Thank you for the 31 day writing adventure. I appreciate you for showing up every day and writing with me, taking me into your world, and showing me how I can, we, can still do this. Each year I believe it will get easier.
It doesn’t.
What it does, is bring us together to share a bit of ourselves in this big, often perplexing world. Perhaps it isn’t the world that’s perplexing, but the human behaviors that make it so. The world holds us in it. We can choose to make it spin one way or another.
I began year seven with a handwritten Sunday letter, inspired by The Correspondent: A Novel by Virginia Evans. Know what? It feels odd not to write this letter on paper. I suppose the analog life is pulling me back, a little at a time. And that is a good, good, thing.
March did it’s thing and marched right over me this month. Slowing down helped. Writing every day helped. Your stories helped.
Did I read more posts this time as I planned? Nope. Since I’m practicing slowing down, I’ll continue popping in to read posts I missed along with catching up on replying to your comments.
Thank you for your ideas, book recommendations, new knowledge shared, and new connections made. If you’d like to receive a letter in the mail some time as I continue with The Sunday Letter Project, I should be able to see your email address if you comment or reach out. We can exchange addresses via email from there.
Regardless of when we meet again, on Tuesdays, a Sunday, or next March, be well.
Write well. Write often. Write much.
Sincerely,
Alice
P.S. I returned home this evening from my librarian conference with a stack of books. My next book on my TBR pile is The Shippers: A Novel, by Catherine Center. We did a little line dancing yesterday before she signed our books. That sounds like an analog and whimsical spring activity. Line dancing. I’m not good at it, but it was fun!
I frequently talk about how I rarely win prizes or get chosen for things. As random as prizes can be, so are some of the prizes I have won. Or were they opportunities? Either way, as a kid I watched one too many episodes of The Price is Right, The $10,000 Pyramid, Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy! Press Your Luck, you name it, I watched it. Stuck in Texas with nowhere to go, being on a game show has usually been only possible through watching on TV.
Zoom forward several years from my childhood days to college. Student services once sponsored a game show called The Blizzard of Bucks. Think along the lines of Minute to Win It games, but with money. A group of friends decided to go and I tagged along. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but watching a non-televised game show sounded better than a lame Friday night study session.
Taking our seats in the audience, the host explained the rules. There are games and several rounds. Lose a round and you’re eliminated, everyone else advances until there’s one left standing. The lone winner gets a minute inside a booth with a ton of cash. Get as much as you’re able to collect in one minute and you get to keep it. Of course, there are rules about what is and isn’t allowed when grabbing at the cash. Once the timer starts, so does the power blasted fan, sending cash up, down, and all around inside the booth. This will be fun to watch.
What we didn’t know is contestants would be chosen from the audience. No one needed to sign up and they didn’t take volunteers. The Price is Right style! I didn’t expect getting selected. My friends cheered for me and I had no idea why. After realizing my luck, I walked to the set-up in front of an audience seated in folding chairs, taking my place with other contestants.
The first game is a blur and I don’t remember not losing, but my friends cheered even louder. I made it to the next round. Okay, well, not expecting much, let’s get on with the next game. The host walks out with a baby bottle explaining what to do. These will be filled to the top. 8 ounces.
I’m losing this one. I hate milk!
All contents must be fully consumed, no spitting it out.
Oh no, I hate milk
The game crew returns with baby bottles for each of us. They’re filled with orange juice.
Juice? Orange juice? That’s my favorite.
The timer starts and we tip our bottles. This is easy. I start chugging. I hear my friends go hysterical. They’re cheering my name and I gain momentum.
Chug, chug, chug!
There’s a giant hole in the nipple of the baby bottle so I’m swigging it down like it’s in a cup. I finish it off and put the bottle down. Other people are still chugging, or trying.
I look at the money booth. Is this real?
Advancing to the next round, we get more directions. This time, each person gets a marshmallow. It has to stay in our mouths while we say “chubby bunny.” It must be pronounced properly and the audience has to hear it. They’re checking lips to make sure they touch at the b sound. Don’t eat the marshmallow. Marshmallows will be added until there’s one person left.
Marshmallow number one.
“Chub-by b-unny.”
