I was reading the other day about Mme de Sevigne who over a period of thirty years wrote letters to her daughter living in Provence. Her letters (all 1,500 of them) detailed Parisian life, court gossip, and tidbits about the famous people of her time (17th century).  

      I couldn’t help but think about the letters I used to receive. Mother wrote (using a gold fountain pen) in a neat, straight- across- the- page, well formed writing style.  My father’s handwriting was more distinct, and I have a few of his letters which I keep merely to enjoy his strong, slanted style. Sadly, however, his handwriting is difficult to read.  My sister, who later became the keeper of the gold fountain pen, also wrote much like my mother. She also became the keeper of the family news, writing to the rest of us about who was getting married, having a baby, planning a career change, and what was served for lunch or dinner at some gathering or event. Before the time of emails, I had a friend who also wrote me delightful letters, and of course, I too am and always have been a letter-writer.  

           I now have a problem. What do I do with all these letters?  Once upon a time, I thought that I would write a book about my grandmother, my mother, and my sister and use the three to compare generational mores and matters. That was a short-lived idea, mainly because my mother died in the 1980s, and my sister and I started writing emails. I never knew my grandmother, and I’d been counting on my mother to tell me about her.

         You see, I was born late in my parents’ lives and because their letters and stories about family often had to do with their brothers and sisters, and both my father and my mother came from large families, I felt that through them, I understood life in the 19th century pretty well.

            In my state of Indiana, the teaching of cursive is no longer required in the elementary grades—something some legislators now are considering reversing.  I – the packrat that I am—still have a notebook wherein I practiced cursive writing as a child. I look at those round circles and straight up and down lines and marvel at how I finally mastered the correct forms.  The importance of good penmanship was stressed as a measure of discipline and success, and trust me, our teachers made us do it until we did it right!

            My delightful letter-writer friend now resorts to emails, and I miss her letters. I miss letters in general….and their first class status. Of course I understand the deplorable situation of the US Postal Service, now that most mailings are junk flyers and bills. Even banks and other businesses are urging everyone to “go green” and do business and banking on line. I protest. I still like the paper trail. I really am “old school.”  It’s okay. I can deal with it, and I like to buy stamps even though they’re getting expensive.

            The other day when the weather was cold and I had a good fire going, I decided to burn some letters. I grabbed a stack of the old Christmas cards with notes written in them, invitations, some family letters, and then--- and then-- I couldn’t bear to toss my mother or my father or my sister or my friend’s letters into the fire. I couldn’t. As soon as they burned, a part of me would be gone. I wasn’t ready to let them go. Once burned, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the handwriting styles on the envelopes, styles that let me know immediately upon taking them out of the mailbox from whom they were.

            I note now that when I write with a ball point pen or fountain pen (I still have one or two which I rarely use but sometime use for the novelty of it), my handwriting is all over the place. Generally I have a large—across the entire front of the envelope—style of writing, which calligraphy analysis states is a trait of creativity and determination. Perhaps so.  I find, however, that I’m not that determined, especially when it comes to dispensing with or burning these lovely personal handwritten letters.

       Other than municipal utilities and services, it’s my opinion that a good town needs a bookstore. Alas, MJ’s Bookmark, the small independent bookstore in our town, closed last year, and I’ve been a bit grumpy ever since.  I appreciate eBooks, big bookstores, and even businesses such as Amazon, but only to a point. There is something about a bookstore that nurtures the creative spirit.  I don't get that "feeling" in my supermarket where books are sold next to the produce. My friend Mary Jane, the bookstore owner, stated she could not compete with the supermarkets and big box stores where books are marked down 40%.

           I’ve witnessed four independent bookstore closings in our area. The changing world of publishing and the proliferation of electronic devices have affected bookstores as much or more than the economy. It’s unlikely any business person or investor these days would underwrite the keeping of a tiny independent bookstore open when there is little return.  There is nothing I or anyone can do about it unless I were an heiress like Ruth Lilly, who in 2002, gave the Poetry and the Poetry Foundation a staggering $100 million bequest.   Such philanthropy would be real news!

            It was 1913—one hundred years ago-- in London that Harold Munro opened the doors of his Poetry Bookshop, where Robert Frost and Ezra Pound met for the first time. I can’t help but wonder what that meeting was like. I meet interesting people in bookstores—authors, readers, browsers, poetry lovers, and people who wander in just to stand around or rest a bit.  Some are young and in love, holding hands; some are older individuals looking for a special book for a grandchild or friend. Some come to support an author friend at a book signing or to meet a celebrity writer. Some are wanabe writers, but whatever they are or whoever they are, they all appreciate the written word.   

            Unless you are famous or a celebrity, book signings can be dismal affairs—unless you’ve got a family and a group of friends who attend to support you – but even those events can be stimulating because generally in a bookstore good conversation happens.  Novelist Richard Russo stated, “To me bookstores remain places of wonder. Like libraries, they’re the physical manifestation of the world’s longest, most thrilling conversation.”  

            Russo paid homage to the shop where he fell in love with reading in an essay published in My Bookstore: Writers Celebrate Their Favorite Places to Browse, Read, and Shop.  His “shop” was Alvord & Smith, a small place in Gloversville, NY, and he writes that he doesn’t recall that it was air-conditioned, but that even on hot summer days, it seemed cool. ”His store” sold diaries, stationery, journals, pens, and high-end fountain pens in addition to books. It was there that he determined to become a writer.

            May there always be bookstores, where I will see a book and be intrigued enough to purchase it right then and there and not go home and point and click and, as Russo says, “Undermine the next generation of writers and the ones after that.”    

            When I’m in a foreign country or visiting a nearby city, there’s no more comforting spot for me than to slip into a bookstore where I can collect my thoughts and gather my feelings about the world around me—or maybe even meet somebody named Scott Sprunger or Kevin Beuret who could someday be another Robert Frost or Ezra Pound.