Signed, Sealed and Delivered

I've got no romantic notions about how wonderful living in a past time period might have been.

Belle Epoque, Roaring '20s, "Mad Men"-era '50s? Thank you, no. I wouldn't have been happy living in any era before the Pill, so it's convenient how my lifetime dovetailed so nicely with that game changer.

But one thing I do regret losing is the letter-writing era.

Make no mistake, when I came up, letter writing was still very much the norm.

I had a French pen pal for three years. The summer between 10th and 11th grades, I corresponded with an admirer named Charlie who wrote me impassioned letters, his handwriting getting bigger and darker to emphasize his compliments and feelings.

My best friend moved after college and we wrote back and forth weekly as she shared the frustrations of a California girl trying to adjust to New England (and marriage). When I first moved to Richmond, I regularly wrote to my Mom and some of my sisters about life after Dupont Circle.

Tellingly, I still have all of their letters.

But if someone wanted to suss out the story of my life through correspondence, they'd only have one side of the story - the letters written to me. I'm just about positive no one saved my letters.

So how could I not be intrigued to hear that Cheryl Jackson Baker, author of "Affectionately Yours: The Civil War Letters of William B. Jackson and His Wife Julia," was reading at Chop Suey tonight?

The Jacksons were her Ohio great-great grandparents and the trove of letters written from 1862 through 1866 had been found in her Dad's Florida closet after he died.

When I walked in, she was asking people in the room what had piqued their interest to attend her talk. Most said it was the Civil War angle or that they were history buffs. For me, it was all about the couple correspondence

Baker began by reading a letter from August 15, 1862 from William, stationed in Alabama, writing about the three mountain women who had visited camp hoping to trade things such as apples and pickled cucumbers for salt and sugar.

His letter said their dresses were fastened with thorns (reason #9257 the past would've held zero appeal for me) and that they inquired if there was any "chaw tobacco." Plugs in their mouths, they claimed it was the best chaw they'd ever had.

She read from a letter a bible quote, pointing out how rare that was. "Being Episcopalians, they didn't quote the bible often. I can say that because I'm an Episcopalian."

The letters she read were wonderful, with intimate details of daily life (Julia took quinine pills when she had headaches), references to home (peach trees) and exultations about the war's progress. Baker was especially pleased to get to read in Richmond a letter about Julia's rejoicing when she heard that Richmond was in the Union's possession (it wasn't true).

Through multiple letters, it became clear that Julia was a bit high maintenance, always nagging William to come home (just drop that silly war business and get back here) and reminding him how difficult her life was now.

If they don't let men come home more often, they'll have to put up insane asylums for the women.

Apparently, Julia also had a flair for the dramatic.

Baker kept things interesting by telling us about Chapter 5, also known as the sex chapter, where she'd assembled the most intimate of Julia and William's letters. Civil War shades of gray, so to speak.

"Just read that chapter!" a woman in the front row cajoled. Seems that William had heard about a way for Julia to use a "proxy" through the mail to have a baby while he was away. Oh, yes, we were definitely all curious about that.

But even without the smutty stuff, the eloquent letters, copies of which we saw in hand-outs, were written in the penmanship of people who practiced. Many words were underlined for emphasis. War and home front updates aside, they were full of affection and love for each other, written down so they could return to reread them whenever they chose to.

That's what we've lost with the passing of letter writing. Oh, sure, I've saved a few romantic e-mails over the years, but it's not the same as handwritten letters. Nothing is.

Parting way with the Episcopalians, my next stop was with the Baptists. As part of their summer "Classics in the Courtyard" series, First Baptist was showing the 1938 classic, "The Adventures of Robin Hood." Besides the obvious appeal of an outdoor movie on a summer night, I'd never seen an Errol Flynn movie.

I was ready to be swashbuckled.

Pulling into the parking lot at First Baptist, I see exactly two cars and a couple, folding chairs on their shoulders, looking disappointed. "It must be canceled," she says. "There's no movie screen, no people, no popcorn!"

Bummer.

On the plus side, I happen to know that there is music at Crossroads Coffee ("Forget the GOP debates. Come experience something positive"), so I turn the car around and head there, arriving during Annabeth McNamara's set of live, magical folk music.

Looking particularly fetching in a tiara, she plays guitar and banjo accompanied by cute couple Renee Byrd on drums and Logan Byrd on upright bass.

At the counter, I quietly order chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce, to which the guy verifies, "You want chocolate with chocolate?" I do. When he delivers it to me, it's with a look of pride. "I put chocolate sauce in the bottom, then the ice cream and chocolate sauce on top." This man could be my soul mate.

Among other things, the band plays through such folk standards as a heartbreak song, a sad song and perhaps most impressively, a song in the same key as "Margaritaville" that answers that song.

When they finish, Annabeth says, "Stick around for Lobo Marino coming up next. I feel like they're creating a community that's even more important than music." I'd attest to the same.

A woman comes in and sits down next to me, turning to ask if I've seen Lobo Marino before. Oh, please. I knew Jameson and Laney before they were Lobo Marino. But I am impressed that she's participated in the annual All Saints Halloween parade, a raucous event I've marched in many times.

She turns out to be an avid cyclist, an artist and an interesting one, having migrated to the city a couple of years ago after exile in the county and jumped into the local scene. We bond over our shared freelance status (she does graphic design), our days spent working alone at home and our mutual need to get out in the world by the end of the workday.

Lobo Marino, meanwhile, are weaving their mystical musical sounds with the garage door rolled up, the rain falling lightly outside and a guy near me standing entranced, eyes closed, hands clasped, swaying to every sound the duo produces. Staff and patrons move around him, so as to not disturb his reverie.

Singing "Holy River," they have the full attention of every person in the room, creating some sort of cosmic connection effortlessly as their voices blend and soar. This, my friends, is how these two are creating a community.

A hundred and fifty years ago, I'd have gone home and written a letter to my beloved, telling him about the conversations with my new friend, the seductive music I heard and how I wish he could have been with me. I might have gotten a little mushy. With any luck, I'd have put it as eloquently as the Alarm.

Our love is the faith that keeps on burning
I love to feel the rain in the summertime
I love to feel the rain on my face

P.S. Come home soon. None of us wants to end up in the insane asylum.