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Preface Even though I live in an electronic age and have come to rely on computermediated communication, I have a confession to make. I prefer to write and receive traditional, old-fashioned, stamped letters. I am a fan of what enthusiasts of new technology call “snail mail”—a derogatory term that highlights today’s fascination with instant communication in the form of e-mail and text messages. I am not unusual in sending cards for special occasions, such as birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries, or in mailing postcards while “on holiday,” as they say in the UK. However, I also post thank-you notes after attending a party or dinner at a friend’s home. I write cards to acknowledge birthday presents and holiday gifts, even to my closest relatives. I write notes to colleagues and friends when they fall sick or lose a loved one, but I also send notes to these same friends and colleagues when they lose their beloved pets, need a boost, or do something memorable or exciting, like star in a play or get a promotion at work. Not surprisingly, I come from a long line of letter writers. In my study, I keep several shoeboxes and file folders filled with cherished correspondence. Many handwritten letters bear the traces of beloved family members now gone. I have a whole file of letters from my father, who wrote regularly to me and my twin sons, Jesse and Emmet, even after he adopted e-mail. I still have and occasionally read letters my father’s father, Grandpa Poppy, typed on an oldfashioned typewriter; he sent them to me when, as a young teen, I attended a sleepaway camp called Camp Lakeland in western New York. In this treasure trove of letters, I have an unopened, returned letter I sent to my dear Uncle Bob Golden, who died unexpectedly before he received it. I keep childhood correspondence from my lifelong friend Anne Feininger Mulherkar, dating to the fourth and fifth grades. I still chuckle over our audacious autographs, “Cathy the Great,” “Anne the Magnificent,” and other such epithets. I also have precious cards my sons made me when they were little; thank-you notes from elementary school children when I shared flannel board stories of Peter Rabbit and Caps for Sale at Lake Avenue Elementary School; cards I received when xii · Preface I made tenure and promotion to full professor; special notes from my Mom, who really taught me how to write; cheery cards from my sister, Pam—some with a penny enclosed as a symbol of our father’s lasting love for us; a separate box filled with all the condolence notes I received when my father died; and a large shoebox of cards that friends and colleagues sent after a bad biking accident derailed me and my sabbatical plans. Clearing out my parents’ home as my mother moved into a retirement community, I also came across letters my father had saved from his own parents and siblings, many of which contained family secrets. My own passion for writing is long standing. Growing up, I wrote books about my childhood adventures, which I vainly called the “Cathy Series.” My dad and I regularly exchanged little notes, which we called “Good Words for the Day.” In college, I also began to write complaint letters when products fell short of a company’s promise—Kellogg’s guaranteed two scoops of raisins in every single box of raisin bran, so I felt it my duty to tell Kellogg’s that the company must use an awfully small scoop. Writing complaint letters—which I turned into a writing assignment for my English classes at Skidmore College and later, with my husband, Michael Marx, into an article about writing for real audiences—became a profitable venture for me. Not only did the mail bring me coupons for free products from companies and businesses, but I received a full refund from the Buffalo Hyatt when I complained how, on our wedding night, my husband carried me over the threshold into a business suite—not a bridal suite as promised. Because I like to write and write often, I enjoy shopping in stores that sell stationery, note cards, writing paper, and pens. When I received my PhD, my parents gave me an heirloom fountain pen that had belonged to Poppy; Schaeffer Pens even refurbished it for free. I am particular about the pens and pencils I purchase for teaching and scholarship. I often buy Paper...

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