In Praise of Snail Mail

Through twenty-three years and five moves across two states, I’ve kept a manila file folder containing the first acceptance letter I ever received. The letter is typed on cream-colored stationery, glossy and substantial, and is embossed with the letterhead of the magazine that accepted that long-ago first story. Looking at it now, I still remember the sense of hope I felt standing there in the dusty foyer of the rowhouse apartment where I lived in Philadelphia. I remember thinking the envelope was too fat to be a letter of acceptance, but too slim to be the story I’d sent them, only to be returned to me now with regrets.

The other day I uploaded five poems into an online submission manager and hit “Submit.” Seconds later I received a form e-mail from the journal thanking me for my submission. It cost me nothing but a moment of my time and spared me a slog to the post office on a crummy day, the way I’d done so long ago in Philadelphia. I remember how I’d hiked that short story down to the post office not far from City Hall and kissed the clasp envelope before handing it to the amused clerk. I was a graduate student at the time, living on student loans and a part-time job as a proofreader; the money that I spent on postage to send that story and others out into the world would have been considerable—part of the dues I thought I needed to pay become a writer.

Recently, a friend shared a story on his blog about a journal that accepted four of his poems nearly two years ago, only to send him an e-mail months later rejecting those same four poems. After many back and forth e-mails, the editor (the same one who’d accepted the poems) attributed the rejection to “budget cuts.” And so my friend did what most poets do when they receive rejection: Moved on and resubmitted those poems to other magazines. Several of the poems were subsequently accepted, suggesting a happily-ever-after ending –-until recently, when he received a print copy of the journal that had rejected him containing (you guessed it) the four poems the magazine had declined.

As writers we’re well advised not to take rejection personally, to treat it not as an event—as Carolyn See writes—but as a process. To be sure, e-mailed rejections can be easily dismissed as blips, the briefest of interruptions on an otherwise okay day. But acceptance – whether the first or the hundred and first – should be an event, a worthy-of-fireworks ceremony marking the final mile in a creative journey that started with a handful of words whispering this way.  And a letter dropped through a mail slot or tucked into a box next to the front door affirms this in a way that an e-mail is simply unable to.

The day I received that first letter of acceptance I called all of my friends. I toasted myself with a bottle of beer and when I finally fell asleep, the letter was next to me on the pillow.

It smelled like hope. It still does. 

An Ode to East Avenue Wegmans

An Ode to East Avenue Wegmans

Really, can you grieve a building? Can you miss a building the way you would a dead parent or a beloved pet? Can you grieve a building that was in no way distinguished architecturally or historical or remarkable, a building that was in fact nothing more than a pile of nondescript beige bricks? A building with dingy linoleum floors, narrow aisles and a vegetable section that was all but impossible to negotiate on Sunday morning.

The answer to each question is yes, yes, yes and yes.

This morning at 7 a.m., to the delight of a thousand people—a couple dozen of those who’d been waiting in line for twenty-four hours—the new East Avenue Wegmans opened. It’s not the old building, to be sure, whose old footprint is now forever underneath the lot I parked in this morning. It’s big and clean and I wager to say that no one will go missing in the vast room of veggies and fruits. But underneath the shine is the same old East Avenue Wegmans—the familiar faces of employees who, for nearly twenty-two years, have seemed like friends.

So much of my history here in Rochester is tied to that store. Wegmans is where I went the Tuesday afternoon in 1999 when my mother died, to buy cat food and litter before leaving for the week. When the clerk at the checkout counter asked me if I’d found everything I was looking for, I told her my mother died. She was the first person I’d spoken to and my voice sounded dusty and unused. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and leaned around the counter to give me a hug.

On September 11, 2001, when I couldn’t bear to see another replay of those planes crashing into the World Trade Center, I turned off my television and drove to Wegmans. The aisles were full of people who walked as if they were fragile, breakable, and yet it was as quiet as a church. I suspected they, like me, didn’t need much in the way of groceries, only to understand that the world would somehow go on.

When my Wegmans closed in late February, I missed it terribly. I deliberately avoided driving by that area. I didn’t want to see the line of bulldozers, the shattered glass and the eventual pile of bricks of the old store. It was late winter, and everything is harder here in late winter.

Just before seven this morning, minutes before the new store was about to open its doors, a longtime employee—apron in hand—waved as she walked past the line. There were shouts of “Karen! There’s Karen! Yay, Karen!” and several people applauded as if the sidewalk were suddenly a red carpet.

You just had to be there.

April 15, 2013

Last night, driving toward home on the street where I live, I saw my cat sitting in the window. His name is Beauchamp and he waits for me. Anyone who thinks cats are aloof or lacking in affection doesn't know cats, doesn't know my cat. He waits for me and when he sees my car, hears my key in the door downstairs, he jumps down onto the love seat so he can act like he's been there all along. Act like a cat, in other words. Aloof.

