Musings from the Mailbox

"That's all a blog is, really.  Writing one big, long letter to yourself," observed my mother.

"And then sharing it for the whole world to read," quipped my sister.

      We had come back from a walk in the rain to the mailbox which had anticlimactically produced some junk mail and a poultry magazine for my brother.  My sister had complained that no one sends her letters; my mother had attempted to remedy her sorrow by suggesting she write one to herself.

     It's a good point, about the blog.  Who's it for, really?  The blogger.  But that's ok.  If no one ever reads this big, long letter to myself except for me, at least I'm having fun writing it, and no doubt I will find in myself a flatteringly attentive cybercorrespondent.

     That said, blogging, emailing, anything computery will never hold the place in my heart of good old pen-and-ink, and a full inbox or new blog post to myself will never charm me like braving a misty January morning to walk to the mailbox and discover a letter.

     I love letters.  I love the smoky, waxy smell of my room after I've sealed a letter.  I love being able to say I have sealing wax.  Who has sealing wax?  It's really, really cool to have sealing wax.  And I love actually using a fancy letter opener.

One of the coolest letters I ever got was scented with rosewater.  I thought that only happened in nineteenth-century novels.  It was so great.  I'll have to try that sometime.

Sorry for the random rant, self.

That's ok.  I liked it.