I spent the weekend back home, spending time with family for my Poppy’s 80th birthday bash. I saw a whole stack of relatives, some of whom I haven’t seen in months.
Amongst the throng were a number of young cousins, to whom I have sent letters or postcards over the last few months. As I went around the room, I asked each of them if they had received the mail I had sent. To my surprise, my question often drew blank and confused looks: “No, I didn’t get a postcard?”
I was confused myself. “Maybe the postie hasn’t brought it yet?” I asked, even though I’d had confirmation from their mums and dads that their postal surprises had arrived. Then again, these kids ranged in age from three to ten, so I wasn’t about to hold a grudge.
That second thought left me kind of confused. I can vividly remember receiving letters and birthday cards in the post from grandparents, and postcards from friends and relatives who had gone off globetrotting. I recall being incredibly excited about receiving letters in envelopes covered in pictures my Grandma had meticulously cut out of the various magazines she’d bought. I can even remember Mum telling me how grateful I should be, because Grandma’s arthritis made that crafty task incredibly difficult, so it really demonstrated just how much she loved my sister and I whenever she did so.
But did I write back? Did I at least make a phone call to thank the sender for their caring correspondence? Well, that I can’t remember. I wish I did – it would make me feel a lot better, but something tells me I didn’t. I was probably like my cousins are now: a bit forgetful.
I was so chuffed. So far, I’ve only had a response from my Aunt Joyanne and a letter from my Dad, who writes semi-regularly. It’s been nice to hear from them, but they’re from an era when letter-writing was more common; to hear from a bunch of Gen Y folks (and younger!) that they would have something to post to me in the coming weeks was incredibly thrilling, encouraging and heart-warming. I can’t wait to see them when the postie comes!