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Keep cards and letters coming

By RONDA RICH
Contributing Writer

Mama said something the other day that just broke my heart.

Her words, so innocent and wistful, shot through my chest, grabbed my heart and twisted it into such a tangle that it still hasn’t straightened out. It reminded me of how we of youth take for granted that valued so deeply by those of age.

She was in the car with me when I pulled up to my mailbox to retrieve the day’s mail. As usual, there was so much of it, that Melinda, my letter carrier, had bundled it together with three large rubber bands.

It was a normal day’s bounty, which is in addition to what I receive at my post office box.

Enough that if I miss two days of working it, I’m hopelessly behind on personal correspondence, business matters, bills and catalog ordering.

A few days out of town and Melinda greets my return with a huge box of mail so heavy that she can barely tote it to the front door.

And, without question, I am always despairing of the job required to tackle the massive mess.

But Mama made me rethink that.

I pulled the huge bundle from the mailbox and Mama said, with the kind of sigh a child would use in eyeing a new red wagon, “Oh, what I’d give to get an armload of mail like that.”

What I’d give not to get that much on a daily basis, I thought immediately. Wide-eyed and disbelieving, I swung my head around and stared incredulously. “Are you serious?”

She nodded solemnly. “It’s so lonesome to go to an empty mailbox. Sometimes I’m glad to just get a sales paper.”

Gulp.

For those like my mama, widowed, aged and alone, a note or a card means more that two weeks in Hawaii would mean to my friends. It’s something so simple but something that those of us who are blessed with busy lives take for granted.

I am ashamed.

I know better. That’s even worse. I know how my friend, Miss Loretta in Cincinnati, eagerly watches the mailbox for a hand-written note from me. I try to write every couple of weeks. In her shaky 87-year-old hand-writing, she will write back of her glee when she goes to the mailbox and sees a note from me.

“I am always so excited to see you’ve written that I can’t wait to get back to my apartment and read it. It’s a treat so I save it until my chores are done and I can sit down and enjoy it.”

Miss Loretta keeps all my correspondence in a ribbon-tied bundle and re-reads them often.

My sister, a postmaster, once told me about an elderly woman who met her carrier at the mailbox.

“Nothin’ but junk mail today, Mrs. Jackson,” the carrier said.

The woman smiled beatifically. “Oh, honey, that’s just fine. It’s not junk when that’s all you get. I’m just glad to get something.”

Thanks to the wisdom that has finally begun to accumulate in my life, I realize that simple kindnesses are as important, sometimes more so, than the extravagant ones.

Writing checks to charities and volunteering time is honorable. But 10 minutes a week to write a note or a card to someone lonely could be the best thing you ever do.

Sometimes the smallest kindnesses can feel like the biggest.

Meanwhile, I think I’ll just send some of my mail over to Mama’s. That would make both of us happy.