and Nagasaki signaling the end of the war. My brother went to Japan as an occupier, not an invader, and he lived to tell his story. These intimate moments are the stuff of life that connect us to each other; they give us a real sense of our own history. For our Iraq and Afghanistan GI's, email is a blessing, but without the smell of the stationWhen was the last time you picked up a pen and wrote a letter in long hand? Grainy, silky or just plain vanilla, I miss the feel of personal correspondence. In looking through some old photographs and family memorabilia, I came across a poem my mother sent me when I was working overseas. While holding the yellowed paper in my hands, I had an overwhelming sense of her presence. I wasn’t simply reading her words; I was hearing her voice.

Our family lived near the ocean and as a child I loved wandering off the beach and meandering along the boardwalk. On the back of a faded photo of a beach outing, my father had written in his unique calligraphic style, “We removed 13 splinters from Suzy’s feet.” I immediately relived being carried off in my father’s arms to the first aid station where I ate enough Tootsie Rolls between wailings to overshadow any negative aspects of the foot surgery. And I remembered what a terrific swimmer he was.

I still have my older brother Bobby's letter sent while he was waiting to be shipped out from Okinawa to Japan during World War II. The enemy was unyielding, the invasion force was huge and not many GIs were expected to survive the first wave on to the beaches. But true to his nature Bobby didn't want us to worry. His letter was upbeat with funny doodles. By the time we received the letter the U.S. had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki signaling the end of the war. My brother went to Japan as an occupier, not an invader, and he lived to tell his story. These intimate moments are the stuff of life that connect us to each other; they give us a real sense of our own history. For our Iraq and Afghanistan GI's, email is a blessing, but without the smell of the statione

rwhelming sense of her presence. I wasn’t simply reading her words; I was hearing her voice.

Our family lived near the ocean and as a child I loved wandering off the beach and meandering along the boardwalk. On the back of a faded photo of a beach outing, my father had written in his unique calligraphic style, “We removed 13 splinters from Suzy’s feet.” I immediately relived being carried off in my father’s arms to the first aid station where I ate enough Tootsie Rolls between wailings to overshadow any negative aspects of the foot surgery. And I remembered what a terrific swimmer he was.

I still have my older brother Bobby's letter sent while he was waiting to be shipped out from Okinawa to Japan during World War II. The enemy was unyielding, the invasion force was huge and not many GIs were expected to survive the first wave on to the beaches. But true to his nature Bobby didn't want us to worry. His letter was upbeat with funny doodles. By the time we received the letter the U.S. had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki signaling the end of the war. My brother went to Japan as an occupier, not an invader, and he lived to tell his story. These intimate moments are the stuff of life that connect us to each other; they give us a real sense of our own history. For our Iraq and Afghanistan GI's, email is a blessing, but without the smell of the station

zy’s feet.” I immediately relived being carried off in my father’s arms to the first aid station where I ate enough Tootsie Rolls between wailings to overshadow any negative aspects of the foot surgery. And I remembered what a terrific swimmer he was.

I still have my older brother Bobby's letter sent while he was waiting to be shipped out from Okinawa to Japan during World War II. The enemy was unyielding, the invasion force was huge and not many GIs were expected to survive the first wave on to the beaches. But true to his nature Bobby didn't want us to worry. His letter was upbeat with funny doodles. By the time we received the letter the U.S. had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki signaling the end of the war. My brother went to Japan as an occupier, not an invader, and he lived to tell his story. These intimate moments are the stuff of life that connect us to each other; they give us a real sense of our own history. For our Iraq and Afghanistan GI's, email is a blessing, but without the smell of the station

om Okinawa to Japan during World War II. The enemy was unyielding, the invasion force was huge and not many GIs were expected to survive the first wave on to the beaches. But true to his nature Bobby didn't want us to worry. His letter was upbeat with funny doodles. By the time we received the letter the U.S. had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki signaling the end of the war. My brother went to Japan as an occupier, not an invader, and he lived to tell his story. These intimate moments are the stuff of life that connect us to each other; they give us a real sense of our own history. For our Iraq and Afghanistan GI's, email is a blessing, but without the smell of the station and Nagasaki signaling the end of the war. My brother went to Japan as an occupier, not an invader, and he lived to tell his story. These intimate moments are the stuff of life that connect us to each other; they give us a real sense of our own history. For our Iraq and Afghanistan GI's, email is a blessing, but without the smell of the stationery.

Today we live in a no touch world. Send an electronic greeting card or an email, instant message a friend with all those blah, blah acronyms— on to the next multi-task. We’re too busy for personal notes. It’s so much easier to be personally disconnected, while remaining impersonally connected to a faceless impersonal world. Not only has writing by hand passed into history, sadly there is a definite disconnect between humans in all areas of life. We complain about the rudeness in our society, but it is precisely this disconnect—not having to look someone in the eye or confront them on the phone—which encourages the rudeness. Never having to say I’m sorry is b–s. It lets us off the hook of responsibility for our actions. We’re too busy to be civil; we’re on to the next multitask.

Speaking of multi-tasking, I saw a commercially successful young couple on television reveling in the fact that they each work 80 to 100 hours a week. They are so in love with their jobs they never take a vacation; they’re never without their cell phones and Blackberries. On trains, planes and automobiles, how many folks do you see that are not electronically tethered or otherwise digitally occupied? Ask them what color the flowers are and they cannot tell you.

Consider what humans would look like millennia from now if hearing and seeing were the only senses that develop