This year will be the last I’m sending out Christmas cards. Writing them is a chore for me, and, according to my friends, my threats to stop sending them have gone on for years. The simple reason I do send them is that I like to receive them.

It’s not like I’ll be abandoning my faithful friends and relatives, for we always keep in touch by phone or mail. E-cards won’t be an option, either, for when I am finally done with my holiday greetings, I am done!

My Grandmother Hawkins had difficulty writing out Christmas cards because of her rheumatoid arthritis. When asked by my mother why she kept doing so, her reply was, “If I don’t, people might think I’ve died.”

Not my reason.

I don’t have much news to relay, unlike some senders of chatty Christmas newsletters. One year my handwritten note stated: “Still single, still teaching and still at Jordan Marsh.”

My life doesn’t change a lot, except for my address, which fact some friends are quick to point out.

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As the years have gone by, my family and friends have sent me updates on and pictures of their children and now their grandchildren. What I can send are pictures of my childhood dolls decked out in their holiday finery. Fifty-plus years later, but they haven’t aged at all.

Also, my list of recipients is dwindling because of my advancing age and theirs. I remember at one time my card list had 13 couples on it, and within 20 years half of the couples were divorced or widowed.

The first card I remember sending out en masse was mailed from Lewiston, where I was living in my first apartment. A black-and-white, Art Deco image of a stylized woman, it was probably my favorite, most memorable card. After that year, I have continued to try to find other unusual cards to send. The hunt has become harder, so I can’t even outdo myself any more.

But as much as I dislike sending them, I enjoy receiving them. During Christmas season, I arrive home from work and quickly check my mail. I especially like the cards with a note on them. But the number of cards I receive has lessened also.

I won’t part with a small collection I’ve saved for years: my friend Nancy’s from Aspen, Colorado; Fabio’s from Brazil; John Ackerman’s nature sketches; Jack McPhillips’ caricatures of his partying self; Skid Rowe’s card of his St. Bernard, Fred, and, of course, ones from my family. As I look over these cards every year, I can hear the person talking to me.

But nostalgia can go only so far if you have a small space, so I couldn’t save all my cards.

After asking “Cousin” Gladys if there was proper etiquette to announce one’s decision to discontinue mailing out Christmas cards, we both agreed there was none. I guess this essay in the paper will state my intentions publicly. But the question is: Will anyone really care?


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