Mail, Glorious Mail. or in my case not so much…

When the mail-lady rolls up to our box, Bronson alerts me with a joyful bark. Together we hurry down the driveway. While Bdog lifts his leg on the post, I open the letter-box excited to get real mail.

Which almost never happens.

Here is what we got today. Two bits of junk mail and two Ballard Design catalogs. I rarely purchase anything from Ballard. Why they felt I need duplicate books is puzzling.


I post a card or letter five days a week. Sometimes multiples. I do this because I think everyone enjoys getting “real” mail. But hardly anyone enjoys creating “real” mail.

I also love buying stamps. These are my most recent purchases. Who wouldn’t be happy getting a letter with a Cruella DeVille stamp?
The Celebrate stamps are only for birthday cards, or perhaps retirement notes. The shells are for postcards.


I wrote another blog post about my love of mail and High School friend Ruthie sent me an actual letter! I was thrilled. If I knew how to do a back flip, I would have. Truthfully I cannot imagine having the courage to leap head over heels into the air. Or hurl my body toward the ground to catch a baseball. Both my kids are comfortable risking broken bones for sports. Mom, never.

But I digress. We were talking mail. Some days I get magazines. For a year I have subscribed to People. Getting that delivered to the house wrecked doctors waiting rooms and grocery store lines. The upside of a long line at the Piggley Wiggley used to be reading People. Now I’m reduced to The Enquirer. Fortunately, my People subscription is about to run out.

Speaking of the mail, I have to stop it for a full month. (Road Trip!) Maybe, just possibly, when we get back to Florida in September I will have piles of cards, letters and perchance even a present or two. A girl can dream.

For related blog posts see:

Writing Letters is fun. Getting responses is even funner. (And yes, funner is too a word.)

Road Trip!

Travel Journaling

Counting Down the Days



Postcards from the Edge

Florida thunderstorms are earsplitting. They sound like they are happening in our living room, not the heavens above. Bronson is terrified of the noise.  He becomes a shaking, drooling, tail between his legs mess each time we have a furious tempest. We’ve tried a Thundershirt, but no luck. Finally, the vet prescribed Xanax.

For reasons only Bronson could explain, he never wakes Jim during storms. I’m deaf. I have no clue the sky is falling. I can blissfully snooze right through the turmoil. Yet, if it storms, you can be sure the animal will be nudging me awake with a cold, wet nose.

Bronson’s surrogate parents, Brookie and Earl, know about his terror. The other morning, following a rude awakening by the dog, I wrote to them to complain that he never wakes Jim.

my card.jpg

Damned if Bronson didn’t send out his own postcard of censure.

Bronsons card.jpg

He even went so far as to color in the front of the card.  He has pretty good fine motor skills, right?