lost-art

A schedule hiccup yesterday reduced my day home with babybear to an egg sandwich and a nap. A sure fire way to piss me off is ruin my personal hallucination that I’m in some sort of control, (this includes, but is not limited to, dinking with my schedule).

There wasn’t anyone or anything to be justifiably pissed at. Instead, I coped by digesting my spleen, cutting the grass and cleaning till my legs hurt…. (note: the electric mower on our size yard is miserable. I’ll never furrow my brow at Kevin again about falling behind on the grass cutting.)

One of a reported “two” postcards from Elise came.

It never dawned on me before what a treat these are. Thanks to email and cell phones, the postcard is a dying gesture.

Here’s a little 5″ x 7″ piece of cardstock with an image and just barely enough room to scrawl a few sentences long-hand. They seem inefficient – but as with so many things, it’s what’s not said that speaks volumes:

Someone took fifteen minutes to jot a message down, address it, stamp it and mail it to you – usually while they’re on vacation.

That sort of thoughtfulness these days is a novelty.

I’ve always put postcards on the fridge where they’ll stay for a few weeks and eventually get retired to the trash.

I could kick myself now for ever throwing any of them away. I’m going to start keeping them.

I’m not however going to start blogging.