I was taking down my Christmas tree a few days ago, and as I was sweeping up the needles (very few; it was a great tree) I recalled a fond memory from 1979.
Like most of my college class, I spent my junior year studying (I use the term loosely) overseas. This was long before e-mail, cell phones, and Skype, and Europe was much more remote. Trans-Atlantic calls were almost unheard of: you had to book them in advance with the college porter, Colin, and the quality of the connection was deplorable, full of echoes and delays.
So my mother and I communicated via letters, written on blue, tissue-paper-thin mailers that could be folded up and sealed to create their own envelope.
I received one letter from her in January. I slit the edges immediately and eagerly read all the home news, but what I remember most is the fact that she had disobeyed the strict injunction against putting any enclosures in these mailers -- and had sent me a few needles from our family's Christmas tree.
Thanks, Mum.
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