowledge a gift in writing.
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