Writing wrongs

By: Derek Simons

Posted: 3/30/09

Thank God for computer-illiterate senior citizens.

While not yet in the age-bracket where people give up their seats for me on the bus, I am old enough to still possess (and treasure) a Parker pen which requires ink cartridges.

OK - it's not one of those ancient quills always thirsty for an ink well, but it does have a nice nib on it.

I'm no master calligrapher and a stray stroke can create a smeary, incomprehensible blot, yet it's worth the risk. Your standard Bic ball-point pen just doesn't have the same gravitas.

So when I write to my elderly relatives, I pull out my Parker and feel like I'm in a literary time capsule.

There is no copy and paste. Words are necessarily measured in advance. Scratching out phrases looks crass and indecisive.

Sometimes it can be something as simple as a birthday card; other times it is a long-overdue (and hence lengthy) catching up about whatever has transpired in the last x number of years.

But it is always more elegant than any e-mail, or at least it appears to be.

How many words do I write? I wouldn't know - there is no word count incorporated in my pen. Do I make spelling mistakes? Undoubtedly - but they are words misspelled with a flourish.

These letters do not contain urgent news. It would be impossible. After all, the letters take days (or even weeks) to arrive.

Yet, from the very moment the letter is posted, I have a palpable sense of anticipation.

In this day and age of instant communication, people feel honor-bound to reply to a hand-written letter, and so, the daily routine of the postman takes on a renewed and important place in my life.

I am no closet Luddite - I have embraced wholeheartedly the numerous advantages of electronic correspondence.

But how many e-mails do you treasure, print out and store in your bureau drawer?

Centuries from now, when historians try to understand our present society, to make some sense out of all the electronic chaos or even define our spirit, they will surely stumble across some dog-eared, yellowing envelopes.

The ink will be faded, but the words will be unaltered, containing a quick message of well-wishes or perhaps the beginnings of some great magnum opus.

The letters could be mine. They could be yours. But they will not be some series of demagnetized ones and zeroes.

They will be examples of a simple, but eternal art.

dsimons@unews.com