I woke up at 4:30 yesterday morning, courtesy of a bird singing in a tree near the same window. I tried sleeping again. I told the bird to shut up, and the bird went on singing, the coloratura of birds. I cursed the bird and got up to face the day. 

How many of the dead or injured heard birdsong when they woke up yesterday in Boston. Did they curse the bird or sing along with him? Who was waiting by a window for them to get home--a wife, a son, a cat? 

The bird was there again this morning. In his tree, singing, hours before the sun would come up.

One Tomato, Two Tomato . . . .

Many of the responses to the blog entry I posted last week about the season's first tomato concerned your own tomato memories and they were so lyric I'm thinking that if one doesn't already exist, there should definitely be an anthology of writing devoted to the tomato. The writing would include memoir, of course, but also poetry and fiction on subjects ranging from ketchup to a primer on how to make the perfect Bloody Mary. I'm thinking there must be something to this memory thing and tomatoes because as soon as I typed "ketchup," I flashed on those little foil packets of ketchup that a certain fast food restaurant used to ration in case we wanted to use them to fight "ketchup wars" rather than on our Quarter Pounders. Ketchup wars involved surreptitiously snipping the top off a packet of ketchup and hiding it under a napkin and when the moment was right, slamming it with your fist so that the contents splurted (in a perfect war) all over your "enemy's" shirt or, better yet, face. Once splurted, they were out of the game, though the game usually ended as soon as the manager got wind of what we were doing.

Also, I marveled at the stories about how many people ate fresh tomatoes as children probably because I refused to eat a fresh tomato until I was in college and then it was a pink, flabby wintertime tomato that I hated, and rightfully so. I did eat Campbell's tomato soup but made with milk not water and always with a grilled cheese sandwich. This was typically the lunch my mom made on Friday when I was in elementary school and I remember looking out at the backyard, at the snow that had drifted up against the window thinking when I woke up tomorrow it would be Saturday.

Here's a recipe for a more upscale, suitable-for-summer version of tomato soup, a cross between gazpacho and a smoothie. It's from the New York Times, but I modified it a tad. I made it with some tomatoes I bought at the Public Market and now I can't wait to make it with tomatoes from the Fire Escape Farm:

2 large tomatoes (about 1 pound), cored and roughly chopped

12 ounces plain sheep’s-milk or regular yogurt (I used Greek = excellent!)

1/4 cup F. Oliver's Heady Garlic EVOO

12 basil leaves, roughly chopped, more for serving

2 scallions (white and light green parts), roughly chopped

2 ice cubes

1 1/2 teaspoons red wine vinegar, more to taste

Salt and pepper to taste

Place tomatoes, yogurt, olive oil, basil, scallions, ice cubes, salt, vinegar, and black pepper in a blender. Purée until smooth. Taste and add more salt and vinegar, if necessary. Pour into small bowls and garnish with chopped basil. Drizzle soup liberally with olive oil. Enjoy.

Yield: 4 servings.

Also: Tune in next week when I attempt "Sarah's Fire Escape Salsa" (with apologies to Rick Bayless' "Rooftop Garden Salsa").

The First Tomato of the Season

I put in my fire escape garden over Memorial Day weekend, my second year as a farmer. Last summer the fire escape hosted a large purple petunia, one tomato plant and two pots of basil. The tomato produced one perfect piece of round red fruit and then stubbornly refused to yield another, though it did break out in yellow flowers until the first frost. The basil was great but the petunia was the all-around champion. After looking out the window during an unseasonably warm spell in early December, I scribbled the following in my notebook:

December
On the fire escape, one
stupid petunia still blooms,
purple trumpet blowing
high notes at the sky long

after the rest of the band

has packed up

and gone home

This season, no petunias. Instead, I bought tomato and basil plants--two of each--put them in pots over the Memorial Day weekend and prayed for rain and sun. At noon today, I picked the first of what I hope will be many tomatoes and enjoyed it with a little F. Oliver's Heady Garlic, fresh basil and Israeli feta cheese. Delicious!

I Love Thrift Stores

I can't wait to try out some of the patterns in this book--only a dollar at the Salvation Army.

Some of the sweaters are a little dated (plaid?) and some of the guy models look like Prince Charles in his salad days, but there's a lot of good basic patterns, too. Something to attempt when the temperature goes below 80 . . .

Abundance Abounds

The Weather Channel is predicting "abundant sunshine" for today. Say that out loud a couple of times--abundant sunshine--and tell me if it doesn't fill up your mouth the way a Godiva truffle does. According to my dictionary, "abundant" means "abounding with" or "rich." So we're rich with sun today and we don't have to pay a penny to enjoy it.

I'm going swimming.