Happy Valentine's Day -or- Why My Mailman Rocks

I am single.
I am 32.
I am female.
Every year around this time everyone else is making dinner reservations at cozy restaurants, booking romantic getaways to bed and breakfasts, or just planning to put their kids to bed early and spend some quality time with their husband… while I am planning to eat chocolates and watch a movie with Dungee.
The amazing thing? I actually look forward to Valentine’s Day every year. In fact, I have been, for the past 27 years.

27 years ago I was a freckle-faced, rambunctious tom-boy growing up on the shores of Tamarack Lake. Meadville was childhood heaven to me. I felt safe on every street. I could ride my bike to the Bait barn and get a Snickers with my big sister. I knew the insides of all my neighbors’ houses, what they kept in their fridge, how to feed their dogs if they went out of town, and whether or not I could score ice cream in their kitchen on a hot day. My days were spent running through sprinklers, building forts, selling lemonade at a makeshift stand or sled riding through all that puffy white lake effect snow. Meadville was a warm, friendly town, where a kid could be a kid.

It was February and at school we were getting ready for Valentine’s Day. This meant we made little mailboxes to put on our desks out of shoeboxes, decorated in construction paper hearts, marker and glitter. My mom took me to K-Mart to pick out a box of Valentines to pass out. They had all the regular ones, like Scooby-Doo, Barbie and Sesame Street, but the ones I wanted had little cartoon blue-birds on them. When I got home, I opened the box and saw that one of the cards had a little blue-bird dressed up as a mailman, with a sack of mail over his shoulder. I decided immediately that this one, obviously, I would give to my mailman!
I wrote my name inside in childish handwriting, placed the Valentine in the tiny white envelope, licked it shut and wrote “to my Mailman” on the front and placed it in our mailbox at the end of our long driveway.

One of my chores was to get the mail every day, and the next day, as I opened my mailbox, I saw a big red thick envelope in there and it simply said on the front “To Mandy” I couldn’t believe it! I had MAIL! This was a completely magical world to me, the mail system! Someone wrote something to ME! I ripped the thick envelope open to find a big wrapped chocolate heart and a card inside. It read “From, your mailman.” I was overjoyed! I could write my mailman and he would write back?! Sure enough, every time I would write my mailman, I would find a reply within a day or two in my mailbox.

We soon established a set of unspoken rules. We would always send cards to each other on any official holiday, as well as on my birthday. We each would write simple updates on things we were doing. Mine involved school, being in plays, the basketball team. My Mailman’s involved ice fishing, his children and enjoying Tamarack Lake. We both signed off “Your Friend.”

This pen-pal friendship has lasted 27 years. No matter how many times I have moved, no matter how many times I have changed jobs, no matter how many boyfriends have come and gone, I know one thing. I will always, no matter what, on Valentine’s Day find a card in my mailbox from my mailman. Let me tell you this, those cards have cheered me up countless times over the years. The most important thing those cards do though is they give me faith in humanity. That people can be honest, caring, thoughtful and your friend, year after year after year. That I was blessed to grow up in a time where a 5 year old girl could befriend her mailman and it was something that was special, miraculous and would prove to be one of her truest friendships throughout her life.

My mailman and I have probably only physically seen each other a handful of times. Over the years we grew to know each other’s families and friends and dreams almost completely through our letters. My mailman became both a grandfather figure and a trusted friend. Sometimes I’ll find one of his letters in my mailbox and I’ll turn to whatever boyfriend I am dating at the time and say “Oh! It’s a letter my from my childhood mailman!” I’ll tell them the story, and they always say the same thing, that it is amazing, that it is sweet and that they didn’t think there were people out there like that any more.

Well, there are, and there is, right there in Meadville.
My mailman is now retired, and no longer delivers the mail. The past few years, he has been battling a sickness with bravery and heart, going ice-fishing with his grandson when the ice gets thick enough, his favorite thing to do besides spend time with his wife, children and grandchildren.

This Halloween I didn’t receive a card from him, a first, and my heart sank. I grew immediately worried and sent off a quick card to check in and see how he was doing. For the first time, I got a call back. He was fine, and apologized for missing the holiday, and explained that he is a bit sick these days. I immediately felt the pull to see my friend in person, after all these years.

