Christmas Kindness Has No Expiration Date

 

 

            It’s been 18 years since we sent trail mix to Iraq.

My son, Bart, was a Marine pilot. He flew the Cobra gunship, an attack helicopter that protected the Marines on the ground. A nasty machine. Having been gone for months, his squadron was deployed to Al Asad, Iraq during Christmas, 2005. His third deployment in three years.

While making family Christmas at home, I was missing him terribly – even accepted that his seat at the Christmas dinner table would be empty. I couldn’t imagine listening to “White Christmas” while living in that hostile desert. And I was having trouble with the constant worry and our inability to do anything about it.

One night watching CNN, the headline zipper running across the bottom of the screen read “Two-man helicopter down in Fallujah.” Both his dad and I stopped breathing. We knew Bart was in Iraq. We didn’t know exactly where he was at any one time. There was no more information. And there was no sleep as every possible scenario played out in our over-hyped imaginations.

When the morning brought no updates, Tom started digging through news sources. He finally learned the crash was an Army Blackhawk. Breathing a sigh of relief, I also immediately thought, if the news is OK for us, it’s got to be unbearable for two other families.

Finally, all of my anxiety bubbled up into action. I decided I wanted him and “his guys” to have something from home for Christmas. That whimsy led to thinking about the whole maintenance group that worked for Bart – 89 of them. What could we do that would bring them a smile?

First, I checked with the post office to determine the last date of shipping to the APO (Army Post Office). The APO then delivers, world-wide, directly to the military. It was the beginning of December as I learned we had less than a week to ship on-time.

Between buying and begging, and leaning on friends, we put together 89 packages. Whirley Industries of Warren donated their largest covered beverage mug with a snappy flag design. We packed the mugs with playing cards, candy canes, gum, and zip-locks filled with homemade trail mix. We all baked chocolate chip cookie bars, figuring that ordinary cookies would crumble. I can no longer remember the rest of the mugs contents, but they were full – and as it turned out – heavy.

Bart had forwarded the names of all the guys, so each 20-ounce mug was personally labelled.

Everyone baked the cookie bars from the same recipe, although Suzie and her friend Luann, both from Sugar Grove, delivered double batches of goodies. Together in my kitchen, four of us packaged the bars, trail mix and stuffed the big mugs. Actually, I never met Luann – she was Suzie’s good and generous friend.

I added three huge cans of popcorn and pretzels, one to each of the three v-e-r-r-r-y large boxes. Box #1, labeled to be opened first, contained a note and a Santa hat. I have no memory of how I got them into the post office. I probably blotted it out.

Around the end of January, I received a picture showing Captain O’Brien in camouflage and a Santa hat. Grinning. The guys all clustered around for a quick group shot. “Aw gee, Cap’n do we have to?” Yes, they did.

A few weeks later, all the baking ladies received a new American flag in the mail. Boxed flags were routinely flown over Iraq during missions to thank supportive friends back home. They were accompanied by certificates of explanation and thanks. My baking friends were stunned.

I was reminded of this story last week as a lady purchased a book at one of my signing events. When I asked if she wanted it inscribed, she said, “Yes, please. To Luann,” and she spelled it. Then she leaned in a bit and said, “You know, I still fly the flag that your son sent me, every day the weather is good.” She is proud of it.

I replied, “Luann? You’re Suzie’s friend Luann?” I couldn’t believe it. She is THAT Luann. Of the double cookie batches. From 18 years ago.

After this Christmas, I’m going to grab her for some lunch and catch up.

Luann is now 92. Still baking, working at church, still involved. The type of person that when a stranger asked her friend for help, she volunteered, “Count me in too.” The Marines should have recruited women much sooner.

 

 

Giving birth to a book isn’t for wimps

 

Giving birth to a book isn’t for wimps

The crazy idea of writing a book did not surface early. I had to wait until sanity abandoned me. 

