WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

The Big Chill persists and I slipped outside this morning to run the car – even took it out of the garage. Woo-hoo! I grabbed yesterday’s mail to read while I was idling in the driveway … just a catalogue from The Swiss Colony. It would be a tad late to be ordering I would think unless you do it online. This is the only catalogue I have received the entire pre-holiday and holiday season. I started subscribing to a junk mail service and it has eliminated at least 99% of the catalogues and most of the annoying advertising that I used to receive. I was leafing through the catalogue while willing some warmth to come my way because the heated seats weren’t doing their job and having the car sit in place wasn’t cranking out any heat either. Ahhh, perhaps a warm memory or two will make the chattering teeth, frozen lips and numb fingers and toes begin to defrost. We only ordered from The Swiss Colony one time – their trademark chocolate Chris Mouse which we got to send to my grandmother. She was tickled about it, and the mouse was very cute but much smaller than pictured, and my grandmother saved it in her fridge for such a long time that it developed that milky bloom over it and lost some of its charm. I sure don’t remember all those catalogues ever coming to the house when I was finally old enough to run and grab the mail and bring it inside. In 2011, I stomped my foot and said “enough already” when I was bringing some five to ten catalogues into the house daily all year ‘round. Then, the companies would mail them out the following week, by just slapping a different cover on the same catalogue! It was annoying and a waste of paper and trees.

When I was a kid there was only one catalogue that counted, and that was the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue. When the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue arrived in the mail, I’d sit in the big easy chair, legs sticking straight out in front of me, and ponder over what I would ask Santa for that year. My mom told me I could only pick two things, otherwise Santa would think I was greedy. Those two items on my wish list would actually be divided between my parents and my grandparents so I always did get what I wished for and felt a secret smugness that I was nice and knew Santa was paying attention to me. Smug … and a little precocious. In my mind’s eye, all the time expended in making the final painstaking decision of what two items I most coveted, was time well spent. After studying the catalogue and dog-earing all the items I liked, then the angst would begin as I narrowed down the list to my final choices. Then, I’d show those items to my mom, and together we would write and ask Santa Claus to put them under the Christmas tree. The Christmas Catalogue always preceded the mid-November arrival of Santa at the Eaton’s Santa Claus Parade in downtown Toronto which I would attend with my father. Then we’d stroll, through Eaton’s and Simpson’s department stores, also downtown, and visit Toy Town and a tour of the animated extravaganza in Santa’s Village. We’d queue up in long lines to visit with the Jolly Old Elf so I could reinforce to Santa what my wish list entailed in case my letter didn’t arrive at the North Pole. With my face pressed to the glass, I peered through the store-front windows with their animated scenes and an ice-cream waffle sandwich in the Eaton’s Tunnel topped off a perfect day before we headed home. The big-picture strategy worked every time since the fun items I hand-picked were always under the tree, along with gaily wrapped packages containing clothes, or slippers … less fun but surely functional items.

Santa always brought a stocking which was laid at the bottom of the bed, sometime after I fell asleep on Christmas Eve. My parents told me when I was older that the stocking was to keep me occupied so that they could sleep in on Christmas Day, but with all the excitement about opening the presents under the tree, I usually awoke early and clambered down to the end of the bed to retrieve my stocking and investigate its booty. There were childish shouts of delight for every little treasure as it was unwrapped, so no doubt my parents were immediately awakened and just reconciled themselves to the fact that sleeping in would have to wait for another morning.

All those decades ago when I uttered “Oh Santa, I would be the happiest little girl in the world if only you would bring me Betsy Wetsy or Chatty Cathy and a pretty pram to push them in” … sweet treasured memories, all which I vividly recall. I also relived some nice memories via the way-back lens, not just in this recitation, but by spending a delightful hour or so tonight just whiling away the time on The Archives of Ontario Eaton’s Christmas Page and meandering through the Christmas Past gallery of black and white photos.