When I went home for Christmas this year I made the very short drive to my mailman’s house and my mother and I sat with him and his family and shared stories, looked at photo albums and we talked instead of writing to each other. My mailman showed me how he has been hand-making “manly” bouquets for fellow friends that are sick. He designs them all himself, building these amazing flower displays out of golf clubs, or old fashioned headlights, hunting boots or fishing rods. He and his wife volunteer at the Sertoma club on a weekly basis. He ice-fishes with his grandson as much as possible. He wakes up every day, bravely overcoming any effects of his illness and looks at each day as a gift, glad to spend it with people he loves near the shores of Tamarack, where he learned to fish as a child.

That visit was long overdue and we’ve decided that we’ll keep visiting in person, each time that I go home, from now on. Our friendship has grown to include our families now, and what a gift to see that happen.

So, you see, Valentine’s Day brings something special to my heart every year. It brings the memories of Meadville as a child, it brings hope, it brings enduring friendship across generations, time and many, many miles. Every Valentine’s Day as I open my Valentine Card from my mailman I thank God for giving me such an amazing friend. What a gift.

If you find yourself without someone to swap Valentine’s with, or maybe just because you were inspired by this story, I welcome you to send a Valentine to my mailman, wishing him good health, lots of luck ice fishing and thanking him for being such a decent, honorable and amazing person.

This year's card

The Mailman
Freyermuth Road
Meadville, PA 16335

Cultural Misunderstandings: Vol III

First Day of Surfing... ever

Almost 5 years ago now, I was given a surfboard by one of my bosses. A super nice, floaty longboard made by Hawaiian Classics. I surfed my first day ever on that board off of Long Island, surfed in the snowy Atlantic two days after Christmas, and generally really learned how to eat shit on that baby. I LOVED that board. I had lovingly named that board "Daffy", because I was only able to master one maneuver with her, the duck dive... (to my credit, I was only able to take her out 4 times in 2 years. Hence, why I had to move to Cali)

Weeee! NY Surfing SUCKS!

But the boss that gave it to me called up one August almost two years later and reneged on his offer of it being a 'gift' and insisted I drive it to his place in Manhattan that very day to give it back to him.
What a bastard. Just as surf season was kickin' in, too.
I still miss Daffy some days...

2 years ago (one summer later) I was in New Jersey perusing a surf shop with my then boyfriend. He had some credit at the shop dating back to the early 90's and I had about $200 to spend. As I walked around the shop, picking up boards, and looking at the price tags, it was obvious I wasn't going to be able to get a board as nice as Daffy. But, as I turned the corner in the store and looked up into their hatched ceiling, I spotted this beautiful shiny red board, with lime green hibuscus flowers on it. I was sold. For $175 I had my first official board. No give-backs. I was overjoyed.

I was also a total dork about it. Before we could even load it in the van to drive back to Brooklyn I had to lay out about 5 blankets in the back and put the spare tire down, so the board wouldn't be jossled too hard. I snapped at Dungee if she got to close to it. I cringed when we went over any bumps or took any turns too fast. I knew that surfboards were precious things and they could have very terrible things happen to them = DINGS. I vowed never, ever to let me new board get a ding in it.

At home I made sure the board was placed securely into a corner, propped on the best pillow in the apartment and that the tip was covered in a sweatshirt. Any time anyone even remotely would walk into the corner of the room I would look up and follow them with my eyes until they were at least 5 feet away from my board again. Man, that board was pretty. I know I got this from my father, whom still has his vintage Jaguar wrapped in blankets that were taken off of my childhood bed. When I was a teenager all I wanted to do was rip my cartoon lion and tiger blanket off that car and drag it back upstairs. But now? When I see the cherry red finish still in tact on both the Jag and my board? I get it.

When I was planning on moving to California, my Dad asked "What kind of car are you looking to buy?" I answered "Something that holds a 7'6" surfboard and gets good mileage." My Dad searched all of western pennsylvania for a car that would fit a surfboard in it and he finally found my truck, though it had no cap. He told me that I'd just have to drive to California without a cap and I told him that he was nuts. "My BOARD will get a DING!" So, he went back out and found me a cap.

