December 14, 1980 (Letter to Michael)

Michael Kanter and Tony Szczygiel, on the occasion of Tony's marriage to Andrea Szalnaski.

The post office keeps returning all the letters I've written and mailed to you. I just can't figure out this mystery. Every letter is stamped "undeliverable" to the point where the return address is nearly blotted out. In fact, the last letter was returned with a note scrawled on the reverse of the address side of the envelope: I wouldn't deliver this piece of mail with a ten-foot pole. It sounds like you're planning to stiff your letter carrier again this year. Haven't you heard of the holiday spirit -- of greed on earth, goodwill to me? This time I'm going to tape a ten-dollar bill to the envelope -- think that'll be enough? -- to insure delivery. Next year, though, you're on your own.

Even though it was a very brief reunion, I enjoyed the opportunity to see you and Elizabeth again. Your gray hairs were quite noticeable. I hope you plan to do something about them. I know a certain individual -- think he goes by the name of Ronnie, some airhead who's the latest rage in Washington -- who could probably give you a few pointers.

Seriously now, what are your plans for the Cambridge store? Personally, I'd like to see you become involved in a less tension-producing pursuit. Since I plan to be around for awhile, I'd like to have certain good friends of mine do likewise. No matter that the reunions are becoming too infrequent.

During the past month, I've started to look at my surroundings much differently. I haven't been able to pinpoint the source of this transformation. Perhaps it's just a logical and natural personal development. Oshkosh has been very good to me. I have a job that I enjoy and am excelling at and I've formed some very close friendships. When I study the situation more thoroughly, though, I realize that I don't want to be just a librarian for the rest of my life.

I also see that the activities my best friends and I are involved in are leading us nowhere as far as any intellectual gratification or fulfillment is concerned. We drink a lot of beer, we smoke a lot of dope, we party a lot -- mindlessly, as if we're stumped about how else to spend the time -- and we play a lot of cards -- sheepshead, mostly. It's good for a lot of laughs, but I'm finding myself becoming rather bored. I look at the people I hang around with -- mostly couples, interestingly enough -- and see very few signs of ambition or adventure. It's getting to be the same old shit. Too predictable.

Lately, I've attempted to make myself somewhat scarce without arousing any suspicion. ("What's the matter, he's too good for us all of a sudden?") I've started to tackle some more ambitious writing projects, outside of the usual journal entries and correspondence. Yesterday I mailed a 900-word essay to the Chicago Tribune using the recent publication of The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty as a jumping-off point. It's not a book review. More like musings on the state of the short story in American literature. The Tribune prints a weekly column on its editorial page for which it solicits essays form its readers. What have I got to lose, I figured. At this point in time, I really needed a small project for which I could discipline myself.

Less than a week ago, I began writing a short story, somewhat autobiographical and based on a recent incident in my life that helped to lead me to this present re-evaluation. I foresee problems with the ending, but so far I'm quite pleased with what I have written.

Enclosed are a few prints from some slides you might enjoy. Keep them. I had extra copies made. The wide-angle lens makes a bit of a difference in normal picture-taking. Hello Elizabeth, Kathy, and, ah...what's the status on the new arrival?

The Day Before Thanksgiving 1999

I called home at 3:15 to check in on Eddie.

“Hello,” said Alice in her gravely voice, the residue of more than forty years of smoking cigarettes.

“Well, hi!” I said, expressing genuine surprise. “When did you get in?”

“Ten minutes ago,” she responded.

“Is Eddie home?”

“He just walked into the house.”

Then Alice asked if there was anything she could do to start the preparations for tomorrow’s feast. She specifically mentioned cutting up celery for the dressing. I told her I’d call JoAnna at work to see what needed to be done first. I ended up leaving her a voice mail message.

There was a pile of sliced celery stalks when I returned home. Alice and JoAnna were on the same wavelength.

But I’m getting a little bit ahead of myself.

JoAnna called me minutes before I left the library.

“Could you pick up some Karo dark syrup on your way home?”

“Sure. I was planning to stop at Sentry anyway. Andy wanted me to get some ranch dressing, the regular kind, and we also need some V-8 and cranberry juice.” Andy gave a big thumbs-down to the fat-free Hidden Valley Ranch that he poured over his salad the other night, complaining that it tasted like glue.

I also told her that I was planning to leave work early so I could get a haircut, my first since I shaved off my beard.

When I parked in front of Great Clips, I looked through the windows and saw at least four people sitting in chairs, paging through magazines, waiting for their names to be called.

Might be a bit of a wait, I thought.

I walked inside and approached the counter.

“How long is the waiting list?” I asked a woman who had just hung up the phone.

“About 20 minutes.”

I gave her my name and then drove to Sentry, where I found everything but the Karo syrup. There was an open space on the display shelf, with a little sign noting that the item was on sale. I guess a significant number of other households will be having pecan pie for dessert on Thanksgiving.

I didn’t think I’d have enough time to check the shelves at Kohl’s, another grocery store in the same area of Middleton. Good thinking. My name was called less than a minute after I returned to Great Clips.

As soon as I could see the tops of my ears again, the woman cutting my hair was called to the front counter. She received a delivery of flowers, an arrangement of a dozen roses, all of them a different color. Did my eyes deceive me or are there indeed that many different varieties of roses?

“It’s not my birthday,” she said as she placed the flowers on a neighboring counter.

“So what is the occasion?” I asked playfully.

“I don’t know. I have no idea who they’re from,” she replied and then picked up a pair of scissors and a comb and resumed her work.

“Am I taking enough off?” she asked about my haircut, which make me wonder if she was purposely trying to change the subject.

I studied my reflection in the large wall mirror. Even with my beard, having my hair cut short always made me look younger. “You could probably take off another half inch,” I suggested.

This “50” thing is getting me too obsessed with my appearance. My unspoken personal goal seems to be anything to look less than 40. I’m striving for Jack Benny’s eternal 39.