Category: A New Postcard Article Every Wednesday

Cardinal Directions

The Northern Cardinal’s migratory range is rather small. Unlike this postcard, sent from Nina in Tucson to Uncle George back home.


The postcard arrived on a Tuesday in December, slipped between the electric bill and a catalog he’d never seen before. George set it on the kitchen table while he made coffee, the red bird on its front catching the weak winter light through the window.

He’d lived seventy-three winters in Minnesota and he could remember nearly as many cardinals. One visited his mother’s feeder every winter morning. A pair of birds nested in the honeysuckle behind their first house, and a solitary male appeared each January at the cemetery where his wife rested.

The bird on the card was just ink and paper, a cheerful holiday visitor perched on a cactus. George smiled at all the memories. Standing at the kitchen window, watching that splash of red move through the frozen world.

He propped the card against the sugar bowl where he could see it while he drank his coffee. That small red bird sent from a warmer climate, it was good company.


Nina stepped onto her back patio in Tucson as the December sun softened toward an early evening. She was carrying her phone and the stack of work she was supposed to ignore. The hospice had been short-staffed for weeks, and even her days off felt heavy with other people’s grief. She sank into the patio chair and her eyes rested on the saguaro at the property line, its arms raised like a benediction against the pale sky. Then, an impossible red against the green ribs of the cactus, a cardinal turning its crested head to stare right at her.

She watched it hop from one arm to another, so vivid it seemed painted there, and suddenly thought of her uncle George. He’d be preparing for snow about now, making sure the feeder was stocked, the northern cardinals waiting through the bare branches. She’d bought that card weeks ago. She meant it to be funny, a little bit of desert sunshine for the cold country.

The bird tilted its head once more, then lifted away toward the neighbor’s tall gate. Nina set down her phone and went to find the card on the table inside. She’d send that postcard tonight. A small bright thing traveling north, carrying a moment of real rest and a reminder of the joys that appear in the landscape.

The connection between George and Nina, between Minnesota snow and Arizona sun, traces a geography that cardinals themselves understand.

The Northern Cardinal’s range stretches from southern Canada through the eastern United States and into Mexico, reaching west through Texas and into Arizona. Unlike many songbirds, cardinals don’t migrate. They remain year-round residents wherever they establish territory. A cardinal in Minneapolis endures the same winter as the people who watch it, while its southwestern cousins never know deep cold at all.

This winter persistence made cardinals natural companions to a tradition that took hold in late 19th century America: backyard bird feeding. As cities grew and winters seemed harsher, people began setting out suet and seed, transforming their yards into small refuges. The cardinal, bold and willing to visit feeders, became a regular presence at kitchen windows during the season when color disappeared from the world. That bit of red against white snow or dark evergreen wasn’t just beautiful—it was companionship. Nature’s daily offer of simple joy.

Holiday card publishers recognized this quiet bond. As postcards surged in popularity in the early 1900s, designers increasingly turned to the natural world for their winter imagery. American cards featured the birds people actually saw at feeders, perched on snow-laden branches, bright against winter skies. These cards created a secular holiday vocabulary, a way of marking the season that felt both celebratory and true to the world outside the window.

Nina was right. George had set out the feeders, with enough seed on hand to get through the cold months. He’d been to Jennie’s grave, and he’ll write back to Nina soon. Maybe visit Tucson. Maybe see a cardinal on a cactus.

CARDINAL CACTUS CARD on sale now!

Though the story above is fiction, the Cardinal Cactus postcard is real 🙂
Order your pack of ten from Etsy

Pack of 10 Postcards – Greetings from Arizona – Cardinal Cactus – $15

Tuck into Turkey

Today and all days, there is cause for joy.

For a dip into distraction before the holiday, here’s a longer essay about Raphael Tuck & Sons, Mechanical Marvels, who were “Art Publishers to Her Majesty the Queen.” Today’s Thanksgiving selection by the same maker shows off their characteristic style and stamp.

kitschy cookbooks

In time for the sumptuous season, these kitschy cookbooks remind us of this handy (and hilarious) pastime of sharing homecooked love and comfort.

Nice Gifts that are Kind to Your Budget

Add quirky fun to the gifting season with carefully curated vintage and resale finds. They are cost-conscious and climate-saving, too. Shop for vintage postcards, art card kits, and kitschy cookbooks at The Posted Past online shop.

Shop Posted Past Gifts on Ebay

Kitsch as Kitsch Can

Sifting through the stacks this season, in search of levity and brevity.