When I was finally packing for California in my parent's driveway, it came time to actually bring the surfboard UP and try to put it in. I refused. I refused because my Dad was helping me to pack and my Dad's packing method is as follows: throw, smash, smack and slam shut.
He wasn't getting NEAR my board. So, there we were, standing in the driveway, staring at each other and he says "So, how are we going to find out if it fits?" and I answered "There has to be some kind of mathematical equation we can try! C'mon! Let's figure it out with MATH! It will be fun!" I even went so far as to get out a notepad and try and do A2 + B2 + C2 = D2
Finally, my dad got so fed up he went inside.

I went downstairs into my bedroom and proceeded to unpack my bedding and wrap my surfboard in it. I wrapped that baby so nice in my 2 best blankets and then swaddled it in duct tape and bubble wrap. NASA would've approved it for re-entry into the earth's atmosphere.
I snuck it upstairs and slid it oh, so carefully into the truck. It took a few little pushes to get it to fit in, but sure enough? It fit! I turned around to see my Dad rolling his eyes at me, but I knew he understood. Mostly because I had placed something small, like a roll of tape on the blanket on hood of his Jaguar a few moments earlier and it was already gone. He got it. He made me this way. I am my father's daughter and we will do anything to protect cherry red finishes.

Driving out to California was a nail-biter in some places, there were bumps and snowdrifts and crazy dirt roads. Each time I would go over a speed bump I'd cringe imagining my board getting little tiny dings.

It was a miracle when I arrived in Cali and unwrapped it to find it completely and totally FINE!
YAY!

I proceeded to act this way toward my precious board for the next two months (even going so far as to not ride it, and ride foamies so it wouldn't get hurt as I was learning how to surf).

Then, one day, and I'll be honest I forget exactly how it happened, but the board fell. IT FELL.
And I picked it up, shocked and scared to look down at it...
Just as I heard over my shoulder "Awwww, nothing can hurt those epoxy boards. You can't kill that thing if you tried."

What? What was that you say? An EPOXY board? What's an epoxy board?

Turns out that my precious little board was one of those new-fangled indestructable epoxy boards. Not a lovingly shaped fiberglass board, that is the kind prone to dings and easy destruction.

At first I was digusted by it, thinking "It's not a real board." But, then, one day I took it out and had a blast. It's been my go-to board for the last 6 months.

I gotta tell you, I have had the best time on that thing. I chuck it around and drag it over cement. It slides off my truck in the parking lot and other people cringe now! But I just smile and grin and yell out "It's EPOXY!"

Last week I took it where you'd take no fiberglass board. I took it on an ankle high day to Swami's and rode the inside. Right over the reef. You could hear it hitting reef and dragging as I rode the nose. I would ride it so far in, that the tip would catch on a piece of reef and I'd go cart-wheeling into ankle high water. That day, I finally dinged it. Finally.

Epoxy boards... who knew?

Oh, yeah, and don't tell my Dad about this. He'll never let me live it down and I'll never be able to take that Jag out. Thank goodness he doesn't read my blog.

Your life is the story you wish to tell

Your life is the story that you wish to tell.

This simple statement came to me over 6 years ago, from my friend and at that time boss, Danielle, as we sat in her office at Ogilvy & Mather. We were talking about what in my life I should do next, while doing our nails while we were probably supposed to be listening to a conference call.

I never, ever forgot that statement.

A little over a year ago, in December of 2007, I was deeply unhappy in New York City. I was struggling to find a job I was passionate about, I was in a relationship that needed ending and I had come to the end of my love affair with New York City. I was in one of those life cycles, where you just keep on going with what you are doing, and become a bit more bitter every day. The days when you were happy seem so far off, you become slightly convinced that those days were designed for a more youthful you, and that the elder you just has to face reality. So, I trudged along, and kinda just threw in the towel when it came to living how I wanted to live.

