Please, please, Mister Postman . . . Deliver the letter, the sooner the better!

I've always loved getting the mail.


Since I was a child, in fact. I remember walking home from school and hope hope hoping there would be a new catalog waiting for me to enjoy with my snack.

And I was a strange kid, because I actually spent my babysitting money in the pages of Lillian Vernon, dreaming of the future home in which I would need all those gadgets.



(Some of those cherished early Lillian Vernon purchases still grace my Christmas tree.)


Our current mailbox is across the street and part way up the block. When my city friend visits, she says "why do you have to go all the way up there to get your mail? Mine comes to my house."


I have no answer for that, especially on a day when the temperature doesn't poke its head above zero. But there have only been a few Minnesota days that have been so hideous that I couldn't bring myself to trudge to the mailbox to see what awaits.




For many years my father came home every day and said, "Did my check come today?" by which he meant his Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes check, of course.

To my knowledge that particular piece of mail has never arrived.
But sometimes the mail holds surprises.




And I don't mean the recent American Express bill in which we found out that someone had used our account number all the way from New York to Houston, eating McDonald's and shopping at 7-11 to their heart's content.

No, I mean wonderful surprises.

Like the generous college Geology scholarship I received out of the blue one day. I had no intention of studying Geology, but just the possibility of being a scientist provided a breath of fresh air. And serendipity (and some good test scores) placed it in my mailbox, right next to the catalogs so chock full of the possibilities of stuff.

Ah . . . mail.

Today was one of those memorable mail bonanzas.



Twenty years ago, I inherited a hand-pieced quilt top from Aunt Lillie's house. No one was sure whether she had made it, my grandmother had made it, or their mother had made it. But it was a Double Wedding Ring (with almost no fabric repeats!) in mint condition with green and purple (green and purple!) needing only to be quilted, bound, and LOVED.

No problem with the loving, but the quilting and binding seemed a bit daunting to me. So when I took it to show to my mother-in-law (the master quilter) she said, "I'll quilt it for you. I'd love to do that!"

And I said, "Yippee!"

Then we both promptly forgot about it . . . for about 20 years. Although she says she felt guilty and worried about it from time to time (which only goes to show you that guilt and worry can be a complete waste of energy, since I didn't give it another thought).



And then when I came home from errands, suddenly there was this giant and intriguing box in the entry.

It never even occurred to me what might be inside,



but it was certainly something lovelier
than a Geology scholarship.

The kind of gift
mail-dreams are made of . . .

In the card that was enclosed, my mother-in-law wrote, "It has given me so much pleasure to quilt this wonderful quilt . . . I hope you feel it is a great treasure to you from your grandmother, great aunt, (and me)."

Yes, yes, I certainly do.

And I can't thank you enough for your kindness, Jean, in allowing me to have this gift to cherish and hand down to my daughters. I hope someday to be able to repay your generosity in sharing your time and talents, and increasing the value and sentiment attached to this marvelous piece of my needlework genealogy.




Wait! Here's an idea:





If my check
comes
in the mail
tomorrow,
perhaps we
can split it
50/50.










Ah . . . mail.