My friends and I enjoy tossing around and reacting to briefly worded memory stimuli; squeezing the orange dot in the margarine bag, the Rosenbergs, that swine McCarthy, Julius LaRosa, the stabbing of Johnny Stompanato, Billie Jean King and the Battle of the Sexes, the watusi, etc. (Oh, ask a senior. I can’t explain everything!).
Recently we recalled the daily mail delivery and the pleasure of finding an envelope with (not an ad, not a donation request, not a bill) a real letter. What fun it was to read a friend’s scrawl and smugly note their spelling and grammar mistakes. In those days we didn’t pay much attention to the time it took to drop a line to each other; so ordinary then, so extraordinary now. Can you even remember the last time you received or wrote a letter?
This month we’ll get a bunch of emails with the same inclusive message accompanied by the same darling cartoon, kitty or grandchild or perhaps an inspiring religious tableau. The Xeroxed listing of fantastic family accomplishments, although a thoughtful remembrance is in a marginal category. Don’t get me wrong; all are appreciated. How much more welcomed, however, would be a real card with a written message.
I boldly suggest this year sending written seasonal greetings or Hanukkah, Kwanza and even Christmas cards to our friends. There is still time to fill in the left side of 8-10 cards each day until done. It is allowed to repeat your appropriate opening remarks and then follow up with a personalized line or two. You’ll feel great when you finish and your friends will too when they receive it. Who knows, maybe you’ll be reading one from them next year.
Winter cometh
The Patriots’ recently playing in a blizzard reminded me of my high school’s Thanksgiving Day football game against our traditional rival. Attendance was mandatory and a snow storm, no matter how horrific, was acknowledged only by proclaiming it added to the fun.
Layered and bundled until only the slits of our eyes were revealed, we endured with loud jocularity lest one be sissified. Making it all bearable was best pal Gloria Goldberg (now Cecily de Windemere, author of bodice-ripping, historical romances). How I envied her baseball prowess and her mastery of spitting. With no concept of our sexual affinity, we had found each other. She would do the yelling and cursing as I plied her with my cookies, sandwiches and hot cider. What a team!
This all brings up the fact winter is upon us. We of the northern states find the moaning and groaning of the San Diego natives about the “freezing” 55 degree days and the “frigid” 37 degree nights highly amusing. They have little comprehension of the realities of winter. Take skating. Here the few skating rinks sparkle under warm, sunny skies. This is a far cry from the pond we skated on with its howling, freezing wind. I was there with my garage sale fourth-hand, zero ankle support skates. Worse, hockey skates! These meant flashy loops, jumps and spins were impossible. True. I could not do them anyway, but that’s irrelevant. Luckily, my complete ineptitude could be attributed to the skates. I suffered in silence as I did ice-fishing, a horror story for another day.
To end on a high note; I miss the ice-covered trees and new fallen snow glistening in the sun: a shimmering fairy land.