Oh dear, a trove of kitschy postcard sets has appeared in The Posted Past studio. Careful opening boxes around here. I’ve been sorting and stocking the store this month, getting ready for the holidays.

Most of these vintage finds make thoughtful gifts for nature seekers, travelers, and art lovers. Some make for big belly laughs, too. Quit your job for two minutes and follow me.

Graphic novelist Paul Hornschemeier gives us thirty So-So Heroes, like Amalgamonster and Biggeespeare, in a nicely packaged postcard set. Bound to scare your friends, a little.

This next collection by fine artist and designer Rex Ray feels like a festive fondue party in a retro-future living room. Witty banter, wry smiles, and wood grain. Get your sweater sets.

I am Yours from Seattle-based artist Joe Park comes with a neatly-placed curatorial note from Robin Held and a lovely literary sketch by Jen Graves.

“You have seen these folks before–even if you don’t know where”

The collection does feel like finding a tiny gallery all to yourself, and a weird world of bears and bunnies. Worth the trip!

Stay Tuned by Nathan Fox is a visual romp through the artist’s fantastical funhouse. Eye-frying colors and psyche-stained scenes will make you feel like you woke up on the other side of a paranormal universe.

Anything pre-Y2K is officially vintage now. Not funny, I know. These Golden 50s throwback designs make it even worse. You’ll be thanking your lucky leg-warmers we made it out ok, mostly.

Check out the new holiday gift vibes

Fresh selections every day!

Ancestors Radio

Dial into this easy listening station from your heart.

In the quiet hours after he died, I heard Dad’s voice clear as a bell inside me. Left chest, near my heart, broadcasting from a heavenly radio station.

He’s not an advice line. More like a tinkling piano in an airport lounge where it’s always sunset or sunrise somewhere.

It’s not just him. My grandmothers have a talk show, conspiring on our behalf from the front porch of a woodsy cabin. Some of my aunts are traveling the span of the universe on magic carpets, and sending back reports.

Dear Bob, Thank you very much for the card. I am in nature and a play now. Please Write Me. xo xo Love Sally xo

Sally writes to Bob from stayaway camp in upstate New York

Ancestors Radio is on in the background all the time. I put on piano music in the house to dial in. Humming along and half-listening, I grasp what I can, especially as it relates to family stories and postcards. Little magic carpet rides, too.

We’re into a new season of wonder, now. Awe is on the air. Stay tuned!

Holiday Gifts Under $15

A Book of Postcards Makes a Great Gift!
Send Love from AZ this Season!

Catch Up on The Latest Series

The Past, in Particular

Over the past few weeks, a rare photo postcard album has revealed places, property, and people, along with our own ideas about what we see. We’ve gone from unmarked wilderness, to building structures and social life, to faces and a few names.

We look back at them, and they return the gaze. Their stories blend with our own memories and imagination. They begin to feel like someone’s ancestors, though the particulars remain elusive.

Rochester in Rearview

In 1877, photography required glass plates, wet chemicals, heavy equipment, and specialized knowledge. George Eastman, a frustrated bank clerk from a poor family in Rochester, taught himself the process in his mother’s kitchen.

A decade later, Eastman had invented a simple camera pre-loaded with film for 100 exposures. By 1903, the Eastman Kodak Company released the 3A Folding Pocket Camera with 3¼ × 5½ inch film—exactly postcard size and pre-printed on the reverse. Local photographers and home enthusiasts could contact-print the negative directly onto postcard paper. No enlarger needed, and simplified processing equipment and chemicals.

Rochester became an ecosystem. Bausch & Lomb made the lenses. Kodak manufactured the cameras, bought the film company, and controlled the processing. Customers shipped the entire camera unit back to the factory, and received prints and a pre-loaded camera in return. “You press the button, we do the rest.” Factory workers were the first to witness an era of American life, as images of farms, houses, banks, theatre, and towns and their inhabitants poured in.

A quiet man, Eastman watched this unfold from the center, as his invention changed history and rippled through culture. By 1920, millions of Americans owned cameras. Eastman left a simple note when he ended his own life at 77 and in degenerative pain, “To my friends: My work is done. Why wait? GE”.

What We See

The studio portraits above show painted backdrops—ornamental arches, garden trellises. The lighting is controlled. Poses held steady. Technical quality consistent. These were made by professionals charging by the sitting.

