I buy lots of post cards.
Younger readers may not know what post cards are. Just think of them as early Tweets, but on stiff paper. If you write small, you can get 148 characters.
Twice a week, I send post cards to two of my oldest friends who are recovering from strokes. Every now and then, I send a smart ass post card to my old business partner and college buddy just to see if it comes back “return to sender.” He’s been sick, too.
Subject matter is no problem. But I’ll confess to being fixated on ice fishing, snow plows and all things winter. The cold has a way of causing you to focus. Just since moving here, I now own three pairs of gloves, three winter hats, umpteen heavy shirts, and...and...
It was zero degrees when I went out to get the paper this morning. The Mystery Woman, who has lived in Minnesota the past 30 years, observed dryly, “Zero degrees. That’s not any.”
But I'm getting used to it. Where we once had sidewalks, mounds of snow remind you of the trenches of WWI. Everywhere you look, shovels are petards sticking up in the snow where homeowners abandoned them in a rush to get inside the warm house. I think it’s why people talk so fast up here.
Where was I?
Oh yes, post cards. Over in St.Paul, just a short dog-sled ride away, there’s a nice little gift shop with good 35-cent post cards. I buy them by the handful. Today’s mailing was 1930s artwork depicting three cruise ships docked at Lake Superior.
“Don’t believe it, boys,” I wrote. “These are ice-breakers in drag.”
Aww hell, don’t worry. These guys are from Texas. They know not to believe a word I write.
Honey, would you read this to see if it sounds too much like cabin fever.