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The other day in our mailbox there was a letter from Auntie Anne. She is nearing 80 and does not know how important Facebook has become. She is not interested in Twittering and does not see the use of Internet. She is addicted to pen and paper. Every other week for the past 30 years I have sat down and written a letter to her. I started writing to her when I was 10 and she was living at Lake Ranch in the interior of British Columbia. Her letters were full of what Uncle Willi was doing. He was a cowboy and he rode quarter horses every day, moving cattle and watching out for rattle-snakes. Her correspondence was like a novel whose main characters were my family, and I still have every letter. My letters were full of school in Victoria and family and ballet. I learned to pack mine with whatever I thought was important. She would write back with questions and slowly I learned how to tell a story. I also learned about the paraphernalia of letter writing, keeping my address book current, having a ready supply of paper, envelopes and stamps. I caught the letter-writing bug myself. While still home in Victoria and studying at university, I wrote to friends who were studying and living in France and China. We shared our hopes and travels, and chronicled our love lives. I have boxes filled with their letters. Once graduated from university, I packed my backpack and traveled around the world. My letters reached. Auntie Anne from Asia and Europe. Places she had never seen, but was keen to hear all about. When I was homesick, letters from my family would find me everywhere and I would feel like the world was smaller. Someone out there cared. Nowadays most wired people muse that snail mail is not all that relevant any more. Nobody uses the mail these days, they say. When was the last time someone actually wrote a letter? But what about postcards when you travel? What about the small businesses who