While I’m tucked in the cozy, warm house with my cheerful Buddy by my side, I can’t help but wonder how my feathered and furry friends at Council Point Park are faring? Every time I open the fridge I see 1½ long loaves of “duck bread” spilling over the middle glass shelf. A tote bag filled with grab-and-go Ziploc bags, chock-full of peanuts for the squirrels, hangs from the cellar way railing so I won’t forget to take it as I hurry out the door for an excursion to the Park. One minor detail – there still is no walking for me to the Park. I thought about a short walk this morning, but I’m still reluctant to tackle the ice and snow on the sidewalks for a trip that is nice, but not really necessary. And, as we head toward the shortest day of the year, the sun is getting up later and it is not hardly worth it on a weekday to get bundled up, and perhaps even strap on my trusty Yaktrax to thwart the ice, for a measly two-mile trek. A round trip to the Park and one lap is 3 ½ miles and that takes me about 50 minutes. I will try to visit the Park this weekend, when I can walk in late morning and it is lighter out and I can take my time. I might wear boots and swap them for my shoes once I get there since I am told by the avid walkers that the City shovels the entire path very early in the morning whenever it snows. It’s an idea on paper for now since snow is predicted Friday night into Saturday morn. Well I shan’t whine about myself anymore, but I do feel for the critters. Sure, they survived before I started going there nearly daily with my bags of food and treats, and they will continue to survive, but once you start feeding the outside critters they stop foraging for natural food like nuts and berries and start to rely on the handouts … when the handouts are not there, they must rely on what precious little food there is available to eat. The trees and bushes are bare at the Park now, so hopefully they’ve built up a cache of food and they will be fine. My little squirrel who follows me around is not as chubby as his counterparts so hopefully he has stashed away some of those extra peanuts I kept tossing him.

I fed the birds and squirrels in my backyard on a daily basis for decades … that is, until the advent of rats in 2008 then I ceased all food and water. On any given day, I’d walk out the side door to find a fence full of birds huddled together and lined up in a neat row waiting for me to fill the feeder. The squirrel, whom we nicknamed “Sammy”, was sitting on the gate, looking ready to pounce down as soon as I opened the door. Lucky for this 2013 generation of neighborhood critters, my good-hearted neighbor, Marge, feeds “her” birds with the traditional seeds or suet, plus she doles out stale bread slathered with peanut butter for “her” squirrels – they just love it. But, hey … who amongst us doesn’t love peanut butter?

For years I subscribed to a combination garden/birding magazine called “Birds and Blooms”. As the title suggests, this magazine was filled with pictures of birds, some butterflies and beautiful flowers, and all the images were snapped in readers’ gardens. These home-grown photos would rival the finest work from any top-notch photographer. The magazine often gave hints on gardening in general plus the best flowers to draw birds and butterflies like magnets to your yard and what particular seeds to load in your birdfeeder depending on the birds you wanted to attract. One issue in late Fall concentrated on the best treats for your backyard friends during the Winter months. After reading the magazine, my mom and I decided to treat “our” backyard critters for Christmas one year. We made natural popcorn in the microwave and then strung it along with fresh cranberries onto button and carpet thread and I wove it all along the barberry bushes at the side of the house near the backyard. We imagined dozens of colorful birds munching on the treat-laden garland with a snowy backdrop – perfect for picture-taking. We also purchased a couple of loaves of cocktail bread, and, as the articles suggested, spread an inch-thick layer of crunchy peanut butter on each piece and spaced the treats atop evergreens and low bushes along the fence line. Of course, while making up the treats I had to keep sampling them to ensure they were fit for critter consumption, and, as to the peanut butter sandwiches, I can still hear my mom saying “stop eating the squirrel’s sandwiches – there won’t be any left for him!” … soon they were done and I packaged up everything on an old tin foil plate and ran them outside. Then we stationed ourselves, one at each window, and I had my camera handy as we awaited the arrival of the beautiful cardinals and blue jays and, of course, the cute chickadees to sample our Christmas treats. We also hoped to get a look at “Sammy the Squirrel” and his look of delight at his unexpected peanut butter sandwiches and to watch his antics. We were disappointed when the birds didn’t go right to the garland, despite them giving me a watchful eye from their perch on the cyclone fence as I threaded it through the barberry bush. I was all primed to take an award-winning photo of Sammy as he “pigged out” on the peanut butter sandwiches. Well, that rude squirrel came nosing around, and picked up each slice of bread, promptly licked the peanut butter off the bread then cast the slices into the garden uneaten and ambled over instead to gorge himself on the birds’ cranberry and popcorn garlands. The birds were blasé about the whole affair, preferring the simple seed from their feeders, and the blue jays didn’t even bother to chatter at Sammy for invading their territory. It was the first and last time for that “let’s-get-up-close-and- personal-with-the-wildlife” endeavor since, obviously, the “Birds and Blooms” editor had backyard critters with way better table manners than ours.

“Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled.”~ Dostoyevsky

It is even acceptable at Comerica Park these days where the field is slowly morphing into a huge outdoor skating arena in advance of the various upcoming hockey fests. But, in the driveway and sidewalks, well … not so much. Robb had a breakfast gathering with some old friends so I eased into my day, knowing in advance that the weather was not in my favor for a walk this morning. I stayed curled up in bed, with headphones on, listening to portions of the memorial service and tributes to Nelson Mandela. The media is reporting that this gathering may surpass any other attendance at a memorial service by current or former world leaders and the public. I probably learned more about Nelson Mandela since his passing last Thursday than I ever knew before. The retrospectives about his life have been very comprehensive. I reluctantly got up and plodded out to the kitchen to get my day rolling and start by having breakfast. I felt badly about tabling the walk again, but that freezing drizzle yesterday took its toll on the roads and sidewalks and the “fraidy cat” that I am, I did not want to risk falling and going down hard. I chuckled at the weather forecaster’s remark that “Mother Nature is giving us the cold shoulder” – well, that is putting it mildly, if you’ll pardon the pun. I did venture out, just to start my car after hearing that it was 13 degrees with a wind chill of 1 below zero. Even though it is an attached garage and I had to buy a new battery last year, I thought it prudent to go out and at least turn the engine over. I wish I was able to access the garage from the house, but that is not doable, so I had to traipse outside. It took longer to dress for the short excursion than the actual trip for goodness sake. I opened the door … yikes! I walked gingerly along the side of the house. Whew … I made it to the garage without taking a tumble and was glad to be on non-ice terra firma inside the garage. I didn’t try to back the car up as space is at a premium on either side of the car and since it was slick in the driveway, so I just turned the engine over, ran it for a minute and then I high-tailed it as quickly as I could on the lightly glazed cement, back into the house. Home sweet home … oh wait – I was home! Then everything was a blur so I had to stand by idly before I could lock up, fix the rag rugs at the door, then head downstairs to deposit my warm weather gear. I hate when my eyeglasses fog up and I just started wearing my glasses again after wearing contacts for 35 years. While I am okay with “the look”, I forgot about the aggravation of waiting for my glasses to clear so I could see again after coming inside out of the cold. But removing my glasses would have been worse since I’ve worn corrective lenses for 50 years and cannot see anything anymore without my spectacles. Oh bother!!! The deep freeze is expected to last at least all week so walking is iffy for now and perhaps my year-end goal may now not be met. Grrrrr. There is always next year, she grumbled resignedly.

On the inside looking out today. It sure doesn’t take much to slicken up the roads and sidewalks does it? More than a few tenacious snowflakes mingled with a little freezing drizzle … add to the mix the fact that it is Monday. I’m grateful for my work-at-home gig as I endured over three decades of the weather wreaking havoc with the bus schedule making for frayed nerves and a fractious start or finish to the work day nearly every time. Hope you all had or will have a safe commute today.

Back in the day, if you were really mischievous, you might have whispered your gift wishes into Santa’s ear. Otherwise, if you were not screamin’ bloody murder during the whole ordeal, you might have plunked down on Santa’s lap and politely informed him what you’d like for Christmas. That tête-à-tête with Santa was a follow-up to the sincere letter you wrote the Jolly Old Elf in your own hand and then deposited it in the special “Letters to Santa” mailbox. Well, I guess that worked in the “olden days”, but would be considered old-fashioned now.

I had an interesting walk this morning. I left later and thus interacted with a few more people – close encounters of the nice kind.

