Poscrossing Project connects the world

I registered for the Postcrossing project on April 25th, 2011. For those unfamiliar with the topic, here’s a brief explanation.

The goal of the Postcrossing project is to allow anyone to send and receive postcards from all over the world! The idea is simple: for each postcard you send, you will receive one back from a random postcrosser from somewhere in the world.

Receiving postcards from different places in the world (many of which you probably have never heard of!) can turn your mailbox into a box of surprises — and who wouldn’t like that?

Fourteen years later, I have nearly 1000 postcards from all over the world and ten times more blank cards for sending. Every trip and travel ends up in buying postcards and stamps. I have friends and paypals, long letters and short messages, all from my dear Postcrossing friends.

I even wrote a story about postcards. And how much of it is true, I will let you decide, dear reader.

Emily Carr Said, “Hello”

Lynn Lakes was born with Sjogren’s disease, known as dry eye syndrome. His mom figured it out when he was only four months old. But it was too late to change Lynn, which meant “lake” in Welsh, to another name. And now, here he was – the boy named Lake Lakes, who had no water to give and no tears to shed.

Lynn never cried. Even when he was little and scraped his knee playing football or when the family dog passed away. He sobbed, whimpered, and let heavy breaths escape his chest, but no tears came out—only moist eyes that didn’t let the tears to spill over. He trained himself to stretch his lips into a rubber smile and release a sad chuckle.

He didn’t cry when he was denied a student loan.

He didn’t cry when he got kicked out of the dorm.

He didn’t cry when he failed his critical thinking class.

He smiled and chuckled. He found a second job, moved into Granny’s tiny house, and enrolled in the summer semester to retake the class. He wasn’t ready to give up, even if he never shed a tear in his eighteen years. He kept going.

The second time, the critical thinking class was easy. Lynn passed two quizzes and turned in his final presentation about Greek philosophers. A B+ would do.

“I want you to turn your critical thinking on and listen to this article. Ready? ‘The study of postcards is known as deltiology, and they are often collected as souvenirs, mementos or historical records.’ ”

On the last day of class, Lynn only half-listened to the teacher’s explanation. His evening shift at Chili’s started at 4 p.m., and he would have to run to catch the bus.

The teacher kept reading about postcard collecting as a satisfying hobby that had become less popular since the era of electronics and cell phones took over. Lynn perked up his ears when he heard about the postcard mailed from the doomed liner ‘Titanic’ in 1914 and sold at London’s private auction for $10,500.

Could a postcard be that expensive? No way.

“When cleaning your grandma’s attic, think again before dumping old postcards into the garbage. You may find next semester’s college tuition.”

He didn’t remember how he finished his shift at work or who gave him a ride home. He only hoped that Granny was still awake. She was.

“Granny, how was your day? Do you have any postcards?”

“Why would I have postcards? I use my smartphone to send any pictures I want.”

“No, Granny, I mean old postcards from the times when people still wrote letters and sent postcards to each other. Before smartphones.”

Granny laughed. Despite her age, she laughed like a young woman.

“My parents traveled quite a bit after they retired. And my mother was quite a writer. She sent me postcards from every country they visited. I still have them.”

She went to her bedroom and returned with a shoe box. Inside were her keepsakes – Mother’s Day cards from now-grown kids, old movie tickets, and a pile of postcards wrapped with a pink ribbon. She took the ribbon off and passed postcards one by one to Lynn.

“This is from Devonshire in England. This one is from Zurich. This is from Malta. This one is from the Royal Cruise Line. Our trip to Hawaii. Oh, this one is my favorite.”

The postcard had a picture of a tall cathedral with stained glass, and something written in German on the front. On the back was a colorful stamp with the words “Deutsche Bundespost” and Granny’s house address downtown. The postcard read:

“Dear Margaret. We are doing three weeks in Europe. First, we had a week in Milan, then Vienna, and now we are in Cologne. We will celebrate my birthday in Amsterdam and then go home. We are getting plenty of exercise walking these cobblestone streets. Love you, Mom and Dad.”

The dates on the postcards varied from 1986 to 1993. Lynn thought a twenty-year-old postcard was too young to be vintage or have any significant value.

“Did you travel with them?”

