Personal Postcard Past

When I was younger, I only sent postcards when I traveled somewhere.

As I packed my bag to leave for the airport, I’d dutifully jot down the addresses of Grandma, Mamaw, Uncle Jack, my three best friends, and one or two other people I thought I might write to – in the unlikely event I even had time to write between all the adventures I’d be having, snorkeling and mountain-climbing and flirting with someone who looked like Leif Garrett and applying Solarcaine to my ubiquitous sunburn.

Because I wanted the postcard to arrive home before I did, I tended to spend the first day of the trip purchasing the first seven postcards I came across. I’d quickly scribble a note, something vague that inferred I’d already had the adventures that I thus far only dreamed of having.

This was delicate work. I wanted the card to be interestingly detailed, but didn’t dare mention learning to surf at Waikiki in case a typhoon prevented it from happening. So I got good at fuzzy particulars, and also wrote something I could copy, with only slight variations, and send to everyone on my list.  

The rest of Vacation Day One was spent trying to find a place that sold stamps. Next, a mailbox, which always seemed elusive (and still does, come to think of it).

Once that was out of the way – whew! – I could go ahead and have my vacation.

Which, it went without saying, everyone wanted to know all about, right?