Mail Call

Who can forget the twinge of anticipation at expecting a letter? One by one, as the names were called, the suspense became almost unbearable. We held our breathe, crossed our fingers, hoping to hear ours. When we did, the excitement was palpable. Cradling the small paper rectangle that carried the precious pages written in the hand of a loved one or friend, we rushed back to our bunk and gingerly peeled it open. It would be hard for the modern electronic mavens of today to comprehend the concept of paper to pen to heart and mind, the sheer joy of knowing that you are loved and missed, and the despondence and disappointment of being bypassed.

Now, the unfolding began. Slowly, peeking at the pages to recognize the writing, the waiting was over. The words seemed to leap off the pages, increasing emotions to a crescendo. Yet they were just words. No, they were more than that. Each one was carefully crafted to convey a silent voice, and it was the readers task to decode the concepts and translate them back to the original inspiration of the writer.

And the contents of those packets weren't limited to paper. Anything that fit was fair game: flowers, pictures from home, other surprises selected by the sender: a lock of hair, a human touch unattainable by any other mode of transmission. Something as simple as a caring card could transport the recipient's spirit in a way that cannot be duplicated in digital format.

Composition was key. Only the perfect words would do. Curled up in a corner with pen and paper, creative juices flowing. Trying to imagine how the reader would receive and react to your tome. The occasional poem. And when words failed, illustrations illuminated. Simple line drawings, as delicate or detailed as deemed necessary to connect.

In a way, letters are like magic carpets, upon which we can fly, back and forth through time. We all have our secret stashes, ages old, some from departed souls, all from those with whom we've shared our lives. Read and re-read, over and over, opening unnecessary. Just holding them in our hands and reminiscing can bring a laugh or tear.

But in this era of instant messaging, the art of hand-made correspondence teeters on the brink of extinction, irrelevant written relics, and must be rescued from the Web. Now is the time to act! Put down that laptop, find your lost cache of stationary, and write to someone. Anyone. Just write.

What a time it was

What a time it was
rain showers were sunshine
roads became runways
imaginations inspired

What a time it was
food was for fighting
harmless missiles
inhibitions undone

What a time it was
time was on our side
expecting the infinite
eternal return

What a time it was
first kisses, first loves
first hearts broken
at hearing "goodbye"

What a time it was
embracing the night
flashlights glowing
showing the way

What a time it was
reunited
one brief moment
then it was time

to go

The Secret Formula

We all knew the reunion would zoom by at light speed. A warp through the black hole of time through which we once again glimpsed what was, assimilated with a prescient present.

We rode the wave to it's crest and shot the curl, and the separation anxiety set in like footprints in cement. A titanic, sinking feeling clutched at our hearts as the last gasps of that glorious day set on the sons and daughters of Omega, dazed .

Reeling at the reality, realizing that something fine flew by, we stumbled back to the middle ages. What time is it, boys and girls? It's Omega time! Where's Buffalo Bob when we need him? Why can't we switch on our senses and see the past as clearly as the present? Why? Because it only lives when we become one

Flurries of phone calls, reams of emails, all sweet sentiments indeed. And on the horizon rises an esoteric reunion, by using our unity to uplift those who may be poised on the cusp of greatness but for a gift of gratitude from those who grew up in that gabled house, aching for those acres that cradled, coddled and carved our characters.

Of all the images in the pictures and videos, the most memorable may be the smiles. Goofy grins, ear to ear, kids again. We may never know what made it so. And who cares? Reason is irrelevant. We've been infected with an incurable connection, an eponymous epidemic contracted at camp.

If we can dream ourselves awake, perhaps Omega lives on as the ultimate, the apex, made not of dirt and wood but built on a foundation that formed and forged us, and led us on an intangible and tangential journey to a long-overdue day. And now, launched on a trajectory to a greater good, we have the chance to create a loving legacy that may stand as an inspiration to future generations, based on that secret formula: Love over time = Omega.