Vicki Sullivan is a retired English instructor and writing tutor who lives in Portland.

I am facing two postcards on my fridge — one sent from Wales by my cousin Karl and the other from Baxter State Park, sent by my friends of almost 50 years, Grace and Hugh.

More personal than a text or email, but briefer than a letter, a postcard is a quick way to keep a connection with people.

Two years ago, I took a course called “The Art of Correspondence” at the University of Southern Maine. Although he didn’t mention postcards, the professor was very much for writing notes and letters, a practice he himself regularly did.

My sending postcards might have started when my friend Sue in Somesville and I started writing back and forth after college. We only saw each other once or twice a year, but since we corresponded regularly, we didn’t always write letters. And in the 1970s, before cellphones, long distance calls were expensive.

Usually we both would buy plain postcards and decorate them with stickers. However, I just found a postcard with a recipe on it, sent in October 1991 after our trip to Camden to celebrate our birthdays.

Sadly, Sue is no longer alive, but in rereading her card, I can hear her voice.

My father, who was Italian, liked talking more than writing, but he did send me a few postcards while away on summer jobs and on trips. There is one postcard I have saved that was sent from Italy on my parents’ first European trip that says on it, “Italy is where the old man can find his way around.” I assume that was because he could speak some Italian.

My mother sent postcards from Europe that were more chatty and detailed.

I tried to send out four postcards from Italy to friends and family but none of them arrived. I can still imagine them behind the counter at the hotel in Sorrento, lost forever!

And although some family members scoffed at my sending out Christmas postcards rather than greeting cards one year, the postcards were at least a quick holiday greeting from a very busy high school English teacher.

Now I send out postcards of Maine places to my friend Grace, who is, reluctantly, more housebound than usual in Auburn, and to my uncle, who is in a senior facility in Bangor.

Although my daily life doesn’t change much, my frequent excursions are varied, so I buy postcards of the places I go and mail them out. Some have been from Cornish, Sebago Lake, Kennebunkport, Bridgton and Northeast Harbor, to name a few.

Grace says the cards lift her mood and are almost therapeutic. And according to my cousin, who receives occasional cards with images of nature, since he was a wildlife biologist, my uncle has saved all my postcards.

The postcards I send to my friends the Chamberlains, who own a favorite restaurant of mine in Rumford, have a different purpose. These are antique postcards of places in Rumford, written by people long ago.

What started as one card of the Hotel Harris, where their restaurant is located, blossomed into many. And imagine my surprise the first time I saw the first few cards had been framed and were gracing the wall. Now there are many on the wall.

These postcards are my connection to Rumford and to them.

So if you really want to stay in touch with someone, put away that phone and computer. Pick up a postcard and do some writing instead.