Each year around 35 new stamps are issued in the United States. Although I don’t collect stamps anymore, I still delight in seeing my favorite fictional characters, captivating scenery, and handsome portraits on stamps. My love affair with stamps started when I was 10.

 My First Stamp Collection 

 In today’s era of e-mail, why do I care about postage stamps

I still relish receiving real mail with decorative stamps. Yet, I see far too many forever flag stamps (always in style) proudly waving and promptly ignored by the recipient because it’s a bill or junk mail. Surprise me and send me envelopes carrying miniature pieces of art, picturesque waterfalls, and     portraits of real-life heroes like the notorious RBG.

    Stamps reflect what we as Americans value—our heroes, artists, writers, athletics, and landscapes. Our history. Our integrity. Our innovation.

    In fact, the USPS stamp program suggests stamp subjects should “celebrate the American experience” but only positive experiences, please.

 People of all backgrounds and professions make ideal stamp subjects such as Willa Cather, Louisa May Alcott, John Muir, Langston Hughes, Sally Ride, and Harry S. Truman (I’m a writer and poet from the Show Me State.) Candidates for stamps are eligible three years after their death. On the upside, the person lives forever once they are on a stamp.  

    I am curious about who decides what goes on our stamps. According to the USPS, there is a stamp selection committee that votes on the subjects submitted. How tough is the competition? (The Post Office issues around 35 stamps each year.) What would those committee member debates sound like?

   "We must focus on threatened species this year.”

    “Gray fox?”

     “Humboldt penguin?”

    “What about the manatees?”  

    Well, I’ll let you imagine the topics and the time.

    The average person will never know because the committee meetings are secret. Guidelines and goals are in place to serve the public and the collector.    

    Which brings me to why I started thinking about stamps. I found my stamp collection books.  The earliest one features my 10-year-old handwriting on faded construction paper with red, white, and blue sparkly star stickers. Open it up to find white-lined notepaper pages displaying cancelled stamps from around the world: Ghana, Malaysia, Peru, Indonesia, Italy, and the Netherlands. All these stamps were so exotic.     

    Beside the books, I pick up a stack of thin, lightweight air-mail envelopes with German stamps. These are my cousin’s letters during her career as a musician playing French horn in a German orchestra.  

    So many stamps with stories. I am grateful my family supported my passion and obsession for stamps.  

    I was a nerdy kid who loved saving stamps and using a magnifying glass. Collecting stamps is a wholesome hobby judging by the cover of “My First Stamp Album” featuring a boy scout carrying a flag, a girl scout cadet, and a dog. I can also vouch that this activity is safer than roller skating, bike riding, or playing soft ball.  

    "Through stamps you can visit the courts of kings and queens, take a safari through the jungles of Africa, ..." claims the book. 

    My interest in stamps collecting is thanks to a family friend who worked for the post office – Mr. Oliver. He was an avid outdoorsman, a gardener, beekeeper, and Christmas tree farmer. (I still picture him tilling the garden with my father.)

    But Mr. Oliver’s influence is evident because I have three books full of stamps. Although I treasure them, they hold little value to a philatelist. According to my internet search, the pristine album is worth about $11. Real life isn’t like the movies.   

    One of my favorite movies is “Charade” with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. Why? Spoiler alert: Stamps have a surprisingly worthy role in this 1963 mystery.   

    As for the role of stamps in my life, it’s no mystery. I’ll keep using the latest stamps with the hope that the recipient receives my decorated letter and smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you like books with ambiguous endings?

    My response: It depends.

    For thrillers, I want an experience—akin to a fast ride on a rollercoaster where I hold on tight for every twisty turn. My heart races and my mind tries to calm me down. Yep, I ask for a scary ride but then want it to end. Let my breathing return to normal. Close the book, pick up another one.

    In a traditional mystery, I expect justice, resolution, and a clear ending. Oh, and I want real clues along the way. Dear Author: Play fair and give me clues and pieces of your well-crafted puzzle. Whatever mystery sub-genre (cozy, procedural) dangle the red herrings and let me decipher and deduce. Even when I’m wrong, I am having fun leaning into the intrigue.

