Everything Changes

The white bungalow where I grew up sits at the foot of Lookout Mountain and for the past seven years or so, it’s been super easy to swing by from time to time, on purpose or along the way. After my parents sold our home many years ago, it went into slow but steady decline, so much so that for the final decades of her life, my mother couldn’t bear driving by. Gone were the tidy boxwood hedges my dad trimmed on Saturdays; two stately front yard trees and a detached garage vanished right along with them. White shingles turned into butterscotch vinyl siding, and the front yard became a crazy knickknack circus. 

However, dismay about bungalow blight aside, every single time I passed by, I had but one thought: 

I sure would like to go inside for a little look-around.

Behold, a couple of years ago, the old homestead appeared for sale (“as is”) on Zillow, and was quickly snapped up by a flipper. My ship finally came in this past fall with a Sunday afternoon Open House. I was an elated Alice heading through the looking glass, and I sure hoped the Realtor on the other side was nice. 

I was 12 years old the last time I walked up the front sidewalk, so that alone was a big deal, and crossing the threshold landed me where I never thought I’d ever get to go again. There they were, the fireplace with my favorite casement windows on either side, along with the gracious curved dining room archway. And the curious Cold Bathroom (during our tenure it had no heat and I never thought to ask why) had become quite fancy and was cold no more. 

The living room where my reticent father played resounding classical music from WSMC every night looked very, very 2023, but I could almost feel the symphony again. Farther back in the house was the Back Bedroom where the rest of us watched television in the evening and the Wizard of Oz on one special Sunday night every year. I stood in its far corner, taking in the whole panorama and missing the elements formerly occupying that space: my mother, our old Green Sofa, and the huge black and white "portable" TV. 

The hallway medicine closet was a surprise simply by still being there and looking exactly the same. I opened the door to find familiar shelves minus the old Vicks, Paragoric, Mercurochrome, Black Salve, and St. Joseph Baby Aspirin, remembering the time when that cabinet served up slightly dangerous remedies for most any malady known to man. 

Things got interesting down in the basement where my memories all involve darkness, dirt, and a massive silver coal furnace with a myriad of shiny arms reaching out in all directions. 

Gray LVP flooring anchored several cavern-ish bedrooms that had been created to make a bigger bungalow. The old coal bin with its little window that swung open each fall for the Bryan Coal Company to send a ton down the chute was one of them (with lone small window, same spot). And a bathroom now occupies the pride of place location where once upon a time stood the flaming fire and brimstone furnace. 

Meanwhile upstairs, the addition of the basement sleeping quarters had cost the second of our two bedrooms its life, and it is now styled as an oddly large closet with washer and dryer connections. However, the expansive windows I loved still hold court in the same place from the olden days. 

I circled back around to make sure all sacred landmarks had been covered, and thanked the congenial agent while I requested a commemorative picture in front of the fireplace. As I walked back down the sidewalk, I was so thankful for my perpetual wish having been granted at last. I also wondered what my parents would've made of the new-fangled amenities they surely would believe were straight from The Jetsons. 

~~~~~

Walking through our old home one more time was a big gift sent down from above. One thing I didn't understand before I got there was the quiet pleasure found being back in a place where my parents once dwelled during the prime of their lives. As the years since they left this earth move on, Margaret and Emery continue to fade further into the past, so it was sweet having a miniature visit with the days of yore. 

Just like our old medicine cabinet offered up a cure for whatever ailed you, that Sunday afternoon settled my weird, enduring childhood home fascination. The house now sits squarely in 2024 with amenities and upgrades aplenty compared to what it once had (heat in the Cold Bathroom is a nice touch), and I got to see them all. 

My thoughts since the trip down Memory Lane have been about two of the most fundamental truths served up in life: 

1.  Not everyone shares my home design sensibilities. 
2.  For better or worse, whether I like it or not, everything changes. 

Our old house is such a fine reminder that time marches onwards, and very little stays the same.  Homes that I have loved and left along the way find new owners who move in and manifest their own ideas for gracious living.  Similarly, life evolves across time, and we can look back and remember the way things once were while considering how things work out. All in all, I reminisce with awe and appreciation for the people, communities, jobs, circumstances, and--yes--homes where I have been. Every peak and every valley along the way held special gifts, even the ones that took a long time to understand.

We all move forward in paths brimming with the good, the grand, and the regrettable, and I'd like to somehow embrace it all with grace and dignity. With the many great things God has given my children and me, it's the very least I can do. 

Me on left, sister Emily on right 

The birthday story

Back in the day, flight attendant reserve duty was a lot about sitting around and waiting for a call, and on one Atlanta July afternoon, my neighbor and fellow reserve John Hardesty and I were doing just that. We had been to lunch and were killing time afterwards down the street at his house. Tommy, John's roommate, was an architect who was light years ahead of his time in working from home, and we were nosing around in his office. He was worldly and six years older than we were, thus making him super intimidating to me. 

Tommy looked up from his drafting desk as we made small talk, and John mentioned that the next day would be my birthday. 

“Well, happy birthday! How old will you be?”, Tommy asked. 

“27”, I replied. 

Tommy paused for a moment in contemplation. 

“Ah, 27 is a very hard year”, said he with what I perceived as great wisdom.