My friends roar.
Marshmallow number two. I strategically tuck the marshmallow into the opposite cheek.
“Chuhh-by buhh-ny.”
I try to suck up the drool that’s sliming out of one side of my mouth. I take a peek at the money booth. Can I fit another marshmallow in my mouth? They’re bigger than they look.
Marshmallow three. I tuck it into my right cheek. Nope. I didn’t pay much attention to placement the first time. Can I shift it just right into the left side? I do my best to tuck it in and take as deep a breath as I can.
“Chwah-wee, wah-wee.”
“Oh no! So sorry, you almost made it!”
The audience lets out a sigh.
I swear I heard The Price is Right horn walk me off the stage.
A hulk of a guy next to me popped the third marshmallow in his mouth.
“Chubby bunny!”
As I get back to my seat, my friends high five me. They’ve had a great time and remind me how I got so close. We watch the marshmallow guy get into the booth to try his luck at the cash. Money swirls around him as he swats at bills filling the space around him like confetti, trying to grab them by the handfuls.
I didn’t make it to the money booth, but it was an unforgettable experience. My consolation prize was an Igloo cooler with a canteen. Not too shabby for a Friday night.
Coffee mug and water bottle go on my desk, work bag underneath. Power on my laptop, desktop, and the computer dedicated for making student ID cards. Flick on three of the five light switches. New LED lightbulbs glare like the Arctic tundra, so one gets flicked off. Power on three computers kids use to search for books. They are lined up outside, ready for me to let them in.
They know by now to wait a bit until everything is up and running and make two lines to sign in.
I quickly scan email as kids get settled in their morning chats about books, browsing their favorite sections, and swapping books that won’t make it to the book return because BFF has to have The Summer I Turned Pretty before anyone else can get it.
Subject line: Ms. S’s classes will be in the library today through 4th period
Um, no. That was yesterday. Ms. S. didn’t show up. I check my schedule. I check my calendar. I check my inbox for an email several weeks ago asking for availability. Glitch on my part. I set the wrong date.
Major glitch: I scheduled a lesson with a teacher. In the library. For today.
I email Ms. S asking if she can keep her kids in her classroom for 1st period then come down later. I send the second teacher a chat explaining my issue. Call me asap if you see this.
The line for checkouts is getting longer. I scan ID badges and books. My phone rings and I explain my mess up. “I can go to your classroom instead.”
Issue averted. Ms. S walks in, oblivious to my email as I explain myself. I gather my materials and head to the classroom.
Rush hour is an understatement. This was all in a nice, neat 30 minutes before the bell rings package.
Mine. Yours. Ours. I’ve been using an official planner to keep myself organized. There was a time when my lesson planner was enough, but those days are gone. One kiddo is adulting and the other is smack dab in her teens. Hubby’s work schedule changes frequently so I have to keep track of that, too. I took a break from having said little boxes tell me what to do, but that week is over, so back to the boxes I go.
I could use the ones in my phone that will give me notifications, but said notifications get ignored. I’m a paper planner type of person with a side of phone calendar. Dates are transferred to the official keeper of time.
Keeping work at work, I focused on personal & family dates for the rest of this quarter and the next one. That takes us into summer break, and hopefully, a summer vacation. My niece turning fourteen two weeks ago launched us into birthday season. For March, it’s two friends, an aunt, a niece, and two nephews. There’s also a wedding I missed, an anniversary, and everything Lent related from our church calendar.
In April, it’s two nieces, a nephew and his mom, my sister-in-law (both on the same day), an uncle, my dad, two cousins-I might have lost count. Add Mother’s day in May, a niece’s birthday, a quinceañera, all of the extra celebrations, end of the school year shut down the library frenzy, and my parents’ anniversary.
Oh, and there’s testing. So much testing!
To plan ahead for S.’s appointments, I take a look at her testing calendar. AP exams. Uh-oh. AP exams. When are they scheduled? I poke around on the school’s testing website and find them. I pencil them in their proper calendar cells.
Then I get sucker punched to the gut. Wait. I did pay the registration for AP testing. Or was that last school year‘s World History test? Uh-oh. I check my inbox and search. It’s gotta be here, I rarely delete important information.
