The Card

(Caution Dick – recycled and refurbished)

My mother used to type out her annual Christmas letter so carefully—on a real typewriter, no tech help. After it was perfect, she—I don’t even know how to explain this. She had a flat, paper sized box of this strange gel. She’d put the letter face down on the gel—the color purple is almost all I can see, trying to remember this. After a time, she’d lift the letter off and I guess the gel had pulled off all the ink. Then she would press more paper, one leaf at a time, over the gel, just long enough to pick up the ink again. I remember slightly smeared letters, my father and mother hunched over this box. I was too young to know what it meant really, only to appreciate the alien magic of the process. I have none of those letters now, so I don’t know what she put in them. Sad, that none of them should have survived. My father, later, probably took a look at whatever copies mom had saved and took them for junk, such low-res copies.

I, myself, never did send out a family letter. I sent out odd little philosophical tone pieces of essay instead. I do enjoy reading the letters from other people, old friends far away, and like comparing their contemporary photo faces with the ones I always carry in my mind for them. But I never did get off on the lists of awards and accomplishments of their kids, most of whom I haven’t known well. My friend, Steven Perry, sent out a hilarious send up of that kind of letter one year, and it really was funny – all about his own kids.

Dogs in snow.  Ears up on one. More poor white balance.

 Over a decade ago, I started sending little (sometimes interminable) essays and thought puzzles out to friends via email. I did it not because I needed an audience – although I did need one – but more, and primarily, because I had reason to love each person on my list. Some I had known for years. Some were from my ward, some from BYU days, some were my students, my editors, kindred spirits. Some were family—even cousins I’d found through genealogy (that’s you Pat!!), though most of the family I came from were not enthusiastic about these, as they weren’t real letters and not one of a kind for them only. But the letters actually were very real to me. And so my friends gradually came to know me well, and we grew close.

 In the end, that was the reason I sent an essay out—like a touch on the hand, the tone of my voice, the thoughts of my heart—an embrace. Short of being with those I loved, I sent little pieces of my soul. (No. Not like sending pieces of a person in order to collect a ransom. Maybe close, though.)

 I finally succumbed to the web log. Well, obviously. And that has been satisfying. Dick Beeson declares that blogs are simply year round Christmas letters, which is probably true. But I love them, because now I can get to know the children who were once strangers to me in the old once-a-year letters, and I can watch Frazz grow up and see what Gin sees and know how L is feeling as she works with her first baby, and have a window into my Cam and my Chaz – and keep my fingers on Rachel’s pulse. Once a year is not enough.

But the end of this is that I don’t send out Christmas cards anymore, though I was so careful to do it for so long—buy the card, write the letter, take the picture, duplicate the letter, duplicate the picture (that takes three trips to the photo place – drop off, choose and order, pick up), get everyone together around the table and do a round-table signing, stuff, seal, address (finally with computer on clear labels), stamp, send. It’s just too much now, although I miss the beauty of the cards themselves. But I’ve hit a wall. I make no cookies—not even peanut brittle this year. And this year, I may not even get out the nativities because I am so tired, and the lights and the tree, along with the gifts I am still trying to finish seem to be pretty much enough.

 And really, when I think about it, what could I say in a letter? Guy and I are old now and the kids have flown – one with her fam to Rhode Island, one to Argentina, one to grad school, one to a little house a block and a half away. I guess I could try to be funny, but that’s not my gift.

The attaching bows ritual.  I have wrapped.  Now they embellish while I read Dickens out loud.  I read it quickly, and skip to the good parts.

 I asked Terri, as we sat quietly talking after the party, “Is it arrogant to write blogs?” And she said, “Of course it is.” I am afraid she is right. But I can’t help myself. Just introspection and more introspection – like I expect anybody to be all that interested. Remember shopping with a three year old? “Look,” they say to EVERYBODY in every store, waiting in the lines, walking out to the parking lot, “I got NEW SHOES!!!!”

 On second thought, maybe that’s all any of this letter sending is, God’s children, trying to show everybody their new shoes.

Here’s the part where we wish you a Merry Christmas (how nice not to have to get this all on one page). Because we do. We wish you merry and quiet and peaceful. We wish you games to play and children to kiss and work to do. Slower paced lives, turned family-ward. Less money spending, more time spending. Less fear and more faith. Less TV and more singing with a guitar on the front porch. Less hurry and more meaning.

Much love. And much gratitude for your kindness, and your patience. When I die, I will commend you to God the Father each of you, one by one. I hope that doesn’t hurt your chances . . .