~~~~~

Alas, as with every one of my years, 27 came and went lightning fast, a moment in the sublime time of life where ordinary days presented a host of adventures in being a grown-up out on one’s own.  Back then, I rolled through a gracious, smaller-town Atlanta in my paid-for two-tone Monte Carlo. I hopscotched across the country five or more days each week, and I moved with friend groups who included me in fun doings. 

If I had to pick some hard bits from that year, here they are: flying (a lot) on command, including every weekend and holiday. Here and there, I found myself floundering socially. And I impulsively bought a condo without a whole lot in the way of due diligence. However, even though I lived on the lookout for all the bad, 27 didn't seem to be terribly tragic. 

Across time, I've often remembered being forewarned about a very hard year in life's cakewalk days, and have worked out that, somehow, even those not-best parts ended up being beneficial. 

I 'm ever enlightened about the fact some people must work holidays and weekends, and I respect every person, everywhere, pulling that duty. For years, I missed some good times, but I did love my job, and Delta had mentioned straight up front that was how the cookie crumbled. Lucky for me, there were plenty of friends and colleagues in the same boat--or plane, as it were--and, in the end, I'm better for having worked hard and often. 

As for that impetuous condo buy that wasn’t the best idea I ever had, it ended up leading to good things. Only through that deal, new people dropped into my life, and there are several who are dear friends to this day. And I shall forever remain the greatest fount of unsolicited advice about the importance of asking about construction quality and noise separation in a place where you're going to live. 

~~~~~

Zillions of small talk exchanges have come and gone, but the miniature Tommy moment stays for perpetuity. The funny thing is, I only interacted with Tommy maybe two brief times when I was hanging out with John, yet I remember the afternoon in his Wilbur Post home office like it was yesterday. When July rolls around every year, I faithfully pull out the memory to consider it yet one more time. 

My 27 lives way back in the rear view mirror, and the world and Atlanta have spun in some crazy ways since then. Here in my 2023 orbit, William turned 27 in January, and then Annabelle heads that way next year. I have a great seat on the sidelines watching their lives in the young adult trifecta of careers, friends, and fun. I hear about the ups and downs along the way, and I sure would like an invite to lecture them about how what might seem unfortunate now will someday end up being good, maybe even very good. By and large, though, what an excellent, excellent deal it is to be young with life unfolding all around and stretching out far ahead.

I'm sure I griped about my lot in life, and didn't appreciate the fine deal I actually had when I was young, busy, and living with a flashy Monte Carlo parked in front of the condo where I heard my neighbors' every move but met nice people. I'd love to go back for a do-over, but I'll gladly take this life that continues to reveal its splendor and its splendid ordinariness. Here I am, thankful to remain a part of it in another July that God has granted me, and I'll welcome whatever kind of year that should come along.   

Because I couldn't find a Monte Carlo pic 

The priceless prequel

When my mother slipped away in August, 2008, I became the recipient of a 1,175 square foot brimming treasure chest apartment.  For years and years, Margaret spoke with happy anticipation about the day her earthly residue would be mine; however, she didn’t showcase the part about her stuff being mingled therein with that of her mom, dad, aunt, grandparents, and a host of relatives from preceding generations. Called up from Atlanta to make it all disappear in eight short weekends, I was on 75 North every Friday in September and October, and shot from of a cannon back to Georgia every Sunday evening after. 

My mother had provided perfectly handwritten index cards defining many items, but those were the tip of the iceberg in piles and piles of the past. The high point of each weekend’s work came when my uncle and aunt dropped by at noon on Sunday with a country club hamburger and fries. Every week Uncle Buddy was newly taken aback by seeing so many long forgotten family mementos, and instantly moved to sit down and share sentimental stories from days gone by, the likes of which I had never heard. 

Each opened box presented questions I had never thought about asking and, with the clock ticking, it ended up a chaotic enterprise as the final estate sale items stayed behind. When I closed the apartment door for the last time, I thought it was the benediction to my life with Margaret. 

A few days later, I got a call from the estate sale lady: “I believe you gave us a box you’d like to have back”. 

