"I'm frustrated! Here is my grandson in far away Africa -- and I have no address for him."
So wrote my grandmother, the paleoblogger, about a month ago. But Non--eighty-nine, not ninety-two, though the lyrics are still apt--solved the problem soon enough.
Until this week, I'd been living beyond the postmaster's reach in Ghana. With nowhere to mail letters to, Non started amassing days and days of good unconnected stuff in a tiny spiralbound notebook: reading suggestions, reminiscences of family dogs who no longer dig holes on this earth, her philosophy for antique hunting trips, and new insults (expletive-bag, expletive-basket, etc.) she hoped to toss out during her weekly bridge game.
Net effect: little blue notebook reads like a blog.
Mario's Magic Shop-sized props to grandma for sending out the ideas in bit by bit form. One collegiate summer I sent a similar piecemeal letter to a girl I was dating. When I got back, she looked at me all funny and said it was weird.
Grandma Non rox, sophomore year girlfriend sux.
(Note/Disclaimer: johnnyblog is happily engaged to a woman his age who also enjoys narrativeless letters. His life bears absolutely no resemblance to the movie Psycho. Also: johnnyblog's grandmother does not actually use expletives at the bridge table. That's made up.)
