A Letter Written Especially For You

Dear Readers,

I LOVE the movie, You've Got Mail.

So much.

Always.

Every single time.

These are a few reasons why.

"The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don't know what they're doing or who on earth they are, can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall! Decaf! Cappuccino!" Sometimes, I order a sugar-free frappuccino so as to feel like I'm being healthy, and then the barista asks me, "Do you want whipped cream?" Well duh! Of course I do!!! I also find it amusing that tall, grande, and venti all mean big.

"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address." I want a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils. P.S. I have lots of personalized pencils. I asked for them for Christmas in the sixth grade. I still have lots of personalized pencils. They make me smile.

"Patricia makes coffee nervous." I laugh. Every single time.

And my very favorite:
"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, valuable, but small. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?"

I love this movie. Do you know what else I love? The original movie! It was called The Shop Around the Corner. They wrote actual letters to each other, not e-mails. Handwritten letters!

In You've Got Mail, Kathleen Kelly waits for e-mails: "What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you."

But I can't help it. I'm a sentimental old-fashioned soul, and I like Klara Novak in The Shop Around the Corner, who anxiously waits for her mail to come in an envelope: "Oh, my Dear Friend, my heart was trembling as I walked into the post office, and there you were, lying in Box 237. I took you out of your envelope and read you, read you right there."

I love it in all its sappy old-fashioned-ness. Yes, I said old-fashioned-ness.

I've always loved receiving a handwritten letter. It's so rare that anyone bothers to write a letter anymore. I haven't received one in years. I used to have a couple of pen pals when I was a kid. I loved it. I would run to the mailbox everyday, reach up as high as I could and pull down the lid of the mailbox. I'd hear the little squeak of the metal, and then I'd peer inside and grab everything as carefully as I could while reminding myself of my mother's warning not to drop anything. Then I'd just stand there or walk incredibly slowly and pause in the driveway and flip through the mail, piece by piece, looking for anything that was addressed to me. Most of the time, the mail was all for my parents, and even though my mom reassured me that I wouldn't want her mail because bills weren't fun mail to receive, I would be so disappointed that I hadn't gotten a letter from my friend yet.

But hope springs eternal, and the next day, I'd sprint to the mailbox again, day after day, until finally, one wonderful day, I opened the mailbox and saw a letter addressed just to me! All of the previous disappointments were worth it because now . . . now I had mail. Someone far away took the time to sit down and pick out stationary and find a pen and write to me. It didn't matter what they told me in their letters because every word was special. Every word was written to me and me alone.

I remember my great aunt, Vadera, used to write me letters on purple paper. Sometimes she wrote by hand; sometimes she typed them on a typewriter. Aunt Vadera lives in Washington! When I was little, Washington seemed so far away, it might as well have been a foreign country. I only have talked to her in person two or three times when she and my Uncle Carl would drive all the way to Texas to visit my grandparents, but I was so excited to see them! And I was always sad when they left. I remember one time she wrote to me and said that she was writing to me at 4:30 in the morning before she had to go to work! I felt so special! She woke up and thought of me and wrote me a letter before the sun even came up.

The most recent letters I received (with the exception of thank you notes, which aren't really the same as letters in my opinion) were, I believe, the couple of letters my childhood friend, Reid, sent me from boot camp several years ago. I wrote him several times even though I didn't really expect him to have time to ever write back. Boot camp keeps a person a bit busy after all. But one day, I opened the mailbox, and there it was! A letter from Reid.

I have kept every single letter I have ever received. They are all precious to me in one way or another. Some are from a girl named Alexandria who was my best friend in kindergarten. Her family moved all the way to Indonesia, but we kept in touch for years. Others are from a friend named Samantha who moved to Florida after third grade. Our elementary school mascot was the bears. Samantha always signed her letters: "Bear Hugs, Sam." Then she drew a heart, wrote the words "Best Friends Forever," and decorated the envelope with a plethora of Lisa Frank stickers.

I love going back and reading all of those letters.

Nobody really writes letters anymore.

Now, I have my very own little apartment with my very own little mailbox that unlocks with my very own little key. And even though I know that no one writes letters anymore, every time I walk up to my mailbox, there's still a small part of me that fills with anticipation and hope as I turn the key and hear the metal squeak as I open the door. Now, instead of standing on tiptoe to reach the mail, I'm so tall that I have to bend down to peek inside. I pull out my mail, lock the mailbox, run to my apartment, and flip through the mail one piece at a time.

Now I understand what my mom meant because as I flip through the envelopes, it's all my mail, but now I have a water bill and an electric bill and a coupon for the local grocery store.

No letters.

Occasionally I'll receive a handwritten thank you note, and I'll read it and set it up on my bookshelf where I can see it when I walk by. When my bookshelf gets full of notes, I'll collect them up and move them to a small box in my closet. Sometimes I receive wedding invitations or graduation invitations or birthday party invitations. They all go on the fridge until the events come and go. Then they get moved to the box in the closet, too.

I never get letters anymore, and yet, somehow I know that one day, I'll open the mailbox, listen to the metal squeak, peek inside, and there will be a handwritten letter, written just for me. And all of the previous minor disappointments of coupons and bills and advertisements addressed to "Current Resident" will be worth it because I will finally have another letter to read, a letter someone wrote just for me.

Signed,
The Sappy, Sentimental, Nostalgic Girl Next Door

Something I Read

I just finished reading the book, The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother, by James McBride. I loved this book, and the fact that it is a true story made me love it even more. I wanted to share one of my favorite parts with you.


