A quiet endeavor…

There is much solitude, audibly and visually speaking, to letters.  This morning’s 667 word note to Ellen and Reid was banged out, in silence, in about 16 minutes, interrupted only by a few sips of near-worthless office coffee.

There were no maddening pop ups to squelch or annoy me; no ads asking for my opinion or wanting me to click hither and yon; no appeals to have me try off-shore products for male “medicinal purposes.”  These are all impositions whenever any of us email or use the web.

So I sat in blessed silence for those few minutes it took to compose the note.  My mind is easily distracted from the task at hand, and I don’t need any of the electronic jumble of online junk to syphon off attention.  If I could tell the bombardiers of spam or other non-valued offerings just one thing, it would be this: “Leave me alone to my peace and quiet for at least a few minutes.  I’ll deal with you soon enough.”

FYI…watch this space on Wednesday for an incredible letter sent by my new friend Craig to his son.  The emotional ramifications of what he has to say are difficult for me to deal with.  It deserves to be posted very much because it represents all that letters can be in a world of privacy, warmth and caring.

Here is last week’s letter to the kids.  Best read just before you go to sleep (that is code for ‘boring and mundane’).

March 1, 2010

Ellen/Reid: If March comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion I am really going to be hot.  Enough is enough.  A guy in the Observer was bidding good riddance to February, and if we could all kick it out the door with pointy toed shoes, we would.  Snow/sleet tonight and tomorrow.  Just my luck: this is the coldest winter in 33 years and the wettest in 40 years.  My first couple of winters I rarely wore a coat; now it’s a staple of my wardrobe.

There is a smidgen of good news.  Your grandparents are talking about moving to a healthier, less work and less stress living situation, and now we just have to collectively hold them to that conversation.  It is time.  I told your grandfather about the concept of move managers.  He didn’t say ‘no’ so that’s a start.  When I’m up there in April we’ll continue to push that rock up the hill.

Speaking of travel, tell me what weekends might work if you don’t mind a visitor from the South.  The fares don’t look too bad these days.  Ellen, I do want to see how the new long-delayed couch and table look in your abode, and Reid, I simply need to see your new place.  EP, if you want me to scout chairs here, it is worth reminding you this is the furniture capitol of the world.

Played golf twice this weekend (78, 74) against my friend Mike and we had a good two day match that came down to the last couple of holes.  He punked me on the first day with a hot putter but my revenge occurred on Sunday with a flurry of pars down the stretch.  It was great fun.  The Bermuda is dormant and we were both lamenting the late arrival of spring.  Reid, if you’d rather tote your clubs down here for a long weekend, make it happen.  My treat.

Someone has been coming in at night and shrinking my clothes.  That, or my willpower to stay away from food, any sort of food, has wilted like lettuce in the hot sun.  After nearly four years of five-day-a-week workouts, I am tired.   Not so much bored, just fatigued.  Maybe when it gets warm out I’ll find new resolve, but it’s not like I need to get ship shape to sport a thong at the beach or anything like that.  My clothes are just feeling a little snug.  Can’t decide if I need to ditch the carbs or simply practice discipline and portion control.  Probably the latter.

I-40 west of here near the Tennessee line will be closed for another few months.  It’s been blocked by falling rocks since October, and it’s unfathomable that it can’t be cleared.  What a hassle for people who use that route.  Of course, Tennessee has not quite figured into my plans.

Your mom nosed around about a group get-together around Easter but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me.  It would be great fun and cathartic for us, but maybe another time.  I counter offered to host everyone down here, and perhaps we can do just that later in the year.  There is plenty of room for everyone, and the weather is almost guaranteed to be a lead pipe cinch.  You might remind her that it would be okay for folks to come down this way.  (My treat for you two.)

No sign of the lettuce seeds planted a week ago yesterday.  It just has been too cold for the little things to sprout.  I am anxious for them to break the surface but am not holding my breath until the weather warms up a bit.  The ivy is inching its way up the trellises against its natural tendency to move along the ground.  Painted the molding and trim for the bathroom, and my friend Mike is still on board to help put it up.  He has all the right tools.  I, on the other hand, am all thumbs.

Play time…

I cannot adequately express how much fun I have writing letters.  For a guy who prides himself on a semblance of vocabulary and word-smithing (or in your view, faux word-smithing), it’s simply hard to describe.  Really, it is play time for me.

That must mean I have transcended the boundaries of self consciousness or doubt and instead moved rapidly to a world of whimsy, inventiveness and flat-out fun.  It’s that enjoyable to me.  If writing were a chore or roughly akin to visiting my doctor for a shot then the letters would be few and far between.  But as it stands, I can hardly wait for Monday or Friday to arrive because those are (red) letter days.  To be sure, not all letters are fun and games.

FYI…Reid told me last night he sometimes waits a week to read the letters.  That seems to validate my post of a few days ago.

