“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.”
― W.C. Field
Not me. Not now, not ever.
I can’t roller skate. Nor can I bowl, or do a pull-up. I don’t expect to ever be able to do any of those things, and they’re no longer important to me. At one time they were, and that stayed with me for way too long. But I’ve gotten over it and accepted my limitations.
I didn’t stop trying to learn how to bowl until I was in my 30s, when finally someone told me it was acceptable not to have that particular skill.
He didn’t word it quite like that, however. We were at a bowling alley with a group from church, and he was splitting his time between reading a book and talking to others. When I mentioned what a terrible bowler I was, he shrugged his shoulders and said, with a laugh, “Who cares? It’s not something I want to be known for anyway.”
Okay, a bit snobby. It did lead me to think, however, is this really me? Is it a goal of mine to be a better bowler, or is everyone else in my circle telling me it should be?
There’s a point where you ceaselessly persevere, and there’s a point where you say, is that even a skill I truly want to master? I had no real interest in bowling, I’d just been told over and over not to give up, I could do it if I tried.
But I couldn’t. I tried and tried, and my body would not cooperate. What’s more, I likely never would have gotten to a point where, even if I could hold my own in a game, I would have looked forward to it. I did not want to bowl.
Once I figured out that hanging onto a group of friends whose main activities I didn’t enjoy was fruitless, I was a lot happier. It took some time, but gradually I developed friendships with people whose faces lit up when they talked about doing the same things I wanted to do.
I know, I know, this isn’t a waltz
That’s not to say I’ll always avoid everything I’m not particularly good at doing. I would love to be able to dance, an old-fashioned waltz, perhaps, but it’s fair to say even at my best I won’t be entering any contests. That’s not my goal, at least not at this point. Right now I’d be happy to keep the beat.
(I have learned something about dancing over the years…call it sexist, or call it practical, but as we all know, men lead. With a strong lead, even a woman who isn’t a good dancer looks good. So half my battle will be finding the right partner.)
I’m not limiting myself only to friends who share my interests, either. Some of my best friends (a-hem) are bowlers, and good ones at that.
I don’t have to be the best, or even particularly good, at any given skill to enjoy doing it. I have my expert talents, and I have those I fumble with. It’s that mix of abilities and experience that makes me who I am, perfectly me.
Back in the day, rather, the days before e-mail, texting, or messaging of any sort, I used to send a lot of letters, and get a lot of letters in return. If I’d known how rare they’d become I’d have kept more of them. The ones I have are a chance assortment of cards I liked, notes that got “filed” in an odd place, only to show up years later, or a few, very few, that really meant something to me.
Dave & Laurie’s daughter is a sophomore in college now
Friends used to send pictures, too, of their weddings, babies, families as they grew. Some still do. My friend Melanie sends wonderful cards every year of her, her husband Tim and their children, Alec & Amelie. This despite the fact she posts regularly on Facebook. I’ve kept them all.
In fact, while I may have lost the letters, I’ve kept most of the pictures. It doesn’t matter how many you post, because those are fluid and no one saves them, really. It’s the hard copies that end up in photo albums you’ll treasure for the rest of your life.
Or not. There are some pictures that mean nothing to me now. I’m not even sure who everyone is, let alone what they may doing today, and I’m not particularly interested in finding out. Oh well.
But the letters.
Most of those I have were written right after college, and they’re filled with hope and optimism, fear and anticipation, not the weariness that comes after illness and divorce, the death of a child or the loss of a spouse. Parents are gone now or needing care, jobs can be fleeting.
Of course there are grandchildren and a million other successes, unique to the individual, that we celebrate, but so rarely with letters anymore. I love that I have easy access to my long-time friends through the Internet, but I regret that all of that communication is so easily disposed of when we empty the trash in our e-mail. I don’t even think to save it, let alone the pictures that show up on Facebook or Instagram.
I bemoan the fact that so many schools are no longer teaching cursive writing. It seems foolish to lose that part of our culture, to tell our children it doesn’t matter.
I’ve moved a lot in my life; I’ve lived in at least five different states, and I expect I’ll move again at some point. I’m always fascinated by the places by friends choose to live, and wonder what drew them there. What have their lives become, day to day? Despite the easy access to quick messages today, or perhaps because of the very nature of those messages, they were more likely to tell me that sort of detail in letters.
And while I say more when I type and possibly say it more eloquently, there’s something to be said for a handwritten note or letter. I bemoan the fact that so many schools are no longer teaching cursive writing. It seems foolish to lose that part of our culture, to tell our children it doesn’t matter.
Handwriting works magic
with a special part of your brain. You remember things you write down far better than you remember things you type. Your handwritten thoughts tend to be different then your typewritten ideas.
I write like a left-handed person, but with my right hand, so I always end up with ink on the side of my hand if I write for any length of time. That used to bother me, now it’s a point of pride.
Obviously, I can’t dispute the value of typing. But must we completely give up handwritten letters, or even simple notes with birthday cards?
You used to express who you were in part through the stationary and cards you chose. If you wrote a lot of letters, you got the stationary that had a front sheet, matching sheets (because your letters were too long for one page) and of course, matching lined envelopes.
Perhaps it’s my love of writing that makes me sentimental. If you want to give me the perfect gift for Christmas, a nice pen will do, and maybe…a letter.
I’ve completed my Christmas shopping. In fact, I was done before Thanksgiving.
Now, before any of you say (sarcastically or otherwise), “Well, good for you!” or mutter under your breath, “I hate you” here’s the whole truth: I only had to buy Christmas gifts for one person.
That’s one of the few advantages of being truly broke, the burden of picking the perfect gift is lifted. Nobody expects gifts from you. In fact, they don’t want them. My family knows I struggle to pay my utility bills, especially this time of year, and they couldn’t really enjoy anything I spent money on. Their concern would go so far as the money spent to mail the gifts to them.
At the same time it makes me incredibly sad. These are the people who are doing everything they can to help me get back on my feet, financially, emotionally, whatever I may need. They’ve been there for me in what was truly my darkest hour, suffered silently imagining what I was going through, and believed in me no matter what the cost.
My relationship with my mom has been strong for years, but events of recent years have established and reinforced a healthier, closer bond with both my dad and my brother. While times have been terrible, results, at least some, have been overwhelmingly good.
I long for the day I’m able to pay them back, if only in the simplest of ways, a Christmas gift or two.
Of course I have no idea what I’d get them. My brother lives on one coast, my dad on the other, my mom in the Upper Midwest, me in the South. We couldn’t be more widely dispersed, that is, in this nation, and as such, we don’t really know what gifts would be most appreciated by the other. Not even what gift certificates would be preferred.
Not to say anyone fails in their gift-giving. We figure it out and do just fine. It’s just that those special gifts you know someone would value because you’ve spent time with them elude me.
So this year I’m looking for a way to say “thank you” and “I love you” that will cost me what I can afford and be valued by the recipients.
Knowing me, I’ll think of that perfect gift in January. Fortunately, my brother’s birthday is just a month later.
Well, it’s a fine passive-aggressive way to get your point across, or an option for some mean-spirited fun.
Debate “over-the-top” or “under-the-bottom” with regard to toilet paper.
Learn how to make your own cola.
Make a dress (or shirt) that’s a size too small as incentive to lose weight.
You cannot possibly justify this one.
Now, before any of you say (sarcastically or otherwise), “Well, good for you!” or mutter under your breath, “I hate you” here’s the whole truth: I only had to buy Christmas gifts for one person.
My World With Words 
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