Another Day in the Country
Writer’s writing
© Another Day in the Country
When I first started writing this column in the Marion County Record, it was a fan letter, really, to all the people who had lived in the country — this particular part of the country — and survived.
My grandparents told me, one way or another, about how their experiences instilled a love for Kansas and the country lifestyle. That still burns bright in my heart.
As I’ve written to you, for you, each week, I’ve imagined, in my heart, the community of people I’m writing to.
Sometimes, I have a conversation with you in my mind. Always, I’m looking into your eyes and smiling, especially if I’m trying to get you to think about something really important.
My columns are a little like a letter. You get an idea of what I’m doing. I ask some questions, tell you news, wonder about the world, and search for answers.
But it’s a little like talking to myself. I never know who might be listening or whether they agree, disagree, laugh, cry, or get disgusted.
It isn’t often that I hear from one of you, but when I do I’ve always been pleasantly surprised.
Yes, you are pretty much as I imagined — even nicer, more fun in person, very interesting. A couple of times I’ve been yelled at, but I figured the people doing the yelling were having a bad day.
This week, I heard from a reader. I’ve heard from this reader before, and it’s such an amazing thing to get a letter from them because it defies definition.
The envelope contained so much more than a missive, a communication, or even a story. It’s a care package, like getting a Christmas present at Easter.
Everything in this sturdy envelop was so unexpected, non-traditional.
A copy of one of my columns was there — with comments and annotations. Several magazines were included. A brand new Better Homes and Gardens, which I already subscribe to, so this issue I gave to my sister with the admonition, “Check out those cheesecake recipes. How about a key lime pie for Easter?”
There was the current Archeology magazine in my letter, and I especially enjoyed a story of doll houses they’d found in ruins.
All the info about getting good sleep, in the Real Simple magazine, was affirming. My sleep secret is to take a “wheat sock” (which I’ve heated in the microwave) to bed with me. My down pillows are a must, as well as a down comforter I sleep under all year round.
I do sin and have my phone in bed with me — partly because I listen to Audible books at night. I love having someone read to me for 30 minutes.
The other night however, I pulled up a book written by a favorite author. It just happened to feature a woman giving birth for the first few chapters. Believe me, that was not conducive to sleep.
She was in trouble, and so was I for a good portion of the night. (Been there, done that — not a bedtime lullaby.)
I’ve met this particular correspondent only in the contents of a cardboard envelope, somewhat like you know me through the print on the paper.
It’s like a treasure hunt, a fascinating journey, solving a mystery. Communicating with someone you haven’t seen is a little like meeting an extraterrestrial.
When I was in my 40s, I corresponded regularly with an old professor friend of mine who was in the older set, as I am now.
He had time on his hands and was a communicator by nature, so his letters were characteristically creative.
One time, there would be seeds between the folds of paper as he extolled the virtues of impatience flowers that came up volunteer on the north side of his garage.
Another time it would be an unusual stamp or a piece of candy, a ribbon, a crumpled leaf, a quote, an article of interest — even a book that he had read and underlined and marked with double lines beside favorite paragraphs. All were sent to me by the USPS.
I’m sometime prone to doing the same. A few weeks ago, I wrote a letter to my grandson and included a small flat package of Chiclets gum.
“Surely that was thin enough, sturdy enough, to go through the mailing ordeal,” I reasoned.
Alas, when the envelope arrived in Southern California, it was torn.
“Baba,” my grandson texted me with a picture of the envelope and the three sheets of paper he’d found inside — like a true detective. “Was there something more in this envelope? I think the letter portion is all here. At least it all makes sense.”
“Oh, sorry,” I wrote back. “The sorting machines evidently chewed the gum.”
The mystery of the person with the pen — whether that’s me writing to you from the pages of the Marion County Record or my respondents, is that everywhere there are clues regarding the humanity of the communicant.
One scribble across a page reveals a sense of humor. Another thing underlined belies a quest for knowledge. The handwriting speaks volumes. The generosity of content makes me smile, as does a scribbled reference to “a parallel life purpose passion, apart from how to make a living.”
How would I describe my own “life purpose passion”? While I love doing art, teaching art, I don’t think it’s my life purpose. It’s an augment — certainly never made a living with it.
Writing has been a constant — and at times it made a living — recording life, most often someone else’s life. And now I write, for a pittance, certainly not a living, but for the pure pleasure of charting, all the ways we spend another day in the country.