The outdoor snapshots show real places—porches, orchards, dirt roads. Natural lighting, sometimes harsh. Composition varies from confident to awkward. These came from camera owners of varying skill. The irregularities in frame and exposure suggest they were developed at home, too.


What We Don’t See

Despite the pre-printed paper and earnest intent, real photo postcards were rarely sent as such. A few have difficult script, cryptic addresses, faded cancellations, and worn stamps.

“Hello Fanni. Miss Fanni Moore, Panhuska, Okla.”

The remaining relics haven’t been labeled, addressed, or mailed. Most backs are blank, and they were often collected in photo albums. The manufacturing marks may have been quite incidental.

What’s missing from nearly all: names. Very few clues to subjects, locations, dates. The people who made these photographs knew who everyone was. They didn’t need labels. Or, perhaps they were accompanied by letters and mailed in envelopes for privacy and protection.

A century later, the faces remain potent but anonymous. We guess at relationships from physical similarity, from who stands near whom. Sometimes we’re right. Sometimes, we can’t believe our eyes.

Spaces in Between

The 3A Folding Pocket Kodak cost $20-30, equivalent to $600-900 today. An expensive hobby, but accessible to prosperous farmers, small business owners, middle-class families. Film cost about 50 cents per roll.

The investment meant something, whether it was the equipment or the studio session. People photographed what mattered—children, homes, gatherings. The images document their priorities, and their time passing.

Real People, Real Limits

These are real people who lived, worked, loved, died. Someone cared enough to preserve their images. They matter still, in part, because they mattered to someone before.

But our analysis stops here. We can describe what we see—the composition, the technical choices, the historical context. We can note patterns across the collection. We can explain how the technology worked and who had access.

The work of naming and placing, in particular, belongs to families searching their own histories, connecting faces to stories passed down, matching photographs to genealogical records. Those searches have their own purposes, their own meanings.

We are collectors examining patterns, not descendants reclaiming ancestors. Though, it is tempting.


People Past

Last week, buildings emerged and oil derricks erupted. Evidence accumulated, context implied. An unknown town takes shape and we surmise. Now, people stare across a century and time flies.

Seven adults carefully arranged on a rocky outcrop. Three men, four women. Two children in white dresses seated in front. Twins? Cousins? Someone operated the camera.

We see the composition and relational questions arise. Are they family? Kin? Friends on an outing? Do the poses suggest occasion, or documentation?

Evidence ends and story begins. We fill in by reading subtle cues in how they stand, who touches whom, which faces seem to fit together. Clues come quietly and mistakes, too. Always, we’re revealing ourselves.

Here we see one girl, three moments, and years passing. The baby stares out with solemn intensity. Then she’s older, on a throne in white dress, commanding the frame. Finally she’s the eldest of four, and her protective gaze tells all.

The postcards show her time moving, roles shifting. She grows and gains presence. She becomes a big sister, then a bigger sister still.

The postcards show the sequence and the story intrudes. We can safely assume the scenario, the kinship, the birth order. But then we imagine her. She and her siblings stand as evidence. We provide the narrative.

Now nine men, perched around a large rock on uneven ground in a forest, maybe a park. Hats, a variety of ties, white shirts in sunlight. Ages range. Some engage the camera. Others look away.

Compare this to the first photograph. Similar outdoor setting and careful arrangement. Same paper stock, same photographic quality. Do any faces repeat? That man in the center looking off to the distance—could he be the man on the back left of the family group?

We squint. The shape of a jaw, the set of shoulders, the tilt of a head. Errors lead us toward other observations. Misreads become clues. We’re searching, and trying out plausible connections.

A different girl and a similar progression (maybe). The baby carriage can be dated within a range, 1915-1925. Fashions shift slowly in some places, rapidly in others, but period details do show. Those bows!

However, uncertainties hover. Is this the eldest girl growing up? Or, are we forcing connection where none exists? The bobbed hairstyles might give it away. Or they might mislead entirely.

A particular stare, a nose ridge, an anomaly at the jawline, and we are on the pursuit again. The faces echo. Three generations, or two. We assign roles: son, mother, daughter. Sisters?

The oval portrait shows four women arranged in a formal cluster. Elaborate hairstyles, high collars, cameo brooch visible on the seated figure. More prosperous, perhaps. Different family entirely, or different branch? Is she at the center the same as the older woman below? We cannot know.

In between the guesses, a different story emerges entirely. Our own families, and that we belonged. Or, that we confidently walked on. In either case, we are humming with history.