A devoted reader since I was a kid, I always thought that books were the result of brilliant minds, great imaginations, and writerly skills. Ordinary people like me didn’t write books.

But you know – you live long enough and a lot happens. Some of it is worth writing down. The book I’ve just published, Rounding Third, is named for where I am now in that long life – this autumn of my years.

There are seven very heavy boxes in my front hall. At my age, I do not get excited by very much. Opening the top box and holding my book was thrilling, absolutely amazing. Can this actual, real book be mine? It weighs 11 ounces and the cover has a silky matte finish. It has my name on it, my picture is on the back, and it’s filled with experiences that I lived. It contains eleven ounces of a phantasmagorical life and the whackadoodle ideas that tumbled around in my head – for years. They gradually spilled out on paper. Putting this book together has been a challenging way to stay young!

The cover is brightly colored, eye-catching for its whimsy. The headless, running woman in culottes who is rounding third base in her red high heels is no longer me. But she used to be.

Early on, an acquaintance commented, “But I’ve never seen you in red high heels, really high heels.”

I replied, “You’re right. I haven’t run in high heels since I was in my 40s. And since you and I did not meet until our 60s, you missed a whole generation of high kickin’.”

“Then why did you put red high heels on the cover?” she asked.

With great memories bubbling up, I smiled at her, “’Cuz I really, really like them.”

I started writing for the Warren paper in 2004. As the years went on, the columns appeared biweekly, then weekly. Then a few years ago, I was published weekly in the Jamestown and Dunkirk regional papers as well. I began to hear from a larger body of readers. And frankly, that’s really nice. It makes you feel as if some of those late nights and miserable edit sessions are worth it.

As the notebooks of columns grew thicker, I occasionally mused about putting some together in a book, but couldn’t imagine who would read it. Or why.

I’d always thought that the notebooks might get discovered some attic rainy day by great-grandchildren – who would proceed into a gigglefest.

            Then I started hearing from some nice readers out there. Many who laughed with my incompetencies – seeing themselves. Some who shed a tear, and decided to share. Once in a while, there were questions about when the book would appear. I laughed it off for a long time, not feeling worthy or capable.

Then Covid showed up the second time and I was home from the hospital again. Down and out. Again. Getting better takes time – which I finally decided was book time. Now or never.

Hey! How hard could it be? I have files with hundreds and hundreds of these dribblings.

Already written. Already published. I would only have to pick out my favorite 75 and slap them together under a cover. Right? Like I said, I wasn’t very capable. I’m often delusional.

            It’s a long process. The process demands dedication and timing. And if you self-publish as I have, it requires an infusion of dollars.

I never once thought of sending it to a publisher. I don’t have the number of years left that it takes to break through the pile of rejection slips. The big houses are looking for a Doris Kearns Goodwin collection. I am a Mrs. Nobody from Podunk with essentially short stories – fun, warm, but nevertheless, hometown short stories.

I began by reading ALL the hundreds of columns I have written. Then I chose eight “alpha readers” who volunteered to read, comment, and grade 120 of my chosen columns. Next, with my newly-vetted collection, my wallet, and a don’t-look-back-now attitude, I plunged. I hired a professional editor, a publishing consultant and a local illustrator. And we all put together, beginning last April, this 11-ounce miracle.

It does not lie in my arms wiggling its toes. It is not the gift to the world that my children are. But it is a lot better than a few of my report cards.  I’ll accept that much satisfaction.

In this life, I was lucky. I didn’t get thrown out at first. And here I am, Rounding Third with a book in my hand.

 Maybe I should buy some sneakers. Red ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The impish card sender from down Texas way

 

             His name was Bruce Smith. By telling you that, I am breaking my general rule of writing only first names. 

Bruce and I never met. He lived in Garland, Texas, and yet he became important in my life for 13 years. He died last fall. With his death, a very special voice and heart passed from my world. 