Sure enough, I have the testing confirmation and receipt. Calm down, heart, don’t jump out of my body. I jot down the two dates in May.
Returning to my inbox, I see the subject line: Important Info for S’s Senior Year.
It’s from the school’s photo company. Senior portrait session appointments are available for booking next fall. I start filling out the form and stop in the field to add her phone number for notifications. I don’t know her number and I’m not in the mood to check. It’s the last chunk of March. I’m working with the end of this school year’s dates.
Met up for pedis with one friend this morning and met our other friend for coffee afterward. We taught together years ago before the great split. A. went on to work as an instructional coach. About five years later, I shifted into my librarian position. C left the district to teach in a nearby district and returned as an instructional coach as well. She’s on my campus this year and I’m lucky we’re back together again, even if we don’t see each other every day as we once did.
We’ve watched our kids grow up and we’ve helped each other grow, professionally and in our friendship. Retirement is a much closer option we’re currently discussing although we’re still a few years from it. They’ll catch up to us.
My car took a few tries to start when we left the salon. A quick message: “My car isn’t starting!” followed by “Never mind. Got it.” I can’t tell if it’s the car battery or the key fob battery. Hubby and I begin bickering about it when I get home, he was called in to work a few hours early and doesn’t have time to check into it. He leaves his key fob so I can experiment and take it in to get the battery tested. Except, I don’t. I’d like to catch up on chores I’ve let slide.
S. wants to watch episode 3 of a series we started. I like to pin down any minute she’s open to hanging out with me. Last night, as we watched episode two, she fell asleep, her head on my lap. She leaned into me like she did when she was little, breathing deeply knowing I’m right there when she wakes up.
We agree to a speed clean to pick up bits of our spring break carelessness. I plan to pop in to get my slice posted and I notice the wi-fi is down. Uggg! My phone connection is slow. I troubleshoot and reset the router. Doesn’t work. I don’t have the patience to deal with calling our provider.
S. skips out announcing, “I’m ready to watch!”
“Wi-fi is down and nothing I’m doing is working. Give me a bit and I’ll see if I can get it working.”
A bit later, she changes her mind.
“Well, since we can’t watch anything, J. invited my to hang out and have dinner. Can you take me?”
It’s a nice day and I almost say she should walk to J’s, but decide to drop her off.
Arriving back home, I get my gear on and take a long walk. I found a new to me trail tucked behind a newer neighborhood. Earbuds are in, but about ten minutes into my walk, I decide to unplug. Might as well connect with sunlight and blue skies.
A canceled appointment led S. and me to the mall for something she wanted (and definitely didn’t need). The only place to get it is from a store at the mall. It’s almost 11:00 and the parking lot is deserted. Did we miss something? I turn a corner and find a small group of cars parked near the front doors of an anchor store. Prime real estate back in its hey-day.
We go through Macy’s bedding department. All of the beds are dull beige with lifeless and colorless bedding. They don’t look inviting. Gone are the days of wanting to curl up in a cushy and fluffy department store bed. I bypass Christmas themed super clearance dinnerware I don’t need. Someone else can get the deal. Geoffrey the Toys R Us giraffe from the kids’ toy section grins at no one, pink Barbie boxes line shelves willing kids to take a look, but there are no kids. We pass escalators that are either broken or turned off. To save energy? Who knows. We head to the front of the store that opens to the mall.
I haven’t been here in years. I missed the mark and parked on the opposite end of where we need to go. What was once an old Borders book store is open, full of giant stuffed Pokémon and other licensed stuffed toys in the windows, but more shops are caged closed with the lights off than those brightly flashing their wares. Jewelry stores. Candles. Shoes. A boutique announcing everything must go to no one but us.
Nearby escalators we planned to take are also not operational. What’s up with the escalators? We continue on, looking for people. I relay my “when I was your age” story about how spring break brought everyone who didn’t go anywhere to the mall. Even that was a treat for those who didn’t travel. We pass the food court. Every seat is available. Chick-fil-a lines snaking around tables are gone. A pretzel place is there, but most other well-known food court spaces disappeared. Pizza. Baked potatoes. Footlong corndogs. Panda Express. All gone. A shut down movie theater around the corner doesn’t send its buttery popcorn scent luring people to catch a flick.
