Not all that Random

 

A Thursday Letter                                                                    

 On occasion I send out a snail mail just for fun.  Today, for whatever reason, you are the recipient.  I have a usual list I pick from.  The selection process is completely random.  Okay, sometimes it isn’t 100% random.  Sometimes I look at the Weather Channel to see what is crossing the country.  If it is heavy snow then I avoid sending a letter in that direction, as it will spend days enroot.  I prefer things to get to the person quickly, while whatever subject matter in my letter is still relevant.  Not that I always write about current events, because I don’t.

Picture, if you will, an antique shop.  Everything within the shop has been there a while.  Each item knows a little something about the other items in the shop.  For example, that old Railroad lantern over there knows that table lamp has kicked around the shop for some time now.  She has been looked at a few times, even picked up and examined a little closer, but so far, she hasn’t sold.  No one has taken her home with them.  Absolutely everything in the shop has its own history, and it is that shop history that the other items know about.  Rarely will an items complete history be known.

You and I are the same.  This time period is our antique shop.  We are traveling through it together.  We each know just a little about the other.  We remember fondly those who have traveled on.  They are no longer here, traveling with us.  We are the items left.  Some have left things behind, like children.  We will eventually leave this time period but the things we have left behind will stay.  They will be added to our history.  Our personal story will expand.

As I do not leave any children behind, my history can be found in the bits and fragments of my writing.  For while I am here in this antique shop, it remains my hobby that lays scattered about in the form of letters, books and blogs.  They are the dust imprint left from where I once resided.   My words become my footprint, so to speak.   Not all gems, mind you, but none the less, a snapshot of an antique Zobostic. 

This Thursday letter has, so far, avoided the elephant in the room.  It is the dreaded trip I have scheduled to see the dentist. 

I have no teeth issues but am simply establishing a relationship with a dentist in the area, in the event I need one someday.  I had a good dentist back in Michigan, but he retired.  Now I find myself surrounded by Floridians and am now destined to be labeled and lumped into the “old” category.  No longer will I be Zobostic and he be Doctor Sullivan.  Those days are over.  Now I will be referred to as, “Next.”

Here, in the back room of this antique shop, I will take my place on the assembly line of patients, no more impressive than the glass ashtray, who boasts that he has no chips, while ignoring completely that smoking has fallen out of favor.  Each of us is here for a reason, passing the time, just waiting for the little bell over the front door to tinkle.  Will I be carried out today?  Is it my turn?

Nope.  Looks like little Miss Perfect lamp is being carried out.  Good.  We were all just a little tired of hearing how bright she is.

 

 

 

Zobostic Corwin

Looking forward to Friday.

Sent on 9-15-2022

 Well...

aren't you the clever one?  You, so far, are the only one to notice this isn't a snail mail.

Just keep that to yourself, Okay?