By Sandra Snyder on 12/30/16
This one’s going out to my dear friend Wes, for years my mysterious pen/keyboard pal but now even better than that because we’ve actually had the chance to meet in person, at least three times to my recollection. 
I’ll admit part of me never really wanted to meet Wes, and I hope he doesn’t take that personally, but here was the thing: Any sort of mystery will always have a certain allure because mystery tends to feed the part of the brain that controls imagination. And I’ve always been and always will be a much bigger fan of that part than the part that controls, you know, reason and logic and all that silly stuff.
I first met Wes when he popped into my inbox at work one day a million years ago with something nice to say about something I’d written. Wish memory would serve up what exactly that was, but no matter. His message was short and sweet and his grammar and sentence structure beyond reproach, which impressed me. I wrote back — and not in an offhand hurry. Then he wrote back. Then I wrote back again (because what he’d written back required it). Then we just kept up all this writing back, usually on Mondays, and for weeks turned years. I’d write a column that appeared in Saturday’s paper, and by the time I arrived at work Monday there was often a message or a triggered memory from Wes. (Phones had no email then, if you can even fathom.)
So, yes, Wes and I pretty much got along quickly and famously, though we initially knew little more about each other than that I liked to write and he liked to read. That he liked to read what I liked to write made him one of my favorite people ever. As our e-chats branched out in various directions, I got to know him better and started to imagine things about the living, breathing Wes incarnate, such as hair color, eye color, stature, style. (If there was such thing as Google images at the time, it wasn’t very good at its job.)
Then one day, I got a call in the newsroom from the first-floor receptionist asking if I was available to come downstairs because a “Wes” was there to see me. A who!? A what!? Wes? That Wes? Well, this was unexpected. But, sure, I’ll come down. I think I had a pretty good sense at this point that Wes was anything but crazy. If he had chosen now to confirm that suspicion, then now was as good a time as any.
So down I went. Turns out Wes was fabulous. Even better than I’d imagined. Dignified and refined, for sure, but also humble and unassuming, deferential yet charming. He did not want to take up my time, he said, and he hoped I would forgive him the intrusion, but he was in town (from Florida, where he lives) for what I think was a funeral. And he happened to notice the newspaper building and thought he’d stop in and give it a shot.
So glad he did. We were both surprised in a grand way. Mystery gone? Maybe. But mystery was far outweighed by the whole value of that face-to-a-name business. So maybe he already technically at least had my face because every column has one accompanying it, but sometimes photographs lie. Apparently mine did a little. For some reason I clearly remember Wes telling me I was younger than he’d imagined. (Remember, this was a million years ago.) I thought it might be because I wasn’t wearing any makeup that day but decided not to mention that and just took his words as a compliment. (Then I took a mental note to get that column photo, which I’d never liked anyway, reshot.)
Our conversation that day lasted maybe two minutes tops, but, as you might guess, the e-mails continued into infinity, and with each passing year I became even more enriched by what I was learning from Wes, a learned man who I learned liked good books, good food, good wine, museums, history, culture, world travel, you name it. More like you name it, we talked about it. He also liked language. A lot. We quite often discussed the nuances of words and sentences. He shared his peeves, and I shared mine. One of his was “so fun,” as in “that was so fun; we ought to do it again.” He found the grammar at play distasteful, and I think of him every time I hear someone say that now. Not too long ago, he called to my attention that “happy belated birthday” also troubled his ears, because, after all, it’s the greeting that’s belated, not the birthday. So if you’re late with a wish, you really should say, “Belated happy birthday.”
He’s right. Wes is right about a lot of things.
And I came to appreciate ever more deeply that linguistic ear. We could go on for hours about redundancies (“revert back,” “the reason why is because,” “advance planning/warning,” “ATM machine,” “biography of one’s life,” “end result,” “frozen tundra,” “filled to capacity,” etc.) Yes, people, if you’re imagining we two would be a real hoot at parties, you might be right. But did I mention we both like wine? So, please, still invite us! We know when to shut up and sip, honestly.
We also talked about our families, our friends, and I felt as if I really was getting to know his — his children, his first wife (God rest her soul), who knitted me a blanket one Christmas. Seemed he was able to connect lots of things I’d written over the years to something someone in his family had experienced, and him telling me so became one of the best parts of my job. That’s testament to the incredibly connective power of words, even between two human beings who barely knew each other, in the strictest sense anyway.
Eventually, I had the pleasure of meeting Wes in person again. And then again, most recently accompanied by his beautiful and gracious new wife, who now tells me it’s my turn to travel to Florida, which, of course, is not a bad proposition.
I’m still learning new things today. Wes is a bit of a philanthropist, for one thing, and an unhesitating one at that. I know this because he has generously supported the charity for which I now work, and he was one of my most benevolent givers when I told him I needed to raise $1,000 for charity for the “privilege” of jumping — I’m sorry, rappelling — off a 14-story building this summer. He was one of the first to give — and the last. Yes, he gave twice.