    My guess is I consume 75 percent novels to 25 percent nonfiction each year. For nonfiction, my shelves are mainly memoirs with an element of outdoor adventure. I’ll follow any author scaling up Mt. Everest, camping in the Antarctic waiting for penguins to hatch, or mapping the plants along the Grand Canyon. Put me on the tennis courts with Agassi, or backstage, looking at BillyJoel’s life.  

     My favorite books don’t always have a tidy, neat conclusion. Julian Barnes’ “Sense of an Ending,” and Ian McEwan’s “Atonement” are those kinds of reads, among others. 

    But I’m fine with ambiguity in my reading life.  

    The best endings invite me to imagine what I’d do as the character, or as the writer. Mystery writers are keen on conducting book autopsies. It’s too easy to invent the happily ever-after ending. Yet, I struggle to suggest alternative endings that send characters to an awful place, albeit it prison, space, or back home. 

    I prefer hard realistic reads (fiction) that let me prove I’m tough enough to reach my conclusion. But when drafting a short story, my characters are rewarded with a happy ending. These characters deserve it after a rugged character arc where they fall down, get up, and go on. New mindset. Shifted motivations. But they continue their journey.  

    Every day, we make decisions without all the information. Anywhere we go we face choices, much like a stoplight at the intersection. The stoplight warns us to stop, slow down, go. The ambiguity lies in the middle with a flashing yellow light signal. Some of us speed up and others slow down and stop.

    Usually, I drive slower when the caution light flashes.  

    During the first week of my last dream job, I return to the role’s description, which reads: “Must have the ability to deal with ambiguity.”

    Doubts crowd out self-confidence, who was my best friend the week before.

    Certainly, being adept at ambiguity is a useful skill, and that’s why this organization lists it as a requirement for every employee’s job, not just mine. Navigating murky, vague, and changing conditions is always part of the job. My title, role, or department isn’t relevant. I rely on experience. 

    Each new career chapter will have conflict, tension, and unforgettable characters. That’s work. But it’s also life. And I’m willing to work hard to earn an ending I can be proud of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s musing features a real magical bookstore where readers of all ages give and receive books. The right books always arrive to delight all who visit and work at the store. 

 

Image of book cover "A Wrinkle in Time." 

Magic in the Bookstore 

“Do you have a children’s section?” the mother asked, as her lookalike daughter stood beside her fidgeting. I supposed the quiet and curious girl was 10 years old.

    We showed the new customers the way.

    We breezed through the front room filled with fiction; passed by cookbooks, gardening, art, biography, and local history; and veered right at mysteries. The children’s section awaited. A small owl lamp gave off a soft white glow. The cloth bean bag and toddler-size chairs were empty that day. Young customers made themselves at home, which meant picture books scattered everywhere and misshelved books. Chapter stories, graphic style novels and comics, and young adult all lived together.

    Board books for toddlers took over the knee-high shelves. Puzzles of 500, 1,000, and 5,000 pieces rested on the highest shelves. Our wooden rack displayed popular series like Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

    Our pair that day were searching for a specific book: “A Wrinkle in Time.” At the heart of this science fiction story is Meg, a young girl who learned to believe in herself. I re-read Madeleine L’Engle’s book as an adult, and it holds up. It’s recommendable not only to middle-grade readers but also to middle-aged readers. All ages might enjoy this classic. 

    Like magic, a gently used paperback edition of L’Engle’s book had arrived earlier that day among the many donations. My co-worker had not yet shelved the copy, still in her hand. She gave it to the young girl whose smile was “thank you” enough. I knew they’d be back.

    Donation day was busy because residents brought boxes and bags of books for donation. Residents carrying book laden tote bags in each hand tottered like a child on a seesaw. Often, people stopped by the store with donations instead of the large stone house across the street, which serves as our collection center.  

    In the past, I worked the three-hour shift unloading carloads of donations. It’s chilly work—inside and outside—the old cold stone house. But don’t imagine the frozen house in Dr. Zhivago. Our house smells old—a stale scent of hundreds of dusty, musty books. 

