Tag: Thank You

Acknowledgement and Thanks

People deserve to be thanked.

I wrote the thank-you notes following the funerals of each of my parents. In Mom’s case, I wrote them knowing that my Dad would almost certainly fail to do so, and that, even if he did, his handwriting was so execrable that no one would have been able to read them, anyway. But writing letters of appreciation for flowers and contributions was just one more small responsibility I could take from his bowed shoulders.

Eleven years later, on a rainy December afternoon, I wrote similar courteous messages to those who sent contributions and flowers in Dad’s memory. Penning the notes carefully in my clearest handwriting, trying over and over to achieve a slightly different manner of saying the same thing, I attempted to express that the cards, the flowers, the contributions, someone’s presence—all were appreciated. They helped. They proved to us that Dad was loved, thought of well; that his life meant something; that he would be missed. For two and a half hours I wrote; addressing and stamping and sealing envelopes, and finally delivering them to the post office. I found the action healing. It put a period to the long sentence of my Dad’s failing health, and to the difficulties and resentments one experiences as a caretaker, and that had been such a shock to my consciousness.

But that afternoon also made me think: think of the times that I, and others, had not received either acknowledgement or thanks in similar situations. I recalled one funeral in particular, that of Cathy, who had been a member of my “Monday Night Group”, a discussion and meditation forum that I’ve attended for years. I wrote a bit about Cathy’s passing in an earlier blog post (Cathy’s Roses, July 24, 2018). Her death in a car accident was shocking, devastating all of us who knew her. Cathy, who was energetic and dynamic, riding her bike everywhere. Cathy, who in her 70s had hooted off to Nepal one summer and provided massage therapy to a Sherpa’s wife; who trotted off to Mexico to have extensive dental work done on the cheap. Cathy, who said, “If you stop moving, you’re dead”—and then ended up on life support after the accident, life support that was discontinued when there was no hope. Cathy, lively, vigorous, and often tactless, who took in waifs and strays and gave them a place to live. It seemed impossible that she was gone.

Her family arranged a memorial service outdoors in a park on a stiflingly hot day in July, and many of us from the group attended. There, hearing from them about the time that she had planted 6,000 trees in a single season to help the environment, we of the Monday night group discovered the perfect way to memorialize our companion: we anted up funds to have several trees planted in her memory in a National Forest. Meanwhile, I personally, speaking with Cathy’s daughter, mentioned an incident that had occurred following her mother’s passing—a surprising occurrence that, her daughter agreed, could only have been her mother’s spirit, reaching out. I explained that I planned to memorialize her mother in a blog post, and promised to send her a hard copy once it was published. I also promised to send her Cathy’s Talking Stick—a branch, decorated with charms representing the deceased, that would be passed from person to person as we group members spoke a few words about her in our private memorial ceremony. The post soon appeared on this blog, and I duly sent Cathy’s daughter the promised copy; her mother’s Talking Stick was dispatched to her, also.

Months later, though, all of us, comparing notes, realized that no one had received any thanks. The group’s gift of trees in Cathy’s memory went unacknowledged; I’d received no response at all to the article in her mother’s remembrance, or the Talking Stick.

Sighing, we all agreed that receiving recognition was not why we had made the effort. We’d given our time and money and actions to honor Cathy, not to be thanked.

But now, having for the second time spent an afternoon writing appreciatively to those who acknowledged the life and passing of a parent, I believe that outlook is wrong. Granted, those who have lost a loved one (and, after two years of Covid, they number in the hundreds of thousands, and we are all, every one of us, weary of loss) are often numb, in shock, and painfully unable to fulfill societal expectations of courtesy and etiquette. Nevertheless, as I found, making such an effort is, in the end, healing. It benefits the one expressing thanks even more than the recipient. And, given that people grieve differently, while it need not be done immediately following the passing of a loved one, it does, after all, need to be done. People—friends, family members—deserve to be thanked. They are entitled to acknowledgement of their efforts to care for the bereaved in their time of sorrow.

Three years following Cathy’s passing, it’s safe to assume that such acknowledgement will never be made. And that is a travesty that can never now be remedied.

If you would like to know more about the Talking Stick ceremony, you can read, “Another Talking Stick”, which you can locate in the Archives dated December 10, 2017.

Apples of Gold

§   As the Thanksgiving holiday is fast approaching, I decided to re-run this essay, (originally posted on January 6, 2018), about the importance of thanking those who give to us.   §

“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver.”   Proverbs 25:11  KJV

I first read that proverb many years ago in a book of daily prayer, and it caught my imagination and lodged there. I visualized a tiny, beautifully-crafted, three-dimensional, 24-karat golden apple, suspended within a shining circlet of silver.

If I had start-up funds, I would produce a thousand such pendants, and around the edge of each silver circle would be inscribed the words, “Thank You”.

It strikes me that saying thank you, either in words or writing, is fast going the way of the dodo. I genuinely doubt that toddlers are taught these days to sing the little rhyme that small children of my generation sang repeatedly: There are two little magic words / that will open any door with ease / One little word is “thanks” / And the other little word is “please”.

Thinking on the lack of gratitude displayed by recipients today, I vividly recall the dismay that I felt, years ago, when a coworker for whom we’d given a baby shower came in the following week with a single thank-you card which she proceeded to hang on the office bulletin board. Thirty people had gone to a great deal of trouble for this woman: provided plenty of food and funds for decorations; bought and wrapped lovely gifts.  They had each individually done a good deal of work to make the event special for her.  Yet not one of them received, even verbally, personal thanks—merely a cheap card, without even a personal message–just quickly signed and stuck to a corkboard with a pushpin.