. . . even as a boy I knew God was all-powerful because of Mommy's utter deference to Him, and also because she would occasionally do something in church that I never saw her do at home or anywhere else: at some point in the service, usually when the congregation was singing one of her favorite songs, like "We've Come This Far by Faith" or "What a Friend We Have in Jesus," she would bow down her head and weep. It was the only time I ever saw her cry. 'Why do you cry in church?' I asked her one afternoon after service.

"Because God makes me happy."

"Then why cry?"

"I'm crying 'cause I'm happy. Anything wrong with that?"

"No," I said, but there was, because happy people did not seem to cry like she did. Mommy's tears seemed to come from somewhere else, a place far away, a place inside her that she never let any of us children visit, and even as a boy I felt there was a pain behind them. I thought it was because she wanted to be black like everyone else in church, because maybe God liked black people better, and one afternoon on the way home from church I asked her whether God was black or white.

A deep sigh. "Oh boy . . . God's not black. He's not white. He's a spirit."

"Does he like black or white people better?"

"He loves all people. He's a spirit."

"What's a spirit?"

"A spirit's a spirit."

"What color is God's spirit?"

"It doesn't have a color," she said. "God is the color of water. Water doesn't have a color."

Ode to Pomegranates

I've recently discovered that I love pomegranates. I may be obsessed with them a little bit actually.

I love them a lot. I love to just eat the actual fruit.

I love pomegranate juice. I could drink a gallon a day. I kid you not. Unfortunately, pomegranate juice is rather expensive, so this is not a possibility.

I drank something called Pom-Lite the other day because it was cheaper and "healthier" (said the bottle). But it didn't taste enough like pomegranate juice. It tasted like dragonfruit juice...which is fine except for the fact that it does not taste like pomegranate juice.

I like pomegranate smoothies.

I like pomegranate tea.

I've heard there's pomegranate frozen yogurt. I'm sure I like it, too.

The other night I ate a PB&J.

It was peanut butter & pomegranate jelly.

I might have a problem.

Supposedly, pomegranates are good for your skin, though.

So I should have awesome skin soon.

Do you know the ancient myth about Persephone?

In case you don't, I'll give you a short synopsis. I did a project on Persephone for Latin class in high school because I thought it was an interesting story.

Persephone was the beloved daughter of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. Persephone lived a wonderful life until one unfortunate day when Hades, god of the Underworld, fell in love with her. Hades, being the charmer that he is, abducted her and held her captive in the Underworld.

Now there was a rule which stated that if you ate any food while in the Underworld, you were forced to stay in the Underworld...FOREVER!!!!

Ancient Greeks and Romans were a bit melodramatic with their myths. Just a bit.

Hades, being the manipulative jerk that he is, finally managed to trick Persephone into eating some fruit.

Just a few seeds of fruit, mind you.

What kind of fruit, you ask?

POMEGRANATE!

So Persephone was doomed.

Doomed!

Melodramatic, I tell you.

Demeter eventually got Persephone back from the Underworld, but because Persephone ate the four to six pomegranate seeds (different legends say a different number of seeds), she must return to the Underworld to be with Hades six months of the year.

Demeter, being the goddess of the harvest, mourns the loss of her daughter during these six months and as a result, the flowers and leaves die and nothing grows.

When Demeter is reunited with her daughter, flowers bloom, the grass turns green, and trees grow.

Alas! We have winter and summer.

Now you know.

Due to my love of pomegranates, I can understand how Persephone made such a fatal mistake and ate the fruit.

Actually, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the forbidden fruit Eve ate was pomegranate.

I can see how she would be tempted to eat a pomegranate.

I told you. I'm addicted to pomegranates. I have a problem.

The Cosby Show - Regular People with Monopoly

I love this show SO much. This clip makes me laugh every single time I see it. It also makes me glad I went to college, and dare I say it, I'm even glad I can say I'm in grad school. Although . . . my salary's just a little higher than Theo's hypothetical one. Such is life. However, I live in Lubbock, not Manhattan, so I suppose the money stretches a little farther.

I played Monopoly the other night. I lost terribly. I'm glad I'm better with real money.

I couldn't help but wonder, though . . . would Dave Ramsey win a game of monopoly? I mean, you can end up mortgaging everything you own without ever touching a credit card.

Did you know that an unemployed man invented Monopoly in the midst of the Great Depression?

I should start thinking of board game ideas while I'm in grad school.

Or my thesis.

It's still summer. Board games it is!

That's all for today.

A Bit of Poetry to Share

I heard this poem on a movie the other night, and it made me smile. It's sentimental and sweet, perhaps to the point of sappy, but we've already discussed the fact that I like sappy things. The poem is "i carry you in my heart" by E.E. Cummings. No, I did not forget to capitalize the "i." It bothers me, too. However, I searched google for quite some time in search of this poem, and none of the books which contain this poem capitalize the letter "i." Strange, I know. It's one of those poetry things. If I was writing for class, I'd come up with some reason Cummings may have chosen to use no capitalization in this poem and no punctuation other than the occasional semicolon and more parentheses than the average poem contains. I would probably also remark upon the unique spacing and placement of the words "i fear" and "grow." Luckily, though, I am not writing for English class, so I just read it for the sake of reading it and enjoying it. I hope you'll do the same.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which
grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)