“[There is a] simpler value of the written letter, which is, namely, that reaching out in correspondence is really one of the original forms of civility in the world.”
― Virginia Evans, The Correspondent 

I recently read Virginia Evans’ wonderful novel, The Correspondent. For most of her life, the 73-year-old protagonist, Sybil Van Antwerp, has been a correspondent, an unflagging letter writer. On most mornings, one could find Sybil at her writing desk, penning correspondence to her brother and to her best friend, to the president of the local university who’s refused to let her audit a course there, to professional writers Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry whose works she greatly admires, and to her dead son whom she grieves deeply decades after his accidental death. For Sybil, the written letter is not only “one of the original forms of civility in the world,” it is her touchstone, the act that grounds her in the painful and wonderful world.

That novelist Virigina Evans chose to champion letter writing through Sybil and her marvelous letters—sometimes witty, sometimes poignant, and always unflinchingly honest—may be evidence of other “old” forms and practices that are making a comeback. Consider Caitlin Gibson’s Sept. 30th Washington Post article, “Parents are bringing back the landline.” In it, she profiles four close-knit Seattle families who’ve vowed to keep smartphones out of their children’s hands for as long as they can. As Gibson explains, they’ve committed to staying collectively strong and to investigating other means by which their children might communicate and stay connected:

There was strength in that solidarity, says Lauren Zemer, a Seattle-area therapist and mom of two: “We had agreed that we were going to share these values.” But she and her neighbors also wanted their children to feel connected to their peers and to develop a sense of social independence. So in October 2024, when one of the parents heard about a local father who had built a prototype for a kid-specific, adult-controlled landline phone — and had created a waitlist for families who wanted one — Zemer and her friends were ecstatic.

These parents were among the first to purchase the Tin Can, “a Wifi-enabled, curly-corded landline that allows parents to control the hours when it is in use and which phone numbers are approved to call in to (or be called from) the closed network.” These parents claim the Tin Can has been “transformative,” creating a sense of independence in their children and changing the way they communicate. With no screens to distract them, they use their landlines to set up playdates where they actually meet in person to play ball, ride bikes, or build Lego structures. The company reports it has sold “tens of thousands” of Tin Cans in the United States and Canada, and sales have been so overwhelming that the phones are currently back-ordered. The company expects deliveries by December 2025.

The landline’s comeback—and surging popularity—supports the adage: everything old is new again. I confess to having fond memories of the curly-corded landline phone, its ring throughout the house as you ran to pick it up in anticipation that the call might be for you. Our family phone was located centrally in the hallway off our living and dining room, making it challenging to hold private conversations. Just as the Seattle kids use the Tin Can to arrange playdates, we primarily used the phone to make plans to meet—at the ballgame, after school, at the Friday night Youth Center dances—in person. Before cell phones, I called home when I could afford the long-distance charges, eager to hear my parents’ voices and catch up. For years, the landline was my touchstone, and I cherished these calls.

In a January 2025 Hechinger Report article, “Top scholar says evidence for special education inclusion is ‘fundamentally flawed,’” Jill Barshay writes that a Vanderbilt University professor is challenging the prevailing practice of inclusion and those who contend students with disabilities should be educated as much as possible alongside their peers in general education classrooms:

In a paper that reviews more than 50 years of research, Douglas Fuchs of Vanderbilt University and the American Institutes for Research, along with two other researchers, argues that the academic benefits of including students with disabilities in general education classrooms are not settled science despite the fact that numerous studies have found that children with disabilities learn more that way. 

Fuchs conceded that he and fellow researchers aren’t saying the evidence indicates that full inclusion can’t work; rather, they’re saying this evidence is “extremely weak, “fundamentally flawed,” and that “no conclusions can be drawn from the evidence.” Futhermore, he concedes that some—not all—students with disabilities “can and should be in general classrooms.” Even as I write this, I’m aware there will be some educators and parents insensed with Fuch’s arguments, who will insist that inclusion is the right—the only—model for students with disabilities. There will be others, however, who will shake their heads and say, “We could’ve told you this.” To Fuch’s argument that the majority of these students would be better served with intensive insruction in a separate classroom, they will say, “Yup—been saying this for years.” But the practice of placing students in classrooms based on needs and abilities fell out of educational, social, and political favor in the 80s. And now, as educational researchers like Fuch are advocating for older, more traditional practices, these practices will inevitably be presented and marketed as “new.”

In education, everything old is new again. I recall teaching a university instructional methods course for pre-teachers and encountering a chapter in our text entitled, “Grand Conversations.” A new instructional strategy? I thought. As I read, I discovered the entire chapter focused on how to effectively lead whole-class discussions. A new strategy? Nope, it was an old instructional strategy (perhaps the oldest) which had been educationally rebranded. Ask any educator, and they can provide countless examples of this type of rebranding. It’s a slick way to bring back the old “babies” we “threw out with the bathwater.”

As tempting as it may be to argue that everything old should be new again, that old ways and ideas are preferable, and that we’ve been foolish to abandon them, this would be wrong. Some old ways and ideas are better left in the past. Many will argue there are cultural, political, educational, business, and religious practices that, blessedly, have been replaced by newer, better, more humane ones. And there are new technologies we’ve eagerly embraced. As a teacher, I sent up a chorus of hallelujahs when mimeograph machines were replaced by IBM copiers. No more blue-inked fingers which invariably marked my face, streaking my forehead and making me look more like Braveheart than an English teacher. No more typing on carboned paper. No more using razor blades to scrape away my inevitable mistakes. The world changed for the better when the mimeograph was put to pasture. Well, except for the smell of those wet copies coming fresh off the press. Inadvisable as it was, I admit to huffing more than my share of mimeographed copies and hoping this wasn’t doing any real brain damage.

Yes, some things are better left in the past. But others deserve a genuine second chance. I’m still cleaning and saving aluminum foil because my mother did. As a girl, I once asked her why she did this. She explained how during WWII, her mother always saved foil to contribute to the war effort. Should this old practice become new again? For the sake of the environment and to pay homage to those like my grandmother who did her part, why not?

Most of us can name old ideas and practices that merit a second chance. For me, writing letters, using landlines, and creating specialized classrooms and intensive instruction for students with disabilities are just a few things that deserve another look. In a letter to her best friend and life-long correspondent, Virginia Evans’ character Sybil Van Antwerp writes:

You are right about what you said—we are thirty in our hearts, before all the disappointment, all the ways it turned out to be so much more painful than we thought it would be, but then again, it has also been magic. I miss you. Back in late April, and Theodore will accompany me for a visit. You’re the only person left who writes, and I’m grateful.

I want to write a letter like this. I want to be “the only person left who writes” for someone. Through correspondence which is as honest and funny and moving as Sybil’s, I want to pour out my gratitude for another. One could do worse than make this old practice new again.