The news from Farmington, Maine, was all about a first-class postcard delivered to Ruth McGary, an 83-year-old retired public health worker now living in Manchester. The postmark on the card with a one-cent postage stamp revealed it had been mailed 67 years ago, in 1946.
At the time, Ruth was a student at the University of Maine. The card had been mailed to her by a couple named Charlie and Gert. She vaguely recalled Charlie was the manager of a little department store in Augusta, where Ruth had worked the summer before college, earning wages sufficient to pay for her first semester's tuition. She'd also played trombone in an amateur swing band the couple had put together, performing at local social halls. Apparently, she'd written Charlie and Gert a thank-you note, telling them all about her new college adventures. In return, they'd sent her this thank-you postcard, addressed in ink to a dormitory that no longer exists at what was then Farmington State Teachers College. In part, the note read:
Dear Ruth,
Thank you for your card and for remembering us. Glad to hear you're playing again and hope the swing band gets together -- let us hear about it. Hope the homework won't interfere. Glad to hear the food is good. Keep well and regards to your folks. Drive over sometime.
Sincerely,
Gert & Charlie
How the postcard remained lost all those years at the local post office remained a mystery. But when the university's mailroom clerk took one look at the piece of mail that appeared to be in perfect condition, she doublechecked the postmark, then immediately set about tracking down the intended recipient through the alumnae office.
By the time the postcard was finally hand-delivered to her, Ruth said she couldn't even recall sending a letter, but she was happy eventually to have received this thank you in reply. Now a senior citizen herself, she realizes it's a little too late to send Charlie and Gert another note in return. Her only regret is that the senders never knew she'd finally received their expression of thanks.
One could glance at this little human interest story and simply conclude, well, that's the post office for you. But it got me thinking about people in my life for whom a thank you, however belated, would be a great thing to undertake this time of year.
The Thanksgiving holiday is a time most people pause to remember the abundance of blessings, people and things in our lives for which they are grateful. As ironic as it may seem, the less we have, the easier it is to take stock of what remains. Maybe it's that process-of-elimination thing? Or, maybe it's a matter of looking beyond what is most obvious and immediate.
As is a common custom, when our family gathers around the Thanksgiving table this year, I'll invite everyone to remember and offer at least one thing for which they are grateful. But specifically, this time I'll suggest we each recall someone from our past who we have only subsequently come to realize was influential, helpful, formative, and important; and for whom a belated expression of thanks might be appropriate.
After reading the little story about Ruth, Charlie and Gert, I got an early start with this idea. I thought of teachers who'd made a positive impression on me at a time in my young life when it never occurred to me to express any appreciation to those who usually just piled on the homework assignments and demanded excellence. For me, I can still easily remember such professors as Arthur Lessing, Thomas Trotter, Jack Coogan, John Cobb and Hans Dieter-Betz. And then there was Robert Usellis.
I studied with Robert Usellis when I was in boarding school. It was long enough ago that our teachers were still called masters, and we were still required to wear a jacket and tie to class. In my junior year, I took an American history course with Mr. U. When it came time for the midterm essay exam, the question was all about early 20th-century immigration policies and their effects on our progress as a country and the national character. How totally useless and irrelevant could you get, I thought. I'd studied little and knew even less. My essay consisted of one short paragraph containing about three sentences that said next to nothing.
The next day, a fuming Master Usellis stormed into the classroom, throwing down the stack of graded exams and yelling at the top of his lungs. "What a bunch of crap!" he shouted. Though nearly a half-century has passed, I can still picture the scene as if it were yesterday.
Then he randomly picked out just one of those little blue books and read aloud in its entirety my own very brief answer to the essay question. I was grateful that he spared me the embarrassment of disclosing the author's name. Head down, I sank as low in my desk as possible. My face felt flushed.
"Buckle down!" he bellowed. Then class continued, but the day's lesson for me was already complete. I buckled down, and by the time I submitted my final term paper weeks later, my chosen topic was all about the history of immigration reform in America.
At the end of the semester I was summoned to Master Usellis' dormitory apartment one evening after supper. With trepidation, I knocked on his door and was ushered in. Standing there, facing him man to man, he shoved my exam book forward in my shaking hands. On the cover, I immediately saw the circled "A-" and realized I would pass the course.
He then went on a bit, muttering a few follow-up words of advice about more books and periodicals on the subject that he thought I might find interesting, etc. To be honest, I've never been much of a history buff, or looking back over the well-worn trodden paths of others. But history wasn't the lesson to be learned, of course.
Only afterward did I look again and read the note Mr. U. had bothered to write beneath the grade. "Congratulations, John," it said, "You are like the prodigal, and I rejoice over your return."
Even after all these years, I can clearly remember that incident of so long ago. More than once, I've wondered whatever happened to Mr. U. Someday I really should get around to expressing my appreciation to him for what he did, I've thought. As I've grown older myself, I've come to realize how much it's meant to me when I've received similar thank yous from those I've been privileged to help.
So, the story of Ruth, Charlie and Gert got me thinking again about Mr. U, and the belated thank-you note I still want to send him. I contacted my old school's alumni office, inquiring if they had any information on a former instructor from 1965. They had nothing.
On my own, I then discovered there was someone by the name of Robert Usellis who'd served as the first headmaster of a private high school that had started up in the mid-'60s on the other side of the country. It was about the time my former history teacher had left Cranbrook. To my surprise, it turns out the Athenian School is located only 10 miles from where I've lived for the last 30 years! But alas, the Athenian had no record of Mr. U's whereabouts at this late date.
I searched title records of property owners in the local Bay Area counties to see if I could find anyone with that name, but to no avail. The trail has gone cold.
I realize, given the number of years that have elapsed, I have no idea whether my Robert Usellis is "grass or sod," as my paternal grandmother liked to say. Although I remember him as a younger teacher during my adolescent years, he may well no longer reside at a deliverable address.
Nonetheless, I've decided my efforts have not been for naught. I realize it doesn't matter. And in observance of my Thanksgiving holiday, I've gone ahead and written Mr. U. my belated thank-you note:
Dear Mr. Usellis,
Thank you for your American history class of 1965. More importantly, thank you for your fury and disappointment, for your hopes and high expectations. But mostly, thank you for your eager readiness to rejoice and welcome a prodigal's return. It has served me well, and I am grateful for the brief time you were a part of a young man's journey, and subsequently in my lengthening of days.
Gratefully, and with my best wishes,
John Bennison, Cranbrook Class of ʻ66
I've dropped my note to Mr. U. in the mailbox with a "forever" postage stamp, using the following address: "Address Unknown." I figure it has nearly as good a chance getting delivered as Charlie and Gert's postcard. At this point, it is probably of little consequence.
This season perennially reminds us of the old but always relevant aphorism: It is better to give than to receive. As meaningful as it is to receive an expression of appreciation, it's even more important and meaningful to give one. However belated it may be, or whether it ever reaches its intended recipient, it can never be a misdirected gesture.
� Copyright 2013 John Bennison. Used with permission.