Meanwhile, Danielle had been asking me for months if I would be going to her wedding in Zihuatanejo, Mexico. The thought of going to Mexico seemed so remote and crazy that I had long told her “I just don’t think I can swing it.” I would have to go by myself and just couldn’t imagine facing yet another wedding alone. But Danielle wouldn’t have it. She was relentless. She even went so far as to look up tickets, email them to me and then provided me with her frequent flier miles account number so that the airfare would be her gift to me. Danielle is an amazing type of friend. She doesn’t sugar coat (she once sent me an email, that I still cherish, that said “You look much better thin. Never get that chubby again. Love, Danielle”), she doesn’t let you go down the wrong path and she just simply won’t stand for someone she loves not being there to share in such an important day in her life. Plus, I also worked with her Fiancee, Davin, and he was a really amazing friend to me too. Davin actually got me my start in advertising, hiring me among a field of people who had more experience. But he hired me solely on instinct and the belief that I would do well. Right-o Davs!

So, you see, I had to go.

I packed my bags, I jumped on a plane and I landed by myself in Mexico.

I could write an entire book on what that trip meant to me, but I’ll cut to the chase.

The first night at dinner, I was kismet-ly sat next to the only other person at the entire wedding who wanted to surf while he was down there. We quickly hatched a surf plan, booked a way to get a rental car, had him switch to my way cooler and cheaper hotel and then we parted ways at 2am with plans to meet at 7am. HA!

But, sure enough, a few hours later, we were both in the lobby and off to find some surf.

The next 3 days were some of the most important days of my life. I surfed. I sat in the sun. I surfed. I drank cool beers that we would bury in the sand in plastic bags with ice. We drove down dusty dirt roads, seemingly leading to no where that would end up being these sweet little deserted bays with little tiny peeling waves. We saw dolphins. We somehow didn’t kill ourselves on the reef. We drank chilled tequila at roadside bars. We went through fields of cattle and moo’d at them. We played with the kids on the beach. We had stray dogs that followed us. We even recruited, for one day, David and Kelly Pitts to join us on our surfari and we all laughed until it hurt all day long.
Every single night we’d return back to Zihua and hang out with the wedding crew, laughing and talking and celebrating Danielle and Davin until the wee hours. It was so life affirming to see Danielle and Davin so happy, surrounded by so many people that traveled so far and love them so much.
Each morning I would wake up early, walk a few steps down to the ocean and swim. I’d smell the salty ocean air on my arms. I’d see new freckles pop out.

Then, we’d pack up and go surf for the day.

Those 3 days seemed both like a whirlwind and like an eternity.

On the very, very last day, as I sat sipping a freshly cracked coconut on the drive back from surfing Troncones, I stared into the distance… and something clicked.

In that exact moment in time, I knew, from the very bottom of my heart that my life had to change.

*In fact, my surf buddy just so happened to be a pretty damn good photographer and he grabbed my camera and captured this moment. I was awestruck when I saw the photo weeks later, having not known he took it. This is what a life changing realization looks like:

But here is what I was thinking:

I could no longer go back to New York and pretend that it was all o.k. I had to face the facts. I was at the beginning of a long road ahead, a road in which I would have to find the balls to change it all, explain my heart and pack up and leave. This was not an easy revelation to have. It was scary, it was shocking and it made me be very, very still…

Those three days spent surfing to me told me that whatever my next chapter is, it involved surfing. It would have to, no matter what, involve feeling that salty ocean water in my hair, the opportunity to ride a wave, the slow paddle back out, the metallic shimmer of the sun on the calm water and the kid-like enthusiasm I felt when I would stand up, ride and come crashing down into the whitewash. That, to me, was living.

I am reminded of this Chapter because I feel as if, after almost exactly a year later, I am facing the turning of another chapter. I am now surfing every day, living near the ocean and enjoying the salty spray of the pacific. It has not been an easy year, in fact it’s been one of the toughest of my life. But, I wouldn’t change it for the world. There is nothing I would do differently. Following your dreams isn’t easy, and life continues to be a challenge, but every time I am able to hit the surf, I am happy to be alive. I hope that everyone knows there is something for you to love as much as this, and it is worth every struggle to find it and make it part of your life.

Here’s to everyone finding their 'surfing'


Just don't take up surfing, it's already too crowded out here. :)