My HP printer is lodged somewhere in a box somewhere in the middle of a moving POD which sits somewhere in Charlotte before it is hoisted atop a flatbed truck for transport to my new home in Brevard, North Carolina.
Without the facility to print the weekly missives, my letters to Ellen and Reid somewhat ground to a halt the past couple of weeks. But last Monday while sitting in the toasty warm kitchen of my friend Robbie, I jotted off two quick handwritten notes (the first I’ve ever written in cursive in 16 years) and hastily plunked those in the mail. (My last attempt to type a letter was Jan. 1 – don’t ask why I pecked at the keyboard since there was no way to put them on paper.)
Even though I was bound for frigid St. Paul, Minnesota two days later the short letters went out anyway. The letter to Ellen arrived while I was at her home; why the letter bore a ‘Greenville, SC’ postage mark rather than Brevard was a bit of a mystery. And by the weekend Ellen hadn’t opened it and there’s no knowing if it remains sealed. That’s just the way it goes in busy households with you children; letters are opened there is time in the day.