It’s nice to get them?
You have nothing better to do than sit on the floor in your undies writing three dozen?
I send them every year, get them from Wildlife and The American Humane Society, figuring, I’m sending an elk to camp. The kicker is, if I get 3, I’m lucky. Okay, I’m exaggerating, 4.
Cyber cards don’t count, since I can’t display them on the china cabinet, an old Connecticut custom.
I was thrilled to get one just the other day, from England, my one of 4. I was suddenly little again, rushing to the mailbox all flushed and expectant. Besides sweeping and brushing Fluffy, the cat, that was my job…
to get the mail.
Whenever I saw an envelope with just my name I peed in my pants, from the excitement of it all. Why must there always be a downside? When my mother caught on, she would confiscate the card for a day, as punishment.
“What are you, a schnauzer? You need to learn how to control yourself there Missy.” So I’m happy to report, when Mick and Maeve’s card appeared in my mailbox, all was dry.
So it took a few years, so what.
Cards are nice.
They remind us, we still have a pulse, and quietly, not forgotten.