We’re deep in assumption now. Building genealogies from facial features, paper stock, and similar poses. The archives encourage it. These cards traveled together. Someone kept them together. The connections existed, however disassembled.

Another baby carriage, different from the first. And on the back of the card, handwriting: this is Irene with Willie’s baby, sent to Aunt Fannie. We know Irene from when she was four, seated with Uncle Rufus Dale, 84.

What satisfaction, when a storyline clings together. Names accumulate. Groups delineate. Relationships clarify. The archive speaks back, and the story begins to imitate fact.

The search becomes research. The archive rewards our attention and budding accuracy. But, who doesn’t love Aunt Fannie? Even if we’ve never seen her.

Now, here is Irene amid two new figures who appear to have a strong bond. Sisters? Friends?

As we might expect, there is more to reveal. Next week, we’ll look at pairings in quite a variety, and even more merry misleads. Then portraits, and finally, a grave.

Property Past

Tricky, sticky stories arise at the sight of buildings in the landscape. Evidence (or absence) of us along the way.

As landscapes, last week’s real photo postcards (RPPC) asked for nothing. Trees, frozen roads, animals burrowing in snow—they floated free of context. We could easily appreciate them without knowing where they might be.

Buildings are different. A structure says someone decided, planned, risked, and accomplished. They hauled materials, drove nails, painted trim. Buildings demand explanation in ways that hills might easily demure.

Reading postcards slowly reveals patterns. The undivided back means pre-1907. The real photo process suggests a local photographer, or maybe an itinerant professional documenting a place too remote to the reach of commercial postcard companies. Paper stock, indicia, stamps and cancellation, faded handwriting and previous labeling, even image placement and crop—these technical details narrow the place possibilities.

But they don’t yet answer another question: Who are Robert and Paul?

Tell Robert the dog lying down is mine and the one standing up is Paul dog

What We Might Know

A two-story house with a generous porch is carefully centered in one photograph. Mature trees in the foreground. Curtains hang in the windows. Someone lived here and wanted to show their pride. Or, was it for sale?

The architectural details offer more clues. Clapboard siding, stone or brick foundation, decorative porch elements—not fancy, but intentional. It seems to be in a neighborhood with sidewalks. In an era between 1900-1920, somewhere in the Midwest or West judging by lot size. Also, a fire hydrant.

The windmill in another image dates itself. Windmills were an important utility and industry, and that style had a particular era. The house beneath it—elaborate Queen Anne with corner turret, ornamental shingles, and ornate columns—speaks to aspiration. Someone had big plans. This is visible evidence. When and where becomes roughly recognizable.

But, the people who stood on that porch remain absent and enigmatic. Who were they? What is happening here? A creative tension is mounting between the realm of evidence and the pull of story.

Sensing Stories

Two women stand in front of McMann Boarding House wearing identical striped dresses. The building is simple—board and batten, minimal trim, the kind of structure that goes up first and fast in a growing place.

The photograph has a vertical tear, the exposure is bad, and time has degraded it. But the sign remains legible: McMann Boarding House. Finally, a name.

Who was McMann? Who are these women? Employees? Vacationers? The photo is both casual and deliberately staged. What might the matching dresses mean? Pride? Subjugation?

Reading their faces, we fill in the narrative, almost immediately and sometimes inescapably. Relationships, motivations, futures take shape unbidden. This is exactly what we both invited and warned of last week—making it up. Always dangerous, sometimes worthwhile.

The impulse to story is nearly irresistible. A name on a building. Two women in matching dresses. The space around the postcard lights up. Are these their stories, or our own, or a magical projection that folds time?

When the Past Chats Back

Shuffling the stack, several cards in this collection start speaking to one another. Same photographic quality. Same paper stock. Similar landscape—flat, spare, newly broken. And most telling: similar structures in states of becoming.

Laid out together, the pattern emerges. Houses with stone foundations and wraparound porches. An elaborate Queen Anne with a windmill. McMann Boarding House with its two women in matching stripes. A lunch room with an immaculately vernacular grand porch. Best-dressed proprietors standing proud. A girl and her horse, bare buildings behind her. A picnic under the canopy of a large tree.

Also, a massive plume of black smoke billowing skyward, an oil derrick to the left, eight or nine men grinning toward the camera. The photograph stops everything cold. They struck liquid gold. A triumph worth documenting. Fine lines of the plumes etching through the darkest black.

