THE LUNAR REPORT - "THE UNSIGNED CARD" April 26, 2010
It started with an unsigned birthday card. My understanding. My real understanding. Of someone I had just taken for granted for the first 31 years of my life.
Maybe I am being a bit harsh on myself. “Taken for granted” seems a bit strong. I have always known and felt the special love of this woman. So have others. Many others. But when good folks are always good, you expect them to always be good. Good is normal.
The unsigned card was extraordinary.
My son was born on Saturday, January 5, 1985. The following Saturday was my 31st birthday. That morning, this woman made the 40 minute drive to the house I shared with my wife and newborn son. She brought dinner food, gifts and a freshly baked pound cake to honor my birthday. I appreciated that. But honestly, I didn’t find her actions to be all that special. I mean, doing stuff like that is normal behavior for her. Besides, I thought at the time, she was just using my birthday as an excuse to hold a beautiful newborn in her arms for a while. She loves doing that. The newborns love it too.
But January 12, 1985 was the day I realized just how special this woman is. Sure, she brought food, cake and gifts. Very thoughtful and generous. And normal. But she also brought something else. One more small thing. It wasn’t something I needed to put away or refrigerate. It was small. And sweet. And made of paper.
It was the unsigned card.
She gave it to my wife on my birthday. I witnessed the whole transaction. I found it a bit odd that this woman would give a birthday card to my wife on MY birthday. And unsigned at that. I was confused. Until it became obvious that I had ruined a surprise. The woman’s facial expression and ever graceful humor delivered me from the embarrassment of the realization that I had wrecked a good surprise.
This woman knew that my wife had been home-bound since birthing our child just seven days before. That card was for my wife to sign and give to me.
Food. Gifts. Pound cake. And that card. That unsigned card.
This is about Aunt Barbara. She calls herself my “second mom.” That’s because she is. Not only to me, but to all my other cousins and their children and to all the hundreds of little tykes she taught in her basement pre-school all those years. Look. If you ever want to feel like you are with someone special, take a stroll with her through almost any public place in Alamance County, North Carolina. I promise you, you will hear maybe a dozen times an hour, “Hey, there’s Ms. Barbara” from one of her not so little anymore pre-schoolers.
Aunt Barbara is special. And every time I have the slightest contact with her, I end up feeling special too. That’s how she operates, you know.
Today is Aunt Barbara’s birthday. I don’t know how old she is. I don’t care, really. I think that putting an age to Aunt Barbara should be a sin. Except for an especially bad bout of sciatica she is suffering through right now, the woman hasn’t changed in the 56 years I’ve known her.
Look. Aunt Barbara will never make a huge impact on humanity. Though her prayer list is a long one, she won’t save millions of souls. Though she has been, I am sure, generous with donations and local fund-raising drives, she will not even come close to curing cancer or doing anything like that.
But she does what she can. Touching one of us at a time. And she touches everyone she meets. With a hug. With a kiss. With an “I love you” here and a “You are so special, sweetheart” there. Well. She touched me in a profoundly remarkable way. With a card.
Just an unsigned card.
Happy birthday, Second-Mom! I understand now.
Maybe I am being a bit harsh on myself. “Taken for granted” seems a bit strong. I have always known and felt the special love of this woman. So have others. Many others. But when good folks are always good, you expect them to always be good. Good is normal.
The unsigned card was extraordinary.
My son was born on Saturday, January 5, 1985. The following Saturday was my 31st birthday. That morning, this woman made the 40 minute drive to the house I shared with my wife and newborn son. She brought dinner food, gifts and a freshly baked pound cake to honor my birthday. I appreciated that. But honestly, I didn’t find her actions to be all that special. I mean, doing stuff like that is normal behavior for her. Besides, I thought at the time, she was just using my birthday as an excuse to hold a beautiful newborn in her arms for a while. She loves doing that. The newborns love it too.
But January 12, 1985 was the day I realized just how special this woman is. Sure, she brought food, cake and gifts. Very thoughtful and generous. And normal. But she also brought something else. One more small thing. It wasn’t something I needed to put away or refrigerate. It was small. And sweet. And made of paper.
It was the unsigned card.
She gave it to my wife on my birthday. I witnessed the whole transaction. I found it a bit odd that this woman would give a birthday card to my wife on MY birthday. And unsigned at that. I was confused. Until it became obvious that I had ruined a surprise. The woman’s facial expression and ever graceful humor delivered me from the embarrassment of the realization that I had wrecked a good surprise.
This woman knew that my wife had been home-bound since birthing our child just seven days before. That card was for my wife to sign and give to me.
Food. Gifts. Pound cake. And that card. That unsigned card.
This is about Aunt Barbara. She calls herself my “second mom.” That’s because she is. Not only to me, but to all my other cousins and their children and to all the hundreds of little tykes she taught in her basement pre-school all those years. Look. If you ever want to feel like you are with someone special, take a stroll with her through almost any public place in Alamance County, North Carolina. I promise you, you will hear maybe a dozen times an hour, “Hey, there’s Ms. Barbara” from one of her not so little anymore pre-schoolers.
Aunt Barbara is special. And every time I have the slightest contact with her, I end up feeling special too. That’s how she operates, you know.
Today is Aunt Barbara’s birthday. I don’t know how old she is. I don’t care, really. I think that putting an age to Aunt Barbara should be a sin. Except for an especially bad bout of sciatica she is suffering through right now, the woman hasn’t changed in the 56 years I’ve known her.
Look. Aunt Barbara will never make a huge impact on humanity. Though her prayer list is a long one, she won’t save millions of souls. Though she has been, I am sure, generous with donations and local fund-raising drives, she will not even come close to curing cancer or doing anything like that.
But she does what she can. Touching one of us at a time. And she touches everyone she meets. With a hug. With a kiss. With an “I love you” here and a “You are so special, sweetheart” there. Well. She touched me in a profoundly remarkable way. With a card.
Just an unsigned card.
Happy birthday, Second-Mom! I understand now.
Please visit the sites of some of my friends.
I like to think that I'm not as ominous in real life.
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This marriage is no one's business but our own.
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