You've Got Mail!

“To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but the heart.”

--Phyllis Theroux

Most of the time I am all about the online world. Websites, Facebook, and my email, take up a good-sized chunk of my day. And I make no apologies for that; technology works for me.

But recently I rediscovered something that wasn't even remotely high tech. I got a piece of mail. An actual piece of paper, with my street address on the back, and the skyline of New York on the front. It was a postcard from a good friend who was traveling. I had forgotten how nice it is to look in the mailbox and see something hand addressed with my name on it.

Even in this cold wintery weather, there is mail. “Snail mail” lands in my mail slot every day, but it’s not usually that inspiring. Mostly it's bills, catalogs, or a reminder that I'm overdue at the dentist. It gets sorted into piles on my desk, and that’s about it. A postcard is different though. It was from New York, with my two favorite buildings stretching to the sky. The Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building are iconic landmarks. With their gargoyles and art deco flair, they symbolize the city for me. A friend knew this and sent the card, which makes it even more special.

Email, smartphones and social media have made the way we communicate so much different. Every day on Facebook, I look up in the right-hand corner of the screen and see who is having a birthday. Then I click on their name, dash off a quick (but still sincere) wish for many happy returns, and it's so convenient. My friends know I'm thinking of them with almost no effort on my part.

That birthday button works for me since otherwise, I would forget most birthdays. There are a few people I know who do not use social media, and they are usually the ones who get one of those lame "Sorry I missed it" belated birthday cards. I should just put “Loser” in the return address corner. Come on, how hard is it to put a card in the mail on the right day?

For me, the answer is "close to impossible." I have what my children refer to as a severe postal impairment. Five days out of seven I pass the post office in town at least twice. Not to mention there are mailboxes everywhere, including the one at my house. Did you know that the letter carrier who brings your mail will also take whatever outgoing mail you have if you leave it in the box? It's true! You can even tell the carrier that you need stamps, leave a check in there, and the next day? Stamps!

Christmas is a nightmare for us postally impaired; I finally had to give up and not send cards, because no one wants to get a card in freaking April with a pug dressed up as Santa. Most people get started in October to get just the right photos and an upbeat Christmas letter. In October the beach chairs are still in my backyard; Christmas isn’t even on my radar at that point.

And packages? Not happening. I'm great about packing things up, finding a box and addressing it. Then it goes in my car. This is where the postal impairment kicks in. Apparently, somewhere in my head, getting the package to my car equals mailing it. Days later I notice the box in the back seat, surrounded by school papers, an empty coffee cup, and my daughter's cheer shoes and think "why isn't that package in Philadelphia yet?"

Since my friends know this about me, I can't even try to lie and say "oh, it went out last week.” They know it likely didn't. The one time I  did manage to mail something, on time, it got lost in the mail. I swear, it did! It was a Christmas ornament, and somewhere between here and Georgia, a little wreath made of sea glass is homeless. It's probably in some dead corner of a mail facility, like some misfit toy that even Santa and Rudolf can't find.

But this little postcard was such a fun surprise. The person who sent it had no shortage of what I'm sure were important things to do in New York. But a few minutes and thirty-five cents in postage and my day is made. That's all it took, a little thing, but really kind of a big deal, at least to me.

So I'm going to try to be better about mailing things. Maybe I can work my way back up to the Christmas card list. Perhaps if I take the time to send an honest to goodness letter or card to the next person I know having a birthday, I will earn some postal karma.

I want to look forward to what's in my mailbox. Knowing someone took a second to think about me and did more than push a button was way more fun than hearing the little man on the computer say, "You've got Mail!"

These are days....You'll Remember

"These are days you'll remember

Never before and never since

I promise

Will the whole world be warm as this

And as you feel it

You'll know it's true

That you are blessed and lucky."

---Natalie Merchant

What is it about the "good old days" that makes us long for them? I'm not a time lord, so no phone box will allow me to pop off to another era that some say was so much better. Recently, a discussion among some friends (OK, it was Facebook, but all those who commented were real-life people, most from here in town) awoke a bit of a controversy over the good old days, how it was, what is different now, and who's to blame for it all. Sometimes I use a social media post as a kind of journal entry. Then I can go back in a year or so and see what was happening at a particular time. This post wasn't meant to be one of those; it was intended to be funny. 

I had taken the very unusual step of pulling my couch out from the wall and cleaning under it. The exact details of everything that was under there should remain unexplained, but it was a treasure trove of spare change, Legos, hair ties and silverware. It was like the mythical graveyard of cutlery. There may have been some bowls too. That is when the wheels came off the Electrolux, and the debate began.

While a few of my friends could relate, in just a few comments it became clear that my habits as a housekeeper and a mother were the cause of all the evils of our modern society. My children and their milk-slopping, Cheerio-chomping, snack-snogging little faces were devoid of manners, and I had let it happen, right under my nose. Sad! Apparently, some of my friends have traveled further along the road of life than I have, and they remembered when mothers stayed at home, served the family meals around a table, and nary a speck of food had ever been near their couches. Well, I remember those days too. I was a little kid in the late 60s, the Mad Men era of little boxes, on the hillside. It wasn't all Dick Van Dyke, tripping over the ottoman while Laura made a roast and Richie was conveniently in his room. There were workaholic fathers who drank too much, and mothers who often smoked like chimneys or nipped at the cooking sherry in the pantry. There was a war on, and it played on the television every night. Citizens were sprayed with fire hoses or pelted with rocks for the vicious crime of trying to vote or go to school. Good times, right?

Maybe it's just a Kelley thing, and I come by lackadaisical food rules the same way I got my red hair and my attitude? Our house did not look like a Ladies' Home Journal spread. My mother was much more Peg Bundy than Laura Petrie, which was probably difficult for her at the time, but she was always a rebel; it was likely deliberate on her part. The one fact most of my friends agreed on though, was that the family has changed. That's because time has marched on and change is necessary. There are blended families, single-parent families, families with two moms, or two dads. Parents work more; social research has shown that. Children are busier, not playing kick the can or tag, but club soccer and lacrosse. There is, sadly, still a war on, and there isn't a day that goes by that the news doesn't show a bombing, a shooting or a violent protest. We all know there are still parents who drink too much or suffer in silence but put on a good face.

What does any of that have to do with my nonexistent vacuuming skills? Nothing. That's the point. While some contended that the previous generation of stay at home mommies and societal expectations was the better way to live, I'm not buying that, not entirely. Rather than looking at a specific decade, we should turn our attention instead to who we are now, rather than who someone else was back in the day. The truth is, our recollections of the past are not always infallible. The brain processes memories every day. There are thousands of minutes and hours of experience, and not everything is retained. We forget because the mind needs to do that to make room for new minutes and hours of what is to come. We can't be fully present in our lives today if we are still looking back at what used to be.

I read somewhere that there is a reason the windshield of a car is usually larger than the rear window. And my father, a member of "The Greatest Generation," always told me "Don't look backward, you're not going that way. Also, you'll fall on your arse." Was this discussion a come to Jesus moment? Am I going to suddenly turn into a hybrid of Martha Stewart and June Cleaver and keep a home worthy of a magazine layout after witnessing my living room landfill? No. Not even close. Are the kids banned from morning cereal on the couch and late-night snacks in the recliner? No. The days gone by hold a lot of sweet memories for me, but they are over. These are the days, and despite it all, we are blessed and lucky.