Enroute to the Park I came upon a pair of tykes who burst out the front door of the house dressed in their Christmas finery. The girl’s knee-length coat was wide open and I could see she was wearing a red velvet dress with a satin sash. The boy complemented her attire in dark pants, a red-plaid vest and a little red bow tie. They were about to climb into a car which was warming up in the driveway as I approached them. “We’re going to see Santa” the girl said and the boy chimed in “and we’re going to get our picture taken for our Christmas card too” … I almost asked “which mall?” before I stopped myself – best not to divulge to a child that Santa Claus is at every mall, and at Fantasyland, too. Well, I caught myself in time and instead asked the kids if they sent their letter to Santa already. The boy said “yup, me and Emily e-mailed him last week” … (hmmmm, I didn’t know Santa had access to e-mail at the North Pole; next thing they would probably tell me they “friended” him on Facebook). I asked the pair if Santa wrote them back and Emily told me very sagely that Santa was too busy right now to write back, but she understood. “Well, I hope you get all the stuff you asked for” I said as I bade them goodbye.

I kept walking until I reached Council Point Park and there was not a single vehicle in the parking lot. It was just crazy cold and the frigid air was stinging my face. I had packed up a large bag of bread for “my mallards” and of course some peanuts for the squirrels if they dared come down from their snug nests high in the trees to put their paws on the frozen tundra.

While walking along the path that runs parallel to the Creek, I could see a thick icy glaze on top of the water. All of a sudden a snow squall started up and it was snowing sideways and the wind was shifting the snowflakes into little drifts on either side of the path. Before I reached the storm drain where I usually see and feed the ducks, I heard much more quacking than usual. I walked over to the edge and looked through the bushes. What an amazing sight! There must have been 80 to 100 mallards all clustered together, swimming and climbing aboard the many mini ice floes that were scattered in the muddy Creek water. It is a very small alcove, and it was just jam packed with male and female mallards. I next headed to the concrete precipice that juts over the sewer drain and they swam over to me right away anticipating the bread tidbits. But the ducks and I were not alone this morning. There was a trio of teenage boys just hangin’ out nearby, also watching the ducks. We kibitzed about the cold and I told them I was there to give the gang breakfast. They too bemoaned the cold weather and laughed about how quickly the ducks came over to get some food. I opened the bag and threw some of the bread morsels onto the ice and a passel of ducks waddled over to get some, their wide, webbed feet giving them traction as they walked atop the ice. Still others were snacking on the already soggy bread that had landed in the dirty, frigid water. There was a cacophony of quacks and loud noises and much splashing during this feeding frenzy as they bumped bodies or nearly tripped over one another to get a tidbit. The three boys were laughing at the mallards’ antics and were busy with their cell phones videotaping the hoopla.

There were no squirrels out except for my usual little buddy, who gleaned extra peanuts, for being present and accounted for, unlike his furry brethren. The wind was biting so I passed on a second lap on the perimeter path, but decided to walk to the post office to see if the big “Letters to Santa” mailbox was stationed outside the building. It formerly had reposed in front of the old main post office for decades at Christmastime. There was no such box outside, so I peered inside through every large plate-glass window – nothing. I even walked past the old post office where the larger-than-usual mailbox always stood and it wasn’t there either … sadly, more Christmas magic relegated to mere memories.

Tonight when I logged onto my computer to write this post, I Googled “e-mail Santa Claus” and sure enough, there are several websites where you may e-mail Santa. I also discovered that ol’ Santa is a fellow blogger. Sometime when you are noodling around on the Internet, be sure to see: http://emailsanta.com/santa-claus-xmas-blog/.

Well, of course, that prompted me to check Facebook to see if Santa Claus was one of the Facebook faithful and sure enough he has a profile. This is no Santa wannabe, however. His profile info is a little bizarre: D/O/B is December 6, 1800. He is a monk and asks that you do not send requests for presents. He looks like Santa Claus with white hair and a full beard and he is wearing bright-red duds. He has 156 thousand plus “Likes”, but no photos of the Missus or the reindeer. If you’re so inclined, he also has a Twitter handle.

P.S. – Santa, the myth and the magic, and even life, was oh so simple when this picture with the big guy was taken. It was my first Christmas and I was just eight months old.

Well … it was sunny and bright outside when I left for my walk, so that was a plus, but the temps and wind-chill factor were just brutal. It was once and done on the perimeter path as the ferocity of the winds travelling across the open spaces was not making for a pleasant walk. I ensured my Park pals got their treats I took for them and then I soon skedaddled to walk in some residential neighborhoods where there was some protection from the wind. At least it was dry, but as I walked I could not help but think about the homeless people who, if they are not fortunate enough to bed down in a shelter, must sleep on the concrete sidewalk, or perhaps beneath an expressway. Plus, they must spend the entire day out in the elements with just the clothes on their back. I feel for their plight. I heard the WJR meteorologist say that the weather in Fairbanks, Alaska was milder than in the “D” – and that’s not just Detroit … he was also talking about Dallas!

