Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels

Even in this age of high speed digital communication, I still write letters. Well, mostly typed, but always signed with a postscript note. Folded and sealed in an envelope with a handwritten address. Sometimes, I write them by hand, but my mostly illegible handwriting and uncertain spelling causes the process to be painstakingly slow. Growing up, I was always told that if you wanted to receive a letter you would have to send a letter. And I must admit, that when I send a letter to even my most “techie” friends, I always get a response through the snail-mail.

I live in the country and the walk to the mailbox is about three-hundred yards round trip. Of course the walk is much more pleasant if the weather is fair, but even in foul weather there is still a certain civility to the task. Sometimes, I arrive at the mailbox at the same time as my rural mail carrier. Al, is his name and although I know that he needs to keep a brisk pace to his route, he often affords me a minute or so of conversation.

A simple pleasure, walking down the driveway to the mailbox. The last walk I took with my dad, was to the mailbox and back. It was in the fall of the year on a fairly warm, but cloudy and gusty day. The mailbox made a familiar squeak as I opened it and withdrew the half dozen pieces of mail. As we walked back up the driveway I idly sorted through the posts.

“Anything good?” My father asked.

“No. Just junk and a bill.” I said. We walked a bit farther and then stopped for a moment to rest. “People used to write letters.” My dad said. He drew in a breath, and with an exhale of air said, “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world these days.” He took in another breath.  “No more letter writing.” Just then, a huge gust of wind put us in the midst of a whirlwind of leaves. I clutched the mail in my right hand and reached for my dad’s elbow with the other. Dad smiled, laughed a little and looked to the sky. “Somebody must agree with me.”

A short while ago, I walked down to the mailbox and pulled open the squeaky door. Resting on the top of the small stack of mail was a plain, white envelope with a familiar, but long forgotten hand writing. It was a letter from an old friend that I had not heard from in ages. A friend, that frankly, I thought was dead. I ripped the seal with my index finger as I walked. His salutation was still the same as I remembered and caused me to stop walking. “If you’re reading this – you’re still alive.” It was a four page, hand written letter and his opening paragraph started by stating that things were well with him.

Just as I read that line, a gust of wind rattled the paper. I clutched it tightly, looked to the sky – and smiled. 

Paul Gremmels is a freelance writer, essayist and a columnist. He lives with his wife, Ann, in rural Pope County.  His column is published in the Pope County Tribune on the last week of each month.  He welcomes and responds to all correspondence. He can be contacted at:
gremmels@runestone.net