Life in the Slow Lane

Please do allow us to the outset of this letter, our most sincerely apology for the quite unforgivable presumption of writing to in this manner. However, we do hope that our letter is not too disruptive on your busy schedule of numerous commitment and obligation or worse an effrontery on good sense. These words were penned by two people imprisoned for espionage in a far away country. Maybe I just bumped into a novel in the making.

I've been working on a special tone of voice to respond to emergencies at work. The receptionist may have just told me that the particular caller is horribly upset and talking about suicide, but the caller doesn't know I've already been told that and I answer the phone speaking as if I were taking a lovely stroll in the park with an iced lemonade. I practice this tone of voice not only with callers but with my co-workers. When they call me from their desk "I need you!" I've learned to recognize their panic in the very way they same my name and then I know to switch to "the tone". The tone could be used to say "That's interesting, usually the Titanic sinks on Wednesdays not Thursday mornings." Other times it more closely resembles "Yes, the Titanic always sinks when you run into that iceberg, but let's find the life boats." After such an episode this morning, my co-worker pleaded... "You can't go on a honeymoon. ...

My landlady told me two weeks ago that David and I should save time and just handout our wedding invitations as people arrive at the ceremony. Two days ago she said that we could just include the wedding invitation when we send the thank you notes. I don't remember seeing anything about that in the etiquette books.

Sometimes the diverseness of life springs up to surprise me, even on a normal work day like Friday. In the school year 1954-55, a junior higher took his year book down to the railroad where President Truman and his wife had briefly stopped. Truman signed it, scrawling his name across most of the front cover. And Friday I held that same yearbook in my hands as it's owner explained how he found it sorting through his attic. He flips open to the page that bears his picture, and I imagine what the scene looked like 54 years ago when the skinny boy with great big glasses met Harry Truman. Later my phone rings and I am asked to come downstairs to talk with a couple who has just walked in off the street. They've never heard of us before, but by the time they leave, they want everything we have to offer and some time in the chapel, too. I can't even pronounce their names, but I suspect I just met two people who are real somebodies in the country they came from. I run out to my car...