Finding working escalators, we descend to the first floor. Gray covers robe vendorless mall carts stationed along the center walkways. No one asks us to test lotion, no cheap silver jewelry beckons us to take a look and politely decline. A mom with two littles smiles as they sit on the Easter bunny’s lap-likely the same costume used for the past thirty years-no line here either.
“That bunny is creepy.”
Formal dresses sparkle, desperately hoping for a prom queen or quinceañera to take them out of their misery and out on the town. S. doesn’t give them a second look, but if I were choosing, it would be the long emerald green one.
We arrive at the shop S. needed to find. Is this place open? It’s hard to tell. Half the lights are off, but the space is open, so we go inside.
“We’re out of stock right now,” the lone sales clerk informs us, “but our shipments come in at noon on Thursday.” We’re the only three people in the store and she she stands behind the counter as if she’s afraid to come out, peering at us, confirming we’re real people shoppers.
Wanting to take a quick look, we walk around to another anchor store. The lights are on, sign still flashing brightly, but the glass doors are closed. All inventory has been stripped, fixtures bare, but signs still advertise manly cologne.
“Let’s get out of here. This place is sad and depressing. It has really low energy, Mom, I don’t like it.”
An empty coin operated carousel offering FUN plays an odd calliope circus tune as an animatronic Build-a-Bear waves, flanked by stuffed bears, pink Peeps, bunnies, and rabbits advertising spring.
Easter bunny sits alone, the mom and her littles long gone.
***
Today, I stepped into our version of the Jasper Mall documentary.
Thank you for reading my posts. Year 7 is one I almost skipped. I’m glad I didn’t. This is a challengeiing task, but its all of you who keep me coming back each year. New Slicers, I hope you enjoy being here as much as I do.
I considered writing all of my posts in letter form. However, it’s more time consuming gatheriing my stationery (I’m not an early prepper-I fly by the seat of my pants), scanning, & uploading said letter, and then inevitably I’d falter and maybe even quit. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter, but I also didn’t want to rush through the process.
Lately, I’ve reserved my Sundays for slowing down. Since I started the Sunday Letter Project (I wrote about it last week), I loof forward to writing Sunday letters. I’m penning this letter with a jazz playlist swaying in the background while teen girl mixes up a batch of chocolate-chocolate chip cookie mix for boyfriend’s birthday tomorrow. It’s an overcast day with drizzle willing itself to stay locked int the clouds while we recuperate from the lost hour of precious time.
How are your slices going? I find myself writing mini-slices as comments sometimes. I’ll either save these posts or take screenshots. I may or may. not revisit them for the inevitable writer’s block. Shout out to Cindy of mschiubookawrites whose deftly drafted comments tie in with the post. If you haven’t already done so, check out the inspirational posts each day, but also those highlighted by other writers. Writer’s block is ALWAYS an appropriate slice and definitely “counts.”
Spring break is next week for me, so I plan to read more posts. I’m also saving some for later. Some possible slice topics:
my late uncle’s 18 wheeler based on a comment another slicer’s post (I need to look for it)
“Information is disposable”-from a discussion with 8th graders
Amelia Earhart, Helen Keller, and a Bessie Coleman Barbie-8th graders again
Isn’t everyone “a creative” from a crafter I follow online
What’s in my analog bag
Eight days down, twenty three more reps to go. Hang in there. Have a fabulous week. I’ll attempt to wrangle the rest of this day and tell it to SLOW DOWN!
Sincerely,
Alice
P.S. I recently finished Twice: A Novel by Mitch Albom. It’s about time travel. What are you reading?
P.S.S. Is anyone interested in receiving a Sunday letter in the mail?
There was once a credit card company commercial asking what’s in your wallet. Today’s answer isn’t a specific credit card, it’s a phone and in that phone there’s a “wallet.”
Have you heard of the craze? My son, along with people I watch in thirty second blips while doomscrolling, introduced me to the term. An analog bag is a tote, backpack, basket, messenger bag, or any other type of portable container for storing items one can reach for instead of those little devices that are so much more than phones.