Wes, you see, is quite simply the kind of man who will always give twice. Or three or 30 or seven or seventy times seven times. And not just of his money but of his entire person. He’s the kind of man who will pour himself out until empty, but he must be signed up for auto-refill because I have yet to see evidence of him empty.
Anyway, I know this is hard to believe, but when I started this missive, I intended to write a *brief* introduction of Wes, then share an old column in which one of his stories starred. But if ever there were a case where someone deserves more, here it is. That’s my excuse for all these words, anyway, and I’m sticking to it. Without further ado …
***
GOT DIRT? NOW YOU SEE IT, BUT MAYBE YOU DON’T.
Published Saturday, November 15, 2003. (When I looked so young! Thanks, Wes!)
AMONG LIFE’S LITTLE delights is when someone reads your words and drops you a line, something besides, “You idiot.”
Sometimes the message is so delightful it cries out for sharing. Too much cleaning is getting the best of me, I wrote. Which prompted area native and now Florida resident Wes Eustice, his “memory bank a spinning,” to e-mail an amen.
“My wife was, and still is, what I call a comfortable housekeeper,” he typed. “While not sanitized, our home was always clean and very comfortable. Her philosophy is, ‘If I can’t see it, it doesn’t require dusting.’
“Many, many years ago, when our children had not yet reached the age of 10, we had a kitchen light that was on a retractable cord. Sitting around the table one day, I looked up and saw dust on the edge of the dome. I pulled it down, and there, scrawled in previous dust was ‘Hi Mom 6/5/67.’
“Now this was at least a year later,” he continued. “My wife exclaimed, ‘Oh my God!’ Our daughter Ruth ran out of the house yelling, ‘I have to tell all the kids you found it!’
“Truth. Honest,” Wes assured.
But he needed not convince me.
In wine there is truth, and in dirt there is humor, though you might have to look closely for it.
Wink-nudge, Mrs. Eustice.
Dirty blinds vs. Peeping Toms
These days, dirty mini blinds are enemy No. 1. When I moved into my current residence, a set of blinds for each window topped my shopping list. I didn’t find them particularly attractive and much preferred the look of the pretty, paned windows they unfortunately obscured. Still, they were, at least then, the fashionable choice.
Six months or so later, with dust beginning to crust and fester on top of every slat, they disgusted me at every glance. They resisted my all-natural feather duster and my cleaner-soaked rags, and I’d swear I heard them cackle when I trotted out my new — and positively useless — handheld blind-cleaning tool.
Well, I showed them. Found the perfect way to “clean” ’em: Toss ’em in the Dumpster, never look back.
But my valances and balloon treatments now too spare, privacy — and how much was really necessary — was the point to ponder as I shopped for substitutes.
The newer, scalloped-edge fabric shades enticed, as did the bamboo-stick and rice-paper varieties. Budget-conscious, I settled for basic thermal panels, some patterned window film and even two “windows-in-a-bag,” one-piece panels and valance plus bonus tiebacks, which I only wish I could use.
Who cares? a friend asked. If they want to look in, let ’em. Be free.
I remain reluctant.
Wonder if those people realize they’re on display, my sister noted as we recently walked by a blind-free unit in an apartment complex, where, apparently, privacy was of far less concern.
Perhaps it’s the type of people we are, I think. Yet it seems more and more I’m walking or driving by homes with decidedly dressed-down windows, letting not only the sun shine in but the world see in.
What’s it all mean? Are we more proud of our home interiors? Less ashamed of our messes?
I’d love to hear your theories. And your window stories — whether you’ve come up with a most creative way to showcase them or scrawled an apologetic surrender in the dust.
###
Fast-forward almost 14 years to almost-2017. I still despise mini-blinds for how dusty they get. And I can’t believe I ever thought window film was a worthy product.
And, funny thing, but I’m also STILL wondering about curtains or lack thereof. In fact, I just commissioned two replacement windows in my kitchen and left them bare, on purpose, liking the look AND all the light. Then one day my dear mother stopped over with something while I was at work. Let’s just say she didn’t like the look. Or all the light, which she called absolutely blinding. So she called me to say so, to ask whose idea this was and let me know it wasn’t a good one. Plus, she said, all the light shows all the dust!
Well now. I grumbled and groused. I told her it was MY idea. And I didn’t have time to debate it now. But thanks for calling and catch you later, good woman who gave me life.
Stewed all the way home I did. She just wasn’t up to date with the styles, said I to myself. It’s a generational thing. The curtainless windows were staying, and she’ll just not have to come by during the brightest 20 minutes of the day, gosh darn it then!
But yeah, no.
Then when I got home, I got on target.com and ordered curtains, sheers, to be more precise. With fun little cherry trees that look a bit like Christmas trees all over them. I tied one side back with burlap ribbon and let the other hang free. There, Mom, see how stubborn I am? I texted her a picture. Made her so proud.
It’s a nice look, if I’m honest, a finished look. Helps me make my peace with the already dusty brand-new windows, too. Maybe I’ll go ahead and scroll a message to a visiting mom behind those cute curtains and see how long it takes her to spot it.
#Sucharebel
~ SJS (AMDG)
“Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world, whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.” ~ Lord Byron
by SANDRA SNYDER 