Why would I eat a peach for peace

Some people spend far too much time wondering on their place in some metaphorical pond. All that big fish, small pond bother. I've never really spent much time ruminating on such matters. Not that it would really matter much around here anyway; I'm not sure we rise to even the most liberal definitions of "small pond." Perhaps, backyard puddle is more apt. Understand, the anonymity our size brings doesn't seem to bother me or any of my fellow citizens all that much. The suicide rate around here is rather low.

But if I was given to such ruminations I suspect I'd find my place even lower on that particular totem pole than previously thought. Throughout my life the mail has been a pretty good barometer of my importance. I realize everyone gets the occasional bit of junk mail addressed to "resident" or "occupant." Unless you're Navin R. Johnson, this is hardly a feat worth celebrating. I must admit, however, that sometimes I do give a triumphant fist pump as I deposit such letters in the nearest waste receptacle. Today, I even received a letter addressed to Andy, et al. I suppose this means I'm moving up in the world. Alas, Andy hasn't lived anywhere near me for nigh on 20 years so I suspect that progress in being outpaced by some common slug. I love you, junk mail.

All of this is probably why one of my biggest delights during the Christmas season is getting Christmas cards at work. Being as she's quite popular and powerful, the EPJ gets them in bunches. Big bunches. Sometimes 2 or 3 a week and requires help with the arduous task of opening them. As her somewhat devoted assistant, I sometimes lend a hand. And I'm always glad when I do because nothing warms this Christmas heart hotter than opening a card addressed to EPJ and "staff." That's when I know it's from someone who, in fact, did care enough to send the very best and to only the closest of the close, at that.

Much like the army's slogan, I am a staff of one. But I do appreciate being remember, however nameless. I suppose there's something fitting about getting a generic card with a generic scene of yuletideness with a stamped gold foil "Seasons Greetings" from some outfit that I didn't know existed either. Were I not well-versed in being overlooked, I might develop a complex.

Or at least a bigger one.

Growing up my family used to get those state-of-the-family letters every so often from various relatives. Being as we never bothered to give our phone number to most of those folks this was really the only way we could keep up. One would think by our withholding of phone numbers and precise location, they would get the message that we perhaps didn't care all that much. I suppose that is beside the point.

These wonderful letters were quite popular with us during our luddite phase, however. The type of letter that was little more than an advertisement for how incredibly amazing and good life was for the particular writer's particular branch of the family tree. Five pages of how Little Bill now has his PhD in Nuclear Physics, Jim John is rapidly developing that cure for cancer and the prince of some small Arabian country has come a courtin' our dear, sweet sister Sue (fingers crossed she's already knocked up), epilogued with "but how are you all doing?"

Sometimes the epilogue would be more than a P.S. though. These were the times we really lived for. Especially for me. Confirmation that even though we'd not put forth any effort, we still mattered to someone somewhere in our family.

Oftentimes, I was disappointed. On one such occasion, after pages of detailed questions on the minutiae of Andy's life and how awesomely awesome he was, the author inquired as to how "that other one" was doing. Were I the wooing sort, I would have had a new favorite relative from then on. In fairness, the author did remember that I was a "one" and not a "ones" so that was awfully kind. I can't remember if the author apologized for not remembering my name. Perhaps she honestly thought my kind parents had neglected to name me way back when at the hospital. That was a hectic day, after all.

I always hoped my mother would write back that things were looking up for us as well. Something like how the flood gave our house a much needed cleaning, all that detention really helped Andy get to know the school staff better and we think he's finally kicked for good this time. And, oh yeah, "that other one" is finally eating something other than glue. Our life wouldn't be any sweeter if our asses pooped sugar.

She never did though. A shame.