“No, I was raising kids, working, keeping your grandpa out of trouble. You know how he was.”

Lynn didn’t remember his grandfather, but Mom said he was a failed inventor and a significant money spender. Granny sighed.

“I always wanted to go on an Alaskan cruise. But, you know, life got in the way. First kids, then no money, now bad health.” She patted her lame leg.

“People travel in wheelchairs these days,” said Lynn.

“I know, dear boy. But someone has to push that chair.”

“I will.”

“I know you would.” Granny patted Lynn’s arm. “Go to bed. It is late.”

The following Saturday, Lynn mowed the lawn and was sweeping broken branches from the driveway when Granny called him from the porch.

“Lynn, come here. I just remembered something.”

Lynn put the lawnmower away and washed his hands.

“My mother and dad traveled a lot, but her mother, my grandma, was a homebody. I have some of her belongings in the attic. You can check if she had any postcards.”

Lynn’s heart jumped. That would be his great-great-grandmother, and the cards would be over a century old.

“What was her name?” asked Lynn.

“Cordelia. Cordelia Perkins,” said Granny.

The attic was dusty and smelled of mice droppings. Lynn had never been inside before. He only took the Christmas tree down and shoved it back after the holidays. This time, he used the ladder from the garage and put a bandana over his face.

“Look for a wooden chest. I remember seeing it once,” called Granny from the bottom of the stairs.

Lynn turned on his cell phone flashlight and carefully stepped on the squeaky floor. A scared bird fluttered her wings and disappeared under a roof beam. Lynn’s cell phone light cut through the darkness and shone on the old picture frames, fake leather suitcases, and piles of books chewed on by those obnoxious mice. A dark wooden chest with a flat top in the farthest corner looked heavy and ancient. The brass padlock served only as decoration. Lynn kicked it several times, and the rusted metal fell to the floor.

Lynn wiped off the layer of dust with an old scarf he found nearby, kneeled, and pulled the bandana off his face.

“Calm down and don’t get your hopes up. No treasure hunters get the jackpot on their first try,” he told himself.

But deep inside, he believed in beginner’s luck, synchronicity, and the Universe listening to a stubborn heart. He lifted the chest’s top.

Sneaky dust found its way inside the trunk, but fortunately, the mice hadn’t. Lynn found a stack of yellow-paged magazines and books, a silky dress, a shapeless women’s purse, and a box wrapped in color-faded lace with old envelopes, letters, stationery, and (bless you, Great-great-grandma) a few postcards.

With trembling hands, he picked up the postcards.

A postcard from London, England, dated 1899.

A postcard from St. Ives, Cornwall, England, dated 1905.

A postcard from Paris, France, dated 1910.

A postcard from Vancouver, Canada, dated 1912.

A postcard from Montreal, Canada, dated 1928.

The sloppy writing on the backs of all the postcards began with the same phrase: “Hello from Emily.”

The last item in the box was a piece of cardboard turned into a handmade postcard with pretty forest scenery painted in watercolor. A curving river weaved through tall trees. Dark green colors were still vibrant despite spending decades in the trunk. Lynn turned the card to find a Canadian one-cent stamp, his Granny’s address, and sweeping handwriting.

“Hello from Emily.

Dear Cordelia,

Alice and I are living in style now. Woo learned how to serve tea and greet visitors at the door. I created quite a scandal by putting him in the pram and rolling into the Empress Hotel for a cocktail party with town officials.

I paint a lot. What about you? I wish you would visit us.

Love, Emily.

May 23, 1940.”

Who was Woo? A baby competent enough to serve tea? A magical dwarf who fit into a baby pram and opened doors? Maybe Granny remembered something.

Lynn grabbed all the items from the chest and brought them to Granny’s living room.

“Did you find anything interesting?” asked Granny, shuffling behind Lynn and leaning on her walking stick.

“Granny, do you know who Emily was to your grandmother? And Woo?”

“No, dear boy. Grandma Cordelia died a year after I was born. So, I don’t know much about her. I know she went to the San Francisco Art Institute. But we don’t have any of her artwork. I don’t even know if she was good. Did you find the postcards?”

“Yes, I found a few. I’m going to check online if they’re worth anything. We could get lucky and start the vacation fund for your Alaskan cruise.”

