Tumbleweeds Blowing in My Mailbox
My cousin made a passing comment once that left an indelible mark in what was then my very impressionable and adolescent psyche. Think of a thumbprint in a partially baked cookie; she was the thumbprint and I was the cookie. It was the end of our joint summer vacation on an island in Maine and we had forged big plans to become pen pals. “Now don’t forget to write me letters,” she reminded me as she boarded the ferry to head back to the mainland. “Pen-pal’ing won’t work if I’ve got nothing in my mailbox but tumbleweeds. Think how sad I’d be, running down to the mailbox every day, feeling all hopeful, only to peer inside and see nothing but tumbleweeds blowing around.”
Tumbleweeds?! I lived in Portland (no, not Oregon). She lived in New York City. There weren’t any tumbleweeds anywhere close to Portland, let alone The Big Apple. Pine needles, birch bark, maple leaves or perhaps little bits of hot garbage would be more apropos. But tumbleweeds?! My mind automatically pictured a dusty ghost town somewhere out there in the exotic west. I envisioned a horse tied up to a hitching post. A Navajo blanket. A saguaro cactus. A swinging saloon door and a surly cowboy saddled up to a bar, nursing a lonesome glass of whiskey neat.
Anyway, I digress. My cousin and I hugged goodbye and then she headed down the gang plank. I waved and waved and waved until the ferry rounded a point of land and turned out of sight. I then walked to the island’s only stationary store and promptly bought a package of blank cards with envelopes cut to size. For about two weeks, I faithfully wrote my cousin a letter every day…well, almost every day. But then September reared its ugly little head and it was time for me to leave the island and start my sophomore year of high school. Come October, I had forgotten all about tumbleweeds and pen-pal’ing and all about my cousin’s mailbox. A mailbox that, by that point in time, was surely little more than an echo chamber.
Only, I didn’t forget about my cousin’s mailbox. Or, at least, I didn’t forget about the image of tumbleweeds blowing around inside of mailboxes. Because now, as a grown woman nearing her fifties, the image of tumbleweeds blowing around in anybody’s mailbox, my own especially, fills me with a strange combination of both comedy and sadness. It’s an image that is simultaneously funny and poignant, if not ridiculous and tragic, and it inspires in me the impulse to laugh while I cry.
This odd combination of hilarity and tragedy pretty much sums up my experience of what it means to live and what it means to be human. And I like to write about that strange, sad, funny, lonesome and joyful experience… a lot. And in all kinds of forms. In essays and short stories, in novellas and poetry and in whatever other free form happens to win the hand on any given day. And while this writing does not yet earn my keep, it sure does give me a sense of purpose, a much needed creative outlet and a wellspring of peace.
I don’t want your mailbox to be jammed with tumbleweeds any more so than I want mine jammed with tumbleweeds. Instead, I’d like it to be peppered with a few words now and again. Words and images that might make you laugh or cry, get angry or invigorated, hopeful or even sad. So please come join me on this life journey; if nothing else, it should at least be an interesting ride.