Spitball Army

Okay, it’s time to come clean.

Even though I am obviously fascinated by letter-writing and letter writers (see Bev & Ande), and despite my regular lamentations about that lost art of correspondence, I am terrible at keeping up with my written communications.  I do try, though.  Doesn’t that count for something?

This year I pledged to make good on my internet yapping and mail Christmas cards, something I haven’t done for many, many years.  It turned out to be a pleasantly satisfying experience.

I took a list of cards that I had received last year with me on my mid-December trip to California, planning to write and mail the cards from there.  On my first day in Oceanside, I rose before the sun and drove to the Mottino Y for a morning swim.  There was a chill wind blowing that morning, and a light drizzle.  The lifeguard, huddled beneath an umbrella and parka and seated on an elevated lifeguard stand, was allowing people into the outdoor pool.  There were three of us, and I don’t think I’ve ever swum in such a strange setting: an open-air pool, in the dark, with rain coming down and a near-40 degree difference between the air temperature (high 30s) and the water temperature (high 70s).  After about a half-hour of this, the lifeguard decided to close the pool.

I showered and dressed and went back out into the cold wind and rain.  And the dark.  I drove about a mile to a busy intersection (College and Oceanside Blvd., I think) and parked it at a Starbucks.  The rain was coming down pretty hard by now, the wind was moaning against the windows.  Inside, the café was warm and aglow with the trademark Starbucks burnished wood design and a tasteful smattering of glowing red and white Christmas lights.  I got myself a warm mug of coffee and settled at a table by the window, watching the town wake up and ease out into the inhospitable stormy Monday.  Inside, I felt downright cozy and protected and, well, appropriately festive.

Everybody should have such a setting in which to write Christmas cards, I thought.  Next year, it could be incorporated into a ski trip; I’m imagining a snowy mountain vista outside the window of a lodge, in which I sit sequestered near a blazing fireplace with an embellished cup of cocoa, letters and envelopes spread out on a table before me.

On my return to Alabama, I was met by a pile of mail that included several Christmas cards.  There were a lot of photo-cards this year, and a few year-end round-up letters.  My favorite card, however, seemed hand-picked just for me.  Here is what it looked like on the outside (inside was the printed inscription, “Here’s hoping your holidays are notable.”):

It also seems that I am still on the mailing list of a few record labels.  Here’s the most puzzling card I received this season.  Isn’t it cute and homey-looking? (Also, notice that it says “fiends” and not “friends.):”

Eventually, you start opening the panels, like an Advent calendar.  Holy pineapple tamale!  The panel with the moon on it, when opened, unveiled a line drawing of two human figures engaged in a five-letter interpersonal activity that rhymes with “moon,” underneath the garage panel was a representation of “driving a car,” and so on.  The panel over the doghouse, dated December 25th, revealed something that Nipper – looking on with bemusement – thought was a talent that only he possessed.  Not so, according to the twisted mind of the lonely art director at Drag City Records:

Merrrrry Christmas, indeed!