    We take tombs of all genres and ages. Yesterday, the inventory included a book published in 1921 that had an inscription dated 1954. But that’s not the oldest book we’ve received. We don’t sell rare, valuable collector’s items in the store. They are handled separately, but the sale proceeds benefit the community library. 

    Some people looked sad when they handed over their donations–I realized they were likely grieving for the loved ones who once owned these books. Books like memories were well cared for and revered.  

  I hoped the people I met were comforted because their books were headed to new homes. Other donors were downsizing or moving. Donors have made hard decisions about what books to give away. Some donors rush away, others linger, pausing to thank us.

    Many promised to return soon with more books.  

    I wish everyone could share the joy after a reader reunited with a favorite book. Or experience the excitement of having met a new author. Or run their fingers across the glossy pages of a vintage cookbook. Or witness the delight on a young girl’s face when she finds the book she sought.

***       

Footnote: The indie used bookstore is a nonprofit entity whose proceeds benefit the local library. 

Next up: I'm returning to that memorable Girl Scout hike because I found a clue leading me to historic trails and mythical creatures.

 

  

 

  

Image: Girl inside a tent looking out at rain.

What lets you know spring is almost here?

Waking up to sunlight, chirping birdsong, and spring showers often signal spring’s a coming. For me, the first sign is not the green shoots of daffodils, but the green boxes of Thin Mints everywhere you go.           

I joined the Girl Scouts because I wanted to go camping and hiking. Although our family vacations involved staying in state parks, we rented cabins. That’s cheating. So, I had only camped in my best friend’s backyard. Our camp site had the advantage of being about 20 feet from her house. We zipped ourselves into the green canvas two-person tent and talked until we fell asleep. A warm summer night sleeping outside was my idea of heaven. My girlfriend and I felt like genuine campers. However, she didn’t like the whole outdoor experience enough to become a Girl Scout.   

My troop comprised less than a dozen girls who met in the basement of the Christian Church. I had no Daisy or Brownie scouting experience. I must have signed up during cookie-selling time. Poor luck. My selling experience was zilch. I was a shy 11-year-old who didn’t like knocking on strangers’ doors or talking to strangers. I hoped nobody counted on me to break any sales records.  

My Dad volunteered to sell cookies at his office. He sold boxes and boxes of Thin Mints, Shortbread, and Peanut Butter Sandwich cookies — all the flavors. Dad didn’t use high-pressure sales tactics. I’m pretty sure his coworkers bought my cookies because they liked him. After a week, he had filled both sides of the sales sheet. 

Dad had exceeded my goal.

But I didn’t feel like an entrepreneur, nor did I gain lifelong business skills from this scouting experience. My lesson learned was simple: Selling cookies wasn’t as fun as eating cookies.    

Gee, was I surprised when the troop leader unloaded several cases of cookies at our house. Cases. Now the real work began. We sorted boxes. We made deliveries. 

 I delivered the cookies to several neighbors and one stranger. I sold one box to a stranger who lived across the creek (outside our neighborhood). The woman who bought one box never answered her door again. At least for me. I forged the creek with the box and trudged up to her front door. No answer. I tried for more than a week. I got discouraged and worried. What had happened to her?   

Dad bought her box.

After the cookie challenge, the troop leader planned a spring hike. I anticipated the challenge of my first hike. Plus, I would earn a badge.   

I wished I could recall the trail’s name. But hiking conditions were unfavorable—cloudy and cold. Then it poured. Of course, as a Girl Scout, I was prepared with a rain jacket. Relentless rain rolled off the hood of my jacket. The day was long and slow, going up and down the slippery slopes of mud. The trails were treacherous.

This trail followed a ridge with a deep drop off. It was scary. My mind was raced: How much longer? What if I fall? Where is everyone?

One step at a time, I finished without mishap that most miserable hike. My career as a scout was short-lived. I earned a dozen badges or so but I never went on another scout hiking outing. It was many years later before I went camping for the first time. It drizzled, poured, and was one wet muddy mess. After I learned to expect rain, I appreciated the adventure and challenges of camping.  

