There is something redolent about letters whether they be to you or ones addressed to others, from the unique handwriting of the writer to the smell of the papers, from the record of addresses to the stamps from all around the world. In such letters you can read about everyday happenings of people long gone, you can hear their thoughts as clearly as your own, there are quips and newspapers cuttings, indistinct photographs of beaches and houses, holidays and children, the odd joke some teenager heard that you are supposed to find funny.
They come in all shapes and sizes, in good and bad repair and some are even incomplete and leave you hanging in mid air as to where the writer was going or what they were thinking of saying now as lost as the lost e-mail or deleted post on some forum. A letter is a slice of history that binds time and two people together, that speaks of things one might never have experienced, but allows us to eavesdrop on lives we have never lived.
Whether they come out of a mummified crocodile in Egypt containing missives from Roman to Roman, or have been cast into a draw by your grandmother, they are at once joy, fascination, the past and sadness. They are simply marvelous to see and read even when banal.
Children will never know what they are missing now they are disappearing from the daily routine.