I mean penning a note to tuck into a birthday card to a friend I made in a church choir when I lived in Chicago. And dashing off a quick thank-you to the hostess for last Friday's dinner. And this is after yesterday, when I wrote a sympathy card.
This is not exactly 18th century in scope. But it's three times more cards or letters than I send in a week. It's real mail, that which I love receiving and still send ... though not nearly often enough.