~~~~~

By the end of my packing up adventure, I had become an ace snap decision maker, and an “Alternating Pressure Pad and Pump System” was something I could live without. Bearing no Sharpie message from Margaret, the unopened box landed in estate sale land, and it was big news when I found out it held her diaries that started in 1938. 

Long ago when my mother was 16, her sister gave her a 5-year diary for Christmas, and thus was born the most dedicated reporter of everyday life the world has ever known. Some of the diaries are leather with golden edged pages, some have locks whose keys disappeared ages ago, and all are filled with Margaret’s funny precise script, changeless across time.  

I had looked forward to insights about World War II but, in a magnificent plot twist, I landed in the middle of life with the busy Everett family--my mother, her mom, dad, older sister, and little brother. Their home was always jumping with neighbors, friends, dates, dinner guests, club meetings, badminton games, and what Margaret happily called "big crowds” passing through their ever-revolving front door. They never missed church, visited friends a lot, participated in countless civic groups, went to “the picture show” often and, on weekends, took pleasure rides in the car. 

My mother faithfully covered details and insights about all five of her little family, every single day. The funny thing was, I knew the characters in the story all my life, yet the younger versions of themselves presented sparkly, brand new people. 

Each night I sat on my porch reading what quickly turned into an engaging first person novel, and they all became alive again as three-dimensional people on the pages, particularly my grandmother who always seemed an elderly lady to me. But, early on, Nannie was a wife and mother, a gracious hostess, a teacher, the president of The Old Ladies Home, a gardener, a raiser of chickens, and a regular concert/lecture/picture-show goer. Same for my grandfather who died when I was a baby. Beyond family stories, I’d never glimpsed him as a living and breathing, working, traveling, energetic father and husband—but for a good many years, he was all of these and more.

I read every day, starting with Margaret in high school at home with her family, and followed her to college life at the University of Tennessee, then onwards to young career days on her own in postwar Washington, DC. Along the way, she ran with a big circle of friends, dated a variety of guys, traveled, and went out on the town. (And never missed church, no matter where she found herself). 

In addition to family members familiar to me, I met all sorts of other people from a variety of arenas. Some were major players with my mother and her family, and others appeared for a season and gradually drifted off the pages. I grew oddly attached to the long timers, and I wonder about how their lives had turned out and hope they did well. 

