Homage to Love

The letter was written on May 21, 1945 by a smitten 17-year old young woman named Ella. I am without doubt that the young man to whom she wrote the letter was equally smitten because a little more than five years later, my father was born.

I was browsing on Craigslist last week, and I happened upon two gorgeous pieces selling at a price that was, in my opinion, way, way too low. They were both Dixie pieces, though not a matching set. An hour later, I was loading one in my car (these pieces were massive, so I had to return the next day to retrieve the other).

The dresser was in fantastic condition, but the tall chest of drawers had more than a few spots of missing veneer. The ever-so-slight scar on my left hand reminded me that stripping the veneer was not an option. Painting over the blemishes wouldn't solve the problem any more than a 2-inch thick coat of make-up solves acne. I obsessed about a solution while I tried to fall asleep that night. Then, on turned the light bulb. Old love letters!

I love handwritten letters. I love handwritten anything. I think it adds so much to the meaning of what is written. And I've always been fascinated by the penmanship of old, so I knew I wanted that to cover the drawer faces. As I searched images, I somehow stumbled upon an article that mentioned text in love letters remains the property of the writer or his/her heirs. It's copyrighted. Since I had no desire to steal someone else's work, I felt stumped.  Then I remembered that I had scanned some love letters my grandparents exchanged before they married. I'd rather use their letters anyway, so for once, I was grateful to read legalese.

I'll spare the details of the process, but it involved many printed copies on heavy paper, scissors, Mod Podge, and dark wax. The process was tedious, but as I printed, cut, and glued, I read and re-read the excerpts. They had known each other for only two months, and my grandmother was already wondering if my grandfather would mind if their children could be raised Catholic. She was either pushing the hard sell, or they were already very much in love. Knowing them, I choose to think the latter. Here is the end result......

Oh, and here is the other dresser......

I am quite pleased with the end results, but I've had this nagging feeling of guilt. I have wondered if either of them would be displeased with me using their love letter. I've concluded that my grandmother would be reluctantly happy, but my grandfather would be miffed. I knew him for over 30 years, but I knew very little about him. I know he was private, and I know his spirit and will to live died when his Ella died. Grief damages all of us.

It was a storybook romance, and though the fairy tale ended sadly, the romantic in me likes to think that in some far away place where time doesn't exist, they are together, laughingly shaking their heads at the chest of drawers that I bought on Craigslist.

My Disdain for Christmas

I don't remember exactly when I started to loathe Christmas, but as the years have passed since that day, the list of reasons why I don't like Christmas has grown. I'll never remember each and every one for this post, but I'm in the mood to vent.

First of all, it's a religious holiday, and though I'm spiritual, and I kinda (wholeheartedly when I need to be bailed out of a jam) believe in God, lines are drawn when it comes to immaculate conceptions, mangers, and other fun stories invented by people who had their own agendas. The irony of a religious holiday creating this much stress is not lost on me.

The commercialization of Christmas is embarrassing, and I am ashamed that I walk with the sheeple. It really is exponentially worse than the commercially-invented holidays like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day. Don't get me wrong. I have zero issues with retailers taking advantage of this. I am a die-hard Libertarian, after all. I would love to completely exclude myself from this nonsense, but one would be held in higher regard if they kicked a dog than if they bought nothing for loved ones on Christmas. I fall in line as little as possible. My best friends and favorite family members give each other the best gift of all. Nothing. We each spare the other from the stress.

The stress. The fucking stress. I don't stress about what to buy. My sister tells me what to get my niece and nephew, and I buy wine for the few others to whom I feel obligated. No, the real stress for me comes from pretending to like something. I dread those moments. I know, I know.....it's the thought that counts. So tell me. Exactly how much thought did you put into buying this Mr. Rogers' sweater? When have you ever seen me wear a fucking sweater? Not only must I feign happiness and gratitude, but now I have to drive to Goodwill to drop off this present.

The fucking music. I've yet to meet one person who likes Christmas music, but there it is, playing everywhere. Nothing makes me want to get out of a store faster than Christmas music. Not babies crying, not country music, and not morbidly obese people driving their carts....nothing. Tired songs, some remade by the latest hipsters, that remain agonizingly annoying. Perhaps I'm the exception rather than the rule, but was there a study that concluded annoying Christmas music encourages shoppers to spend? Maybe it encourages shoppers not to check prices because that would add seconds to the torture. There must be a reason, but I don't care enough to research it.

I feel better, though there are others like Salvation Army bell-ringers, Black Friday idiots, traffic, being around family members I don't like. On the bright side, I'm enjoying not having to drive to Louisiana and listen to my ex-father-in-law talk about nothing for hours on end for the fourth consecutive Christmas. Life could be worse. On that note, have a Merry Christmas.