No Thank You. Notes

I expect many of you generous hearted, beloved friends who have fed me dinners, offered me shelter, sprinkled me with thoughtful presents, gone on frustrated shopping trips with me, and offered me endlessly patient ears believe this is about you. You’re right. You’ve sustained me, just not enough to send a note.

My first writing assignment, the first genre I was encouraged to tackle was the thank you note. Grandma, an endless stream of aunts, my friends, their parents, siblings of distant cousins all earned my blood on the paper. Thank you for this generous gift of a decorated shoebox. And this set of Gibbon’s The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire! I’m sure my third grade class will enjoy.

These notes had to be timely and perfect. Once the gift was gotten, the clock started. Often, the editorial review board would send back suggestions.

Dear Mommy, Thank you! Their great!

Really, Kate, it’s the wrong there and far too many exclamation points. Don’t ever trust a person that’s that excited! And be more specific. Mention the gift. Say how you use it.

I was ten then, and I still haven’t figured out what can be done with socks other than shoving your feet into them or making hand puppets from them.

Dear Grandma, Thanks for the check. I really appreciate it!

Though I was sure that would get through the exacting eye of the copy editors, I got back a handwritten note on yellowing memo pad paper left over from the widget factory that closed after the war.

My Darling, don’t just thank me for the money, tell me what you spent it on.

Did you really want to hear that it went on piles of M&Ms and bags of weed? Ok, thanks.

Dear Aunt Augusta, thank you for your generous gift certificate to Denny’s. I didn’t tell her that the twelve-year-old me wasn’t picking up the tab quite yet, but my parents refused to write the note for me.

It didn’t matter, she blindsided me with, What did you say, Katie? You have the worst penmanship.

I thought email and texting might save me from the handwriting police, but complaints sprang up like a vicious game of whack-a-mole. “So impersonal,” they’d email back.

Part of what I dreaded about growing up was keeping up on this endless list. I didn’t realize this special sort of endless critique was not universal. I ached to hit on the proper formula and stop pulling out my hair. I wanted to get it right.

As I sat to write, I froze. Please, I thought, your gifts are too expensive. I can pick out my own sweaters!

***editor’s note: This could be the time where I acknowledge that all their attention to my detail is what made me such a damned fine editor, but I’ll let you draw that correlation, I’m busy rehashing my anger over the notes.***

My wedding list caused me no end of anxiety. By then I called myself a writer adding a whole new layer of pressure.

An author? Bullshit. You’re no Hemingway. Can’t you do better? Wait, a lot of that might have come from me.

Anyway, how can a person be a writer if they can’t pen a note? How can you maintain a career in words if once that note is written, the follow through falls flat. You can’t even make it to the post office — I mean, “it must be lost in the mail.”

Either way, an honest thank you would wind up like this, full of sarcasm and barely resolved rage.

When my boys were Bar Mitzvahed, I policed their thank you note process more than I ever did their schoolwork and hated myself for it every minute. Especially when in return for my checks, I got run-off form letters that would make Aunt Augusta chase someone with a red pencil from the grave.

Let’s just say, if you were at my wedding 25 years ago, thanks for the gift. I’m really hoping the statute of limitation has run out on this one. At least when we bump into each other, don’t mention it. I’ve lost, broken, or upgraded whatever it was, though I promise it was well loved while it lasted.

I expect many of you generous hearted beloved friends who have fed me dinners, offered me shelter, sprinkled me with thoughtful presents, gone on frustrated shopping trips with me, and offered me endlessly patient ears believe this is about you. You’re right. You’ve sustained me, just not enough to send a note.

The gifts I give come from the bottom of my heart. I have thought about you and your relation to the item I am offering. Sometimes it is expensive, other times I’m regifting, repurposing or thought about you while I was hanging around the Dollar Store. Either way, the only thank you that truly matters to me is your enjoyment of it.

Unless you wanted to shoot me a text or something, that wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe a short, handwritten note with as many exclamation points as you want — I’m not unreasonable. Just let me know you got it, and maybe if you have a chance. Do you like it?