My mother's kaleidoscopic young life was very newsy to me, and I smiled reading about good times. Across all my years with her, she shared a vague outline of this time and, in spite of my having had a zillion opportunities, it’s obvious I could have been a better listener and asked for details. There were so many great conversations that could have been, and how I wish to go back with my new multitude of questions. 

~~~~~

Back in the diaries, I met up with my mother’s beloved little brother Buddy when he was in junior high, and I followed him through his super social City High days, his service in WWII, and I read about the first date with his wife. And there he was in 2008, the same buoyant fellow--82 years old, delivering the best hamburger in town, accompanied by the girl he took on that long ago first date. He eventually joined most everyone else from the books in 2015 when he also slipped away, and I'm glad about having had the time for the stories he told in Margaret's kitchen during my packing days. 

I am forever thankful for my mother's faithful correspondence in her diaries all those years, for their fortuitous return from the estate sale pile and, most especially, for the enlightenment they provide about how people once pursued life in an entirely different universe. 

There is plenty of subtle, simple wisdom for those of us living in this modern super-connected-yet-disconnected world, and I aim to do better. While I know life back then wasn't exactly a cakewalk, one big takeaway is that virtually everyone on the pages devoted a good bit of time and effort being involved with their community, and most especially with one another. 

When I closed the door on Apt. 2-C, I thought it was over, and I’m pretty sure I was wrong. What a wondrous gift came in a nondescript pump box, and there may just be a bigger story in there waiting to be told.

Margaret's locket with pictures of young OT and Buddy

Within these pages every night,

Brief memories of the day I write;

A little word, a single line,

Is jotted in this book of mine—

Not mighty deeds, just common things,

The tasks and pleasures each day brings

And yet I hope that when I look

Over the pages in this book,

Twill be (and, if so, I’m content)

The record of five years well spent.

                                                                                              --- Eloise Woods, 1933     

                                                                                                            forward to 1943-1947 diary                                              

 - 

                                            

The Six Year Fast

Once upon a time, seventh grade marked the beginning of what was called junior high, and I was a socially backward stranger in a new school after a move across town. It took less than five seconds on the first day to realize doom lay ahead. It appeared that everyone there was light years beyond me in sophistication and, worse than that, they were pals from elementary school who were not in the market for new friends. 

Grammar school days had been a picnic—I had a little prestige, a lot of good grades, and plenty of pals. Fast forward to the dawn of 7th grade where I quickly found that I couldn’t make a friend for love nor money. And, of course, the lowlight of every day was lunch, where I really wandered in the wilderness.

With a bit of optimism in the first week, I went through the food line and scouted for girls’ tables with a vacancy or two. My success rate was abysmal as unoccupied seats were always saved, and echoes of “no” became super embarrassing. After enough daily rites of humiliation, trying to eat lunch became a very bad idea. I devised a strategy of grabbing two vanilla ice cream cups with a little wooden paddle and quickly escaping to the outside where killing 25 minutes alone was like killing 25 years. 

