Bob Driver sig (new)

If you occasionally wonder what life is all about, just try opening a pile of a week's mail after you've neglected it. Your responses may reveal some of your daily or lifetime attitudes. Here are a few of mine.

Wounded American Warriors has sent me a supply of holiday cards, with the hope I'll make a contribution. Which I will. It won't be large, but neither is my bank account. The WAW people are men and women who risked their lives for the USA and have the scars to show for it.

Project Hope asks me for help in fighting the coronavirus epidemic. A good beginning will be for most of us to stay close to home during the holidays.

The Goodyear people, along with their Exxon and Mobil affiliates, are offering me a new credit card worth up to $2,250 in future purchases. I will pass.

The Week magazine reminds me that my subscription needs renewing. I'll gladly do so, even though its per-issue cost is twice what it was just a few years ago. The Week keeps me plugged into national and world news better than any other publication I can name. It does so without favoring the left, the right, or any other belief system. Just the facts, ma'am.

On the other hand, the New York Review of Books doesn't retain much of my loyalty, after a year of reading it. I can't go on telling myself that someday I will gladly take the time to wade through 4,000-word reviews of books that — while I'm sure have some merit — are often dedicated to extended commentaries on persons or events that really don't interest me.

I hark back several decades to The Saturday Review of Literature. It was a smaller, well-edited and well-written magazine that left me with the feeling that I didn't need a Ph.D. in Obscure Writings to understand it. I can't remember when the Saturday Review died, but I wish it were back on the newsstands today.

Mr. Cooper, a financial firm, holds the mortgage on my condo home, and tells me so by mail each month. The balance data assure me of my immortality — i.e., I will be 231 years old by the time I completely own my home. You're all invited to my mortgage-burning party.

Covenant House, as far as I can determine, is one or more children's refuges based in Washington, D.C. Its literature describes its work and its need for contributions, but it says little about its origins, history, affiliations and governance. I plan to consult Wikipedia for this information.

Heart to Home Meals of Marlborough, Mass., will furnish customers seven dishes for only $49, at least on the first purchase. The meals on their display card look wonderful and will be delivered to customers' homes. I'll keep this advertisement in my files for the day that my own cooking finally gags me.

The Mayo Clinic Health Letter wants me to extend my subscription, and I may just do it. The publication really covers the grounds of better health and medical research, especially for old-timers. However, I have over-scribed to other respected medical publications, to the point that I read only a small percentage of their advisories, thus threatening my chances of ever reaching age 90. Which happened, mostly by accident, a few weeks ago.

Enough of this rambling. Earlier today I vowed to produce a column about any topic except politics or pandemics. I have succeeded by writing 500 words, mostly about my incoming mail. Wow. Some days my creativity — or lack of it — astounds me.

Bob Driver's email address is