LIVING DEAR OCCUPANT

AN INVALUABLE SOURCE of literary material will be lost to future generations. Hardly a month passes without the release of the heretofore unpublished letters of a notable historical figure such as Oscar Wilde, Harry S. Truman or Dashiell Ham-mett. But no more: The personal letter has become extinct. Although there’s still plenty of mail, the literary pickings are slim- unless someone wants to compile and edit the works of Apple, Commodore or IBM.

When I was a child, I used to love to watch for the postman. We only got mail every few days, but when it came, it was really good stuff: a letter from my pen pal in Oregon or a picture postcard from an old friend who had moved to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Now, as fun goes, sorting the mail rates somewhere between peeling carrots and changing the vacuum-cleaner bag.

There’s no need to watch for the mailman now. If the box isn’t stuffed full, he hasn’t come yet. Recognizing this phenomenon, advertisers and promoters have resorted to fiendish ploys to entice John Q. Resident to open the daily offerings with Mail-A-Grams, Express-A-Grams and triple benefit offers.

The lake property promoters are particularly creative. Keith Brock, marketing director of Oakwood at 12655 N. Central Expwy. in Dallas, sent me an Express Telegram to notify me that I had won something that could be picked up at Lake Athens in East Texas. The tip-off was the postage, which was only 9 cents. Sherry Parks of 13500 Midway Rd. in Dallas sent what appeared to be a personal letter, but I discovered that Ms. Parks was in reality Vacation Time Inc. A letter from the Awards Notification Office in Dallas turned out to be a message from Holly Lake Ranch, and the North American Notification Center was Thousand Trails at Lake Tawakoni. My “Final Notification of Award” from East Fork Ranch was disguised as a message from MD Wire Service.

The resort promoters haven’t cornered the market on ingenuity, however. International Mercantile Inc. of 5757 Alpha Rd. in Dallas sent me a “MERCHANDISE PICKUP NOTICE.” Columbia House warned that there was an official business receipt enclosed. Consumer Reports preyed on my curiosity with a true-false question on the envelope that asked whether two Excedrin tablets contain more caffeine than a cup of coffee. (The answer is yes.)

Another envelope asked, “Is there an extra $40,000 in the Peeler family’s future?” I discovered that there may be, but only if I buy an insurance policy from MIC Life and then die. Dallas Federal Savings and Loan Association sent me a cleverly prepared envelope with an extra pouch like the one on a kangaroo, along with a warning to “Remove important form in window before destraying envelope.” The important form was an opportunity to purchase Dallas Federal stock.

Perhaps the most heinous of all is the envelope marked, “Check enclosed.” I never stop to think (until it’s too late) that no one sending a negotiable instrument in the mail is going to red-flag it for thieves. By reading the stipulations on the back of the $3 check, I find that if I endorse it, I have purchased a $39 membership in the Credit Card Bureau of America.

Credit cards. It used to be that you could buy your gas, sign for it, get your bill in the mail and pay it. Now when you get your gas bill, you can hardly find it, since it’s combined with boundless opportunities to buy tire pumps, diamond rings, quartz watches, flashlights, encyclopedias, recipes and pictures of wild animals. The promotion of the month is always displayed on a flyer attached to the return envelope, rendering the envelope useless until the flyer has been dealt with. The big item at Texaco this month is the Litton “Go-Anywhere” microwave oven.

Gulf is particularly fond of sending opportunities to buy merchandise without any gas bill at all. Of course, you don’t know this until you sort through all the ads. I recently received an ominous warning from Gulf with a response deadline date on the envelope. Inside was another warning marked: “IMPORTANT. Please read this notice. It concerns your GulfCard.” It was an opportunity to buy credit card protection.

But maybe I do need credit card protection: I received an unsolicited credit card recently from Mervyn’s that I just happened to notice before throwing it into the trash. I’ve learned to watch for envelopes marked “Do not forward; address correction requested,” since these always contain credit cards.

MasterCard and Visa seem to be running amok. They’re like Al Capp’s Schmoos: Every time you kill one, two new ones are formed. I get mail from all over the country from people telling me that their Visa card is better than my Visa card, but I really don’t want a Visa card from a bank in North Dakota. Some company called Timesaver of Rockville, Maryland, offered to get me a couple of their “exclusive” MasterCard and Visa credit cards for a fee of $25. Actually, I’m not in that big a hurry.

Can I even be sure that these are really credit cards? What if I’m short of cash and I run up a big bill on a card that someone sends me just before Christmas-and then discover that it was a debit card?

When I was younger, I could always look forward to a birthday card with a $5 check in it from my uncle in California. Later, in college and in the army, I could count on the mail to bring a few bucks from home to tide me over. Now the only ship I have out is the chance to win $365,000 in the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes.

“Contest” is a word formed from the combination of “con” (meaning to dupe or swindle) and “test” (to try one’s patience). The people at Publishers Clearing House can’t imagine the extent of the mental anguish they are causing. Shall I opt for the $365,000 in cash, or will I be better off with $40,000 a year for life? Do I want $125,000 in cash or a 46-foot Aqua-Home luxury houseboat? I need actuarial charts, appraisals and expert tax advice, but I can’t afford a lot of front-end expenditures because, looking at it realistically, there’s always the chance that I may not win.

The process of putting together a valid entry is a severe test in itself. The typical mailer from the Clearing House weighs about a pound and a half. I have to go through the whole thing to make sure that I have stuck all the stickers in the right places and that I haven’t overlooked the early entry bonus, the double-prize sticker or the mystery award. The double-prize sticker is hidden in the maze of magazine stickers, somewhere between Fashion Knitting and Vegetarian Times. But I have to find it, since I can’t bear the thought of being told that I would have won $730,000 instead of $365,000 if I had just affixed the double-prize sticker.