I walked in different neighborhoods for some variety this morning and noticed not very many people had decorated yet, and I’m not talking about the electric extravaganzas either … many homes I passed didn’t even have a wreath on their door and nary a bow or glittery holiday decoration was to be found sometimes for several houses in a row.

I saw a few people bringing home their Christmas tree atop their vehicle. I wonder if they cut their own or just went to a tree lot to pick this year’s tree? Years ago I worked with a couple of sisters and the first Saturday in December the entire family travelled to a huge tree farm to get their respective family trees. The annual trek for the Christmas tree had been a tradition in their family growing up and they continued with their own families. They made a day of it … bundling up, driving many miles into the country, then going deep into the woods to find the perfect tree. They even had to bring along their own axe to fell the tree then trundle it back to the car. They took Thermos bottles of coffee and hot chocolate and stopped enroute for fresh donuts to take out with them to the woods for a makeshift picnic amongst the conifers. I was envious of their tree tradition every year when they spoke about the fun they had.

We had a real tree when I was a toddler, then silver aluminum trees became all the rage and my parents opted for that “look” instead of a real tree. I thought the aluminum tree was gaudy looking with its blue bulbs and matching revolving blue floodlight. If you lived in that garish silver-tree era, you either had the blue combo (which looked like a Kmart Blue-Light Special) or a red or green bulb/floodlight combo. Some people went all out with multi-colored bulbs with a multi-color revolving floodlight. Well, in the dark they were stunning anyway. It had some drawbacks in the assembly as well. When you put the tree together, it had very straight branches and they did not bend and handling those silver stick-like branches left your hands all black and it was hard to scrub them clean. The stick branches had to be put in the exact holes per the guide or the tree would not be shaped correctly. But the manufacturers probably made a killing on them and everyone I knew had silver trees at their house in the early 60s.

I only walked four miles today, but it was four miles more than if I had stayed home, and once I had a couple of sips of steaming hot coffee and the furnace kicked on a few times, I felt as cozy and warm as if I had stayed home in my polar-fleece PJs.

Brrr is the word all right – there seems to be no happy medium with this weather, but we could have the dastardly conditions plaguing so much of the U.S., so I’m grateful we are spared thus far. I’m not enthused about any snowy scenarios. I donned my heavy storm coat to stave off the wind which tunnels through the vast empty spaces of the soccer field as I am looping around the one portion of the Park perimeter. What happened to that mild weather from a mere 48 hours ago? I thought our Indian Summer had finally arrived, albeit late, … so, balmy temps … what was your hurry to leave?

Before I suited up, I readied the critter treats to tote with me. I packed up extra peanuts and crumbled eight pieces of bread into bite-sized pieces. I suited up, eager to hit the road. I walked along with my head hunched down and my gloved hands thrust into my coat’s cargo pockets where they shared space with the Ziploc bag of peanuts. A Meijer plastic bag hung off the crook of my arm, swinging against my hip each time I took a step. As I walked, hands deep in my pockets, I felt something round and fingered it through the lining. I kept twirling it ‘round and ‘round and figured it was a long-lost tube of lipstick. Curiosity got the better of me and I opened my coat and accessed the “secret compartment” where I retrieved the treasure. Well … ho-hum, it was just a tube of regular ChapStick. Who knows how long it was in that secret pocket? I uncapped it and that same old waxy smell that’s been around for years and years assailed my nostrils. Some smells never seem to change – ChapStick and those Vicks Inhalers, which turned you inside out if you inhaled too deeply. Did your mom ever put some Vicks VapoRub under your nose, or worse – smear it all over your chest, if you had a bad cold? The metholatum fumes were worse than the actual cold. But wait … there was something else languishing in the corner of the pocket. It felt like a key and I pulled it out and it was a shiny, silver-colored small key. What does it unlock? I’m not missing any keys at home, so it must have been from work … well, the key shall remain one of life’s mysteries, I guess.

