When Thank You is Enough

Once a year, I get a thank you card for a Xmas gift. The card is always from Laura, Mary Ann's daughter-in-law. I received it yesterday. She and Jeremy won't be stationed in Colorado Springs as previously believed, but will be going to El Paso in the spring. I'm a little bummed because I thought I'd get a chance to get to know Laura and Jeremy in a more personal way and maybe even Mary Ann would get to come and visit for a change. Not going to happen, but the thought was lovely for a while. I was even cleaning house to be ready. Guess I can go back to my slovenly ways now.

I don't think people get how special thank you cards really are. I know it's something from an older time when the social graces included such niceties and thank you cards and, well, gracious rules, but that doesn't mean that they have to go out of style the way that graciousness and thank yous have gone out of style. I wish they wouldn't.

An old friend made his sons sit down at Xmas and write me thank you cards for the gifts I sent them. Well, I didn't really send the gifts to the boys, but to the tree. The cards they wrote were lovely and one of the boys even drew Jack Skellington on his thank you card. That is a bonus, a thank you gift for the gifts I sent for their tree. The boys complained loudly about how it was old fashioned and no one sent thank you cards any more, but my friend told them that in his house they would write the cards. They got into the spirit and did them. I don't know how much of a dent it will make in their lives, but I'm glad they wrote them.

Maybe we need to do something as an incentive for writing thank you cards and being more polite and gracious. I belong to a cross stitch bulletin board and everyone there is so polite. It didn't take me long to figure out why either. Every comment earns points that increase one's standing overall and allows the person to access more features and get more points. It's like paid politeness on the surface, but it also means that some people, in spite of the points they receive, are more gracious and polite and do it because that's the kind of people they are. It's like stimulating an unused muscle. It hurts for a while, but then begins to work smoother and more efficiently.

There is a counter at the top of every post that shows how many people have visited and how many have commented. The visits outweigh the comments, but the comments - the thank yous - are worth more to me.

I have yet to receive a thank you card from my grandchildren for their gifts over the years. I call them to make sure the gift arrived and they get on the phone and tell me they liked what I sent and we catch up. I often wonder if I'd get even a thank you if I didn't call and this has bothered me every year for a very long time. That is until this year. As my friend explained to his boys, no thank you card means no more gifts. That is what I'm giving my grandchildren for their birthdays and xmas this year and every year from now on. No thank you card means I will send them a card with a note that says that a gift was made in their name to a local charity, like Toys for Tots. I will likely not get a thank you card from the charity, but I will know for sure that the children receiving a gift from the charity will prize it because they have so little in their lives. That will be thanks enough.

I don't always send thank you cards. I often send thank you letters and I always call to say thank you, which isn't often since I receive gifts from only two people every year at Xmas and birthdays. It reminds me of a quote from El Dorado. Alan Padillion Trahern (James Caan) said, "A host of friends. I have a host of friends." Sarcasm at its finest and it only involved his hat.

I know times are tough; I live in them too. And I don't expect a gift for my birthday or Xmas or even Mother's Day every year, but it would be nice once in a while to know that more than my sister and Mary Ann think of me at those special times of year and respond with a gift to which I can reply with a thank you card or phone call. Such is not to be and I live with that every day.

In the meantime, I'll cherish my annual thank you card from Laura and the occasional thank you I get from Spock the cat and my friend's boys and whoever else decides that the old traditions are worth keeping and exercising on a regular basis. In lieu of that, I may have to consider something more pointed than sending personalized thank you cards, something like points or money. All I need to do then is decide what the points will be worth at the end.

That is all. Disperse.

Power in the Words

A friend posted about a gift she was given because of something she wrote. The recent tragedy of my grandson's unexpected (and so far unexplained) death earlier this week brought people together to offer their condolences and we shared our grief in a very public way. The obituary about Connor's death brought strangers to the funeral home on Friday night and they brought flowers. They didn't know my son or his family and they didn't know Connor, but the words of the obituary reminded them (as if they could ever forget) that they lost a daughter 21 years ago when she less than a year old to SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome), what was once called crib death. They wanted my son and his family to know they weren't alone and that Connor had touched their lives, however briefly.

Words have the power to hurt and to heal, as well as to inform.

The friend who posted about her unexpected windfall as a result of her random post felt bad when I mentioned that I wish I had thought about posting that I was cooking and baking up a storm and always wanted a KitchenAid mixer, the kind that has all the attachments and add-ons, like a sausage stuffer and meat grinder, among others, so someone would send one to me. I was teasing about the post, but not about wanting a KitchenAid. My comment to her, however light-hearted, made her think she was begging by writing about her thoughts and actions and feelings. Not at all. That is what we bloggers do -- communicate. Through communication wonderful -- and not so wonderful -- things happen.

In her case, someone was given 2 KitchenAid stand mixers for Christmas and she decided that instead of giving one of them to the church or a charity she would give it to my friend. That was a lovely gesture and one that made my friend happy. She hasn't been happy for a long time and has been blown and battered by the storms of fortune -- or rather, misfortune -- for a few years. She has had it rough and the idea that what I said in jest made her feel bad about the gift she received makes me feel bad. It also reminds me that words have so much power.

