Friday morning was a work day for my husband and a near double at that. I helped him to get out of the door, laden with options for breakfast and lunches so that he’d be able to eat even if he was too busy to run out for a bite. He pulled out of the driveway and even though he was still in sight, I already missed him. The absence of his truck illuminated something else too; my paper hadn’t arrived.
It was still early at that point and I figure in the next two hours as I helped the girls get ready for school it would be delivered. By dinnertime it hadn’t. Saturdays wasn’t there either and as evening closed in on me – I realized my time had run out. I crafted a heartfelt letter to my Dad, thanking him for the gift and telling him as I had throughout my subscription period how much I had enjoyed getting the paper. Before I sent it though, I wondered if it had been a mistake – maybe the mis-delivery I had assumed on receipt of that very first issue had actually happened just now.
I called the subscription line and was received by an agent named Capone. I had to wonder if that was his given name or one that he had assumed and I was temporarily amused and engulfed in all the possibility that arose. It was Sunday morning and my account was in good standing – he would be crediting back the cost of Friday and Saturday’s issues and sending Sunday’s out for re-delivery. I let out the breath I hadn’t recognized I’d been holding and smiled ear to ear.
But it never arrived.
Come Monday I called back, apologies and credits were given and I was assured that this Friday I would be back in action. I spent a lot of time (up through to today’s entry) thinking about the things money can and cannot buy. Having a newspaper delivered to me is a fantastic gift. Even better is the time I make to read it – spilling over art exhibits and worldwide events, setting aside articles for Big Sister to read or stashing pages that Little Sister can make collages with. There are things, and then there is what you do with them…