Friday, July 29, 2016

The Perfect Summer Correspondence

A postcard is the perfect summer correspondence. It doesn't take much to dash off a sentence or three, add an address, attach a stamp, and drop your words in a mail box. Just like that,  you've shared a good piece of your summer vacation, shown off a part of your hometown, shared an image and a few words about something of interest . . . 


Dodson, D. did that with postcards from his and Kaylee's vacation in cooler climes than mine. What memories they're making! I enjoy letters from my adult pen friends who share their childhood vacation memories when something triggers a recall. Postcards matter.



This is something else all together. Thanks for supporting an artist, Dodson. Illustrators work hard for their money too. People used to question why we graphic design students charged $35.00 an hour " just for drawing." They never asked architects the question. Go figure. I am crazy for pen and ink illustrations. What's not to like when you can pore over the same drawing several times and discover something you missed the last time because you were so busy enjoying the parts that grabbed your eye right away? It's the same with me and mail art. Art is art, is it not? Thanks again, Dodson, D.! Hope you're hoe recovering from your vacation. (grin)


Great graphics do a wonderful job. And no one can say Charley Harper isn't wonderful. It took months for me to part with my first CH postcard. They're all unique in a special way. Great graphic designers are as fascinating as mail artists who see things in spectacular ways. They break images down to their most basic and wow the viewer. Even now, I just noticed something I'd missed perviously, as previously as the day this arrived. How did I miss this? And all those kits! Aww. Thanks, Phillip, for the surprise Harper! 



This isn't even my postcard, but if I don't comment on it you will never know that it exists.  JC got mail! Angela is my mail angel. She sent him a postcard because he never gets fun mail he's so good about posting and retrieving mail from the post office for me. Thank you, dear Angela. He blushed! He gets birthday cards in his p.o. box from people like his dentist, insurance agent, and the likes. It's pretty much the same for our home box except the cards are from Erin, me, sister, brother, and spammers. Don't feel sorry for him, y'all! No-no-no. JC doesn't get good mail everyday, or even once in awhile, because he does not write letters, notes, or postcards. Man, I could live in any one of those barns. Thank you, again, Angela. 


I'm busy writing letters, notes, postcards, drawing and coloring, making mail bunting, and actual bunting between doses of daily living. I made a mess of scheduling posts, so please forgive my mess. Some were published without photos, while others self-published without me saying anything. I just laughed. It's all fun. And no matter what else might be falling out from up my sleeves, there's always time for writing a handful of perfect summer postcards. Tomorrow . . . the notecard!

Yours,

Limpin' Limner
P.S. I need assistance for sidewalk maneuvering and climbing up into JC's truck. Our sidewalk slopes, so when I go past a certain point in the driveway, I'm off to the races, and they're always downhill. It's funny! But only because I haven't fallen. 





Wednesday, July 27, 2016

More Mail Bunting



Pink and green.
Colors of spring.
Summer mail fling.
Good written things.
For friends.


Good mail out.

Good mail in!
Thanks, JC.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

A House By the Side of a Road

The House 

by the Side 

of the Road




There are hermit
souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;
But let me live by the side of the road
And write letters to man.


Let me live in a house
by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And write letters to man.

I see from my house
by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears
Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And write letters to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my
house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish--so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat
Or hurl the cynic’s ban
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And write letters to man.
by Sam Walter Foss (and tweaked some by me)



***



Here I go Flow-ing again. They have something for everyone; from the oldest to my youngest pen friend, Davia. Her favorite color is pink. She graduated from drawings to actual letters--that's how long we've kept in touch. I hope she likes my Christmas in July gift.



These paper houses had to have been made for us.



Yes, I wanted in on the fun too. Naturally, right? 




These are for Davia. Shh. Don't tell. There's a little village! Why aren't there girls at each house? Surely they don't live together  and take care of the same house by the side of Keyboard Road in Limnersville?


Here's hoping Davia's cut and paste skills are better than mine. Thinking paper cement would be better for the oops moments wasn't one of my better thinks. I colored their faces lovely colors; the laundry is actually bunting. Bet you didn't know that! See? There's always a reason to write a letter and tell a story. Keep summer mail on its legs. Send something. Write something. I'll keep an eye out for ya'.

Limner










Monday, July 25, 2016

If I Could Tell a Good Story, I'd Tell You All About Today's Tale

IF I'm ever late for an appointment it's because of circumstances beyond my control. Being late is as taboo as lying to your face while I stab you in the back with your own knife that I stole from your mama's kitchen on the day I came to pay my respect after your grandfather's funeral. So I was sincerely upset with JC when he made me super late for today's appointment with a new doctor. I was sorely upset.

A person cannot slam a door in indignation when they need help getting out of their chariot of fire; they cannot stomp away even if they're directly in front of the facility--not if they're impeded by contraptions and a cane, and need the little step ladder to exit said chariot. They definitely cannot save face when they thump thump way to the check-in desk with an apology and explanation tripping over themselves, only to have the greeter start giggling. Not only was I late, I was there a day early. If that's not punctuality I don't know what is. 

I walked in fussing and apologizing the last time I was there. Of course she remembered. She quoted me, practically verbatim, about how mortified I was over being late. The complimentary phone reminder said to be thirty minutes early for x-rays. She said, "Oh, they tell that to all the patients . . . " It takes fifteen minutes, in truth, so they lie about the extra fifteen for laggards. I promised to take JC to lunch after that particular fiasco. She reminded me of that too. I let her I'd kept my word and . . . I sure hope she's off tomorrow.