Musical Notes

        Jazz Soul was a subgenre that intrigued me, and that’s how I found Gregory Porter. I fell in love with “Be Good” and “On My Way to Harlem” on the first listen.

    The new Willy Wonka soundtrack except for “The Oompa Loompa” song was on my playlist every day last week. I recommend “You’ve Never had Chocolate Like This” and a piece of chocolate to cure the blues.

    Soundscape bonus: Poet Billy Collins “Today.”

I dedicate this musing to Stacy who told me about her mother’s magic closet and how she kept the tradition alive with her own family. Her mother had a career and raised five children. Somehow, she had the time, money, and energy to manage a magic closet filled with the perfect presents for all occasions.    

Who has a magic closet?

I suppose I should explain the magic closet concept. Unlike Carol Lewis’ children’s story, “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe,” my modern wardrobe is ordinary. No secret passageway leads to an enchanted forest. No epic battle between good and evil awaits. 

Open my closet door to see plastic tubs, cardboard boxes, and wicker baskets weighing down the wire shelves. But inside each tub, box, and basket are gifts. These gifts are not ones I received and rejected or will recycle.

Frankly, I’m not the type of person who hordes gifts because they are too pretty, too expensive, or too delicate for every day use. Objects, like people, need to be seen and loved.

I purchase presents throughout the year and store them in my sewing (magic) closet. Usually, my shopping is in support of an artist, author, entrepreneur, or a worthy cause (animals, libraries, musicians). But not always. I buy it (whatever it is) when I first see it.

Many of my most treasured presents are ones I make, not buy. I find joy in sewing a cozy flannel baby bunting, or baking homemade treats. And I adore receiving handcrafted gifts – a crocheted scarf, a jar of apple butter, wooden cutting board, a poem. The creatives who make something warm, tasty, useful, or amusing have little need for a magic closet.

Experiences – walking through gardens, exploring a museum, going to a concert, or enjoying a cappuccino together – create memories I’ll cherish. 

"In other words, the most valuable magical gifts cannot be contained in a closet."  

Now, nothing in the closet is labeled or sorted. It works like the magic sorting hat in Harry Potter. Even if I’ve forgotten whom I originally bought the gift for, the wizard of the closet decides. These wizards know what’s best for a relative’s birthday party, the neighbor’s open house, or for a sick friend.

Will the painted tea towels, vanilla scented candles, or the purple umbrella appear? Will the ceramic owl, garden trowel, or lilac soaps show up ready to wrap? Gifts don't have a magical use by date.  Because the magic works when the recipient thinks of you every time they use the gift.

The magic closet means shopping without smothering salespeople or standing in long lines. It’s better than online shopping where one may overspend or wait for delivery.  

Speaking of delivery, the gift must be given freely with no strings attached. Let’s say you give a generous sum to a beloved daughter, cousin, friend: Do not keep asking or tracking how your gift is spent like it’s a UPS package!

             I’m sure you have practical and philosophical questions for me. What if my closet is full? An empty drawer or suitcase will work as long as it will keep the gifts safe and secure.

             Many teenage girls learned how to shop from their mother. Not me. Neither of my parents were shoppers. My parents preferred reading or gardening.  

Besides, in our town, choices were limited to JC Penney, Wal-Mart, and a high-end women’s dress store. We had a respectable shoe store. Anyone who wanted cowboy or work boots shopped at Zim’s for western wear or Orelands, the farm supply store.

I tagged along with my best friend whose pastime was going to the mall in the nearby town. I declined many Saturday invitations because I’d rather be roaming around outside than roaming around inside the mall. It was the era of the mall.

Do you have to shop all the time? I am a serendipity shopper, taking advantage of parking lot craft festivals, the farmer’s market, or random events. It doesn’t matter where you shop or how much you spend. Perhaps the ideal items for the closet are for a friend’s collection of farm tools or salt and pepper shakers, then visit auctions, thrift stores, or garage sales.     

What’s the secret of being a good gift giver? Listening. I bet you thought I was going to say look for bargains.