These eleven images are a cluster from the same story—a town emerging around oil. Homesteaders and entrepreneurs arriving in a place that may have been open prairie five years earlier. Building homes, businesses, infrastructure for both industrial productivity and social life. Documenting the process with real photo postcards, for themselves or to send East. Their message: we have arrived safely and are in luck.

From Here to Now

This is a founding, the moment a place began and the stakes changed. These aren’t isolated buildings anymore and oddly they seem less like photos, too. We know there is a community taking shape and the evidentiary questions multiply. Who were they, by name? What brought them here? Did this place survive or vanish?

And harder, deeper, more consequential questions: Who lived here before? What animals and habitats were displaced? What did the derricks do? For them, and also to us.

Boom town logic. Extraction economy. Infrastructure dependencies and family injuries inherited. Cultural degradation, and environmental costs still being paid. This isn’t quaint history. This is the beginning of something we’re grappling with today.

Suddenly our imaginative stories contract and we now seek facts. The boarding house proprietor’s daily life can be imagined, but not separated from a place built on oil speculation. The architectural ambition of that Queen Anne deserves appreciation, but it went up in a town that might have lasted ten years or a hundred, depending on the wells. The buildings aren’t innocent, and we are implicated.

More in Store

Another stack of postcards might be related to this cluster—similar age, similar style, possibly the same region, likely at later dates. And then a few unrelated ones, probably European based on the architecture.

Not every fragment connects or resolves. Some buildings will remain singular, their stories unrecoverable. Churches and homes, beautiful structures, carefully photographed. Loved locally today as a memory or a ruin, perhaps.

Not everything needs a narrative. Some images can just be enigmatic. Evidence of care, of craftsmanship, of a moment someone thought worth preserving. These evocative details lead to fiction, which makes its own case for history and the preservation of minute detail.

But this cluster won’t let go. They connect to another stack, and soon we’ll know more. Next week we’ll meet the people themselves, looking back at us.

Mechanical Marvels

As the Harvest Moon wanes and the fall weather arrives, now is the time to cozy up with a few old nursery rhymes. These rare Raphael Tuck & Sons mechanical cards are an enchanting entrance to a magical season.

Published by Raphael Tuck & Sons of London, these elaborate die-cut pop-up cards feature beloved nursery rhymes and fairy tales including Little Bo Peep, Cinderella, Dick Whittington, and Three Little Kittens. Each piece showcases the exceptional craftsmanship and attention to detail that made Tuck one of the most prestigious names in Victorian publishing.

Vintage cards by raphael tuck & sons

Founded in the 1860s by German immigrant Raphael Tuck, the company quickly established itself as a leader in chromolithographic printing. By 1893, they had earned a Royal Warrant, becoming “Art Publishers to Her Majesty the Queen.” This royal endorsement reflected the superior quality of their work, which combined vibrant colors, intricate details, and innovative three-dimensional designs. These mechanical cards, likely produced between the 1880s and 1910s, represent the company at its creative peak.

In an era before mass media entertainment, these colorful, interactive pieces were technological marvels. The chromolithography process allowed for rich, multi-hued images that seemed almost magical to contemporary viewers. Their three-dimensional construction meant they weren’t merely viewed but displayed—transforming mantels into miniature theaters of beloved stories. Collecting and arranging these cards became a popular hobby. Many were preserved in elaborate scrapbooks, but relatively few have survived.

WWI widely disrupted the European paper and printing industries, and Raphael Tuck’s London facilities were destroyed during the WWII Blitz in 1940, losing 74 years of business records and thousands for illustrations and production files. Mid-century greeting card companies did continue to produce mechanical cards, but the more elaborate craft traditions largely faded in favor of modern design trends and less complicated manufacturing.

New technologies have revived the artform and inspired contemporary artists. Robert Sabuda elevated pop-up books and cards to fine art status with his extraordinary paper engineering. Lovepop creates elaborate 3D greeting cards for every occasion. The London company Roger la Borde produces wild and wonderful contemporary designs. Of course, independent artists worldwide create handcrafted die-cut cards that both honor and stretch well-beyond the Raphael Tuck legacy.

