Sometimes I do a quick mental count of how much I know about the important people in my life. I’ll picture a relative or friend and quiz myself on how many facts I can call up. Like for my friend, C., I might ask: what’s her birth city? (Miami). Her pet peeve? (gum). Ideal Sunday morning? (Cafe con leche, New York Times). Coolest creation? (swim noodle ottoman). If I had a 4 x 6 index card, how much of it could I fill with information about her, or about my other loved ones? Maybe a few lines, maybe all of them. Possibly the front and the back, or even a second and third card. In high school, my teachers taught me how to do research papers using index cards. I was allowed one fact per card. In that case, how many cards would I have for my brother, my husband, or a new friend? I might have a stack of them for a mother I met only briefly at the park. The length of a relationship isn’t always proportional to its depth.
In the case of my step-father, the time/meaning ratio is a match. He’s a history professor and author. Last week he sent me $20 so I could buy something wonderful to read, something of my own choosing, just because. I thought about the index card construct when I opened the envelope and saw his check. It was parchment-brown. He filled-in the blanks with his calligraphic script. His bank is small and local (or it was when he became a customer). He writes the date in the European way–day, then month, then year. His signature looks like Thomas Jefferson’s. That’s eight facts right there (the first being that he’s thoughtful and kind.) I carried his check from the mailbox to my office so I could take a picture of it before going to the bank. Five paces shy of the door, it started to rain lightly. Damn, I said, as tiny drops pooled on a hoop of his handwriting. Then I smiled. Number nine: always writes with a fountain pen.
I am always astounded and amazed when someone – esp. someone I wouldn’t have suspected – reels off a bunch of very specific, often quirky details about me. It is flattering, it is validating. I wonder if, say, on Match.com hopeful singles dare reveal such specialized details about themselves (such as wanting only to use a FOUNTAIN PEN — or only wanting to drive a stick-shift car — or only wanting to eat Silver Queen corn, recently picked ?) Dare they reveal things that seem so —– so relatively UNimportant ? Surely, it would seem more “important” to announce that they voted for Obama — or that they graduated from an Ivy League school.
Yet, it is mostly those OTHER things that end up really being held so dear to our hearts – those l,OOO’s of LITTLE things that we “collect notecards” about – those unique “markers” we cherish so – and remember, for example, ANYtime we catch a whiff of a specific fragrance wafting through the breeze – reminding us of some one and only beloved person, or see an envelope in the mail addressed to us in that calligraphic script.