Since the tatanka (Lakota for buffalo/bison)  burger is no longer on the menu at the Black Walnut, I've turned to Another Broken Egg Cafe. They're only about breakfast and brunch, which means no later afternoon appointments with a meal in mind. So we had a meal there today after my non-appointment. They were twenty-five minutes away from closing. JC went in and asked if we were too late for a feed. They graciously invited us in! 


That backstory was a prelude to this. It feels like a reward for confessing I'd fibbed. You see, while JC was parking, and after 'd learned my appointment wasn't until tomorrow, I told the greeter not to tell him I'd gotten the date wrong. When he came in, I said, "I have to come back tomorrow. The doctor's not in. He had an emergency. Let's go." The greeter laughed and laughed and laughed. Until I grudgingly told the truth. That self-righteous grin of his is what tempts me to fib lie. 


Such a mail box, huh? JC is always mortified when I stop to take pictures like this. He doesn't understand that because I cannot share real moments with you does not mean I cannot share images. I wish our neighborhood boxes were this lovely. I wonder who has box 13.

Friday, July 22, 2016

Lord, Can I Afford Any More Pen Friends?



I got it right! Expected delivery date:  July 25. I also learned to never trust JC to mail a package; he always chooses the shipping method like he's a contestant on The Price Is Right.


Wow. 


It took a lot of tape to reach that grand total.


One box took away all of my pen money for the year. JC thought I was gonna let him keep the change. Like he expected a tip. Well, he did't charge me for the gas so . . . Perhaps I should have?


Free socks are all I could afford after mailing twenty-five gifts. Thanks, Thorlo. No, I cannot play tennis, but socks are socks, right? Good socks at that. I'll need a go fund me page to buy shoes. No way, huh? I know my good pen friends would draw, cut,  color, fold, glue, and mail me a pair first. 

JC took me out for a meal at the Black Walnut this afternoon. His treat. No tatanka burger! No more. Never again. It's all I've ever eaten there in almost three years. I teared up. I kept asking why. The nice cashier person suggested that I write a letter to management . . . I will. I am still absolutely heartbroken though. It's not even on the menu in the new cafe in Georgia. What's the world coming to? To think I almost asked about hosting a cafe letter-writing event there. (sigh) Never mind. I wish I could get y'all to write a letter on my behalf, but I'd never impose. (sigh) 


More letter envelopes were folded last night. I refuse to do more than thirteen this time. 


The adhesive on all the lovely seals isn't worth spit. I guess letters are hand canceled in the Netherlands. Is a good thing I've got great glue. They're still cute though.


Sorry. I still cannot get over how long that receipt is. Two ladies at the post office sent their regards via JC. He even knows their names now. I think he likes all the attention is why he asks if I need to check my p.o.b. almost everyday. It's like twelve miles one way. Hmm. My non-machinable stamps are used up now. The Flow envelopes are so small they have to be hand canceled. My pen friends are worth it. Y'all know who you are, too. I'm just not sure I can afford any more of you. (grin)

I've had a wonderful week. 














Thursday, July 21, 2016

So This Is What Happened



It's over. Tweety-five packages finally went out the door with JC. I've never been happier to set mail free. After having second thoughts I removed one package, reducing the cache by one, from twenty-six. Boy, am I glad I did. I'll tell you why on another day.


Christmas in July began with thirteen gifts. I've learned to embrace the number thirteen. Think baker's dozen. It's a lucky number if you like dough nuts. It's a day after a fortnight. There should be thirteen eggs in a dozen. Now. Try to imagine what an egg carton might look like if there were. (grin) Then again try to imagine my big grin when thirteen pieces of mail were handed over to me! For me! Yes, yes, yes, thirteen times! JC brought hime thirteen letters, notes, and postcards! Mine! All mine!               


Thirteen letters, notecards and postcards. How cool can that be?  


I cut more paper last night. Such pretty paper too. I'll need thirteen sheets. For thirteen letters. Ah, now you see.


Thirteen envelope-letters waiting to be writ. Here's hoping I run out of summer before I run out of paper fun. So, this is what happened . . . Um, is happening. Here in Limnersville. 























                                    

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Bored? Who's Bored?


Not


 in


 my


 house!


It is simply not allowed. 


My Christmas in July mail campaign was meant to be my summer extravaganza, and it is. Twenty five packages wait by the door. JC already mailed the big one. Timing is everything. I need three days mail time from post to delivery. If I miss my target date . . .  


So guess who's already working on a new idea. Well, yeah. One must make hay even while it's too hot to go out. I cut out all these little heart shaped envelopes during another viewing of Transporter 2. This floral is my favorite. They'll do nicely for my next project. Just you wait and see.


I said to myself "Why not cut the letter-in-an-envelopes too, just in case?" And so I did. That way I'll have an excuse to use all those new Christmas stamps I didn't use on Christmas in July. The watermelon envelope has to be my favorite. Nothing says summer in the south quite like ice cold watermelon. But wait! I'm getting ahead of myself. 

Again. Bored? Who's bored? Okay. I've been in this house for a solid week now. Even "Ray Donovan" repeats lose their appeal after the third time. Poor Abby. Poor stupid Mickey. I'm gonna mail myself to someone soon! 


In the meantime . . . You won't believe what happened! Or will you?