FYI II…my friend Steve said the Wednesday posting about my letters to him was a cheap ploy to get more strokes the next time we play golf.  So?

FYI III…here is today’s letter to mom and dad.  560 words in 9 minutes.  Not a record, but close.  No spell check, no proofing, no do-overs, no nothing.

March 5, 2010

Mom and Dad: So much for my braggadocio about the lettuce seeds and getting my hands dirty in the good earth.  My alleged green thumb has turned a shade of dull brown.  The seeds remain seeds rather than seedlings, but my excuse is that the weather has just been God-awful crappy; damp and cold by North Carolina standards.  You’ll scoff at this but this was the coldest winter in 33 years and the wettest in 40 years.  Just my dumb-ass luck to have that happen.  But I’ll plow under the few seeds already in the ground and start over.  I mean, I’ve got enough seeds to fill a 50’x50’ plot.

This weekend I’ll double dip on golf with my singles group.  An outing tomorrow at a place called Stonebridge which reminds me of Miracle Hills.  Then Sunday we drive down into SC for a round at a really nice course called Edgewater.  We have a web site that is sort of the home base for our group, and I posted an innocent sounding message that I wanted to play Sunday and if anyone was interested, they could play too.  Well, there were 16 such souls and now it’s become a full-fledged golf event.  But that’s fine.  This morning I wrestle with the pairings.  The White House has an easier time placing warring dignitaries next to one another at state dinners than I’ll have.  No doubt some will carp about who they are paired with but that’s just the luck of the draw.  Had a 78 and 74 last weekend so perhaps my game has emerged from its protracted funk.  I’ll report by phone on Sunday.

Not a whole heck of a lot of new news from the kids.  Ellen texted me a photo of a new lamp and table, and her couch is now in the house.  She hasn’t sent a picture even though I’ve bugged her about it twice.  She’s happy their place finally has some furniture.  She’s on a mission to get nice chairs for the dining room table because she has some sort of shower coming up next month.  Heaven forbid you wouldn’t have chairs.  Reid called last night and I listened for about 20 minutes.  He’s navigating the tough working environment and, in short, he’s got to become more of a political animal.  He really knows his stuff and is well-read, but the squeaky wheels get the grease in the agency business.  I’ll try to help him strategize that.

So Ralph and Joe are in Copper Mountain this weekend.  Good for them to get away on a guy’s retreat.  This isn’t their first time.  I told Reid last night that it is high time he stow his clubs on a plane and get his rear down here to his old man can kick his rear on the golf course.  With his swing, I’d better do the kicking now before I become the kickee.  He’s got good basic skills in that regard.

The scale is reluctantly making its way into the new bathroom.  I’m lucky it’s not one of those talking ones because if I stepped on it, it would have a lot to say.  I’d have a lot to say, too, given the weight I’ve gained but none of my wording would be suited to your sensitive ears.  You’d think you didn’t raise me right.

Sticking the needle in…

One of the sharper pains of moving to North Carolina was leaving behind my social network that swirled around golf.  There are few friends like golf buddies; Greg, George, Sam, Garry.  Not a single round of the hundreds we played was devoid of loud, overt and ill-timed commentary on poor shots, incessant whining about the inequity of giving too many strokes, all sprinkled among a running banter on events of the day.  And those are just the nice things we opined on.  Profanity, thy name is golf.  When it came to giving guys the needle, we all shoved it in all the way – with a twist for good measure.

My friend Steve was the best of the bunch, and simply a good guy.  His simple, buttery swing, to say nothing of maddeningly frequent low scores, were the stuff of envy and good-natured scorn.  He is a long way from my new golfing base in Charlotte, but occasional letters shorten the distance a bit.  I like ‘one off’ letters, and here’s one example.

June 30

Steve: Admittedly this check does not cover my losses during our most recent matches.  I’ve asked my broker to reserve a little bit more so that your “annuity” fund can begin to build up.  If this does not approximate your cost for my fees at DMG&CC, let me know.  Tim and Reid had a great time, and Reid is making noises that he wants to play a lot more.  He’s coming into an appreciation for the game.  I’ve assembled a bag of blades for him when he gets down this way.

Great to see you guys while in DSM.  It feels as if I got my ass kicked 74 different ways on the old sod, and to make matters worse, Oleson continues to drain virtually every putt he looks at with the infernal long putter.  It appears I may get my wish to step away from the game; yanked some ligaments in my left thumb Sunday – with, what else, a bad swing – and I’ll be on the shelf for the time being.  So you guys won’t have me to kick around for the time being.

The wedding went according to form.  But fun has its price.  The other check I’m writing today to Kathy to cover expenses is somewhat larger – a few more zeros on the end – than this paltry sum payable to you.  My advice to Kate and Margaret is: elope.  On the plus side, everyone played nice at the reception.

