The best letters come from friends, unexpectedly, as messy messages, insightful for penmanship and inside references. So who writes letters anymore? I just sent one to my daughter, from Virginia to Idaho, with a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside acknowledging her new address and my ability to find it. More than the money, I’m sure she appreciated finding me in an unfamiliar place; her new, as yet, unclaimed mailbox. Campers also write letters, so Dustin reminded me recently, oftentimes blackmailed before entry to the dining hall. The best letter home reads, “They made me write this.” The worst reads, “It won’t stop raining.” The former would be signed, “Yours till butter flies,” meaning infinity. The latter would be signed, “Yours till the bug bites,” meaning two seconds, tops. Once the mind starts down this path, the possibilities are endless; till cocoa puffs, lollipops, or banana splits. Till ice skates, cars rent, amusement parks, girls scout, ice ages, Bedford Falls, pavement cracks, you have the idea. Now, go write a letter to someone you love.