I got used to my role of being every team’s last pick--someone eventually had to take me.  Discouraging observations floated in the air sort of behind my back, and hearing I was the fat and ugly sorry kid was always a bit disheartening. While I may have been a semi-fat and awkwardly unattractive ‘tween, I didn’t consider myself all that bad. At dinner on Friday nights when there were dances at school, my parents would mildly inquire, “Do you want to go?” I would say no without editorial, and that was good enough for them. 

High school was more of same. Even with a broader population, there still wasn’t a place to eat, and each day my lunch objective was simply to get through it. Everyone was having fun but I couldn’t work out how to join them. I was a have not who longed to be a have, and clueless about how to get there. Sadly, the good news about the fine art of making friends had yet to reach me. 

At home things were peaceful and fine during these years with my parents their changeless hard-working, well-mannered selves. Another bright spot was the happy relationship we had with our next door neighbors, and I remember very well walking on our street with their 3 year old granddaughter and thinking about how weird it was that my best friend was a preschooler. 

The church we attended was an unusual little place filled with wonderful people of all ages. Monday through Friday school difficulties were contradicted by the loving good found in this congregation on Sundays and Wednesdays. At this church, virtually everyone in every age group mingled a little or a lot with the youth. I was encouraged and reassured every time I was there as so many fine people took an interest in me.

Here we sit in 2022 where it’s commonplace to hear about teens all over who report having a similar deal to mine, and some (perhaps many) don’t fare so well in it. Which makes me reflect on how in the world I muddled through my hard days without telling a soul, and consider who and what made the difference. 

After a great deal of deliberation, I have decided that those who kept me hopeful about the promise of the tomorrows to come were the influences outside the school walls—my family, our church, and our neighbors. These good people had no idea about the impact of their sustained kindness dropping on me at just the right time. I suppose the proof is that giving up never crossed my mind, and I am forever grateful to this entire group. 

It was sort of a slow-moving miracle that, with some years, maturity, and countless providential situations, things eventually turned around. However, I always remember the very difficult life of a kid who couldn’t/didn’t fit in. Life rolling onwards and God in His wisdom have a way of revealing the immense good that can be found in the bad of the past. Somehow, six years of never eating lunch has ended up being a significant benefit. 

With our children many years later, my (formerly) 3 year old best friend Joelly is second from left.

On a side note, an anecdote from Annabelle: Almost 20 years ago, Joelly gave Annabelle the Lizzie McGuire soundtrack CD for Christmas, and it's still in her Tahoe entertainment rotation. 

"An amazing CD that will never go out of style". 

Greetings From Irrelevance

In March, 2020, Annabelle blew in from spring break in Edinburgh, a refugee swept back home after the brand new Covid abruptly preempted her senior year. One third of the way into their final college term, Furman seniors were shown the gate, with no fanfare or fond farewell. 

During her residency here, Annabelle accomplished extraordinary things, the most outstanding of which was pointing out the countless ways I could and should improve my lot in life. 

The highlight from her tenure came around one day as I was pondering what I should wear for an occasion. The details of my wardrobe choice and intended destination have long since faded, but this moment lives on in perpetuity: 

Me:                "What do you think?" 

Annabelle:     "You look fine. But, at your age, no one really cares”.