At some point I should get my sorry ass back to Des Moines on a semi-permanent basis.  This just isn’t home and continues to have a temporary feel to it.  On top of this is heat and humidity that is nothing short of excruciating.  You sweat when you step out of the door in the morning.  That’s akin to the feeling that I have when stepping on the tee box with you and the boys.

My best to Jane and the other hapless laggards you continue whip two or three times a week.

An unnecessary incentive…

All spare change from my day’s purchases is tossed into a wooden cigar box in the misguided thinking that I am saving it for a rainy day or something more tangible, although there is no clue as to what that might be.  Boxes of unspent loot litter my closet floor.

In the interim, there is another, almost primary, purpose for the loose coinage: The Big Cash Grab.  It is essentially a guessing game whereby Ellen and Reid are given, in a brief blurb in a letter, the dimensions of the box and the depth of the nickles, dimes, pennies and quarters.  Whoever is closest gets the amount times some multiplier; i.e. three times the actual total while the loser’s consolation prize might be twice the actual sum.  It keeps some jingling money in their sometimes barren wallets.  The deadline is typically a Sunday night about 9:00 or so.  They can text me their answer.

But there is a more nefarious reason for this familial lottery: it is one barometer to see if they actually read the letters.  You would be shocked at how often a Sunday deadline comes and goes without a whiff of a guess.  To be realistic, their lives are chock-full of their comings and goings, not mine.  Knowing what I know about my own habit of the “delayed opening of mail” it is no big deal.  Their guesses might trickle in a week or two later.  If we talk on the phone they usually ask “Is it too late to guess?”  Of course not.

Letters are not a quid pro quo situation.  I send, they open – and they can take their own sweet time.  I’ve never stewed about lack of immediate response to the Cash Grab.  There is nothing on the envelope that screams “Open me now!”  And there never will be.

Here is last week’s letter minus a few paragraphs.

February 22, 2010

Ellen/Reid: If you can gauge the onset of spring by the singing of the birds, then spring has sprung.  Even through the closed kitchen window this morning you could hear the cacophony of birds calling.  It seems they are trying hard to get spring to get here now.  They must think the louder they tweet, the quicker it will get here.  The trees are budding and really, it won’t take a lot to begin the leafing out process.  The forecast here is for modestly warmer temperatures although this has been the worst winter of my four in these parts.

I’m trying to do my part to help their cause.  Went to Lowe’s on Sunday and bought a wide, shallow pot for some lettuce seeds and a couple of trellises to guide the English ivy upward and onward.  Used my index finger for a dibble yesterday morning to plant the romaine seeds in the potting soil.  Makes me feel like I’m back in the Midwest because it was the first time since I’ve been down here that my hands were actually dirty with dirt.  It was the old square foot gardening routine where you fill each portion of the pot with ¼” holes that are 3” apart in all directions.  Three seeds per hole.  That way, God willing and if the creeks don’t rise, there will be a bumper crop of lettuce.  As soon as I get the green light for tomatoes (i.e. when the neighborhood’s champion tomato grower plunks his plants in the ground) in those will go, too.

Also bought what hopefully will be the last vestiges of the bathroom renovation: wood trim for the floors, crown molding and around the doors.  My neighbor Mike, whom you’ve met, Reid, dropped off his sawhorses on Saturday so I can paint before the woodwork – actually it’s not wood, it’s a composite material – goes on the floors and ceiling.  Once that is up, I will keep you posted on the final fiscal tally of all the costs.  I shudder to estimate it.  If either of you are willing to make a guess, let me know and the winner will get $25 for being closer to the actual amount.

Drove down into South Carolina yesterday to play golf near Lancaster at a place called Edgewater.  It was a great course and the temps were pushing 70F so it was a great day and the scoring was okay, too.  But what struck me about the trip is just how disgustingly filthy South Carolina is.  As soon as I got over the border on I-77 into South Carolina, the trash started appearing in mass quantities.  And I mean mountains of junk.  There aren’t enough inmate work crews to clean up the debris; Styrofoam by the boxcar full, broken furniture, enough plastic to cover the state in its entirety, fast food wrappers, barrels (who knows if they were empty) and all manner of assorted trash.  It was incredible.  And normally I love to travel through S.C. because it is a beautiful state.  But man, I’ve never seen such an abomination.  Worse than New Jersey.  Obviously, the governor Mark Sanford has been more concerned with managing his wick than managing the candle (the state itself).  It was embarrassing.

I’ll head to Des Moines for Greg’s Plaid Jacket Invitational at the end of April.  Will fly into Omaha to see your grandparents and then rent a car from there.  Excited to be getting out of there, and I really want to watch the airfares so I can invade your spaces in St. Paul and Chicago if that’s okay with you.  The weather better be pretty good because I’m tired of cold.