In closing, the magic is in the joy of giving.

**

Musical notes: My snowy day playlist.

Marshmallow World – Raul Malo

Sleigh Ride – Ella Fitzgerald

January Hymn – The Decemberists

Hazy Shade of Winter – The Bangles

Skating – Vince Guaraldi Trio

Cold Weather Blues – Muddy Waters

California Dreaming – The Mamas & The Papas

Snowbird – Anne Murray

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; All the rest have thirty-one Except February alone, Which has twenty-eight 3 years in four, Till Leap Year gives it just one more. 

 

This week’s musings inspired by the weird and wonderful, wacky extra day in February. And by the way: How do you say February – with or without the “ru (w)” sound?

Image: Two excited kids playing leap frog.

What will you do with the extra precious 24 hours credited to your life account?

I’m talking about Feb. 29. A rare day that makes us wait four years. Four long years. But leap day’s arrival delights me, and I feel like dancing, dancing with abandon like when I tune in for Funky Fridays on my favorite Philly radio station WXPN. Their eclectic lineup spans decades of notable funk and soul from the ultimate James Brown to today’s rap and funk.

Cue the Pointer Sisters’ I’m so Excited. Because why not get excited about this weird and wonderful day?  Leap Day makes me giddy. It's the same feeling I get when:

ü  My hubby takes a mental health day and spends it with me.  

ü           A new crisp $20 bill appears in my coat pocket.

ü          An archaeological freezer dig unearths a homemade ice cream chocolate chip cookie sandwich hiding under the bag of frozen peas.

ü          My friend calls whom I haven’t talked to in months calls with Super news: She’s going to be a grandmother. Or another friend texts me with BIG news: Her son is getting married.

ü          A stranger offers me free orchestra tickets for Yo-Yo Ma before I reached the box office to buy the cheapest balcony seats. I will always remember this musical gift.    

ü          Mother Nature greets me with a double rainbow—a good luck omen for the day ahead.

ü          Our meteorologist is wrong: The rainy day is instead a sunny one, for which I forecast a bicycle ride. A ride with gentle sunshine and the thrill of coasting down an obstacle-free path. No walkers, runners or unfortunate deer causing me to brake or hold my breath.

ü          I meet Ms. Serendipity, who hands me a Dorothy L. Sayers mystery book in excellent condition. I open the title page and inhale the musty old smell and discover it’s autographed. The author’s signature, small and slanted, is perfectly legible. My heart flutters, my pulse races, and I’m in book lovers’ heaven.

Well, I admit, I made up this last example. But with Leap Day almost here, I am hoping that something magical will happen.   

***

Musical notes: I’m binge listening to the music of country singer Toby Keith, 62, who died this week. And I’ve discovered the singer-songwriter Cat Power, also known as Charlyn Marie Marshall. I started with “Cat Power Sings Dylan.”  

 

 

 

 

  

My musings today are inspired by a bookstore customer whom I helped earlier this week. I adore the customers and try to provide the best book therapy experience. As a bonus, I added some musical musings, which may be a new feature. 4 minute 24 second read.   

Image of a stack of books and colorful paper flowers.

How can an ordinary day transform you?

The bells on the door jangled. A customer arrived and rushed in from the winter chill outside.

“I’m going to need your help,” the customer said. Her tone sounded desperate.

My expectations for seeing any customers in the bookstore on a cold Tuesday afternoon were low. But there she stood, an ode to St. Valentine’s Day dressed in a cheery sweater with red, white, and pink hearts. Beaded dangling white heart earrings set off her round, bespeckled face.

I waited to learn how my book matchmaking skills could serve her.

“Do you have old hardback books with paper like this?” she asked, putting a torn page on the counter. Her nails glittered and distracted me. Every nail was red, sparkling silver, or pink.

An unusual request, I thought. But I was game.

Then she explained the project. She was teaching her friends how to make origami flowers with pages from books. Her goal was to get a cheap alternative paper to origami stock. She showed me how the paper she held was the right weight and size.

“Where’s the poetry section?”

