Cards 'n Letters

Writing and the love of it overflows into areas other than books, essays and articles. For me, I wish I had ample time to write letters more often. A letter keeps me connected whether I’m writing it or receiving it.

I also like to write a note on a card sent and wonder why folks don’t do it more often. One doesn’t’ have to be a college grad, an excellent speller or have a neat penmanship. “Happy Birthday” “Merry Christmas” or just “Thinking of You” written by hand is much more personal than the same words pre-printed.

It’s a similar emotion when eating dinner at someone else’s house. They don’t cook like you do, or maybe it’s even Chinese take-out, but it tastes even more delicious anyway. Maybe it’s in the ‘being invited.’

The same feeling emerges when finding a card in my mailbox, even a post card tells me someone thought of me. How wonderful that is.

Last New Moon in 2008

The last new moon of the year appears on Saturday, 27th December. Use the day for making wishes, like using the wishbone from your holiday turkey. Jot down the date with your wishes listed underneath to keep track of the changes in your life along with the changes of the moon’s phases.

Your visions of wishes are the first steps in making your dreams come true. To make permanent changes in your life, write up a list of affirmations. Read them everyday and know they will come to be. As ye dream, so shall you be.

PS: Just be careful what you wish for.

Vaughn, North Carolina Post Office

I mailed out my last Christmas card for this year today in Vaughn. The tiny, old post office looks like something out of the Wild West with its creaky wood porch and floors. Three people would be a bit crowded if they were all inside at once. But I’ve never run into anyone else in there at the same time.

In spite of its age and size the Vaughn post office has been a welcome sight to me and I’m sure to others, too. Especially when the other post offices in the ten-mile range are all closed on a Saturday and I’m trying to take advantage of that extra travel day for my packages or mail.

Aside from the visual comfort I receive from going there, the attendant at the window is always most pleasant. This cordial interaction between customer and clerk makes me feel like I was born and raised here. Like being home. That's a good feeling, indeed.

Food Chain Rip-off

I happily went to the food store near the lake this morning to pick up a few things since I had to go for the Sunday paper anyway. I was anxious to use the $5 coupon sent to me by email from them. It also had a buy-one-get-one bottle of soda or a Bloody Mary mix with the same offer.

When I presented the coupon, the checker couldn’t find a code to scam, oops, I mean scan. They knew nothing about this coupon so they called the manager. She didn’t know about it either so she had to call someone for an explanation.

It came down to the soda and Bloody Mary mix were the $5 value, which it didn’t mention on the large $5 Off shouting out to me in balloons. I don't use either.

This is the same food chain that I stopped buying in, for about six months last year after they offered me a great Thanksgiving deal that was cancelled out in fine print so tiny that I couldn’t read it with a magnifying glass.

The telephone call to complain last year had no effect. They refused responsibility then and probably will again. But I’m calling anyway.

Letting Go

Whew! It’s done. I’ve been finished with my manuscript for over a month but kept re-writing, adding and deleting from it. I think part of this was to stave off the pain of letting it go. I feel like I’ve given my baby up to someone else to raise, like they did in England in the 1800s. The aristocracy gave the baby to another family to suckle and rear until four or so, then sent him off at seven or eight to go to school. Of course, some had tutors come in. I think they were the ones who really liked their kids.

In the 1900s the English custom changed a bit. These same aristocrats were very big on housing nannies to raise the kids then sent them to live at school at eight or nine, never to return, except summers and holidays, until 16 or 18 or so. This was mostly the boys but sometimes the girls, too. Frankly, I think they missed all the fun.

Anyway, it’s gone and I won’t breathe deeply again until I have the finished book, with its shiny, new cover in my hands. A new child is born, named Pieces of Me.