Have Yourself a Form Letter Christmas

Charles Dickens, not having Kinko’s, had to copy his own Christmas stuff by hand.

“Dear Mr. and Ms. Barrett-Browning,” he would write (Dickens being far ahead of his time). “Well, this has been my best year and my worst year. The little Christmas tale seems to be quite popular, but the bloody typesetter sent out 10,000 books with the child’s name erroneously printed as ‘Tiny Jim.’ In the meantime, my editor seems to fancy a second volume featuring the Copperfield character, one in which he would become a prestidigitator and romantically involved with a voluptuous German beauty called Claudia. How quaint.”

Dickens would be halfway through these Yuletide tidings when his quill would run out of ink, whereupon the poor devil would have to send all the way to Mont Blanc in the French Alps for a new model. (The black lacquered one, $139.95 retail.)

Nowadays, alas, the personalized holiday greeting has become a thing of the past.

In an age of laser-jet printers and more 24-hour copy shops than coffee shops, a modern kind of Christmas correspondence is burgeoning: The warm form letter.

Everyone gets the same two-pronged generic greeting: the holiday card supplied by Hallmark or Shoebox or Recycled Paper Products, and then the neatly folded enclosure, the one in which dear friends or relations save valuable time by duplicating their memoirs:

“Dear (Your Name Here),

“Well, this has been our best year and our worst year. (Pardon my cliche!)

“Little Timmy caught a cold in January, and his nose was runny all the way into February! My uncle came to visit us in March, and he wore a green hat. In the middle of April we thought about washing our car, but by May it was still really dirty. Then we spent most of June and July waiting for August. Our favorite month was September, when our dry-cleaning came back. Let’s see, we ate at Boston Market for the first time in October, made our cat, Fluffy, sleep outside in November, and, oh, yes, we joined a club for suburban swingers in early December.

“Now tell us what’s new with you!

“Love, (Your Signature Here).”

I was offended by such cards at first, irked that my correspondents couldn’t find five minutes to personally, well, correspond. Sending me the same letter somebody else got, to me this represented a kind of postal fruitcake.

There were years in which I became sufficiently irritated to fire off a year-end update of my own:

“Dear Friend or Relative,

“I am: a) fine; b) painfully sad; c) not really sure who I am.

“How are (the two of) (three of) (four of) (all of) you?

“I got a new: a) job; b) dog; c) Mont Blanc pen.

“The house (survived) (needs repairs from) the earthquake.

“Been watching the O.J. trial? Me, too, since (1994) (1995) (1996).

“I hope you: a) come see me; b) feel better; c) enjoyed our romantic night together.

“How about those Cubs losing again?

“Well, I’d better: a) wrap this up now; b) shave; c) let the doctor set this bone.

“I often think of you and your (kids) (first two husbands) (lawn) when I have a few (minutes) (thoughts) (drinks).

“Good luck with the: a) term paper; b) hair transplant; c) Whitewater investigation.

“(Best) (Fondly) (Thinkin’ of Ya!)

“Mike (Downey)”

But this seemed a tad impersonal.

Therefore, I adapted to modern times. I accepted holiday greetings for what they were. ‘Twas better to receive than to not.

And, thanks to advancements in technology, a message written on a personal computer can be quickly personalized before each trip through the printer. Delete a word here, drop a name there, insert a Walt Disney World anecdote there, and, before you know it, each bland greeting can pass itself off as a deeply personal one. Add a lipstick kiss or a smiley face, and hey, it practically feels like an actual letter!

I treasure each one.

No, I (am only kidding) (really mean it).

* Mike Downey is: a) a Times sports columnist; b) making a guest appearance today in Life & Style; c) both.