There was nothing special about the cards, nothing particularly holiday-ish. In fact, the cards themselves were quite plain. They were relatively small and, with the exception of the texture of the paper, free of design. I came across them one morning in early June when I was downtown killing time before going to meet a couple of friends for lunch. In what was once a drugstore from the age when they were grand, there is now a discount department store, a place with all the charm of an outlet mall, right there in the heart of downtown Portland. I’d never ventured into the odds and ends section until that morning. And there I found my Christmas cards, tucked in among the desk calendars with daily Jesus quotes (already half obsolete, considering it was then June) and Post-it notes adorned with unicorn images. The cards were packaged in topless boxes, tied with a lacy bow and shrink wrapped in plastic. According to the label on the back, they were made of recycled athletic socks from India. For less than $10, I bought three boxes: one white, one pink and one blue.
I’d forgotten about the pen until I found it a few weeks ago. Last December, I took the train to Los Angeles, which took nearly two days due to delays. In Eugene, just south of Portland, a very drunk old lady stumbled on with lots of packages and crashed down into the seat beside me. “If I would have walked I’d already be there!” she said to me just before conking out. It was 2:30 in the morning and, as the local Fox affiliate likes to say, we were just getting started. A day later she got off the train near Oakland, where she was going to catch a shuttle bus across the bay to spend Christmas with her son and her grandchildren (her son’s wife was in jail for embezzlement, so she wouldn’t be joining the festivities, which was fine with my seat mate). I carried her packages down the train’s ridiculously tight stairwell and we wished each other a happy holiday on the platform. Somewhere between Oakland and San Luis Obispo I found the pen, lying on the floor in front of my seat. I picked it up and put it in my bag. It is a very nice pen, sort of a hybrid between a felt tip and a ball point. It has a nice glide to it, but it’s sharp enough that you can easily dot the i’s and cross the t’s. The pen, I discovered a few weeks ago, goes quite well with the texture of the socks turned into cards.
I also discovered that I enjoy writing holiday cards, something I haven’t done in years. Christmas cards were serious business when I was growing up. My mother wrote everyone a note, not a long note, but one that said a thing or two. We hung up all the cards that came to the house, and when they came down they were tied up with twine and put into a box. They’re interesting to read, I think, even though many of them are signed with names I don’t recognize. Old neighbors, college friends, former colleagues. I can’t articulate this as exactly as I’d like to, but those cards were written in a language that is at once more flip and more sincere than what we’ve become accustomed to. They used words differently, I think.
My job at the holidays was to put the stamps on the envelopes before they were mailed. My mother was a stamp Nazi – she collected them, and she had no problem expressing the fact that she was appalled at the crappy selection usually available at P.O. 63119 – and I am here to confess something: I am just as bad. God, the postage stamps in this country are a national disgrace. Flags? Eagles? The Simpsons? Are people really going to want to collect and save that crap to commemorate our history? This year, for the holidays, we have snowmen, a menorah and something to do with Kwanza. Everywhere I go in Portland there is fantastic artwork on display, in coffee shops, at the airport, in galleries and on bathroom walls, and yet our stamps seem to become more and more visually abysmal every year. I think we should spend some stimulus money to stimulate the stamp situation. I think Obama should appoint a stamp czar – he likes czars, because they don’t have to go through congressional hearings. I’ve heard you can buy stamps online, but that, for me, takes a key part of the Christmas card ritual away. (I did check the stamps online, and it’s equally pathetic, I think).
Anyhow, here’s what I settled on. I went to what is now the main post office in downtown Portland but l left after a woman showed me what was available. I went to another post office, which is not, for some reason, listed if you do an Internet search but that I’ve ridden past on a bus many times. The selection at that post office wasn’t anything to get excited about, but I did find something I could live with: larger black-and-white portraits of various U.S. Supreme Court justices. Not exactly Christmasy, but at least they look nice, and I think everyone’s Christmas cards could use a little judgment, just to get warmed up for dinner with the family.
I’d forgotten about the pen until I found it a few weeks ago. Last December, I took the train to Los Angeles, which took nearly two days due to delays. In Eugene, just south of Portland, a very drunk old lady stumbled on with lots of packages and crashed down into the seat beside me. “If I would have walked I’d already be there!” she said to me just before conking out. It was 2:30 in the morning and, as the local Fox affiliate likes to say, we were just getting started. A day later she got off the train near Oakland, where she was going to catch a shuttle bus across the bay to spend Christmas with her son and her grandchildren (her son’s wife was in jail for embezzlement, so she wouldn’t be joining the festivities, which was fine with my seat mate). I carried her packages down the train’s ridiculously tight stairwell and we wished each other a happy holiday on the platform. Somewhere between Oakland and San Luis Obispo I found the pen, lying on the floor in front of my seat. I picked it up and put it in my bag. It is a very nice pen, sort of a hybrid between a felt tip and a ball point. It has a nice glide to it, but it’s sharp enough that you can easily dot the i’s and cross the t’s. The pen, I discovered a few weeks ago, goes quite well with the texture of the socks turned into cards.
I also discovered that I enjoy writing holiday cards, something I haven’t done in years. Christmas cards were serious business when I was growing up. My mother wrote everyone a note, not a long note, but one that said a thing or two. We hung up all the cards that came to the house, and when they came down they were tied up with twine and put into a box. They’re interesting to read, I think, even though many of them are signed with names I don’t recognize. Old neighbors, college friends, former colleagues. I can’t articulate this as exactly as I’d like to, but those cards were written in a language that is at once more flip and more sincere than what we’ve become accustomed to. They used words differently, I think.
My job at the holidays was to put the stamps on the envelopes before they were mailed. My mother was a stamp Nazi – she collected them, and she had no problem expressing the fact that she was appalled at the crappy selection usually available at P.O. 63119 – and I am here to confess something: I am just as bad. God, the postage stamps in this country are a national disgrace. Flags? Eagles? The Simpsons? Are people really going to want to collect and save that crap to commemorate our history? This year, for the holidays, we have snowmen, a menorah and something to do with Kwanza. Everywhere I go in Portland there is fantastic artwork on display, in coffee shops, at the airport, in galleries and on bathroom walls, and yet our stamps seem to become more and more visually abysmal every year. I think we should spend some stimulus money to stimulate the stamp situation. I think Obama should appoint a stamp czar – he likes czars, because they don’t have to go through congressional hearings. I’ve heard you can buy stamps online, but that, for me, takes a key part of the Christmas card ritual away. (I did check the stamps online, and it’s equally pathetic, I think).
Anyhow, here’s what I settled on. I went to what is now the main post office in downtown Portland but l left after a woman showed me what was available. I went to another post office, which is not, for some reason, listed if you do an Internet search but that I’ve ridden past on a bus many times. The selection at that post office wasn’t anything to get excited about, but I did find something I could live with: larger black-and-white portraits of various U.S. Supreme Court justices. Not exactly Christmasy, but at least they look nice, and I think everyone’s Christmas cards could use a little judgment, just to get warmed up for dinner with the family.
