I grew up in an isolated village in Guatemala. Back then, our mail was brought to us twice a week by a man walking across the Cuchumutanes Mountain range to get to us. Urgent communication came to our door as a telegram, sent by Morse code to the local post office. Personal notes and letters, rare though they were, were treasures of gold, savored and saved. To get medical help of any kind, we had to leave the village and drive a day to the “city,” presuming the one-lane mountain dirt roads were passable and not covered by a landslide.