“…Look and see if there's a letter in your bag for me.” So go the lyrics of this once popular Beatles song. And it could well be my refrain of the day every time my postman comes along. And what’s usually the answer? No way!

Which brings me to the question…when was the last time you actually received a letter in the mail? I don’t know about you, but for the most part, my mail is a motley assortment of bills (way too many of those!), solicitation letters, and advertising circulars. Other than birthday and holiday cards (which are becoming infrequent as well, as more people seem to rely on e-greetings nowadays), the only “personal” mail I receive are the numerous magazines to which I subscribe.

From the time I was a little girl, getting the daily mail was something I looked forward to. A magazine junkie even back then, I’d look forward to my latest issue of “American Girl” or “Seventeen,” or whatever magazine I’d convinced my parents to let me have. But there were also the cards and letters from my grandparents and aunts (frequently accompanied by a small check…always a nice touch!), all of whom lived out of town, and as I grew older, pen pals I’d have in far-flung—at the time—places, from Alaska to France. And during the summer, when my best friend would go to camp, I could count on almost daily letters from her telling of her latest adventures (and reconfirming for me once again that a cabin in the middle of the woods was not my idea of a summer vacation).

As I grew older, there were letters from boyfriends, college roommates, friends who moved away. Letters of friendship, letters of love, letters of falling out of love (OK, I have to say, I wasn’t ever particularly happy to receive that kind of mail).

But with the advent of long-distance calling cards, cell phones, text messages, and email, the actual handwritten note comes along far too infrequently these days. And I can understand that. We’re all “crazy-busy,” as the saying goes, and it’s so much easier to choose a free e-card than go to the store, buy a card or even, heaven forbid, a box of stationery (really, when was the last time you bought stationery?) and sit down and pen a few thoughts to someone you care about? I bet it’s been a while. And if you think I’m being sanctimonious, I’m the first to admit that it’s been a while for me too (except for the buying of stationery—maybe it’s a habit that refuses to die, or the fact that I’m a writer, but I love beautiful paper, pens, and all things writing-related…whether I actually use them is another story completely).

On one hand, the ease of email has made staying in touch so much simpler. There is no need anymore to set aside several hours, as I once did, to catch up on my letter-writing and fill my friends in with all the latest news. I just dash off a quick note, every day, sometimes several times a day, with a snippet here, a snippet there, and, quick-as-a-cyberflash, we’re up to date.

That’s the up-side. But the down-side? No more beautiful cards and stationery. No long letters that let you know not only that someone was thinking of you, but that he or she actually took the time to do something about it. And perhaps saddest of all, no permanent record of those thoughts. Not long ago, when my sister needed to reclaim some of the storage space I was taking up in her house with my excess clutter, I went through a trunk I had put there years ago. I didn’t remember what was in there, but when I opened it up…there was my life, through years and years of cards and letters. Letters from my aunts and grandparents, now long gone; letters from some of those early pen pals (did they save my letters, I wonder); letters from friends—some of whom I still have, some of whom have moved on; and letters from boyfriends, lovers, the men I married (yes, men, plural, although not at the same time, of course!).

It took me hours to clear out that trunk as I sped down memory lane—sometimes happily, sometimes less so. There were good memories; there were sad memories; and every now and then, no memories whatsoever. Who was this young man who professed to be so in love with me? I actually had no recollection of him—or that time in our lives—at all. And what was this fight I had with my best friend? What was that about? I don’t remember, but apparently it was important to us way back when.

There I was, in that trunk, through the letters and cards that my pack-rat self couldn’t bear to throw away. It was a glimpse into who I had been, who had been important to me, and who I am today.

In twenty or thirty years though, I daresay there will be no old trunk to go through. And what will spur my memories then? Several years ago I reconnected with a former lover whom I had not seen in many years. We were now on opposite ends of the country, but we had an intense reunion that lasted almost a year before it ended. Two years later, I learned that he had died. Yes, I had photos of our time together, and countless emails stored in my “inbox.” But printing out almost a year’s worth of emails seemed impractical, even impersonal. It was in that trunk though that I found the letters he had written from our first relationship, and it was in those letters that I remembered who we both had been—both times around—and perhaps more importantly, why we didn’t make it either time. Reading those letters didn’t lessen my grief over his death, or even over our parting, but it did give me a perspective that I hadn’t had before.

In the past few months, because of a somewhat challenging time I’ve been going through, there have been more cards and letters in the mailbox, and I have been touched by every one. I know that in years to come when I read them again, I will be grateful to all the people who took a few minutes to let me know they were thinking of me. I hope they will also serve as a reminder to me to start doing the same again in return. Times have changed, yes, and what indeed would we do without email? But there will always be something special about opening the mailbox and finding a note, addressed by hand, especially for you.

So every time I see “Mister Postman,” I’ll keep asking—if only silently—“Is there a letter in the bag for me?” And I’ll keep hoping he says yes.