Every December, I think about sending out our annual holiday letter. I say "think about" because we haven't actually sent out a holiday letter in decades. I know this because we still have some first-class stamps from the last time we sent out a letter (or maybe we didn't send a letter that year either), and they are worth 22 cents.
The trouble is that when I sit down to write, our "news" seems so boring. We've had a good year at work (sort of), we're all in good health (mostly), and we love you all (yes). When something really unusual happens, I'm too busy dealing with it to write about it, and when I have time to write about it, it's no longer news.
So what I really want to do is write a holiday letter about 2009. That was a year that was! The exciting part began in February, when my husband had routine surgery. His reaction to the medications was not routine, however, and he spent much of the next few weeks in the hospital.
By the time he recovered, we had to cancel our plans to drive to Tucson to celebrate my aunt's 100th birthday. Then, we went to a fundraiser and won the raffle: Two tickets on Southwest Airlines to anywhere they flew, like Tucson. We had a wonderful time celebrating and came home happy.
That mood lasted until June when Albany had torrential rains. We weren't worried though. We had installed a backcheck valve on our sewer line. Around midnight, we heard strange sounds in the cellar. Helplessly, we watched as 34 inches of filthy sewer water poured in. The backcheck valve had failed. We spent weeks hauling waterlogged stuff to the curb.
Precisely a month later, we were awakened by a police officer asking, "Do you own a Lincoln Continental?"
"Yes, it's right over there...," my husband's voice failed as we saw the empty space in the driveway. We learned that our car was currently under a fence in another part of town. The police impounded it to search for evidence.
When they finished, our insurance company arranged to inspect the car at the garage.
A few days later we got a call from our insurance agent. "Have you talked to Jake?" she asked.
"No," my husband replied, "who is Jake?"
"Jake from the garage. You'd better give him a call," she replied.
"Oh, Mr. Leet," said the man at the garage. "I'm so sorry. It never should have happened."
"What happened?" my husband asked.
"It's all our fault. We want to make it right," the man replied.
"WHAT HAPPENED?"
"Well, we're really sorry, but the car crusher came on Monday and — your car got crushed by mistake." (Go ahead and laugh; everybody else has.)
"YOU WHAT?"
"We crushed your car. But to make it right, I have $125 here on my desk. Come on over and pick it up."
"For my Lincoln Continental?"
"Well, you'll have to agree it's not worth much as a car anymore, but you can get $125 right away."
"I'm not doing anything until I talk to my agent," my husband said.
"Well, if that's how you feel," the man at the garage replied and hung up.
The insurance company totaled the car and gave us book value, minus $125 for its scrap value.
So that was the year that was. Since then, family ups and downs have stayed within the normal range.
Still, we probably should send out a holiday letter. I'll have to buy more stamps of course. But now they're "forever."
Edith Leet is a freelance writer and editor in Albany. She can be reached at edith.leet@outlook.com.