Marilyn Smith

Oh yes, I’m well aware that it’s December 3, in more ways than the obvious.  I’ve got my Duckwear on, Radler’s wearing his Duck scarf, and we’ll all be glued to the TV at 6 p.m.

The day weighs heavily, though, because of the stack of stamped, addressed envelopes on my desk at home. Christmas envelopes, waiting to be stuffed with this year’s Christmas letter.

The letters should have been in the mail on Tuesday. I get my cards and letters in the mail on December 1 every year, without fail. Until this year. During vacation time last week, I bought the envelopes and stamps, addressed them all, stamped them all, sorted out the ones for the UK, Europe and Canada that needed additional postage, and sat down to write The Letter.

And choked.

First, it was too long. I trimmed it down and had Stan read it. “It sounds like you’re overwhelmed,” he said.  Wrong tone, and it was still too long. “Why don’t you just send cards?” he suggested. “Because I’ve already put the stamps on the envelopes,” I said, waxing practical.

I started another letter. I wanted to strike a balance between the five-page tome we received (yes, really) from one friend last year and the spare card signed, enigmatically,  “Sis, Bud and kids” that we used to receive from one of my aunts in the midWest. December 1 came and went.

Every year, I hear from several people that my card or letter is the first one they receive. Except for immediate family members, who get cards with short notes only, all of this year’s letters are delayed; finally written as of this morning, but delayed just a bit longer. I printed one to test for spacing and previously undetected boo-boos and the printer quit, demanding that a cartridge be replaced.

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