Writing notes is an art lost to the generations after boomers. It's quicker to send an email, or even a text. Or, perhaps a wave and a "Thanks!" on the way out the door is enough.
My mother was a perfectly imperfect human in many ways, and I have forgiven her, in absentia of course, for all the weird things she did, like make me wear tunics to school in the 7th grade to cover up my well developed you know whats.
But she was a class act. I say it that way because it was one of her pet peeves. She thought that if you had to mention it, you weren't. But, she was.
She drilled mega doses of manners and niceties into me that I cannot ever discard or let go. I thank her for things I take for granted:
knowing how to set a table
chewing with my mouth closed
opening doors for others
honoring elders
leaving a place better than when I found it
and
the art of the thank you note.
I supppose I have to thank the Dominican Nuns
for teaching me cursive writing, even if they did try to make me right handed.
I'll thank my father, while we're at it, for teaching me the art of inquisitiveness and a love of words.
In an earlier post, I mention the Studio in a Shoe Box of my childhood, filled with paper dolls, valentines and tiny plastic scissors. The box is bigger today, but the idea is the same: be prepared.
These envelopes were made from a 4x6 template from old books, magazine and songbooks.
