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. 

 

Becoming Nine

 Becoming Nine

 May 2017

Last weekend, my grandson, Malcolm, turned nine.  I’m still trying to figure out how he went from diapers to Dungeons & Dragons in what seemed like nine months instead of nine years. 

At dinner Monday night, he was explaining to me the physiological differences between seals and sea lions – facts from a book-writing project he is working on in third grade.

After finishing our Japanese dinner of mostly sushi (the birthdays boy’s choice) we went home for a festive lemon cake topped with a number “9”.  And all my memories of an earlier “nine” story came flooding back – the reason that being nine is part of our family’s folklore.

It takes me back 33 years this past winter. Tom and I worked at our business in Corry two Friday nights a month which left us with a child care challenge. Alix, at twelve, was old enough to begin babysitting for some neighbors but we thought maybe not for her little brother, Bart, who was turning nine.

Tom thought that the children would enjoy skiing at Peak and Peak, the small ski resort about 15 minutes from work, rather than staying at home with a sitter. We would have an early supper together and he would run them over to The Peak, leaving them with two things – strict instructions to stay together, and money enough for two evening lift tickets and hot chocolate.  I can hear him now saying to Alix as he handed her the money, “Be ready by the parking lot at 9:15 – no later, and no excuses.”

This little scene had played out successfully a few times. They didn’t seem to fight too much and a good time was had by all. 

We seldom worked on a Saturday, but that year we had to work the second weekend in January which was a few days after Bart’s birthday … his ninth.  We figured if the skiing plan worked so well for Friday nights, wouldn’t a whole Saturday be even better? The kids were excited at the prospect as they packed up their equipment, even talking about what they’d have for lunch to go with their usual hot chocolate. Somehow that conversation didn’t register with their Dad. 

Tom, ever a creature of habit, dropped them off as usual at the same spot, with the same admonition about behaving and staying together – and the exact same amount of money he left with them Friday evenings. It was 9:00 AM. Alix didn’t look at the money until she got to the lift ticket window. Uh-oh.

She read the price list for all-day passes and realized that not only did she not have enough for two all-day lift tickets, there wasn’t enough for lunch or even a snack. The ticket lady spotted her dilemma and tried to help. 

“What’s the problem, honey,” she said.

            “Well, my Dad dropped us off and he gave me the same amount of money he always does for night lift tickets and I don’t have anywhere near enough for us to ski.”  She managed  not to cry, not knowing what they’d do. She could picture them skiing one at a time, but they weren’t allowed to split up. If they just stayed and watched they could eat lunch, but seven hours is a long time to watch others ski.

            “How old are you, honey,” the lady asked.

            “I’m twelve.”

            “And him?” she asked, nodding toward Bart.

            Remembering his Wednesday birthday, Alix blurted out that he had just turned nine, the magic number. An eight-year-old is ticketed as a child, but nine becomes an adult on the ski slopes. Alix realized at that moment that if Bart was still eight. they could both ski and still have some kind of lunch. It might not be cheeseburgers with fries, but they wouldn’t starve before Dad picked them up.

            The nice lady looked at the price chart again, looked back at both kids, and made a decision. “Why don’t we just pretend that he’s still eight,” she said quietly, nodding at Bart.

            Hearing this, the birthday celebrant piped up, “I’m not eight, I’m nine,”

            “I know honey, but I’m trying to help you out,” she whispered. The line was building behind them. “If we pretend you’re still eight, just for today, you can both have lift tickets with a little money left over for lunch. Okay?”  she said brightly.

            Upset at being eclipsed out of his newly-earned year, he spoke up a little louder to make her understand, “I am not eight anymore – I AM NINE.”

            Trying to ignore him, the lady leaned toward Alix, saying in a hushed voice, “I’m giving you one adult ticket and one child tick … “ 

Bart heard this and loudly wailed, “BUT I’M NOT EIGHT, I’M NI-I-I-I-I-NE.”

She clenched her jaw, leaned forward and growled, “Shut up kid – you’re eight – and you better get outta here before I change my mind.” She shoved the tickets at Alix and yelled, “Next?”

Tom didn’t hear the end of that one for a long time. Since then, the age has always been celebrated with, “But I’m Ni-i-i-i-i-ine.” The endearing, long-winded ski story follows, the same way we explained this to Malcolm last weekend.