Granny laughed her youthful laugh. “That would be great. But first, we must put you through school and pay for the summer semester.”

* * *

That summer, Lynn worked the night shift at the new eBay office in Draper. He could’ve gotten an accounting position, but chose to be a call center representative to avoid tempting management opportunities. The night shifts gave him more time to search the internet and sell the things from the chest.

He opened an eBay account in Granny’s name, which, he learned later, was the best decision of his eBay career. The old books and magazines from the chest made him $540.He opened a separate bank account and named it “Alaska Fund.” But the postcards were less profitable than he expected. He sold those five postcards for $100, not even close to the Titanic card.

Lynn kept the painted postcard from Emily as a bookmark in his creative thinking textbook. He wondered about mischievous Emily and mysterious Woo and their connection to his great-great-grandmother. He loved the vibrant green and blue colors of the postcard’s landscape.

Finding great-great-grandmother’s belongings in the attic piqued his curiosity about vintage items. Every Saturday, Lynn roamed neighborhood garage sales. He got himself a beat-up 1985 Oldsmobile Chevrolet to ensure he visited as many yard sales as possible.

He learned that after the yard sale hours ended, the owners would often pile the boxes of unsold items on the curb, letting anyone take them for free. Some owners dumped the boxes later, but many took them to the DI, a thrift shop.

Since Lynn couldn’t cover all the garage sales in town, those shops were his next fishing ponds for lucky finds. The thrift shops took Mondays off, but Tuesdays, a stampede of treasure hunters like Lynn stormed in the front doors like shoppers at Walmart on Black Friday. Lynn was always there and knew which department to run to: books and unique items in the locked glass closets.

Lynn searched out estate sales, organized by families or caretakers who didn’t want their deceased relative’s useless treasures, and were eager to sell the house. The estate sales were massive, highly attended, and had cheap, and often valuable items. Lynn trained his eye on the old items and became an expert bargainer.

“How much do you want for these pieces of metal?” asked Lynn, pointing to a couple of candleholders.

“Five bucks each,” replied a busy owner.

“I’ll pay three for both,” said Lynn, knowing he would sell each for $50 under the 19th-century vintage bronze candelabra category.

Lynn collected anything vintage, from books to stationery, silverware to thimbles. He always shrugged his shoulders at the piles of yard sale clothes, old and new, not knowing what to do with them.

All of that changed when he met Brooke.

“Attending financial classes is obligatory for all employees,” announced Lynn’s manager. “We can adjust your schedule so you can take morning classes.”

To save on gas, Lynn took the train from downtown to Draper. That morning, the train was a few minutes off schedule, and Lynn was late for the first class. He hated being late. The eBay learning center, with its rows of theater-style built-in seats and tables, reminded Lynn of a college auditorium. He snuck into the auditorium and sat beside a young blond girl, skinny as a stick and dressed in an old-fashioned lace blouse and jeans with holes.

“What did I miss?”  Lynn whispered to her.

“Not much, just the introductions and class schedule,” she replied in a low voice.

“I’m Lynn, by the way. Call center.”

“Brooke. Shipping department.”

Brooke’s car keys sat on the desk, and Lynn noticed a rabbit foot and a bread clip charm.

“What’s this for?”  he motioned to the flat white piece of plastic.

Brooke gave him a half smile, took the keys, and put them in her purse.

“That’s for me to know and for you to figure out.”

Oh, he would figure it out. He would Google it later on his way back, the downtown train had free Wi-Fi.

But for now, they both sat still watching the introduction video. On the screen, a group of about a hundred people of different professions stood on the open floor: teachers, doctors, managers, engineers, janitors, servers, and receptionists. The speaker asked anyone who’d ever had a million dollars to step forward. About fifty people took a step. His next instruction: “Take a step forward if you inherited the money.” About ten people took another step.

The final request made Lynn raise his eyebrows. “Take two steps forward if you still have a million dollars in your account.”

Almost everyone who inherited the money stayed in the same place, but the other forty took two steps ahead.

The next video showed a gray-bearded man with light-weight glasses and a welcoming smile. Dave Ramsey, a financial coach, guru, and millionaire, promised he’d teach the eBay employees how to get out of debt and make money by developing everyday money-saving habits.

