Forty

Forty letters have passed through these hands, took a ride on the US(S) Postal Service to land on someone's desk, counter top, refrigerator and quite possibly a trash can or two.  Has made me think of what I do with letters I receive. 

My favorite letter from the Origianl Shuff hangs on my wall.  It's burnt orange with a HELLO stamped across the front.  The last line of it is, "Hormones are tricky, but wow aren't they great." Please remember he's 100.

A letter from one of my oldest childhood friends arrived not long after I started this writing project.  Her life finds her in Houston as a wife and mom and mine, well, it finds me in New York.  Communication is hard for me with that much distance but that letter meant so much to receive.  It stirred me.  Next best thing to a face to face visit. 

I got a "letter" two weeks ago that I suppose wasn't one by definition.  It was a blank piece of paper folded in thirds with a "Des Moines, Hell Yes" sticker inside.  It's clipped to my mirror.  Thank you to my Des Moines friends that I was lucky enough to spend some time with in February in their fair Iowa.

For tiny pieces of paper, even the most light hearted of correspondence carries weight.

Looking towards the next forty days, T.S. Eliot's poem came to mind not as a ruler to cut my cloth by, but as a sign post towards humanity in light of eternity.

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated.

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Ash Wednesday, VI
T.S. Eliot

The Customer Service Representative is a Person Too

Had a pretty profound interaction with my AT&T Customer Service Representative this past week.  (You're super jealous of my life now.)  About to pay my bill and was shocked at the drastic elevation in charges.  So I picked up the phone and with my mental guns blazing, was ready to question and defend and demand something be done.  I was determined to get my way and had already decided before I picked up the phone that it was going to take

What I expected to be a discussion of frustration on my end and of refusal to accommodate was just the opposite. 

She told me I was right.  And that she'd fix it.  And that she was going to go back several months and take off other things that probably shouldn't have been on there.  It felt like a shopping spree on your dad's dime -- so wrong but so right. 

Now, I'm a bit ashamed to have assumed that it would be a battle, a fight -- but hey, I live in New York and lots of things can turn into that whether you want them to or not.   Cynicism is maybe expected but it's not a warm coat to wrap a stranger in. 

So, yes, it's her job to help me out.  Yes, she does it all day every day.  Yes, if I'm happy, I tell my friends how great it was, how happy I am, the better they look...but it still doesn't deter from how genuinely relieved I felt to have a pleasant and productive exchange.  Put your feelings about the conglomerate aside, it was a woman doing a good job. 

So Leigh at AT&T got a letter.  As did the maker of my newest necklace of the mini Hohner variety.  And my super Super, my hair guru, and the woman who works at our building's management company.  All who I've talked to in the last week.  All who have honestly gone above and beyond. 

And just an encouragement: if someone does something well, ask for their name and let their supervisor, manager, boss know about it.  Let's move each other forward in life. 

Two weeks -- 10 letters.

Necklaces bought at the Brooklyn Flea were delivered to my door with a simple note and a sweet bonus gift. 

Business...meet Pleasure.

I attribute the title to watching Entourage while writing most of these letters + the blog post.  Hi mom.

Took care of business in long need of being tended to by way of Thank You letters.   One however, was to my good friend Natalie.  She recently got into law school and in general is just a crazy talented person.



Which brings me to THIS. 

Which I got as a gift.








Once I moved across the country from friends and relatives?  No.

Business class in college?  No.

Fourth grade just for fun?  Yes.

Oh, I read it cover to cover and loved it.   Needless to say, the 9 year old me took my fair share of liberties -- but maybe not enough.  Don't write to Donnie Wahlberg and base is it on the "Claim and Complaint" portion of this book.  The example given:

Dear Mesdames or Gentlemen:

One week ago, April 2, I ordered 50 lamp shades, my order No. 2545, and your invoice number 67563.  The shipment arrived yesterday, presumably in fulfillment of my specifications.  The entire lot is unsatisfactory.  The color is not as specified, the material is of inferior quality, and the shades are not even all of the same size.  Some of them also have defects that are glaringly visible.  I am returning the entire order by express, collect, and shall expect to receive the correct merchandise at the earliest date possible.

Very truly yours,

James Culyer

My letter to Donnie read something like this (liberties in bold)

Dear Donnie:

One week ago, January 7th, I ordered a NKOTB poster, I don't know my order number.  The shipment arrived yesterday, presumably in fulfillment of my specifications.

The poster is terrible...it's small. The color is not as specified, the material is of inferior quality, and your faces are not even all of the same size.  Some of them also have defects that are glaringly visible.  I took down Hakeem Olajuwon for you and your friends.

I am returning the poster and the fake letter with your signature on it.  It's obviously computer generated.  I shall expect to receive the correct merchandise at the earliest date possible.

Very truly yours,

M. Shuffle

I did not receive another poster.  They broke up just months later and I hate to say that I could see it coming.

51 weeks and 255 letters to go.

So we raise a glass...to Snail Mail.

Communication -- dare I say -- is the most important skill that people can learn and cultivate.  We have to do it.  Sometimes it's enjoyable, other times it can be a downright struggle, one that we evade with severe agility. With the rise of social media and electronic communication of all kinds comes the decline of the US Postal Service.  I am not anti-technology, I freaking love it (I'm blogging for heaven's sake) but to abandon a means of communication performed for hundreds of years is a shame.  In my mind it goes hand in hand with the American population reading less and less and the effect that has on our engagement and learning on all levels. 

My 100 year old granddad does not own a computer.  He does not use the internet.  We live very far away from each other and did not make very many trips to the Appalachians when I was growing up in southeast Texas as a child.  As a man of protocol and structure, a Marine turned chemical engineer, he is and has always been a Southern gentleman of great charm with a sincere silliness about him. Writing letters between Stonehenge Lane and Bedford Road was a common occurrence and while my address has changed 10 times in the last 9 years, Edwin Jr. has managed to keep the constant updating of my whereabouts, well...up to date.

Thank You letters grew to exchanges on his travels and adventures, my plans to move to New York City, his gardening and latest theater goings, my relationships (my granddad has somehow turned into my highest confident in this area...his commentary is hilarious and advice priceless).   It is because of this that I feel close to him regardless of miles and situation.  Most of the time it's nothing fancy, just what he ate for breakfast and where he plans to take his girlfriend Jan to dinner. 

So here I am, living in Brooklyn, an avid social media user, giving myself a challenge to write five letters a week for the next year.  This is as much of a social experiment of subsequent relational building as it is a deep desire to slow my roll -- to build and/or start (oh that's right...there will be exchange with complete strangers) a cursive, all caps, plain print, illustrations optional link between myself and others.

If for communications sake, you ask, why not just write emails, make phone calls, twitter, facebook?
I will humbly submit that there is something deep that is affected to the writer and the reader when something passes from one hand to another -- that there is a great and intrinsic depth to the stroke of a pen. 

So, here's to you, Snail Mail.   May it grow a sincerity of communication that is being lost in my heart.