Malcolm also skis with his sister, but I have it on good authority that Dad is usually on the slopes nearby so the hot chocolate breaks are well assured. 

Plus, there’s this new-fangled gadget called a cell phone that is reputed to prevent miscommunication among families.  I often wish we’d had one during those years, but then again, our family would be missing one of its stories.

 

 

 

 

           

 

                                                                       

A passion for the hog

A passion for the hog

A Hell’s Angel wouldn’t be my first choice in a life partner, but I never met one I didn’t like. I think I have figured out why. They’re happy. They are doing what a lot of us wish we could – put our cares away, hop on our Harley Davidsons … and GO! Noisy wanderlust.

Every one of those bearded dudes I have talked to is kind, fun, and unfailingly polite. Must be that white-haired ladies tame their beast. Frankly, I’m just plain jealous of their rides.

Getting out of my car last week in the supermarket parking lot, I stopped in my tracks. A motorcycle was parked next to me, but not just any motorcycle. The shimmering black Harley Davidson was showroom shiny and tricked out with more chrome than my eyes could handle on a bright sunny day. The Hog sparkled like an 8-foot black diamond.  

While I stood checking out the Harley, two tweenage girls were walking toward me heading for the store. Wearing cut-off short shorts and small halter tops, they bopped along to their earpod music, sipping sodas. They glanced at me checking out the bike’s details, and I saw one roll her eyes. They jabbed elbows at each other and laughed their way into the store. I could read their thoughts as if they were clouds over their heads: “What’s that old lady doing checking out a motorcycle? Whadda joke! Yah, ‘magine her riding one of those things.”

Little did they know that I was reminiscing back to my handful of Harley experiences. I could almost feel the summer wind in my face thinking about one college summer on Cape Cod. That year, my bicycle sat on the porch. Between restaurant shifts, I straddled the back seat while hugging my Harley driver to and from the beach, work and home. I never got to drive it, but I didn’t have to in order to love the bike’s throaty voice and its daring angled turns. Well over 50 years ago, we didn’t wear helmets or leather jackets, but we were riding the Cape’s country roads, not interstates. At the end of that summer, the bike’s owner took his gorgeous Harley and his almost-gorgeous self, back to Oberlin College and I never saw either of them again. Ah, summer.

About twenty years ago, my BFF invited me to her family’s annual beach gathering at the Outer Banks. My son, a Marine lieutenant, was in the process of moving to a North Carolina beach town about 250 miles south of the Outer Banks. He also received an invitation to the house party and was waiting when we arrived. After big hugs, I said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t see it” He grinned.

“I left it home and rode up on my new toy,” he said. And then he proceeded to tell me how he’d always wanted a Harley Davidson. (I never knew that). He had received some extra money on his previous assignment and thought, “Hey, I’m 26, single, and I can manage it – if not now, when?” He reassured me that he had taken lessons and passed the state licensing requirements. We went down to the yard to check it out – a blue Harley Softail Heritage Classic. A beauty. Then came the kicker. “Mom, everybody knew – everyone but you.”

“W-H-A-T?” I said. I was offended.

“Well, I knew you’d be upset about it and I didn’t want you to worry.”

I remember smirking and glaring at him all at the same time. “Worry? WORRY? You fly cobra attack helicopters carrying missiles, rockets and canons while snipers shoot at you from rooftops. And you think I’m going to worry about a stupid motorcycle?” He shrugged, but he was still grinning.

“Oh, and who is everyone who knows except me?” His Dad, sister, all the O’Brien cousins, and all his friends were sworn to secrecy. Everyone knew but moi. I added, “I guess you never noticed the scar on my right calf from a manifold burn, huh?”  It was his turn to squirm.

I said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll forgive you this time, but only if you give me a ride on it.”

“Mom, I only have one helmet.”

“Well,” I smiled, “you’ll have to solve that problem.” He did, the next morning.

The 40-minute ride was everything I remembered. He had good skills, I was comfortable, and that ocean breeze, from that same ocean that laps at Cape Cod – was divine.

I think I have one more ride in me, despite what those teeny-boppers think they know. My son sold his Harley years ago. Dear Richard would love one, but THAT’S not going to happen. I guess if I ever want to sit astride a putt-putting Hog again, I have to ask a Hell’s Angel. Next time they come through town, I might just do that.