Years later, as I discussed this upsetting recollection with a friend, she related to me an even worse incident: A family had moved into the area, and one thoughtful neighbor had stopped by to welcome the newcomers to the neighborhood with a home-baked pie. Standing there on the doorstep with her offering in her hands and smiling words of welcome on her lips, she was told by the new neighbor, “Well, if I’d wanted a pie, I would have baked one!”

I’d barely recovered from my shock at this story when my friend went on to describe a further incident of rudeness in place of thanks and courtesy. Acting out of appreciation for several helpful things he’d done, she’d taken a loaf of home-baked bread to a neighbor.  Weeks later, not having heard even so much as what he thought of the bread, she innocently asked him if he’d enjoyed it.  “It was awfully dense,” was all he said to her.  Not, “Thanks, can’t remember the last time I had home-baked bread”, nor even, “It was nice of you to go to so much trouble.”  Just a criticism of the food’s texture.

These and a dozen other incidents are the reason that I feel saying “thank you” is, like so many other common courtesies, becoming a dying art. And that saddens me, for it speaks badly of our civilization as a whole.  If we cannot express gratitude to the giver, do we even truly experience feelings of appreciation?

I don’t give myself a free pass on this situation, either, for I know there are all too many times when I’ve forgotten to at least speak words of thanks. Those memories shame me.  But I have a few other recollections, perhaps balancing the shameful ones, in which I’ve gone the extra mile to thank someone.  I especially remember the time when my teenage daughter, driving home late at night with three friends in the car, was t-boned by a driver who ran a red light.  A witness to the accident not only called 911, but stopped and got out of his car to direct traffic around the accident scene until the police arrived.  He then provided the officer with a description of the accident, absolving my daughter of blame.

Days later when the police report became available, I found the name and address of the witness. I sat down immediately to write him a thank-you note for his actions, concluding my words with, “You helped keep those kids safe, and I’m so grateful”.

I hoped then, and still hope, that he felt he’d received an apple of gold in a setting of silver.

 

The Power of an Insincere Thank You

Justifying bad behavior is being wrong twice.

A while ago I was shopping at Super Big Evil Mart, and found myself enamored of a pretty knit top which I didn’t need, couldn’t afford, and knew I shouldn’t buy. So of course, seeing that there was only one in my size, I flung it into my cart and marched up to the checkout with it.

The line was long since (as usual) there were only perhaps three checkout lanes open of the twenty or so available. So I was dismayed when the clerk started to ring up my purchases and found the top had no price tag. Obviously irritated, she switched her lane light to strobe, hoping to attract a supervisor who could verify the price. Meanwhile, I turned to the lady in line behind me, and said abjectly, “I’m really sorry to hold you up.” The woman responded with an expressive lift of the eyebrows and quirk of her head which seemed the equivalent of a shrug–whereupon the teenage clerk, not quite sotto voce, remarked snippily, “Well, if you’d checked to see if the item had a price tag, you wouldn’t be holding everyone up!”

Expressive Eyebrow lady raised her brows even further, if that were possible. I’m certain my own eyebrows were riding at high tide, also. But I reined in my temper and just looked coolly at the young clerk, replying in saccharine tones, “Oh, thank you so much! There is nothing I appreciate more than being given life lessons by someone at least 40 years younger than I am!”

When my purchases had finally been rung up by the now-silent clerk, I smiled sweetly at her and said in a voice dripping sugar, “I’ll be sure to let your supervisor know all about your helpful advice! Thank you again!”

This wasn’t the first time I’d routed a clerk at the Super Big Evil Mart using the extraordinary power of an insincere thank you. A few years earlier, I’d strolled into the garden section in the very early spring. The main shelves were already full, but I didn’t see what I wanted there, and so wandered toward an opening between some pieces of clear vinyl sheeting hung from the ceiling. In a hazy sort of way, I thought they were hung there to keep chilly air of the still-raw weather from seeping into the main part of the store; there were certainly no signs or cones indicating that the section wasn’t yet open. But a middle-aged clerk, who certainly should have known better, charged down upon me, snarling loudly and angrily, “Hey, YOU! GET AWAY! That whole area’s still closed!” I pulled up short as commanded, and, placing a hand over my heart, replied, “Oh, I’m SO sorry! I didn’t realize that! And thank you for letting me know SO courteously! Thank you for saying, ‘Please be careful’. Thank you for saying ‘Ma’am’. Thank you for speaking to a customer with SUCH courtesy! ”

If looks were a box of matches, I’d have burst into flames on the spot. But there is simply very little response even the most obnoxious person can make to being thanked, however insincerely.

There are some who try, of course. Spluttering or muttering, they attempt to defend their execrable behavior. My standard response to such equivocation is to stare them down with X-ray eyes and snap out a snarky comment of my own: “Justifying bad behavior is being wrong twice!” Occasionally, too, the chided individual will simply mouth off an insult (i.e., “Bitch!”). This, of course, requires a return to childish rhetoric: while still evading an exchange volley of insults, I just grin and sing out, “Hey, takes one to know one!”

I’ve utilized the astounding force of an insincere thank-you when given unasked-for advice or when, as described above, I’ve been victimized by those in a service capacity; I’ve even used it, very carefully and in a modulated tone, when faced with a situation in which a stranger seemed murderously angry. I was known to exercise the gesture back when I was still employed, although in those situations, also, I dialed down the saccharine tones and gestures quite a bit. Insincere thanks have seen me through many a moment in which speaking my mind or responding with my true feelings could have produced awful results.

In a world of rising dissension, in which common courtesy has become so uncommon as to be notable, there is enormous strength in the words “thank you”, whether meant sincerely or otherwise. But for shutting down outright rudeness, there’s nothing quite like the power of an insincere thank you.