In media like blogging and writing stories or articles, we reach millions of people. Not everyone will get what is said and may put their own spin on things that have nothing to do with the author's intention. Even though my words about my son were not accompanied by a teary-eyed and heartbreaking video, people responded with sadness, shock, and condolences. My friend responded to my teasing with shame and guilt. The words were just words, but the emotions sparked came from different places.

How many people can read a child's obituary and not think of lost future? If someone has lost a child, especially a small child, they bring their own grief to what they read and the emotions come back as fresh as the day they were born, even 21 years later.

When someone reads a comment meant to be light-hearted and they have been beaten up and thrashed by life, they bring something entirely different to the fore. In this case, my friend, who has had it so difficult for so long, felt guilt and shame that she didn't have the means to buy what she wanted and had to accept it from someone else. Her emotions do not negate the joy of having the gift but, like a whipped dog, she wanted to cower with her tail between her legs because doesn't feel like she deserves to have the gift in the first place. There are so many people who need what she was given more than she does and she felt unworthy, hence her reaction to my teasing with shock and shame.

She wrote that she had not realized she was coming across as a beggar. She wasn't begging when she wrote about the joy she had found in cooking and baking. She wasn't begging when she mentioned wanting a tool to make her task easier. She was writing about her life and enjoying having something that lifted her out of her sadness and misery for a while. Someone saw that post and responded by sharing what she had been given too much of. No one begged and no one looked down and felt superior because she could play Lady Bountiful. That's not how things work in the world, at least not this time in this world. It was 2 people who communicated, one expressing joy and the other responding with generosity and kindness. There is no better sense of communication.

But words can be lethal. They can maim and scar and destroy.

My son David Scott used to get into fights over words. He was fighting because someone had said something mean about me. He was a child and responded the way a child does with violence, and probably quite a few tears. He was defending me. I told him there was no need to fight for me over words. The words didn't hurt me or change who I was, and I was wrong.

While the words would have hurt me when I was a child, they didn't even touch me as an adult. I had become immune to the words, to slough them off like filthy rags. I had forgotten what those same words had done to me as a child when my mother threw them in my face and my siblings chanted them at me, when other children took up the chant and threw them at me like jagged rocks. They hurt. They dug deep into my flesh and struck bone, and that is how they felt to my son. The words were thrown at me, but they struck him, and I dismissed his feelings and his sense of pride for fighting against the kids who, at least in his mind, had hurt me. He was battling hyenas like a young lion cub and winning and looking to me, his mother, for praise, not dismissal.

It didn't matter how much I loved my son and didn't want him to fight and get hurt. What mattered was that I failed to recognize the gifts he gave me -- his battle scars and sense of pride in his chivalrous act. The words that failed to hit had wounded him and I rubbed salt into his wounds by not recognizing and applauding his valor and prowess.

Parents make mistakes, and I have made my share. Friends also make mistakes when they fail to recognize their simple teasing words can become weapons without realizing it.

I am sorry my friend took my words as chastisement when I meant them in fun. I apologize to my son for not recognizing his valor and strength and his unbounded love for me. I do not, however, apologize for these words. Take them how you will, but they are meant to show that words do have power, power to hurt and to heal. I hope this time their power is in the healing.

Serendipity and Loss

I enjoy reading essays and have discovered several wonderful writers by reading their essays. Sometimes I read a book and find out they wrote essays and search until I find them. I'm seldom disappointed. It's a habit I acquired a few years ago when someone introduced me to Henry Miller. I had already read Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn years before and then I was guided to the essays. I was entranced and inspired, so inspired I began writing more essays and getting published. I had found my way.

A couple years ago, I discovered a columnist/essayist named Caroline Knapp through an Amazon suggestion. I had just finished reading Elizabeth Young's book of essays and literary criticism, found by way of her chick lit books, and Caroline Knapp seemed interesting, and she was. The only complaint I had, and still have, is that Young and Knapp are both dead. They each died too early and left too many books and essays unwritten and I feel the loss. So, imagine my surprise when one of the books sent for review is a book that is about Caroline Knapp by her friend, Gail Caldwell: Let's Take the Long Way Home. Serendipity. Pure serendipity.

I was in the midst of Deadly Fear by Cynthia Eden and decided to take a look at Caldwell's book. It was short and Caldwell won a Pulitzer Prize, and I wanted to see why. Caldwell writes about her friendship with Brutita, her nickname for Caroline Knapp, and their dogs, which is what brought them together. They were as different as night and day on the outside -- Caroline short and blonde and very upper class and Gail tall, dark and rangy as a Texan should be. Caroline was a rower and Gail a swimmer, Mutt and Jeff on the water. Their love of their dogs and the friendship that grew out of their similarities (both recovering alcoholics, very shy and writers) are the poignant threads that shine throughout the memoir. Serendipity. That's how I discovered this connection and how it came to me.