As I walked along the pathway and neared the spot where I usually see my peanut pal, I was scanning the landscape up ahead for him. He must have seen my pom-pommed hat bopping along or perhaps he heard my lanyard jingling under my coat which interrupted his squirrel dreams, thus rousting him from his nest. He soon scrambled at the speed of sound down the tree. Like a cowboy, slowly moving his firing hand over to his gun holster to draw his gun out, I slid my gloved hand back into the huge cargo pocket of my coat to grab my Ziploc bag of peanuts. He came bounding over with his usual, predictable Pavlovian response – the begging on his haunches, a little eye contact, then down on all fours and venturing closer to my feet. While I think he is cute, I am still mindful that this is a wild animal and who knows if it is healthy or not and thus I take no chances on sudden movements which might scare him and he’d turn on me. I scattered some peanuts on the path and he happily scurried to eat them. I moved along, head down to thwart the wind which tried its best to attack that gap of bare skin between my chin and where my turtleneck ends. It is just the beginning of a week in the deep freeze and I came home feeling quite like a gigantic popsicle.

Today was just another wacky weather day here in Michigan, with the wind gusting at 30 mph while I sipped coffee, ate my oatmeal and contemplated my morning, I had intended to take a leisurely stroll but the blustery weather didn’t sound so conducive for walking. A few errands had accumulated and I needed some groceries, so I settled on getting ‘er done in one fell swoop before this funky sleet/snow mix settles in this coming Sunday … then I’ll want to stay hunkered down in the house.

So I forsook foot power today and set out to tool around town on four wheels instead. Though my vehicle is not equipped with runners, or hauled by reindeer, nor is it candy apple red like Santa’s sleigh, it did enable me to dash to and fro in record time in an effort to make merry at every place that I stopped.

Merry Christmas to the City. The tax bill arrived in yesterday’s mail, so I went to pay it. I stood in line waiting with everyone else as we queued up, snaking through the Treasurer’s office and down the hall. It is the giving season after all, and, like me, so many people were there to part with their money this close to the holidays. You would have thought it was a grand sale going on. So, my bank balance is lighter but I gave a much-needed uplift to the City coffers.

Next, a trip to the Good Will box to donate some brand-new shoes. These feet, which have trod so many miles this year, have not shrunk a half-size, or even better a whole size to comfortably fit in those loafers again. Nope, it hasn’t happened yet and won’t happen down the road. But, perhaps someone will make better use of them than I do having them repose in the shoe pockets in my closet for more years than I care to count.

Next, I drove to church to light my December and Christmas candles to remember family members I have lost and to offer them Christmas blessings in this upcoming holiday season. I was all alone and the church was very still and dark as I walked up the wide aisle to where the two sets of votive candle stands were. The large and small candles, with their wavering lights, flickered and cast shadows on the nearby alter. The peacefulness was suddenly broken as I heard a child’s laugh in the church school and then murmuring, perhaps a prayer, or reciting poetry? As I was walking back down the aisle to leave the church I heard singing … probably a Christmas song, young voices guided by one of the Sisters with a pitch pipe and alot of patience.

Finally, I landed at Meijer, the one place I avoided for nearly two weeks as I didn’t want to get caught up in the pre-Thanksgiving or post-Thanksgiving crush. However, it was my misfortune that today was part two of a two-day sale and the store was jam-packed. I parked my cart and ambled around the store, perusing the walnuts for my squirrel buddy but deciding they don’t sell loose walnuts and I was not going to buy him walnut meats, no matter what an endearing little fella he is. I did, however, buy two more bags of peanuts. In the bread aisle, I picked two unusually long loaves of bread to store in the fridge. As I piled my feathered friends’ bread stash next to my meager own, I thought to myself that although I may not be wealthy, what I have may surely be shared with God’s creatures.

This day started out rather dreary – a touch of fog and misty, but it was so balmy when I went out to walk that I ended up shucking my coat and hat before I got home. I didn’t stray far as it looked as if it would pour again any minute. I cannot believe a week ago we were suffering with the brutal and blustery weather and the overnight snow that put a kibosh on my Thanksgiving morning pilgrimage to the Park.

