Writing to Momma: Don’t expect any replies

One of the most popular columns I’ve written had to do with Mama and her longing to get more mail. There was an outpouring of response from readers, many of whom asked for Mama’s address so they could send cards and others who promised to pay more mail attention to their older relatives and friends.

One who wrote to ask for Mama’s address was Mary Jo Gibbs, with whom I worked years ago at my first newspaper job. Mary Jo and I had lost contact over the years but never had I forgotten the pure sweetness of that woman. Time, though it may have brought more silver to her hair, has not changed that.

“I cried when I read that article,” she wrote, also noting that in her years of retirement she has found that “I fall into the group of old ladies who looks forward to the mail arriving every day, even if it is just junk mail.”

Mary Jo then began a weekly ritual of sending chatty notes, cards and photos to Mama. Honestly, each note is a masterpiece because Mary Jo creates elaborate works on colored paper with photos or artwork pasted in and various fonts. Mama is thrilled beyond words.

“What are I gonna do about these?” Mama asked one day, her crinkled hands gingerly holding several of Mary Jo’s envelopes. “I’m tickled beyond words to get these but...”

“But what?”

“Should I write her back?”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“Why don’t you do it for me?”

I rolled my eyes. Mama believes in receiving but not sending. Though she is truly gifted in her spinning of words on paper, it is like uprooting kudzu to get her to send notes to people.

Nothing is more precious than handwritten notes. I cherish each one I receive so much that I save them. In my attic are large shopping bags filled to overflowing with the kind words and thoughtfulness of others. Those words speak powerfully for what my life and its actions have meant. It is better to write it down than to say it.

My friend, Stevie, is one of the most precious women I have ever met. There could be no better person or friend than her. Yet, she is not a writer of notes. She always means to do it but never gets around to it.

Several years ago, her husband, Darrell Waltrip, wound up in a Daytona hospital after a tangle with Dale Earnhardt during an afternoon race practice. Darrell was seriously injured to the point that he was hospitalized for a couple of weeks. When I heard, I went straight to Daytona to keep Stevie company and to help take care of their daughter, Jessica.

Stevie wrote me the most treasured thank you note. Not long ago, we were discussing it.

“I cherish that note so much,” I said. “I keep it in my safe deposit box.”

Her eyes widened. “I wrote you a note? Really? That doesn’t sound like me. I’m terrible about that. I always have that intention but I never get around to it.”

“I know,” I replied, nodding. “That’s why I have it in my safe deposit box.”

So to Mary Jo Gibbs, I’d like to thank you publicly for your incomparable kindness and I’d like to say this: If Mama sends you a note, handle it gently then place it in a zip locked plastic bag. Finally, don’t tarry. Head straight to the bank.

It’ll deserve a place in a safe deposit box.