My son’s bag contains an MP3 player, wired headphones (they sound so much better, Mom!), a journal, a sketchbook, an actual book (he stopped reading for funsies in high school), pencils, a pen, a vintage Polaroid camera, and his Nintendo DS. There are still electronic devices, but said electronic devices can’t access the internet. The camera can only snap photos. The MP3 player only plays music. The DS only allows playing solo games.
The trend is popular among many Gen Z’ers. I’m hopeful the trend will trickle down and gain popularity among middle and high schoolers. I’ve gotta give my boy credit, along with everyone else doing this, for recognizing the need to slow down. I believe people are at a breaking point with the negative effects of device and social media overuse. People are exhausted from noticing how much time is spent online.
Gone are the days of surfing the net. We’re now drowning in the abyss of information and misinformation and short form video and endless subscriptions to everything we could ever want and everything we don’t need.
I’ve noticed many social media accounts run by those who became accidental influencers become silent, change, or disappear altogether. Some people behind said accounts announce they either stepped away or will be closing them in favor of getting back in touch with themselves. It must be exhausting putting your life online all day every day.
I may have laughed at the idea of an analog bag because it seems so logical. Grab a bag, put your favorite stuff in it and take it with you. However, Gen Z is accustomed to taking everything in one tiny pocket sized device. Seeing someone reading a book, knitting a scarf, writing in a journal, playing solitaire, or doing anything other than being on a phone is a great conversation starter. People are wanting more in-person connection.
If it’s analog bags that get us there, then I’m all for it. I hope it isn’t a short-lived trend.
I’m one of those people who sometimes gets up early and winds up running late. It happened today. This morning, I beat my alarm by fifteen minutes after trying to recapture lost sleep when my daughter loudly pokes around my bathroom stealing more of my makeup wipes. She forgot to take off last night’s makeup. Again.
After getting dressed, I pack a proper lunch rather than flinging random items into my bag. There is time for toasting a slice of cranberry walnut bread without burning it. I slather it with butter. My coffee doesn’t get left on the counter.
Today, I’ll have the computers and lights on before the line forms outside the library doors. I’m in a great mood because I’m not rushing.
On the radio, the host discusses books. Audio, e-books, or physical? I’m stuck at the tail end of a car line waiting to go. She announces the phone number. Should I try to call? It’s hard to get through. Nah…
I call.
Thank you for calling, all lines are… I try again. Nope. One last time and someone, a human, picks up. I give the screener my information and hold on the line. In all of my years of life, this is the first time I’ve made it through. Twelve year old me is flipping out as if my letter made it on Casey Kasem’s long distance dedication.
I have plenty of time as I settle in for my commute. I’m ready. But there’s another caller in front of me. I listen intently so I don’t repeat anything. Next caller. I’m nearing my school as I turn off the highway. 7:25. 20 more minutes before my official start time and I’m almost there. I should leave at this time every day.
The next caller is on. I turn toward my campus. They’re discussing book fairs and scrolling on e-readers and annotating and listening only to fiction audiobooks rather nonfiction because one must take notes. Another caller discusses purchasing only the classics and noticing how the books one reads as a kid often shows up as a career. Yes! I agree with you, but I can’t say anything because it isn’t my turn.
How long do I need to wait? Patience is not my thing. I snag my favorite parking spot. 7:35 and I’m still waiting. I have 10 minutes. This guy keeps going, but I want to rush him off the line because I need to get to work. I debate hanging up. I’m still waiting, you can hold out! I decide to end the call if there is someone else after this one.
Hi, Alice from Texas!
Finally. I almost have a Cindy Brady TV quiz show moment where she freezes when the camera light signals they’re on the air. I share how I avoided chores as a teen because I hate stopping in the middle of a chapter. Thirty seconds of fame. I figure I’m the last caller for the segment since the host commented, thanked me, and my phone gives me the call ended beep.
I gather my bags, loop my badge around my neck, and head toward the building. 7:47. Two minutes late and there’s already a line of kids waiting. All of the waiting to talk about books.
Nerds Beget Nerds 