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November 9, 2001/Cheshvan 23, 5762, Vol. 54, No. 9
Right on, write on, America
VICKI CABOT
Contributing Editor
In a symbolic act of defiance, I went shopping. I wasn't moved by an impulse to splurge as a show of confidence in the American future. I didn't succumb to the faulty rationale of pumping precious disposable income into the faltering economy as a brave show of patriotism. I wasn't in search of the latest leather boots for fall or a new turkey roaster for the holiday or the perfect gift for the perfect somebody.
No, I went shopping for stationery. And not just any would do. I wanted stationery de luxe, thick creamy sheets of rich vellum, satiny to the touch, the gloss punctuated by my name embossed in bold letters. I wanted lined envelopes to match, in a deep sky blue or rich ochre traditional paisley print or a sprightly geometric. I wanted my return address imprinted on the flap, a gentle reminder to the recipient that yes, the favor of a reply is requested or at least would be nice.
I like to get mail. In fact, I love to get mail. And that was the point of my excursion and my urgent need to indulge.
The mad anthrax scare has infused the act of sending and receiving mail with newfound danger. Now just opening a letter can release fatal disease-causing bacteria, threatening not only the unlucky recipient but countless others.
Ever since the Continental Congress saw fit to appoint Benjamin Franklin the first postmaster general in 1775, mail delivery has been a constant of everyday life. Now the daily pile of letters and bills and advertising fliers stuffed in our mailboxes may pose a risk.
Yes, I know, we have manifold technological devices that don't present the threat of exposure to deadly disease. Cell phones, e-mail and faxes make our world increasingly smaller, our communication ever faster, even if our connectedness becomes more circumscribed. And who does not get a little thrill, a la Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, at those three little words, "You've got mail," when signing on online?
And yet, there is still a small shiver of pleasure in opening the mailbox and finding a hand-addressed envelope. Maybe it's a thank you note, or a letter of congratulations, or a scribbled note. I open those first. The writing paper, the words, the script, convey sentiments in a way that e-mail just doesn't. The personality of the writer comes through, as does the esteem imparted by the very act of taking time to put pen to paper.
I recall the sheer delight of ripping open a birthday note from an elderly grandparent, knowing there would be a carefully pressed $5 bill inside. I remember the flurry of excitement of opening a letter of college admission, after assessing first whether its thickness was a sign of acceptance or rejection. I treasure the comfort of receiving a condolence note recounting memories of a loved one, to be read and reread, again and again.
So even as "anthrax" has become a part of our daily lexicon and I resolve to heed the advice of the post office to put aside any suspicious looking envelopes, I refuse to write off the U.S. mail.
Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night will stay the couriers. And neither will terrorists, intent on disrupting the normal course of our lives, stay my pleasure in anticipating their daily visit to my mailbox.
No Dear John to the postal service from me.
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