~~~~~

I wrote down the details of this moment quite a while ago and, ever since then, I’ve been working out what I feel about this, the greatest writing prompt ever in the history of the world. I pondered all the directions I could go, but never quite landed on exactly what I wanted to say. 

Then Greatest Writing Prompt II came along two weekends ago: 

Annabelle was looking through my phone and came across a screenshot photo of a beautifully understated staircase with a landing halfway along, before the stairs turn and finish going up. 

Annabelle: “What’s this?”

Me:         “A staircase I love, just in case I ever get to build a house again”.

Annabelle: “Well, that’s never gonna happen”. 

~~~~

Firstly, it should be noted that Annabelle and I are big big pals; for as long as I can remember, she's been my novelty child on whom I can count to keep me walking the straight and narrow. We have a lot of fun, her counsel is usually right on target, and conversation with her is always a joyously direct riot. I really have the perfect set-up with both Annabelle and William, my messengers from the young world, ever ready to bring me all the news.  

So my best friend forever Annabelle presented me the Golden Ticket, thereby freeing me up from concerns about how I present myself to the world. In a somewhat subtle and sneaky fashion across time, I have also gotten wind from the outside world that I have arrived in the land of irrelevancy. It's not a bad thing at all, it's just how life works. But, that being said, I'm not quite ready to give up. I'll just work away with whatever scraps I have left, here in obscurity. 

In all fairness, there was a time when I had the very same perspective about the lesser degree of relevance held by people dwelling in all those decades above me.  I looked at them like I was a tourist in their strange land--there couldn't be that much fun, surprises seemed limited, and I figured living vicariously through one's grown children filled up the time. It would amaze my younger self to know I was well off the mark--there is plenty of life and joy available for those who are willing. 

Save for some latter day miracle, the flaming arrow launched at my ever-enduring home-building fantasy is, alas, a likely bullseye. But I do have a charming house, and I can dream and think about all sorts of ways to make it more fabulous--and that is plenty. 

By the time one reaches this age, many of life’s biggest mysteries have been revealed—growing up is long finished, schooling complete, lifestyle in place, the children are well and truly here, and the career path is mostly known.  Once upon a time, the future was a vast and hazy mystery, and so much time was spent wondering about how things would turn out. Now knowing a heaping helping of life's story--and how quickly it all went by--can't help but conjure up both astonishment and thankfulness. 

Right along with those fading looks in the mirror. my hopes and expectations have naturally shifted and changed across the years. But I love to think there is work left to be done, things to be learned, more friends to know and love, and certainly there are adventures out there to be had. I'll just get back to trying to make something nice with what I have, for now and the tomorrows ahead.

And, should I need further enlightenment, I'll just wait patiently for Annabelle to do the business. 

We like each other just fine

The great fitness test

A long time ago on a pretty spring 4th grade afternoon, our teacher, Mrs. Nancy Gladish, announced that the class would be heading outside for the President’s Physical Fitness Test. With limited explanation and a clipboard in her hand, she herded us out to the playground where the fun would begin. 

The presidential requirements that I can remember involved successful completion of pull-ups, a one mile run, sit-ups, long jump, push-ups, and something called a shuttle run. All were uncharted territory for me as my athletic training to that date was limited to bike riding, rollerskating, and jumping rope on Alabama Avenue. As I waited and watched my colleagues do pretty well, I knew I was doomed. When it was my turn to give each event a go, I tried, but pretty much fell short of the mark every single time. 

It was after lunch several weeks later when Mrs. Gladish stood in front of our class to present the President’s Physical Fitness Certificates. As she called out my classmates’ names, each one stepped forward to receive congratulations along with his or her award. I can still see the crisp white papers emblazoned with the official red, white, and blue banner at the top, and I was more than startled to hear her call out Ellen Tucker. 

And here is what happened next: In a horribly awkward and humiliating moment, I went up and told Mrs. Gladish (and thereby the whole class) that I did not earn the award so I could not accept it. And I started to cry and sat back down. I vaguely remember a surprised Mrs. Gladish saying something nice about what I had done, but that part is a big blur. 

Nothing more was ever said about this event, and I pretty much forgot about it.  

~~~~~

I share this long-buried tale because it just recently came back to me, and I am mystified about how a little kid had the presence of mind to (rightfully) turn down an award that was not deserved.

It would be convenient to reflect on my having been a holy and deep-thinking child, but I was not. I was ordinary. All I can figure is that particular moment had to have been an homage to my parents, family, schoolteachers, Sunday School teachers, neighbors and, yea, even the television shows of the era. Their combined influences seem to have imprinted a strong sense of right and wrong in little me. 

It seems unfashionable of late to acknowledge and promote the value found in earning good things in life. 

If I am to believe what I constantly see and hear, I deserve a whole lot of things—money, a fancy car, happiness, a great life, glamorous vacations, a beautiful home, expensive clothes—the list is endless. Apparently, I deserve all of these and more, just for living and breathing. But what stands between the buy-in and me is what I have always known--even in a simplistic way in 4th grade--one must put in some effort to earn great honors, privileges, and great things.

While my children William and Annabelle grew up in the world of participation trophies, they still saw only the best players making All Star teams. Their hardest working classmates with the highest GPAs were presented with the most attractive college options. Now as adults, for the most part, they see their more accomplished peers landing the more prestigious jobs with accompanying fringe benefits. 

As for my current view, I see persevering peers and colleagues achieving incredible things, including some looking forward to comfortable early retirements. In the best way the world works, diligence pays the dividends, and I wish I had also possessed a better grasp of this long ago when I was nine years old. 

While we in 2022 can look back and see the imperfections found in years gone by, I wish for some of their higher shared ideals to be more popular amongst us here in this fast, super-connected, and sophisticated world. I would gladly invite my kaleidoscope of understated influential people from long ago to join us and work their magic today. 

