There was a time a letter was an event — watched for, weighed in the hand, read twice and kept. I have a box of them still, a lifetime’s worth, each one stamped in time. The ink fades, and the memory with it — which is all the more reason to set things down while they’re still mine to keep. Let the light go as it must — it’ll not find me idle while it does.
So this is my way of carrying on the habit. When a new piece goes up — a soldier lifted from the records, a village remembered as it was, or a ghost that never quite learned to lie still — a quiet word will come to let you know, the nearest thing to a letter I can still send.
There’s no great machinery behind it. Just me, a pot of tea, and a long memory for the things worth keeping. Your address stays here with me and travels no further; you’ll hear from me when there’s something new to read, and not otherwise.
So if you’ve a fondness for the old places and the people who walked them, you’re in good company. Leave your address below, and I’ll see the next story finds its way to you — out to the box, and off to your door.