Footnotes*
Handwritten notes, telephone calls, tea visits--they're a dying art. Not as dead as the typewriter, but almost up there with postcards and love letters, gasping their last breath in the social world.
They're not just the tools or the means, you know. They're, for the best part, also the people. The art of writing notes, invitations, queries, well wishes says much of the writer's values and personality. A whole lot of preparation goes into it--the choice of pen and stationery, the color, the scent, the size of the letters etched in a handwriting that's distinctly personal; the words that cannot be erased by a mere flick of a finger on 'delete'. Even the person tasked to deliver the note has to be carefully considered. And oh--the anticipation of waiting for an answer. Another note! Brought by the same messenger, or by a different one after a time has passed. This whole ritual requires patience--a virtue.
I used to carry notes for my mother way back when the thought of communicating with one another just by pressing keys on a tiny metallic pad seemed unimaginable. She'd ask me to bring a note to her friend's house and wait for a reply. Often, while waiting, I'd chat with her friend's children and I'd be served with chilled fruit juice in a tall glass and a small plate of pastries. It was fun. Then when the reply to the note was ready, I'd take it back to my Mom, but not before her friend would give me a coin for being such a nice little messenger.
Back in those days, it was a treat to watch my Mom's face as she read the reply to her note. Oftentimes, her face would break into a delighted smile; or she'd laugh out loud (my signal that I'd be running to deliver another note in response!); other times, she'd frown or scowl; rarely, her face would fall.
Usually, after such traffic of notes, a flurry of activity would follow--preparations for guests coming for lunch or merienda--the very friend she'd been exchanging notes with just a few minutes ago. Such anticipation. Everyone becomes involved in the cleaning, the sweeping, the dusting, the changing of curtains and tablecloths, the polishing of special china, the cooking... aaahhh!
Once I groaned, "But Mommy, it's just Auntie Isabelle! She'd been here hundreds of times. In fact just yesterday!"
"Ssshhh, angel... the means always matter as much as the end!"
As if that made sense.
And how they talked. And laughed! Or, cried at times. I often fell asleep just listening to them go on and on during lunch, during tea... for hours. Then they might go to a movie and bring me. Or go get cake. Or bake some. But they were such a treat--this whole ceremony of socializing.
I grew up. I had a best friend, too. She happened to be my Auntie Isabelle's youngest daughter. We were pretty close. We still are. We talk all the time, in fact. But we don't trouble ourselves with the whole nine yards of choosing pen, paper, words, messenger--everything our mothers did in their day. We each just lie on our beds (she in hers and I in mine in our houses just a block away from each other) and chat away through Viber, or Whatsapp, or Skype, or Facebook messenger, or LINE. No hassle.
And we don't do visits anymore. We just meet in trendy little cafes, clubs or malls. Saves us the fuss of cleaning and cooking. All very millennial.
Two months ago, my Auntie Isabelle passed away. I went over to her house, the one I had been to countless times in my childhood when my mother was still alive. It had been a long while since I'd been back there. Years. An age. My best friend had asked me over saying she had something to show me.
They were my mother's notes, of course. Kept all these years in a delicately carved ivory box. Seeing them lovingly folded and nestled in the velvet lining made my mother come alive in my mind's eye. Made the two friends and all the memories they shared--the giggling, the drama, the silliness even--become so vivid I almost thought if I'd look up I'd see both of them laughing over their teacups.
With a pang, I realised that my daughter and my best friend's son will never have such memories, such discoveries.
They will have emails and mobile text messages that will disappear as soon as the batteries dry out.
It's a different world. The same friendships, the same caring--just done with the least time wasted and in the most utilitarian manner possible. It's the new way. And for many of us, sadly, the only way.
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