* * *

On his way back, Lynn googled “25 ways to use bread clips” on his phone and learned that the simple bread clip was a real life hack. That flat piece of plastic could repair broken flip-flops, scrape the crud off nonstick pans, serve as an earbud tamer and a label for cords or keys, and hold together socks, rubber bands, hair ties, or other easily lost items.. In the next class, Lynn brought a bread clip painted as a gingerbread man and handed it to Brooke. She laughed and agreed to see a movie with Lynn on Saturday evening.

The financial class took the whole summer. Lynn and Brooke sat together every time and soon earned the nickname “BrookeLynn” for being inseparable. Neither had ever been to the Big Apple, but they accepted their new name and called themselves New Yorkers.

The clothes Brooke wore were different from store-bought mass-production outfits–patched skirts, authentic lace sewn to modern T-shirts, bell-bottom jeans, and flowery ‘60s dresses. One day, she came wearing white shorts and a dark gray T-shirt with the phrase, “Hey, baby, let’s talk trash. Recycling vintage. It’s the new sexy.”

Lynn’s heart jumped when he read “vintage.” He hadn’t revealed to Brooke why he could never go to Saturday morning activities or picnics.

“Hey, Brooke, I was going to ask if you make your clothes yourself. They are very pretty, but I need help picking up the style. Anime? Renaissance? Vintage?”

“Yeah, you can call it vintage. I like sewing. I shop at DI and yard sales and make my outfits out of pre-owned clothes. At first, I did it because it was cheaper than buying new clothes or fabric. Now, I like it and the way it created my unique style.”

Lynn nodded, took a few deep breaths, and asked, “Would you like to go with me to the real estate sales in Murray this Saturday? I’ll drive and buy us lunch later.”

She smiled and said, “Yes.” Her keychain held the gingerbread man bread clip instead of the plain white one.

They spent the following Saturday together, rummaging through piles of junk for sale and bargaining for the old items they found and liked. Brooke bought a plastic bag full of vintage lace for $3 and two pairs of jeans, a dollar for each. Lynn found a few books in German published in 1912 and a family of bronze mice for $4. They laughed, joked, and made faces at each other while trying on old Halloween hats. Lynn never imagined the yard sales he loved so much could be so much better with her.

Later, sharing lunch at Knickerbockers Deli, Lynn asked his girlfriend, “What do you think of Dave Ramsey’s financial classes?”

Brooke finished her sandwich and munched on potato chips.

“I think, with the right approach, his program should work. I’m only eighteen and don’t have any major debts besides student loans.” She paused. “I want to be a millionaire like those people in the video. Do you think I could do it?”

Lynn pushed his red basket aside. While wiping his hands off with a napkin, his thoughts raced.

Brooke had the same ambitious idea he had. She was good at sewing vintage clothes. She had thrifty habits and cool life hacks. She was friendly and cute. Her name meant “water” in old English. And Lynn liked her a lot.

He touched her hand resting on the table and, stuttering a bit, said, “Yes, I believe you can.” He blushed but didn’t take his hand away and asked his next question, “Would you like to make a million together?”

It was the most unromantic proposal in the history of lame proposals. Lynn promised himself that if she said “yes,” he would make it up to her with romantic stuff later. He held his breath.

Brooke smiled and said, “How about two million?”

* * *

When Lynn asked Brooke about her family in Idaho, she shook her head and said she had none.

“My uncle, who raised me, never really cared, and only needed an extra pair of hands for the farm. I took the first bus to Salt Lake after my high school graduation. I never belonged anywhere and never had a place to land. So, there will be no guests for the wedding from Idaho.”

They went to the courthouse for the civil ceremony. Brooke’s wedding dress, adorned by vintage lace, was beautiful. Granny and a few friends from eBay showed up for the luncheon later.

Brooke moved in with Lynn and Granny, sharing their tiny house downtown. Brooke and Granny hit it off right away.

“I’m so happy to have another girl in the house,” joked Granny. She taught Brooke how to crochet and make soup out of garden vegetables.

Lynn made a goal to never repeat his grandfather’s mistakes: no crazy projects or unnecessary spending. Both Brooke and Lynn agreed to thrifty living rules. Granny didn’t have a choice. Her bum leg worsened over the years, and the wheelchair was a safe harbor where she read, watched TV, and crocheted or peeled potatoes for dinner.

