The other day I received a letter in the mail. A physical letter, that is. With no fanfare, it stood out from the rest of the mail. It was hand addressed, and turning the creamy white envelope over, I recognized the name of an old buddy printed on the back. It was the kind of letter that glints like a fleck of gold in a prospector’s pan.
Opening it, which called for a brass letter opener rather than my usual rushed tear, I found his handwritten note on a single sheet of paper that matched the envelope. He wrote to thank me for an unexpected gift I had sent. He explained how much he and his wife liked it, and how they were already putting it to use.
What impressed me was not the content of his thank-you note, but how he made it. It was beautiful.
His handwriting is a mixture of printing and cursive, a kind of script you’d expect from the practiced hand of an architect or cartoonist, conveying comfort and whimsy. What was more, it was written with a fountain pen, which I recognized due to its thick downstrokes and thinner horizontal strokes. The ink was dark blue—most likely, I realized, Levenger Cobalt Blue Ink, as I knew my friend had lots of Levenger gear in his home office.
His sentences ran to the northeast on the page, natural for a right hander, but nostalgic to my eyes now so accustomed to the perfectly horizontal lines of text on screens. Holding his note in my hands, I realized I’d become lazy.
I haven’t been sending notes out lately. I’ve let my fountain pens gather dust, neglected in their holders on my desk.
I picked up my Tortoise True Writer and unscrewed the cap. It was a medium point. I then unscrewed its barrel to find a Cobalt Blue cartridge still installed. Knowing it wouldn’t write without some priming, I picked up a bottle of Cobalt Blue ink, unscrewed its cap, and dipped the dry nib of my fountain pen inside. I knew the dip would give me a few sentences until more ink would be coaxed from the sleepy cartridge inside the barrel.
I penned a note back to my friend. A thank-you note for a thank-you note. I thanked him for taking me by the hand, helping me back aboard the old ship where we, and our predecessors before us, knew something about virtual hugs. Our grandparents knew you could hug someone at great distances by the act of writing by hand on a piece of paper that would carry your friendship many miles, until your friend would hold the very same piece of paper, and could read what your hands had produced for their sore eyes.
I smiled when I dropped my letter in the mailbox on the street. Slender carrier pigeons of peace, I’ll try better to let you fly.
With gratitude for your business throughout the year, and best wishes for your holiday season,