And that’s just the contest part; I still have to decide between the 129 unbeatable magazine values. (I have a suspicion that the entries with magazine stickers on them have a psychological advantage.) Picking the magazines isn’t as easy as it once was, either. There’s a price shown in bold red print for each, such as $6.75 for 12 issues of Life. When I read the smaller print, however, I discover that the subscription actually involves four payments of $6.75 each. Nevertheless, by referring to the special incentive brochure, I find that the Life subscription includes a free duffel bag, which must be compared, of course, to the free digital clock with calendar offered by Sports Illustrated. I have to get this all sorted out now, since next week I’ll be getting the 2-pound Publishers Clearing House follow-up package.

It’s imperative that the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes not be confused with the sweepstakes of American Family Publishers, since that’s the one where Ed McMahon will personally deliver a $1 million check to the winner on The Tonight Show. It also should not be confused with the Reader’s Digest sweepstakes, which is distinguished this year by the fact that it contains a fully negotiable five-cent piece produced by the United States mint. There is a warning affixed to the nickel that it should not be removed until the entire contents of the contest package have been carefully studied, but I never figured out why.

Merchandisers of products other than magazines are also climbing onto the contest bandwagon. I recently received a congratulatory announcement from the Prize Headquarters of Cheeselovers International, which informed me that I had won a prize in the $25,000 Cheeselovers Sweepstakes. The announcement asked me to send them a dollar prior to the official notification of how much I had won-a voluntary gesture, of course, but one which “would be appreciated by the club.” I resisted the temptation to improve my chances for a major prize, but I did return the entry blank, since I had been assured that at the very worst I had won a genuine Star of India. (I was advised that I could be assured of a genuine Indian Tigris Emerald for a $6 membership fee, but I again refrained.)

Sure enough, just as promised, the worst happened. I received in the mail a tiny black rock accompanied by a Certificate of Authenticity that declared the Black Star of India to be “fully polished on the hemispheric space and appropriately roughened on the flat bottom.” My wife fondly refers to it as her kidney stone.

I received a very puzzling contest offer the other day from American Holiday Association of Los Angeles, California. I am told that I can win a Ford, a Chrysler or a Cadillac, and it’s up to me to select which one I want to win. If I want to settle for the Ford, I must send in a $1 entry fee; $2 for the Chrysler; and $3 for the Cadillac. The thing that puzzles me is that I had always thought lotteries were illegal in Texas.

I also take advantage of all the “no obligation” subscription offers that arrive. The way this works is that you pretend to subscribe to the magazine, but you have a gentleman’s agreement with the publisher. If, after you have read the first issue, you decide that you don’t want to subscribe, then all you must do is write “CANCEL” on the bill when it arrives, and that’s the end of it.

The problem arises when you get the bill, which is always long before you get the first issue of the magazine. It doesn’t say: “Remember now, if you decide not to subscribe, just write ’CANCEL,’ and that’s the last you will hear from us.” It says “Welcome to our family; you’re going to love us! You ordered this subscription, now pay for it.” I can never remember which I’ve ordered at the introductory bargain rate and which I’ve sent for under the no-obligation gentleman’s agreement, so I just write CANCEL on everything and wait to see what happens. To get back at me, the magazines sell my name.

Once, while I was writing an antiques column for The Dallas Morning News, I subscribed to a couple of antique newspapers. Since then, I’ve been barraged with opportunities to buy collectible items ranging from a porcelain plate depiction of the great American barn to a pewter statue of Emmett Kelly, the famous clown. I have received dozens of expensive color brochures from something called The Danbury Mint of Nor-walk, Connecticut, which makes me feel a little guilty. I would like to write and tell them that I’m never going to buy anything from them-no matter what it is-but that would require a 20-cent investment.

I don’t know who to thank for putting me on the mailing list of Donnelley Marketing, but that’s another curse. Every month I receive “Coupons from Carol Wright” by the pound. Twenty-five cents off Arrid Extra Dry, 50 cents off my next Patio Burrito Dinner, a 20-cent savings on Swirly-Q’s, another 20 cents off Banner toilet tissue and 13 Dunkin’ Donuts for just $1.99. I have to go through all of these every month because Carol sometimes sends me a free sample of Head & Shoulders or Lipton Tea.

Sometimes I can tell who sold my name from the way I filled out the subscription. Once, a computer blipped and added a “k” to the end of my name. I still get promotional materials addressed to Mr. Peelerk. And when my son was 10, he became interested in superstars and subscribed to Sport magazine. Three months later, he received a letter advising him that he was one of a select group of sophisticated swingers in the Dallas area who were being offered charter memberships in the Playboy Club.

It’s very difficult for solicitors of charitable contributions to compete with all of this. Some, such as the High Plains Children’s Home, are up front about it, relying upon people to recognize a worthy cause and to give it due consideration. Colleges and universities can’t get away with this approach; they have to disguise their solicitations as yearbook updates or package tours to the Greek Isles. A recent exception that I received from the University of Texas Alum Association never had a chance.

I am often quite impressed at the dollar amount that’s designated as the appropriate extent of my participation, but I am bewildered as to its source, for I have never subscribed to Fortune. The identification of the solicitor can be impressive, too. I received a recent piece of correspondence from the Honorable Ronald Wilson Reagan, president of the United States. I thought at first that I was being invited to a reception or a ball, but as it turned out, the president was merely requesting the honor of my support and participation as a sponsor of the GOP victory fund.

There’s always the chance that something really significant will turn up, and that’s what keeps me going to the mailbox. Last week, I thought I had found it: a letter marked “Confidential.” It could have been a letter from an attorney about a will probate, or perhaps an important job offer. Not this time, though. The confidential correspondence was addressed to “Resident.”