I didn’t peg her as a reader of poetry. The look on my face likely showed signs of distress, as if I would betray the books by telling her.   

“These books are for me. I’m not going to destroy them.”     

I believed her and pointed her to the two shelves behind her. She selected several books and soon had a stack. A slim poetry book with a colorful cover caught her attention. The title was slanted as if written in a child’s hand.

“This book isn’t for children. Just proves that you can’t judge a book by its cover,” she said.

I nodded. I realized I had misjudged her. She looked like the type who would spend time with instructional craft books and romance novels.  

Soon, she remembered her original mission: Find old hardback books. Because she told me she didn’t want to spend much money, I led her to the yellow-sticker paperback discount rack.

“Too small,” she said.

Then we roamed around the rest of the store, accessing the hardback paper stock options. I felt lost. Nothing was working for her. Next, I called the store manager who was out, and asked for her advice about hardbacks for the origami project.

Meanwhile, the customer showed me photos; she was talented. She was trying to make it a business. I later found out why.

Her phone kept dinging. She was besieged with messages from former colleagues telling her the latest bad company news. Tears welled up as she told me her story. After nearly 40 years of service, the company laid her off. Her experience was awful and worse, mismanaged. The memory was raw and fresh. She cried and talked. I listened.

My manager, whom I’d called earlier with the request, had returned. The manager offered to show our creative customer the stash of books ready for recycling. One such book was ignored, unsold for 500 days. Because the store had limited storage space, we could not afford to keep excess inventory.   

The woman, who I was now on a first name basis with, returned with six thick hardback free-for-the-taking books. Her eyes smiled. She still wanted to browse.

“Do you have any sheet music?”

Although she said she played the piano, and even recommended a teacher, she wanted the “note paper” to make flowers.

This request was a longshot. Luckily, I found several songbooks, including one with TV shows, and another with classical works by French composers.  She seemed pleased and tucked the French songbook under her arm.

Then she frowned. Another text message. She decided not to respond. Instead, she chose book therapy.

Two hours of book therapy later, she left with a grocery bag filled with freebies and purchases. Afterwards, I thought about our exchange. She planned to create art from old, discarded books. Like the books she had saved, she needed to create a new identity, too. She needed to shed the work which had defined her and find her happiness and purpose — as an artist.   

 ***

Musical Notes

Speaking of artists, Billy Joel released a new song, “Turn the Lights Back on.” It’s his first release in 17 years. Joel delivers beautiful piano flourishes that accompany a compelling story. Lyrics that speak to me are: “Did I wait too long/To turn the lights back on?” As I drive along, his voice and questions haunt me.

What if I waited too long to start writing again, so long that I no longer recognize my voice as a writer? Had it disappeared? Not completely but my words are tilted toward corporate messaging. A holdover from my former writing role. I am a recovering writer, striving to hear my voice. Writing and struggling as I write what I want.

As a songwriter, Joel knows these demons. He tells us how the music industry works and the struggle to compromise, conform, and concede to make it as a star. In fact, that’s the topic of “The Entertainer,” one of my favorites way back in 1974.  

Dolly Parton’s recent rendition of “The Entertainer” honors the song. It’s superb. She adds Joel’s song as one of the bonus tracks following “Rock Star,” which, according to the NY Times, is the highest-charting album of the 78-year-old singer’s career.  

While Parton has a long-established career, I’m also listening to new artists. Of those listed in this column, I vote for The War and Treaty for the soulful songs, which is the type of music I will always love. For stellar hard-hitting lyrics, it’s Jellyroll winning the day.

The smooth sound of Coco Jones fit her music. She’s one to watch. And I felt myself doing new moves on the treadmill to the music of Fred again. These artists are outstanding, and it is hard to single out a few.

Then, I’m also listening to the comfort tracks of my playlist that my partner and I are building. It’s a wonderful mashup of blues, jazz, soul, country, rock, indie, zydeco, and plenty of genre-bending music to my ears. We started our playlist, and I am loving it.

Here’s the NY Times column gifted to you. Selections cited above and others are available on Spotify or Apple Music. Enjoy!