I went to the post office today. I admit, I don't go every day. Well, actually I don't even go every week, so the mail gets smashed into the smallest box I can rent and every once in a while they can't get any more into it. They take it all out and put it in a bin and put a bright yellow card in my box with my PO number on it.
This is bad news.
It means I have to go wait in line, hand them the card and have them glare at me. "Pleeeeease get your mail more often. We couldn't fit anymore in there. Pleeeeeease." They stomp to the back room and come out lugging a bin full of junk mail, bills and annual reports from various companies in my 401k portfolio. They slam the bin down and snap, "Just take the whole bin. Return it later."
I make their life difficult, I know. And I always promise myself I'll drive up there more often, but really, who cares about junk mail and annual reports? Annual reports just say what the company wants them to say and junk mail doesn't even make good fire-starters.
But today there was something different. There was a personal letter. I remember such things from years ago, before email was invented. I aimed my car out of the lot and zipped down the road to the grocery store. I found a great space right up near the front and with the extra time I saved by not having to walk six extra spaces, I ripped open the letter. It was from my friend, Kathy Ornelas in California. I took out the paper and opened it up. A dollar bill floated out and landed on the floorboard.
That was it. Just the dollar. No writing. No explanation. But Kathy doesn't need an explanation. I know Kathy. I understand her. And I knew immediately why she sent the dollar.
Kathy did not want me to be a blockhead. Bless her. Good friends are hard to find.