Dear Reader,
Be sure to sample this month's Penguin Classics, The Posthumous Memoirs Of Bras Cubas, by Machado de Assis. I have a copy of the book to share, so start reading and enter for your chance to win.
(Suzanne is off today, but she's sharing one of her favorites.)
Joe, a book club reader, sent me a thank you note the other day, with a Starbucks Card tucked inside. (He knows what this girl likes.) I was touched by the kind gesture, but I was even more moved by his note.
"I'm afraid that my grandmother would be more than a little disappointed in me right now. I was taught at a very early age to always send a thank you note when someone did something nice for me." It was Joe's way of apologizing, because he felt his thank you was too tardy.
Guilt and my mother taught me, at a very early age, to always send a thank you. As soon as I finished opening the handmade cross-stitch gift that Donna, a book club reader, sent to me I could hear my mother, "Suzanne, sit down and write a thank you note and do it right now, or you'll forget."
A thank you was an assignment in my house when I was growing up. It was supposed to be at least 28 words and had to include adjectives and sincerity. Not that I had to fake being genuinely grateful when someone gave me a gift, but when you're a kid, writing a thank you note interferes with actually playing with the gift you're so thankful for. So it always seemed to me like a simple thank you would suffice. "Thank you for the new doll. As soon as I finish this thank you note I'm going to play with it, so...gotta go...thank you. Suzanne Beecher." There it was--28 words including my name.
It was an even tougher assignment writing a thank you note for the white socks that my aunt sent to me every year for Christmas. I realize it was the thought that counted; my mother had drilled that into me, but what could you say about a pair of white socks, year after year? At least "white" counted as one of my required adjectives.
"Thank you for the great white socks. I've never seen such bright, white socks. Those white socks will go with anything and the handy thing about white socks is that you don't have to worry about matches. One white sock is pretty much like the next white sock. And if I forget to put my shoes on and run outside with my white socks on, Mom has a new bleach that will get the dirt out and the socks will be white again. Thank you for the white socks." There it was, 89 words, more than I needed and apparently the extra words were too encouraging and heartfelt because my aunt kept sending those darn white socks.
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
(That's only a 12 word thank you, but I really mean it from the bottom of my heart.)
Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]
AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.
THEN LIKE THE BLIND MAN: Orbie's Story (Fiction) by Freddie Owens
Few novels capture the 1950s Civil Rights Era from the perspective of a white child. At nine, Orbie seems to live his life along a precipice. He is burdened with an overabundance of difficult choices which would be beyond the capacities of most boys his age--but Orbie is about to discover that he's no ordinary boy; that nothing is ever precisely what it seems. Prejudice is not innate. The dead aren't really dead. And those in power cannot be trusted.
Go to: AUTHORBUZZ click on THEN LIKE THE BLIND MAN to read more and to email author Freddie Owens, you'll get a reply.
KIDSBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.
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