60 years ago, my great grandfather in Scotland sent a letter, month after month, to my grandfather, who I never met as he died many years before I was born.
On a recent trip to Toronto, we discovered, among other things, this stack of letters that had been sitting, dust-covered for years and years.
Most of them were mundane, about girls (my great great aunts? someone's sister?) picking berries, and the cost of passage to Canada by boat from Glasgow, but some were touching - letters from father to son, always signed "I remain, your loving father". It makes me sad that modern society has forgotten about the art of letter writing - and the immense value letters have so so much later than when they're written.