I found Bruce by accident. I was nosing around on the internet looking for an old friend by the same name. I had no idea that Bruce Smith was one of the most common names anywhere. Looking by age produced a few possibilities so I decided it was worth a quick inquiry. 

The Bruce I dropped a note to said no, he wasn’t the right one, but emailed, “Are you looking for an old friend?” After I replied yes, he wished me good luck. He did have my email address. I had stated that I lived in western Pennsylvania. I didn’t think much more about it – or him – and I quit looking for the other Bruce. Looking for a needle in a haystack requires more patience than I have. 

The first card came in late October. No return address. It was a happy, fun Halloween card, signed with an exuberant scrawl written in orange felt pen, “Bruce.”  

Bruce? Bruce who? Then I flipped over the envelope. The postmark was Garland, TX. My reaction was somewhere in between “Hmm – sorta nice,” then “Uh-oh.” But I didn’t really worry. It’s just a harmless Halloween card, right? I did wonder, though …. 

How did he know my last name? My home address? The only things he knew about me were general location and that I ran a historic theatre. I realized it was enough information to go on. I have found people with less.  

Then the next card came … in late November. Standing at my roadside mailbox, I gulped when I saw the Garland, TX, postmark. I opened the Thanksgiving card to find the same signature, written in brown ink, “Bruce.” Just a perfectly nice turkey on the front with a simple greeting. OK. 

I didn’t tell anybody. I knew they would think I was nuts, plus they would worry.  

Then the Christmas card came, signed the same way, in green. And the valentine was signed in red. I was a bit anxious about the valentine, but its simple message was just like all the others: “Fun Halloween,” “Happy Thanksgiving,” “Merry Christmas,” “Sweet Valentine’s Day.” Nothing more, just a signature. 

I emailed him a thank you a after each card. 

March brought the St. Patrick’s Day card, followed by April’s Easter greeting. When he didn’t send cards for Arbor Day, May Day or the Fourth of July, I was a bit disappointed. Summer was a long dry spell, and I almost forgot about the cards. Then, in October, a week before Halloween, a Texas card was in the mailbox and I thought, “Gee, his cards always arrive the day before the event. Wonder why this is so early?”  

It was a birthday card. The day before my date. The Halloween card followed a few days later, on time. 

I realized that a birthdate can also be found online, but I figured, a year has gone by and no more communication than these fun cards. I was tempted to send a card in return, but thought sensibly that I have trouble keeping up with family and friends’ special days without adding a stranger in Texas. 

So, the years rolled by and the cards continued. Bruce emailed me and asked me to send my columns to him. I added him to my distribution list, and that proved to be our only direct contact. When I wrote a column about marrying Dear Richard, Bruce sent a congratulatory card wishing for our happiness.  

His pictures popped up on Facebook with his elderly parents on vacation, or his party lunches at work. Always smiling, he was bearded with fun, twinkling eyes. I had no idea whether he was divorced or widowed. 

After a few years, I sent him annual Christmas cards with a one-liner thanking him for all my feel-good moments at the mailbox. Sometimes those feelings arrived just when I needed a boost or a smile. And I came to think of his charming on-time arrivals as part of my belief that we humans need to reach out to each other. Maybe Bruce’s cards really weren’t much different than my chatting up fellow travelers, clerks, and cab drivers.  

I looked forward to each holiday, wondering when he would miss – and he never did. Then late last summer, Bruce posted to friends that he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Devastated, I sent a few get well or “thinking of you” cards. No birthday card arrived, and for what would have begun the 14th year, no Halloween card. 

I found his weeks-old obituary in December. I learned he had lost his wife, that he had one son, a grandson and great-grandchildren. He was an engineer, an antique buff, and loved camping with his wife. Individual memorials mentioned how much they loved his cards. I have no idea how many peoples’ lives he graced with his simple, thoughtful legacy.  

Bruce just reached out, touched someone, and said, "Hi! Be happy!" And I was. For 13 touching years. 

I guess I found the right Bruce Smith after all.