SEQUINS AND GLITTER

Long ago existed a magical world in which personal, handwritten letters arrived in the mailbox on a regular basis. Grandparents and cousins lived far away. A summertime friend lived in an exotic placed called California. Birthday, Christmas, and Easter cards were cherished treasures. Notes from classmates were delivered on crumpled up notebook paper delivered through a friend of a friend of a friend, etc. The squeaky sound of the old-fashioned mailbox being opened and closed by a mailman that walked on foot was a sound that sent a thrill up the spine. It was a race to the velvety rose petaled rug in the privacy of a girl's pink room dream, where secrets were devoured while sprawled out on the floor. Fairy tales were spun about blizzards on a grandfather's farm, or dollhouses that were played with outside by an older cousin, on a mountainous hill, in a misty bay area, or a tea party my proper grandmother was having with her best sterling silver service. The latest music, fashion, and movies were revealed from afar in California, where everything seemed to happen first before trickling over to the rocky mountains.

My childhood was immersed in literacy. Reading and writing were a part of my everyday existence from the earliest memories at three years of age. My parents always had paper and pencils, pens, and crayons readily available in our house. For fancier occasions, there was ornate stationary and stickers on hand to write thank you notes and pen pal letters. Aunts and grandparents were always sending me boxed stationary with lines and pastel colors tied with ribbon. Later, my friends and I wrote elaborate notes in class, pouring our feelings out on mundane notebook paper made slightly less boring with silly doodles. It was always a contest to see who could write the longest notes with the most pages, page numbers deliberately written in the corners front and back.

Fast forward to adulthood, grandparents were no longer living, and cousins and friends were busy with careers and raising families. A honey-colored, oak roll top desk was my go to for writing and reading handwritten secrets. I kept meticulous journals about my deepest, darkest thoughts, feelings, and secret adventures. My new old faithful pen pal took the shape of a kind-hearted, elderly volunteer in my first grade classroom. At first we exchanged letters during school holidays. We discussed current students, her twin grandsons, politics, and her latest quilting projects. Unlike so many of my older relatives, she was non-judgmental, plus she thought I was a rock star teacher, so I could share anything with her and vis versa.

I became an elementary teacher in the primary grades, so reading and writing were a huge part of my classroom. My classroom was a literacy-rich environment where the written word was modeled all over the walls. Students were encouraged to write in journals about the themes they were learning. All sorts of fun tools were available to them such as multi-hued paper, colored pencils and markers, stamps, stickers, glitter and cards. One year there was a little extra money in the budget, so I indulged in a set of Fiskar scissors with varying patterns on the blades. That was the year the writing center was the most popular during free choice time!

The winding road of life had me moving to Texas, and a serious case of homesickness settled in. The magic cure? Personal mail and care packages began arriving from my home state. They turned out to be just the antidote I needed. Suddenly, cousins, whom I had always lived in the same state with, became my new pen pals. The same was true with aunts and friends. Even in the cold age of modern technology, my relatives and a rare friend or two had inherited my grandparents love of the handwritten note. So I purchased assorted greeting cards, stamps, and stickers, and wrote back with a flurry!

Last winter, two things happened simultaneously. I became ill and was hospitalized, and within weeks of being discharged, COVID hit. Suddenly, self-isolation at home was mandatory, which, as a freelance writer, was great. But I lacked the dexterity for keyboard skills due to my illness. Honing my fine motor skills was my new occupational therapy. How was I to accomplish this at home? One day while pondering that same question, I ran across an ad for a greeting card making kit delivered right to my door every month. Eureka! Fine motor skills therapy right in the comfort of my own home while fueling my creative mind and saving money on those ridiculously over-priced Hallmark cards in the store. The frosting on the cake was that these kits had themes every month, which certainly appealed to the teacher in my DNA. Once in a while a theme would show up and I would wonder who on earth would these cards speak to? As serendipity would have it, a death occurred during the month that sympathy cards arrived, an impending baby on the way was announced during the month of congratulatory cards for new parents, and graduation cards showed up in May!

In my fairy tale world of script, my early attempts of greeting cards were not pretty. In my quest for perfection, my cards are still far from perfect. But with each velvety carpet dream I have for making the next card attempt even better than the last, with each tool I try such as glitter pens and sequins and magical Fiskar scissors, I experience joy in the knowledge that someone will be listening for the proverbial squeaky mailbox.