To Read More

The History of Raphael Tuck & Sons
https://www.tuckdbpostcards.org/history
Detailed company history from the TuckDB database, the premier online resource for Tuck collectors

Pop-up and Movable Books: In the Context of History
https://popuplady.com/about-pop-ups/pop-up-and-movable-books-in-the-context-of-history/
Excellent illustrated timeline from 13th century volvelles to contemporary artists like Robert Sabuda

Victorian Christmas Cards: An Everyday Work of Art
https://victorianweb.org/technology/letters/christmascards.html
Explores chromolithography technology and the cultural impact of Victorian greeting cards

Raphael Tuck Postcards | The World’s Most Famous Postcards
https://www.britannicauctions.com/blog/raphael-tuck-postcards/
Collector’s guide covering history, famous series, and current market values

Please Post, ASAP!

Did you know? October 1 is World Postcard Day! The celebration started in 2019, based on the grand old global pastime of simply staying in touch.

World Postcard Day was designated by Postcrossing as the first of October starting in 2019, including a new postcard design each year. We share a simple mission to keep postcards circulating, and their way of doing it is elegant and efficient. A wonderful illustrated history of the postcard is available to enjoy, as well. To celebrate the day, I’ll be requesting my first address and then happily duty-bound to get a postcard in the mail quickly. Maybe you will, too!

Featured Postcard~ MatToon Memories

Another mention of Mattoon, Illinois. This time, it is 1912, with a typical friendly update, winter weather commiserations, and gifts exchanged.

Dear Carrie, How is this for winter? I’m good and tired of it. Tell the folks I got a basket last Wed that tickled me mightily. Tell Stella, I will redeem my promise this week if this weather continues. I’ll look them up this P.M. & send at once. I’ve been too busy to do anything extra. Hope U are better. I weigh 154 and you will have to hurry or I’ll be way ahead of U. Mayme, March 11.

Front of the card: A delicate bouquet bursts from a pink gathered vase. Pink hyacinths and white lily of the valley dominate the arrangement. The flowers cascade naturally, their stems tied with fabric and matching bow. The text “A Note to you” appears in a blue decorative font at bottom right. Embossed rosettes frame the card in an ornate lace-like border.

Back details: Handwritten script fills the left side. A one-cent green Benjamin Franklin stamp sits in the upper right corner. The postmark reads “Mattoon, IL” with partial date visible, March 11, 1912, and a flag cancellation. The address shows “Mrs. Carrie Fulmer, St. Mary’s, Ind.”

Condition: The card shows minimal wear—crisp embossing, slight foxing, faded cancellation marks, minor corner softening. Colors remain vibrant. No tears or creases mar either side, though there is a minor cancellation mark on the front upper right. Very good condition for its age.

Rarity: This embossed, die-cut postcard represents German lithography’s golden age. Publishers used chromolithography to achieve the rich colors. The deep embossing required specialized presses. Early 1900s embossed postcards survive in quantity, but this example’s condition elevates its value. The Mattoon, IL postmark and readable message add historical context. Not museum-rare, but better than average.

Appeal: Collectors of Victorian and Edwardian ephemera may treasure this piece. Design enthusiasts might enjoy the embossed example. Genealogists ought to enjoy our meanderings through Mattoon and Mayme and Carrie’s perspectives. Botanical art lovers appreciate the detailed floral illustration and coded meanings. Stamp collectors note the Franklin one-cent issue and period-specific cancellations. Vintage greeting card dealers would display this prominently.

Would anyone cut it up to make an art card? Oh, the creative tension between past and future!

art card gallery

The gallery features Landscapes by Larry L’Ecuyer, and the World’s Smallest Artist Retreat (our P.O. Box) is awaiting your art card submission. Details here!

IN STORE! nEW POSTCARD DESIGN!

If you are nearby, come visit our very first postcard display at Tempe Yarn & Fiber. Grateful for the chance to get them out in the world. New designs and online sales coming soon!

In Remembrance

The Posted Past found its merry mission (and so much more) among the postcard albums that lined the office walls of Robert L’Ecuyer.

Postcards often stand in when more elaborate words fail. A passionate love that could barely tumble off the lips, makes itself clear in the symbol of a deep red rose. We are filled with pride, and a giant cheer bursts out of the mailbox just to say congratulations and hurrah! Also, when the sorrow is so deep, a sympathy card avoids the risks of intrusion and protects the sacred quiet that helps us heal.

It’s one of those days here at The Posted Past as we lay to rest Robert L’Ecuyer, our father. His love of travel, passion for genealogy, excellent listening skills, and long memory — combined with a truly epic postcard collection — were the makings of an extraordinary experience over the past few years.

I will write more about his wit and wisdom in the weeks ahead. For tonight, a selection of cards just to hold a space for all the gifts of his life.