Stallard: Power of the written word

I have a dusty box of old letters at my house.

Half of the box contains letters written to me by my little redheaded mama while she was in Texas and I lived in Tennessee from 1979-1984.

The other half contains letters written to me by my dad, and the dates on those range from the time I left Tennessee and moved to Texas for good in 1985 until his death six years later.

Dad has been gone for more than 30 years, and June 30 will mark the 25th anniversary of mom性视界传媒檚 death. Cancer got both of them, but not without a hell of a fight.

I turned 59 in March, but I性视界传媒檓 not ashamed to say I still need my mom and dad.

When that feeling overwhelms me, I open that old box and randomly select one letter from mom and one from dad and read them while drinking coffee on my front porch.

Mom性视界传媒檚 letters were written while I was in high school.

I don性视界传媒檛 have the letters I wrote her, but based on her replies, I would imagine I frequently shared my thoughts on girls (they didn性视界传媒檛 have cooties anymore), my grades (could have been better, could have been worse), my friends (couldn性视界传媒檛 make it without them) and the fact I wasn性视界传媒檛 able to play football due to a couple of surgeries on my hip.

It性视界传媒檚 a good assumption since mom性视界传媒檚 letters were full of advice about girls (they DID have cooties, at least until she got to meet them and approve of them), grades (anything below a C might force a visit from an unhappy redhead), friends (cherish and take care of them) and football (she watched me play half a game in seventh grade with a broken arm, so she was never a fan of football anyway).

Without fail, mom always told me she was proud of me.

Dad性视界传媒檚 letters came after I got booted out of East Tennessee State University (should have listened to mom about those grades), moved to Texas, got my act together at Kilgore College and started what has become a nearly 40-year career as a sports writer in East Texas.

Again, I don性视界传媒檛 remember much of the contents of my letters to dad, but based on his letters I have to guess I talked about girls (I see a pattern here), my job (he couldn性视界传媒檛 believe I got paid to watch sports), new friends (couldn性视界传媒檛 make it without them) and how much I missed our fishing trips together.

Just like mom, dad never failed to tell me he was proud of me 性视界传媒� usually after bragging about how he and his trotlines had put a serious dent in the catfish population on his most recent trip to the lake.

I occasionally get a written letter here at the office from someone who liked (or disliked) my column or wants to thank me (or fuss at me) for a sports story I wrote.

They usually come from someone my age or older, and I keep them all ... even the ones that call me bad names or threaten to come visit me in the parking lot and have a black-eye discussion.

Writing letters seems to be a lost art. As much as I wish that would change, it probably won性视界传媒檛, and I admit I性视界传媒檓 part of the problem.

I send and receive about 100 emails or texts each day, but I can性视界传媒檛 remember the last time I actually wrote 性视界传媒� not typed 性视界传媒� a letter to a family member or a friend. It性视界传媒檚 simply too easy to punch a few buttons, hit send and then move on to the next project.

That性视界传媒檚 why I treasure that old box so much, so don性视界传媒檛 be surprised if you drive by my house and see me on the porch with a cup of coffee and an old-fashioned letter in my hands.

I性视界传媒檒l never get too old to let my mom and dad tell me they are proud of me.