Tonight I have been writing letters to tuck into Christmas cards. The letters I’ve been penning are to my mom’s friends who do not own or use a computer. You never realize how long it takes to convey your thoughts when you put pen to paper as opposed to just zipping along as you type on your computer. In this age of social media, it is so easy to click “reply” or “compose” to e-mail and keep current with our friends. Facebook makes it so easy to chat and share past and present pictures, so who wants to go back to that old snail mail and make it harder on ourselves? We certainly are a spoiled bunch aren’t we? Now we know why the U.S. Postal Service is in big trouble.

I started to just type these two letters, then decided it is my once-a-year chance to practice my penmanship since birthday cards just get a note on the blank part opposite the verse. My mom did not use e-mail and wrote very few letters as she kept up with most of her friends via the telephone. But the exception to that rule was always the annual lengthy letters to her Canadian friends. She had pretty handwriting and it was especially evident when she wrote out the Christmas cards with her fountain pen. As a youngster I remember watching my mom filling her fountain pen, a present she received when she completed business school. It was a whole process before the actual letter-writing began. She stood at the kitchen counter, where several layers of paper towels and tissues were laid down to protect the cream-colored Formica. On top would be the pen, a pump and the ink well and she’d fill it full of cobalt-blue ink, being very careful not to spill a drop of it. After capping the bottle, she had a soft flannel cloth to catch the drips from the nib before tipping the pen down and gliding it across the paper. On each envelope, she’d add a little flourish in the corner, like a sprig of holly and the other corner got a Christmas Seal. Years later, while walking through Michaels craft store, recalling how nice the lettering on the addresses looked by using the fountain pen, on a whim I bought a calligraphy set with a how-to book, intending this to be a “Winter project”. The package still sits in the basement – perhaps a project for when I am retired. I think the art of writing a letter longhand is long gone. I have several boxes of stationery that have been around the house for decades. Every Christmas, a paper vendor at the first law firm I worked gave boxed stationery to each support staff as a year-end thank you. But, most of the time I grab a plain sheet of paper from the printer. I just use a Bic Stic pen, so nothing ornate about my writing utensil, nor my penmanship. When I started working at the diner I had fairly nice handwriting. My boss suggested I try to commit the orders to memory, rather than writing them down, since I could take more orders instead of improving my penmanship. He suggested that customers, after all, only had so long for their lunch hour. I smile now thinking about him telling me this, since it was said tongue-in-cheek and was certainly not hurtful. I thought the world of Erdie who was more like a grandfather to me than a boss. So, from that moment on, I remembered each customer’s order without aid of pen nor pad, and called it out to the cook immediately. I only wrote out the items they ordered on the bill if they were not “regulars”, otherwise I’d just put the total on the bill. I certainly wasn’t extraordinary in my memorization skills – most customers ordered the exact same meal every visit to Carter’s. For years after I left the diner I’d see a customer at the mall and could recall with great specificity what their favorite diner items were and I’d rattle off their order to them: “Coke-no ice, two cheeseburgers with and a side of fries” … which, while certainly is not too notable on a résumé, it sure brought a smile to their face.

A few snowflakes here and there were falling from the gray sky as I stepped out this morning. They were the dainty and delicate variety, alighting with an ever-so-light and feathery touch, not unlike a butterfly, on my clothes and still-warm nose. They melted on contact – my kind of snow! I wanted to stick out my tongue and catch some of those flakes as they danced in front of my face and just feel like a kid again. I’m a Winter wienie and this type of snow on Christmas Eve would be plenty to satisfy me, and then it may return to the Heavens once again. Those pretty flakes were very large and reminded me of childhood school days and making paper snowflakes in Mrs. Deakon’s first-grade class. We each got a piece of white medium-weight paper and a pair of child-proof scissors and we folded, snipped and nipped to our heart’s desire with as much painstaking preciseness as a six-year old can muster. Voila! A perfect, six-sided snowflake which we each proudly carried with both hands over to the classroom window where Mrs. Deakon helped us display our artwork by taping it onto the glass. We would admire those paper snowflakes all Winter until it was time to make construction paper cut-out flowers in the Spring. It is said that no two snowflakes are alike, just like fingerprints and people. Friends, like snowflakes, are unique and one-of-a-kind, especially my friend and next-door-neighbor Marge Aubin. Marge has been there for my mom and me many times throughout the past two decades, and, if not for Marge, I would not be sitting here writing this blog post right now. A flurry of well wishes on your birthday today Marge and may you have many, many more.