A Very Cool Form of Friendship

In the aftermath of surgery, I've treasured a pen pal's "get well" cards.

I’d never be so nostalgia-driven as to push for the revival of letter-writing. My fellow baby boomers would probably scoff at such a notion.

When I shared my delight at writing and receiving letters from my two regular correspondents, some of my friends actually chortled, confessing without a trace of shame that they hadn’t written a letter in years. Decades, even.

But I’m here to tout the benefits of a bygone form of friendship known as the pen pal. If you’ve given up on that distinctly non-digital relationship—and if you’ve forgotten how pleasurable it can be to rip open an envelope with all due impatience and greedily consume its contents—you’ve lost something precious.

Far be it from me to add another “should” to the annoying list of imperatives that fly at us oldsters from every quarter (e.g., Eat Kale, Walk 10,000 Steps A Day, Join a Club). So I’ll do what writers are endlessly exhorted to do: show, don’t tell.

A slew of handmade cards

In early April, I underwent a surgical procedure to resolve my recurrent diverticulitis. That’s the ailment Roz Chast’s mother came down with toward the end of her long life, per the beloved cartoonist’s graphic memoir, Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?

Diverticulitis. The name sounds kind of funny, its six syllables denoting an inflammatory condition that affects a small, abnormal pouch in the lower portion of the colon. The procedure all but guarantees that I’ll never have a diverticulitis attack again.

Roughly three weeks out from surgery, I’m starting to feel human again, thanks in no small measure to my friends. Their phone calls and email messages. Their good wishes. And, in the case of one super-thoughtful, astoundingly creative friend, a series of beautiful, handmade get well cards.

She (Robin) makes all kinds of art these days. Collage, mainly, including bits of text, incongruous images, and original designs in amazing colors. I’ve actually lost count, but I estimate that she has sent me about 10 cards. Not by email, not on social media, but in stamped, addressed envelopes that I’ve torn open with the ferocity of a hungry carnivore.

Robin’s cards helped to heal my innards as surely as my daily walks, which were prescribed by my surgeon as paramount to my recovery, along with time, rest, and a low-fiber diet. My body responded wonderfully to her evocative designs and the quotes she inscribed in each card.

One that moved me to tears was the following: “Friends, though absent, are still present.” – Cicero…followed by her own words: “Consider me there.”

Would I have preferred an in-person visit? Not really. Recovering from surgery can be a very private thing. At least it is for me. But imagining her here was just what I needed, and I got a healthy dose of her during the first, critical phase of my recovery.

Long, weird, and fascinating

And then there’s my other pen pal: Steve.

I used to write for a certain research and advocacy foundation, and Steve was my editor there. Once retired, he sent me a funny postcard, and that was the start of our correspondence.

Steve is a writer. The real thing. So I know what you’re thinking: Letter-writing is for writers. And you have a point. But here’s my counter-point: You might become better at writing if you wrote letters.

Now that I’m starting to feel better, I plan to respond to Steve’s most recent missive, sent in March. It won’t be easy. He’s way wittier, funnier, more acerbic, and more wide-ranging than I am.

Email is smooth and efficient, and it’s a very necessary form of communication. I’m a fan. However, a letter from Steve—or from Robin, for that matter—is uniquely rewarding. He keeps me apprised of his novel-in-progress. He shares his political rage and outrage. He encourages me to be more aware of popular music—a losing battle, but I applaud his determination (I’m a classical music junkie). Memories of past jobs, girlfriends, and bizarre interactions with friends and neighbors…they’re all in there. And I do my best to respond accordingly.

With his smart, weird writing to guide me, my letters have become less earnest and a bit less explanatory. But I realize that I can’t crawl inside his brain and grab his inimitable sense of humor or his tendency to mock my earnestness. Still, I may—just may—have become a slightly better writer, thanks to his example.

The origins of my letter-writing habit

Sometime during the war—World War II, I mean—my future mother (Nora) ran into my future aunt (Doris). Doris proceeded to tell Nora that Marv, her brother and my future father, was stationed somewhere in Alaska and would love to hear from her.

Nora and Marv had had a summer romance years earlier, when they were both counselors at the same camp. Doris knew all about it. So she gave Nora Marv’s military address, and a correspondence was born.

They fell back in love through their letters, and they got married shortly after Marv’s return in 1945. So I guess you could say that letter-writing runs in the family.

In fact, the four of us—my parents, my brother, and I—often wrote to each other to hash out our differences, express our love, or correct some misapprehension of what was truly intended during a contentious exchange at the dinner table.

As I recall these long-ago events, I realize how odd they seem. Why couldn’t we just talk it out? What possessed us to write letters to people in the next room? Somehow, writing was easier for us than talking.

Another question: How could Nora and Marv have fallen in love through letters?

Well, that has happened to me—not once but twice; the first time at age 20 and the second during my 50s.

I’ve stored my love letters from these two gentlemen in a plastic file box and stashed them in a closet. One day, I’ll retrieve and reread them for old times’ sake.

As for the “why” behind my letter-writing habit then and now, let me get back to my parents.

After their deaths roughly 35 years ago, I inherited a packet containing their wartime correspondence. But every time I’ve started reading their letters, I’ve gotten cold feet. It’s as if I’m invading their privacy. As well, their letters revealed their personalities, as I’d come to know them, in subtle, disturbing ways. Marv’s use of humor to mask his emotions. Nora’s quiet longings. Marv’s ambitions. Nora’s dream of a future as a 1950s lady of leisure, which she largely realized.

But I’ve vowed to read them soon. Who knows what treasures may lie within them? And within the letters I’ve kept from my two great loves? What will I learn about myself and the deeply romantic men who were arguably more enamored of letter-writing than they were of me?

Never mind. It’s time to write to Steve now.