I once had a pen pal. A boy from Kissimmee, Florida. I was ten, he the same age. Other than that, I don’t remember anything about him, not even his name. I was reminded of him the other day when I read a fascinating story about pen pal connections that spanned decades. The article was from the Washington Post, and I was immediately taken by the fact that the one-time girl grew up in East Grand Rapids only a short distance from where I lived for most of three decades. Twelve-year-old Kristina Olson had gone door-to-door, raising money through Camp Fire Girls in order to send care packages to soldiers stationed abroad. Hers went to Ned Felder in ...