It's no secret that I'm a bit of sentimentalist. I used to be a hoarder, but I'm working on that. I have a box of cards from friends and family and a scrapbook my sister gave me for my birthday.
Today I was thinking about a card I found last week. When I worked at a bookshop with a super talented writer she and I shared a mutual love of great music. Her Dad is also a huge musicophile, and I would receive these parcels every few weeks of his current favourite CDs. I can't actually remember if I returned the favour, but given that I was in the throes of infertility woes and treatment I suspect I didn't. I did however give my friend my latest EP to pass on to her Dad as thanks for his kind packages that kept me somewhat sane.
I received this card in the post after he'd listened to my CD.
As I re-read it I was once again touched by his kindness. I'm pretty I've met Steve once, maybe twice. Yet the kindness with which he took the time to write me a card, put it in an envelope and post it still floors me.
It makes me tear up a little and miss my own Dad tremendously when I read the tenderness conveyed as he mentions driving down to see his special lady - his daughter, Kate. That special bond between a father and daughter is what every mother wants for her family, I'm sure.
I kept this letter because it made me feel happy to read someone saying nice things about my music, and taking the time to go out of their way to share their thoughts. It also made me feel like I borrowed Steve as my Dad for the five minutes it took me to read his card, as I'd like to imagine they're the things my own Dad would have said to me.
The lesson? Take the time and write a nice letter to someone. Call your supermarket and tell them about the great service you had, not just the crap service. Smile at strangers. Be a smile in someone's day. Five years later, they might just remember it and write a highly embarrassing blog post about it.