Gail writes that her friends call her the gregarious hermit. I can relate to that. I am sure there are many writers who relate to those seemingly opposite words. Someone who is friendly and open and outgoing and yet spends most of their time alone, by choice, to wrestle and communicate with the muse. Caroline was politely persistent and Gail finally relented, forging and cementing a friendship that resulted in Caroline leaving too soon. Gail inherited Caroline's beloved dog and some other personal memorabilia, and she inherited memories of the kind of friendship that most people long to share, the kind that changes and makes one better, more in touch with themselves and with the world. What more could anyone want?

More life to write more essays and books.

I look forward to the next serendipitous entry into my life and essays that will inspire and fire my imagination. Don't we all?

That is all. Disperse.

Messy, wonderful and heartbreaking life

Since I didn't sleep well last night, this day has been endless. Chili Bob called me early this morning for our weekly chat, and I had to cut him short because my intestines sounded like a grinding gears about to explode and spew watery foulness everywhere. I made it -- just.

After all these years, Chili Bob and I have kept in close contact, through his surgeries and vacations, and my erratic travels and changes of address and phone numbers. There is seldom a week that goes by when we do not exchange some communication. When I lived in Hudson, he often came to visit when he was in the area. Toledo is pretty far from Hudson, but not so far that he couldn't drop by whenever he had the chance.

We both have friends we've known longer, but few have been as close as we are. There is nothing I can't tell him and nothing he won't tell me, and it's so easy being together -- or apart -- simply because we care for one another.

He keeps me up to date about his daughter Liz and all the important milestones in her life and his wife's milestones and low points, as well as his own. I do the same with him.

There are some friends I don't see or hear from as often, but we have had decades of experiences and adventures together that keep us connected.

You cannot help but be close to someone who has seen you in a bikini at sixteen or in the throes of a suicidal depression, from tears to laughter. In joyful times and times when you think you cannot go on because you've lost someone or something important, the friendship is tempered in the fires, and nothing, short of death, can come between you.

One thing I've learned is that friendship is easy as long as you treat people the way you want to be treated. However, if you're into misery and wallowing in depression, that brings up a whole other kind of relationship that has little to do with true friendship. Masochists and sadists leap into mind. Two masochists seldom make good friends and sadists end up trying to outdo each other until someone ends up hurt -- or dead.

It's really not about owing someone something, but about respect. When you care for someone, as a friend or a lover or family, respect should be uppermost in mind, even when the other person doesn't respect you. Above all, you should respect yourself first and respect the people around you, even when they don't seem to deserve respect, and we're back to that golden rule: Treat others as you would be treated.

What goes around comes around.

Chili Bob and I had a rocky beginning. He said I was as prickly as a porcupine. I was. I was wary of anyone who treated me nicely because I was certain (hard lessons from personal experience) that he was after something. He was being nice to me because he had a hidden agenda. I was snarky and he was polite. I answered in short bursts of terse emails and he persevered and treated me with kindness and respect. Eventually, I got the message. Good thing he didn't give up or we would not be friends now.

Few people have lived a perfect life of sweetness and light or have never been hurt or known a broken heart. It's inevitable wherever there is life. Zombies are a whole other subject. Life is full of surprises, adventures, mundane and dull days, repetition, horror, laughter, love, hatred, joy, depression, pain, heartache, jubilation and so much more. There are as many emotions and experiences as there are words to describe them, and they are all part of life, and friendship, and they are all risky. But without risk and possibility, life really isn't worth living.

Where there is light, there are shadows. Valleys require mountains. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. And that should be enough bromides and homilies for one day.

Basically, life is messy, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing, as long as you respect yourself and extend that respect to others. They might surprise you and give you respect in return.

Nobody does it better

With a nod to Carole King for the lyrics, what she says is true. Nobody does it better, and writers are no exception.

Despite Shakespeare's enduring language, being the perennial subject of movies and inclusion in the curricula of nearly every university in the world, J.R.R. Tolkien despised him and considered Shakespeare a hack.

One of my favorite books, a birthday gift from Don, is Fighting Words. Even when the venomous quill pens of famous, and infamous, writers are employed in trashing their fellow writers, gems are dropped.

Excerpts from the book:

"The more I read him the less I wonder that they poisoned him." Thomas Babington Macauley on Socrates

"Aristotle invented science, but destroyed philosophy." Alfred North Whitehead on Aristotle

"Aristotle was famous for everything. He taught that the brain exists mainly to cool the blood and is not involved in the process of thinking. This is true only of certain persons." Will Cuppy on Aristotle

"Virgil's great judgment appears in putting things together, and in picking gold out of the dunghills of old Roman writers." Alexander Pope on Virgil

"As great a poet as Dante might have been, I wouldn't have had the slightest wish to know him. He was a terrible prima donna." W. H. Auden on Dante

"Chaucer, notwithstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene and contemptible: he owes his celebrity merely to antiquity." Lord Byron on Geoffrey Chaucer

"Dr. Donne's verses are like the peace of God; they pass all understanding." James I on John Donne

That is all. Disperse.