I love snail mail.

Last year, more than 168 billion pieces of mail zipped across the post office desk. Sure sounds like a lot of mail, but the snail mail trend slows as technology such as email, texts and tweets bounces across the country instead. In the last decade, mail numbers were higher than 210 billion. The paper reduction might save a tree here and there, but posts and instant messages don't replace handwitten letters and thoughtful cards.

When you send a text, it's usually because you don't want to talk to the person at that moment, don't have time to find them, are bored, need a quick answer. The list goes on of basically non-heartfelt reasons to communicate. Emails have come to about the same place in my book after reading and sending so many for work. The word email just says office and official to me now. The fun disappeared.

Snail mail on the other hand feels real. You can literally feel the raised edge of the stamp in the corner. When you rip the top seam of the envelope, you know something personal waits ahead. Whether a card or letter, someone took extra effort the gather the supplies and their time to slip this package your way. If you don't know what I am talking about, please send me your address, and I will make that scene happen.

I never grew up with a pen pal, but my grandma always sends letters. She did when we were little, and even through college. I would come back from class, tired after trudging up the hill. My roommates would dash to the elevators and always end up leaving me because I would check my mail. They always left me because I actually had mail and the combination took longer than they wanted to wait. That was all right. I knew the slim surprise behind the glass would be worth my time.

I would have to say I received more mail than the average college student. I was guaranteed at least one a week from my grandma, throw in my mom, Cole, teenagers from camp, friends from home and regular mail and I had an overflowing box. All four years of college turned up lots of mail. The mail sorters in Ellsworth where I lived always announced to me that more mail was in my box. It never got old. (Oh, and did I forget to mention my grandma always sent $5. Everyone was always asking if they could get her address.)

While the money was nice for a poor college student, I looked forward to the letter more. I would grasp it in my hand, hurry along to my room, throw my book bag on the futon and sit down with my mail. It's the way my grandma and I communicate. Sure, it's delayed, but all the information is relayed and I like hearing about what she is up to, even if I know in there somewhere they went to casino.

It's nice to know someone is thinking of you even when your name isn't flashing on their Twitter feed or displayed in the birthday section on Facebook. To that person, you were worth the time and memory of handwriting and stamps.

To this day, I still love mail. I have sent my family postcards and letters from every country I have been to, and they even had the chance to mail messages to me abroad. Now I am in Virginia. Not as far as say Africa, but still far enough that they don't know the next time they will see me. Thankfully, mail, which transcends generations, keeps us communicating. Sometimes the mail they send is practical like our dress clothes, but inside my mom tucked a handwritten note just like she always does. The little purple envelope in my hands in the photo is from my grandma. She sends mail all the time. Maybe that is where I get my mail hobby from. And even though I get mail all the time, I always look forward to pieces falling out of the mail box. I am like a little kid. I sit at my desk, and as soon as the mail truck comes, I grab my key and dash down the stairs.

I can't wait to do it again tomorrow, and the day after that. Sadly, Sunday is always a let down. I never seem to get mail that day. :)