Writing a humor column won't please everyone, but it's worked for 46 years — Ervolino

Today’s topic: Letters.

Remember them?

People used to sit at their secretaries — the desks, not the personal assistants — dip their quills into little pots of ink and share, on paper, their innermost thoughts.

(Innermost thoughts! Remember them?)

According to Mrs. Gingold, my sixth-grade typing teacher, there were only two types of letters: Business and personal.

In actuality, though, there were so many more: Letters of complaint. Letters of compliance. Letters of apology.

Heartfelt letters! Love letters! And, scarlet ones, too.

(If that last one doesn’t ring a bell, feel free to Google Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale and Nathaniel Hawthorne.)

And, while we’re at it: Letters of introduction; letters of recommendation; and, of course, breakup letters.

Have you ever written a Dear John letter? Have you ever received one?

How about a Dear Jane?

In one memorable episode of “Sex and the City,” Carrie Bradshaw wakes up to find a small, square yellow note left for her during the night by her on-again, off-again bedmate Jack Berger that reads, “I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

This shocking incident led to the quintessential ‘90s romantic lament, inducing tears in neglected women everywhere: “He broke up with me on a Post-It.”

There are letters to Santa, and one very famous letter about him, written by Virginia O’Hanlon to The Sun, a once-popular New York newspaper, in 1897.

Contrary to legend, I was not born in 1897, but the story is quite famous, as is the written response that the youngster received.

Virginia asked if there really was a Santa Claus and…you know…blah-blah-blah.

In an eloquent and iconic editorial, publisher/editor Francis Pharcellus Church replied, “Yes, Virginia…yada-yada-yada…ho-ho-ho…etc.”

(Those weren’t his exact words, but you get the gist.)

Journalists — and editors, in particular — have been morally suspect, ever since.

And what became of poor Virginia? Did she take this lie to her grave? Did it drive her mad? Did she roam the earth, searching endlessly for this mystery man, like David Carradine in “Kung Fu?”

As someone who has been in the newspaper business since David Carradine’s 40th birthday — he was born in 1936 — I know my way around letters to the editor.

My first job in the business was as the editor of two weekly newspapers on Long Island. Part of the job meant writing a column for their shared editorial page.

For months, I did my best to write a serious column. Letters received: Zero.

Then, one day, I decided to write a funny column. Days letter, there was a pile of letters on my desk, telling me that I was funnier than Abe Lincoln. Or, someone named Abe. Or, maybe it was Art. Who remembers?

The publisher came right to the point: “I’m not sure what you did,” he said. “But keep doing it.”

And, so I have. For 46 years.

While all the serious reporters around me were getting hate mail — interrupted every so often by the occasional nice note, praising their hard work — I was drowning in pleasant ones.

For what? Writing about my dog?

Honestly, I felt terrible about it. And, yet…

In 1993, instead of making an appointment with The Big Boss to ask for a raise, I left a folder of letters, at least three inches thick, with his secretary. (The assistant, not the desk.)

She asked, “What’s this?” I said, “Just give it to him.”

Eventually, though, I felt the need to compensate for all this. Every so often, I, too, got notes from angry, confused, non-appreciative readers. And I began posting them on the walls of my office cubicle for my co-workers to enjoy.

Recently, I came across a favorite from a youngster in Connecticut. She wrote to me in 2009:

Hello Mr. Ervolino,

Today is the first time I have ever read anything that you have written. The reason I did so is because my AP English teacher was a huge fan of yours. She grew up in New Jersey and loved everything you wrote. Apparently your articles are hilarious. Almost all the adults that she coerced into reading it were laughing. However, when I read "Toaster Oven Maintains a Warm Place in His Heart,” I didn't come across anything that was all that humorous. My classmates all expressed the same sentiments and chose me to write to you. I was wondering if you could explain the attraction all adults feel towards your writing. Just for the record your article was a bit eccentric and I enjoyed reading it simply because of the subject matter.

Sincerely,Hafsa (Connecticut)

I still laugh hysterically at this note. Rereading it reminds me that you can’t please everyone.

It also reminds me that Hafsa has to be around 30 by now. So, I’m guessing this means that — finally — she really, really likes me.

Perhaps.

I’m awaiting a confirmation letter.

This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com: Bill Ervolino can't please everyone, but he's tried for 46 years