Room With a View...

I talk to Jan (BFF) on Sundays.  Today we're mulling over what's happened since last week's phone call; we commiserate about men, goofy dogs, the sad and sorry state of the world, and what I'm currently writing.  Along the way, we laugh, feel bad, perk up and laugh some more.  We could take this act on the road, it's so familiar and comforting.

As we're talking, I wander about the house doing easy chores, like watering the plants, start the laundry, make a smoothie, load the dishwasher...whatever I can do that only takes one hand.  So, as I'm dinking, I happen to glance out one of the front room windows that overlooks the road and the ol' dead oak tree on the other side.  I stop, squint, move closer and stare.  Jan asks me what's wrong as I've stopped talking in mid-sentence.  "It's the hawk," I whisper, as if the bird could hear me and fly off.

"Quick!" she yells, "Get your camera!"

This is the third time in as many weeks the hawk has either appeared or flown around the house while I've been talking to her.  I have yet to get a solid shot of the guy.  I grab the camera and dash to the den window which has an unobstructed view of the tree.

"Is he still there?"

"Yeah," I mutter, "though I'm having a hard time holding the phone and the camera--"

"Put down the damn phone!"

I drop the phone to the desk, but now I'm having trouble focusing the telephoto because I'm laughing at the tiny little voice wafting up from my phone as Jan keeps asking me questions.  "Shut up," I hiss, then we both start laughing harder.  Pathetic really.  If I worked for Nat Geo, I could never take her with me on assignments.

Still.  Here are three fairly good photos of the elusive Red tailed Hawk.  He is not only a very handsome fellow, but huge.  Like eagle-sized huge.  If you click on the last two shots, look at the color of those eyes.  Wow.  I think I'm in love...

Later, pictures taken, Jan asks me about New Year's resolutions, but I mention that instead I'm attempting The 52 Weeks idea.  Now we've decided to do it together.  Well, not do the same things, but do one thing each week, then on Sundays we can tell what we did.  Since we both live in very small towns, there will definitely be challenges; there's only so much going on, after all.

Though, maybe that will be half the fun...??

Get the Kleenex...

I had to post this.  It's the most heartwarming, tearjerker moment I've seen in a long time.  A brilliant photo, a kind man, and the obvious love he has for his dog.  Read the story here. 

I've got to go, can't see the screen or the keyboard, and damn, where's my Kleenex??

Photo by Hannah Stonehouse Hudson/StonehousePhoto

Pen and Paper, Ink and Words

I received another postcard yesterday, this one from Romania.  It was a very pretty one of the Palace of Culture in a town called Iasi.

It got me thinking.  I'm no different than anyone else these days with the instant gratification of emails, blogging, Facebook, Twitter--though I refuse to get involved in the latter two; there's only so much time in the day after all and I just can't be bothered.

So I'm walking back from the mailbox, looking at the postcard, thinking about writing.  Really writing.  The actual motion of picking up a pen, physically putting ink on paper, choosing the words carefully to not make a mistake, truly thinking about what to convey to the person who will receive the missive.**

Imagine the days before nanosecond technology, before computers, cell phones, tablets, emails, apps--days that actually weren't so very long ago. 

People wrote.  They penned love letters to be cherished, saved in a bundle to be read again and again.  Letters about life and longing, family and friends.  Letters of pain, despair, to be cried over, tear drops blurring the inked words of rejection, loss, heartbreak. 

There was something irrefutable about those written letters; thoughts, words, emotions, cast in ink-stone.  Once sent, the words couldn't be taken back, deleted, changed...some words wouldn't, couldn't be forgiven; some would never be forgotten.

I used to have beautiful handwriting, a flourish in my signature.  Since I was a kid, people have commented on the elegant, almost Victorian, form of my writing.  These days I type nearly everything, and when I do write, it's usually in block print.

Jan (The BFF) however, is living proof there are still tiny enclaves of non-tech folks, people who don't have a cell phone, and rarely use their computers.  She writes letters.  Almost like a lost ship, an anachronism drifting out of the past, a letter will arrive in the mail.  It will be a rambler, full of newsy details about her day, her partner, Lucky the Labrador's antics: an appetite for roadkill; often there will be a clipping from a magazine, or her local paper, with some tidbit she wants to share with me.  It is a treasure, seemingly from another time, and yet bursting with the immediacy of her life just a few days prior to arriving in mine.

We talk on the phone every Sunday, and yet she still sends me a letter.  Because, she says, it means more.

Periodically, we will send cards to each other, often close to the same day.  She will find one that speaks to our long-held friendship, I will find one that says the things I want to tell her, to help her through the harder moments of her day, her work. 

Not long ago, I got this card from her, out of the blue, no occasion.  It made me smile.  It made me thankful I have such a friend.  It made me love her even more for being the person she is.  I framed it.  (Click on the card to read the words).

At the same time, I found this card for her.  It was perfect food for thought while she toiled...

We said almost the identical things inside the cards: how much we loved our friendship, and each other, and thanks for always being there.

I didn't block print.  I wrote with my old handwriting, signing off with a flourish.   Nothing less would do.



** I looked in the thesaurus for other synonyms for missive.  I could come up with a few on my own, but I was curious, it's such an old word.  Missive wasn't even listed.  How sad.