See the white area on the lower right? No, your other right. ;) Well, I was all excited to see the lone postcard, yet even more excited because the book I'm currently reading, Ireland, by Frank Delaney waxes poetic in the first chapters about stones. Reading it was like listening to "Danny Boy." Speaking of which, I have never cried because of that song, not even when I was drunk, yet Erin can play it on the piano and cry; she can hear it in the car and she weeps; she can hear the music piped into an elevator and the water works are activated. No me.
But reading Delaney go on about stone, well, you get the idea. So, the stones that came today. I tell you, the Universe is telling me something that might very well be carved in stone, and I have been shilly-shallying around like all I do is shilly-shally. In truth, I AM LISTENING. I HEAR YOU. And I promise to get right on it.
Hmm. What . . . Dang! Reminds me of Mr. Benedict in "The Mysterious Benedict Society." See, Mr. B has narcolepsy. Well, that's a whole other anecdote, but it's the memory thing. It reminds me of Mr. B''s narcolepsy: It acts up at will. I have discovered that if I just keep on talking, the original topic finds its way back home. Like now.
So, somehow the bottom facing right part of the postcard is missing. It's been torn away. That means I don't know what the kind Ms Brooker said at the end, on the lower left side of the backside of the postcard. And here's a bit of FYI that's related to stones: When I was pre-school age I loved finding pretty little stones. Was always walking with my head down. My grandmother, Eula's yard and driveway had stones I'd never seen at my other grandmother's, so I put the special, pretty stones in the pockets of my little starched shorts.
Well, every night, right after Mama stripped me for a bath, she went through my pockets. She always promised to save my stones for me. I called them rocks. Who am I fooling? Only British kids called rocks stones. Oh! And Nancy Drew. I know this 'cause I read books where they called rocks stones. And boulders. In Texas, boulders were just "great big ole rocks." So, Mama took my rocks every night, promised to put them someplace save, yet, the next morning they'd gone missing.
I eventually caught on. I didn't have a pocket book like Mama or Grandmother, but I had a stomach. A stomach was better than a pocketbook anyway. Oh, heck! That just reminded me of Sylvia Plath putting rocks/stones into her pockets. Well, I guess this ends on a wet note. But, I hope Ms Brooker from the place with the little ponies I read about as a kid, will tell me what she wrote on the last half of her pretty card of stones.
I would so enjoy a letter from you, Ms Brooker, if only to see your beautiful handwriting flow across at least one page. I would like to learn more about you and where you live, too. Seriously. And thank you one hundred -and-three times for writing, and saying such a nice thing about "Oh, Write Me."
If you write to me again, the promise still holds. I will write back, no matter how long it takes. One more thanks for the stones! :D THANKS!
P.S. Mail went out, dear friends. :) Not as much as I'd hoped, but the week isn't over until it's over.