The joy of getting a real letter

Do you remember the last time you received a real letter? One whose salutation began with “Dear,” written in cursive on attractive stationary, the envelope lined with pretty colored paper?

The sender often went to extra trouble to make sure the stamp was in harmony with the design of the stationery and the color of the envelope. Flowing strokes of the cursive writing gave an air of special import to the message it contained.

When my paternal grandmother stayed with us during my childhood, it was exciting to hear the mailman coming up the steps. “Another letter for Mrs. J.” She would fix a cup of tea and take the letter into the privacy of her room, to read. What could her correspondents, her friends, my uncles and aunts be telling her?

We don't write letters like that anymore. Mostly, we post bits and pieces on social media, with pictures of a fleeting moment or special occasion.

She would emerge from her chamber with an air of secret knowledge — she knew something, and I didn't! I wished that I would receive letters with secrets in them.

Years later after my grandmother died, I inherited her books and old correspondence. I found some of these letters. There was certainly an exchange of unspoken, well-written criticism about the state of my parent's marriage, who was to blame for what, and what was to become of it all? I wonder why my grandmother so carefully saved those letters. To prove herself right? Did she intend for them to fall into my hands? Perhaps so.

My Uncle Lazlo, my paternal grandmother's first son, was another one who saved old letters and kept secrets. Yes, I inherited his books and papers, as well.

It was in1938 that he impregnated the woman who was later to become his wife, and my

Aunt Irene. Irene was vivacious, an intellectual, a feminist, and would lose her job if it became known that she was pregnant and unmarred. She fled to Canada for a year as an exchange teacher. My uncle stayed in California. Their almost daily correspondence tells the story of the abortion that was arranged, their hopes for the life they would have together in a couple of years, and her disappointment that he didn't send flowers as she recovered from the procedure.

We don't write letters like that anymore. Mostly, we post bits and pieces on social media, with pictures of a fleeting moment or special occasion. Where is the story behind the story behind the captioned picture? It's getting so that I skip over these

posts. There are too many, and frankly, they are often boring. Do I really care what your steak looked like? Clearly, they do not tell me what is in your heart.

I am not that special person you have chosen to share your most tender, willful or aggressive thoughts with. I am a person on your contact list, which is, after all a special designation, but not enough for me.

I want a real letter, delivered by the post person who says, “Another letter for Mrs. J!” After I have read your letter, my tea being finished, I will think about what you have told me, so that I may write you a real letter a sharing, connecting, true letter in response.

On my part, I will keep your letters to me. I will tie them with a blue silk ribbon. They will go in a shoe box for safekeeping. It will be no surprise if one day our grandchildren come upon them. They will hear our voices, laughter and tears, good things, bad things, all that made up our lives. They will get to know and remember us all because we decided to write real letters.

Valerie Jelenfy Stilson is a San Rafael resident. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of life experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij. com. Please write “How It

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