Letters
To write honestly and with all our powers is the least we can do and the most. - Eudora Welty
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Dear Child,
I’d like to think that I’ve said everything I am writing now out loud to you at some point during your brief and beautiful life thus far. And maybe I have. But what if I didn’t say it loud enough or often enough or in the manner in which you could hear it? What if I whispered it to you as you fell asleep or said it in a language your ears couldn’t understand or your heart wouldn’t hear? And that’s why I am writing this down. Recording it. In another format. A different way. Because it’s all bits and pieces I want you to hear a thousand times in…
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Dear Lady After Me at the Checkout Counter at Trader Joe’s,
My daughter was watching your face as you watched my kids and I bag our groceries. As you received a phone call and chatted loudly, noting your annoyance at how long it was taking to get out of the store today because it was soooo slow. Saw your face as you grimaced and barely maintained civility when my EBT card functioned improperly. Watched your face as you eyed our grocery choices and our clothing choices and whatever other choices you decided didn’t measure up to your standard on your exceptionally busy Sunday afternoon. Hey. Maybe you were having an incredibly hectic day. Maybe it was awful and a burden…
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dear singing son ….
Dear Wilde Fox of an Otto, I held your hand while falling asleep in bed beside you. My left hand in your right hand. It was neither comfortable nor convenient. Criss crossed and upside down (because you prefer the right thumb to suck at night). But I never let go because I didn’t want to. My son. I carried you piggy back on the return walk from the marina. It was neither necessary nor easy. You are now nearly fifty pounds of heavy and your dirty shoes were brushing against my clean jeans. But you asked for a ride and you offered kisses as payments and I had no desire…
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Dear Chacos.
Dear Chacos, I saw you once. Years ago. I was younger. You were too. You looked … rope-y. You left the toes all bare and open to roots and rocks. I was wearing Keens. They were close-toed and I was close-minded. Arrogant, even. (I’ve been known to have opinions. Strong ones. And verbal ones. Written ones too.) I climbed aboard the Keen train and we’ve been chugging along together. Me and my husband and our six children. And the many friends we’ve dragged along for the ride. Yes. I’ve written letters to Keen. Blog posts. Love songs. And King Keen has never acknowledged my voice. I’m not bitter. I’m a…
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Dear Wendell Berry. I hope you read this.
Dear Wendell Berry, If my eyes are blood-shot tomorrow morning and I’m unable to stay awake during breakfast with my six children, it is your fault. If I sell all I possess in order to purchase back the farm on which I grow up, I hold you responsible. I don’t like to make extreme statements, but I have just finished what might become my favorite book of all time, beating out long-standing favorites Fair and Tender Ladies and To Kill A Mockingbird. I also could be delusional. Perhaps I’ll be thinking more clearly in the morning. The later morning, I should clarify, as it is currently 1:51 a.m. and I…
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A Letter About Ice Cream, Cookies and Disappointment
Dear Breyer’s Ice Cream, I am choosing to address my letter to you as you are the official maker of this particular product. I like bright colors, funky shoes and exuberant headwear. But I like my ice cream in the plain old vanilla variety. My children love cookies with a chocolate coating and cookies with a chocolate filling and cookies with chocolate sprinkles. But I like my cookies simple and plain as well – like the Golden Oreo. When I do decide to mix it up and go a little crazy at dessert time, I chop a Golden Oreo or two (or six) into little bits and mix it into…
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An Open Letter to Disney Writers
Dear Disney Teen and Tween Show Writers, Stupidity isn’t cute. Creating characters who pretend to be morons to attract the opposite sex is degrading. Being ignorant is not funny. Laugh tracks are unbearable. A television show should not make me feel as if I am losing brain cells whilst merely walking through a room during an episode of said TV show. Remember the commercial from the 1980’s? The one with the frying pan and the sizzling egg? “This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?” That’s what your currently popular series are like. Why are twelve-year-olds and sixteen-year-olds revealing more skin than a baby getting its…
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when you don’t see the point.
On the road that leads to the field where Mosely plays soccer every week there stands a solitary stop sign. It is not located where a stop sign should be located. There is no apparent rhyme nor reason for this stop sign. No traffic could possibly come from any other direction and it is simply placed in the curve of a road. I don’t know why. I think about that stop sign twice every week. Once when we drive to her game and once when we drive to her practice. I usually come to the classic rolling stop. Silly stop sign. I don’t see the point. There it is –…
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Dear 18 me.
My husband is a genius. He just invented a time machine. It has its faults, of course. It can only go backward, not forward. And there’s only one age where this machine stops. 18. Oh, and it isn’t actually a time machine. It’s just a website. But on this website you can write a letter to yourself at the ripe old age of eighteen. I’m writing a letter to funky-headed, self-absorbed, weird-outfit-wearing eighteen-year-old Lacey over there today. Which, I think, implies two things. One. You should click here and read my letter. And. Two. You should join the fun and write a letter to eighteen-year-old you. (And please, for the…
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An Open Letter to Keen
Dear Makers of the Shoe We Affectionately Call Keen, (Oh, wait – everyone calls these shoes Keen. My bad.) I have long loved your shoes. Their durability. Their versatility. Their wearability. (Did I just make up that word?) The first summer that we discovered these walking wonders we purchased a pair for my husband, a pair for me and a pair for our oldest daughter. The next summer we made the leap to the smaller feet in our home. (Who could resist the fun colors, the lack of zippers, the protected toe, the all-weather-ness?) This summer the sizes that could be passed down to younger siblings were. One pair was…
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Just so you know, Mom.
Not all of London’s notes are love letters. The other day I walked into the kitchen to find these announcements placed on canisters on our counter. First – on the jar of peanuts. And then the container of oatmeal. (Clearly not her favorite Monday morning meal option.)
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Wanted: Your Ideas
Now that she can write, London loves to express herself through words. And you know I love that. She has started keeping a journal that she writes in while she is in bed at night. It is precious to me. Filled with paragraphs of ideas and thoughts. A page filled to bursting with a retelling of her day and how she thought it would turn out one way when it really turned out a different way. A listing of all the places she would like to visit on her upcoming daddy-daughter date. And lately, she has been leaving little notes for me all over the house. And I love finding…
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The Two Tiniest
Dear Fox and Finnian, Can you please stay small forever? Love, Momma
Keep Reading . . .
In Praise of Small Homes
here we go …
some tiny epiphanies via my quarantine education