53 Sympathy Cards

When my mother died unexpectedly-ish in August, 2008, I was a busy Atlantan running the lives of two children. Up in Chattanooga, Margaret had loved her life surrounded by treasures from a host of late relatives ("I'm sentimental", she often observed). When the day arrived for this pile to become all mine, it was more than a little overwhelming. With a tight deadline, I took the easy way out, jettisoning what seemed unneeded and shoving the rest into a 10' x 10' storage unit. I rolled down the door and headed back to Georgia to pick up my life where I left off, never looking over my shoulder at that crowded space. 

While time marched onwards, I routinely wrote a check every month, and the eventual stick of dynamite dispatching me to frozen-in-time storage came with an August, 2021 rent increase. Thirteen years of denial were over and, amidst this heap of my mother's earthly residue, I ran across a department store paper bag bearing Margaret's precise printing, "Nannie's Sympathy Cards - 1972". 

Nannie--my grandmother--was an elementary school teacher who made wondrous sugar cookies.  Nannie was also the first person in my world to die; I was crushed when she had a stroke and was gone. 

Reading 53 sympathy cards one Sunday evening was a miniature visit to a faraway world. 

The overture to a day gone by jumped out with handwriting. My grandmother's and parents' contemporaries of 1972 were accomplished cursive artisans, writing with flair in mostly blue ink. Pretty handwriting on envelopes mirrored the script alphabet lines that once traveled the walls of elementary school classrooms everywhere, back when cursive education was part of the deal. 

The cards themselves presented expressions of kindness in respectful tones. There were several senders who wrote about their regret in having missed the funeral, and more than a few thoughtfully enclosed a clipping of Nannie's newspaper obituary. 

In the formal department, there were many folks who signed cards with titles attached to their names ("Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Love", "Miss Knapper"). It was all quite gracious, reflecting a forgotten day when  familiarity with one another was a phenomenon that evolved across time in association. (It took 20 years for my mother to progress from calling our long-time next-door neighbor "Mrs. Balch" to an informal "Ruth", likely a world record). 

Sympathy cards in 1972 cost 15 or 25 cents, and the ones featuring glitter ran the price up to 35 cents. All the eight cent stamps featured Ike's reassuring soft smile. Whether sprinkled with glitter or not, the printed sentiments were thoughtful and kind, with all of them acknowledging loss and sorrow with encouraging comfort from God and the senders. The pain of losing a loved one was palpable and recognized in '72---celebrations of life would be a brand new idea waiting in the future. 

I sort of remember little bits about many of the senders through vague memories of my parents talking about them, and I know these people represented a constituency from many walks in life. But the common thread amongst them all was extraordinarily uniform grace, decency, and dignity. From the Cafeteria Lady at Nannie's school to our longtime housekeeper to more prosperous friends, there was no distinction found in decorum, benevolence, or even handwriting.

Lastly, the vast majority of these understated card senders have also departed across the decades, many of them, like Nannie, long gone. After all this time has passed, an opportunity to read the kind words they left behind is a privilege. 

~~~~~

Stepping back 49 years in the calendar for glimpses of old-fashioned mores was a surprisingly meaningful evening. Once upon a time, refinement was popular and pursued by many. Much like letter writing, it seems to have lost its appeal across time. 

Here in the 21st century, a text or email of sympathy gets the job done, and with limited effort. While the method of conveyance is efficient and the sentiments are no less sincere, I see how I fall short in going out of my way for others ("Putting yourself out", as Margaret would say). Presentations of kindness are still as lovely and significant today as they were in 1972, perhaps even more. 

Of course, I love the super convenience of my laptop and iPhone, and I happily testify they make life a cakewalk, opening windows on the world, serving up perpetual entertainment, and putting writing at my fingertips. All of which leave me convicted of not being an outstanding card sender and letter writer. I'm pretty sure this reflects an acquired laziness on my part. 

While we have gained tremendously more in an easy lifestyle over 49 years, I have a feeling some significant riches were gradually lost along the way.  Restrained familiarity suddenly seems like an excellent means of showing respect as we grow to know others in our orbit. And I can't help but wish for a reacquaintance with beautiful handwriting, cards in the mailbox, and the embrace of everyday civility with one and all.