[ HUMOR ] Letters of love Blackmail Potential By Victoria Landis Many moons ago, we humans used a form of communication called writing. Our parents lectured us on the crazy expense of long-distance phone calls. According to them, one call to the friend who had moved to California would send them into debtors’ prison. So, we wrote — with a pen or pencil on actual paper — letters. It’s a quaint notion now, but one I wish we could bring back. The U.S. Post Office was awesome then. It used to allow almost anything as an envelope. We mailed coconuts with the addresses written in black marker right on the husk. When McDonald’s came out with the hot apple pie, it was sold in a red cardboard sleeve, and we used those, too, for mailing purposes. Our keen eyes began to see every object as having envelope potential. Guess we thought it was cool. The more we liked someone, the more inventive we became. There were a lot of letters exchanged. This should put a permanent cringed expression on the face of every friend and ex-beau of mine — I saved all of them. If any of you become amazingly famous, I could cash in big-time. I’d have to consider it on a case-by-case basis and the amount of moolah it might bring. There’s no need for panic, though. Figuring out where the darned things wound up after the last move could take a while. Heaven knows what box they could be hibernating in. About a decade ago, my mom was in one of her cleaning modes. Mom can’t stand having stuff around. So much so that she’s constantly trying to give the six of us kids back the tchotchkes we gave her as presents over many, many years. “Here, honey, I know you’re going to want this.” No, Mom, I don’t. I gave it to you. In some cases, she’ll swear I gave her some weird object that I have no recollection of ever seeing. Much less buying. Much, much less ever considering as a gift to my beloved mother. I think she just wants to get rid of it so much, she’ll convince me it was my fault it now sits in her cabinet and hopes I simply don’t remember. Oy. Recently, I received a sizable box in the mail from my mom. I opened it and unloaded it, item by item, of stuff you couldn’t pay me to take. The further I got, the wackier it was. Old and tattered organza shaped to look like roses and meant to hold candles. Strange plates with dancing cows and daisies. A white satin Jackie O-style dress with a little matching jacket. A yard of monkey-print fabric. Pez dispensers, but not in the original packages and obviously used. The entire box was jammed with junk that should have spent its declining years adorning a landfill. Although I do have a friend who loves monkeys, and I suppose I could make her a pillow. During a tornado-like sweep of the upper shelves of the front hall closet, Mom found a bag filled with old letters. Apparently, she had deposited every letter each of us kids wrote to my parents after we went to college or moved away. Pleas for money. Notes from my grandmothers and aunts and uncles. Descriptions of family events and disasters. She saved serious missives from my brother (fondly known as Dr. Vegetables) during his doctorate studies. I happened to be visiting that day and luckily glimpsed inside the bag by the garage door, meant for the garbage can. I asked what it was, and when she told me, I grabbed it and squirreled it away. It made the move to Florida with me and, years later, I finally tackled it. Boy, did I hit the mother lode. I have enough good fodder to last for quite some time, and, as a bonus, plenty of embarrassing evidence to blow my siblings away, if they ever get too big for their britches. Not that I’d ever do that, but it’s always a good idea to have leverage with your brothers and sisters. You never know when it’ll come in handy. There were some poignant cards and letters in the bag. Tender sentiments from good and bad times. And it got me to thinking how — oops — I wrote earnest letters to those I loved. I sure hope they had the good sense to throw mine away. 42 2 FEBRUARY JANUARY <strong>2014</strong>
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