Lynn and Brooke saved money anywhere they could. They dried out wet kitchen paper towels. They re-cast soap slivers into a new soap bar. They washed Ziplock bags. They used LED light bulbs and air-dried clothes. They unplugged electric appliances. They bought perennial flowers. They used the $5 Meal plan and meal prepped. They canceled cable and other subscriptions. They bought glasses for Granny online. They fitted plastic grocery bags for the garbage can. They adjusted the thermostat a few degrees lower in the winter, wearing sweaters in the house during cold days.

Clipping coupons from the free ads and magazines became Brooke’s specialty. She became the coupon queen. For her birthday, Lynn gave her the book “Pick Another Checkout Lane, Honey: Learn Coupon Strategies to Save $1000s at the Grocery Store.” She loved it and read it from cover to cover, applying all the hacks she learned.

Brooke’s love for sewing came in handy when vintage clothing became a new sustainable fashion. Environmentalists chose vintage outfits for eco-friendly reasons. Brooke chose it to make extra money by reusing pre-loved and old pieces of clothing. Her online shop “Brooke’s Eco-Fashion Emporium” took off in only a few months. She left her job at the eBay shipping department.

Lynn never re-applied for the accounting job at eBay. He stayed at the call center. He put his head down, learned, absorbed, and became a skilled and valuable employee. After a few years, he applied for the Risk Policy Implementation Specialist position and got it. The closed door of his office allowed him to spend a few hours a day managing his drop shipping business.

Starting with the eBay account under Granny’s name, he acquired Amazon, Etsy, Facebook Marketplace, and Craigslist accounts. His motto, “Buy low and sell high,” worked like a charm. They earned over $3,000 in the first month and put it into a savings account.

Their old house didn’t have a garage, and Lynn’s old Oldsmobile sat on the driveway all year round. The boxes with items for sale slowly filled the basement, then Lynn and Brooke’s bedroom, the attic, the living room, then it crawled into the kitchen and living room, making it hard for Granny’s wheelchair to get around.

She needed strength to roll it down the streets, and Lynn was busy with his drop shipping business. She stayed home a lot. They didn’t talk about the Alaskan cruise anymore, and Lynn almost forgot how Granny’s youthful laughter sounded.

As far as Lynn’s promise of romance, it didn’t stretch further than free summer concerts in the park and a Tuesday $5 movie night once a month with plastic bags of popped-at-home popcorn.

* * *

They made their first million dollars by twenty-two and decided to keep going.

Two more things happened that year.

In July, Granny died, quietly sitting in her chair, holding bright yellow yarn in her wrinkled hands. In her bedroom, Lynn found a white envelope addressed to him. The letter from Granny was short.

“Dear Lynn. I love you very much and am grateful for all the years you cared for me, our house, and our yard. But I was hoping you could also care about yourself and Brooke. You work too much; you rest too little.

Remember how I told you about my parents, your great-grandparents, traveling everywhere? They only regretted that they hadn’t started doing it earlier.

Please, don’t regret it. You cannot have all the money in the world. Live your life now. Really live it.

And, please, take good care of Brooke.

Always yours, Granny.”

Lynn chuckled and wiped his dry eyes. The pang of regret for not spending more time with Granny should’ve brought some tears to Lynn’s eyes. But nothing came. His heart felt like there should be some today. Even a drop would count. But there were none.

In August, a real estate agent approached Lynn on behalf of an anonymous philanthropist who wanted to buy Granny’s house and turn it into a vintage cottage for dress-up parties. Lynn hesitated, but Brooke was excited about possibly moving.

“We can finally have a bigger house, Lynn. We can get one in Draper, closer to your work, and we will have more space for our drop shipping business.”

“But I thought you liked it here,” replied Lynn.

“I do. But this place is Granny’s. It won’t be the same without her. I want a fresh start. I want a place I can call mine, somewhere I belong.”

Lynn said, “Let me think about it,’ but didn’t call the agent. He wanted more space for their businesses, but taking money out of their account to invest in the new house and furniture would be necessary. They wouldn’t be millionaires anymore.

Lynn read Granny’s letter over and over, and in September, he took ten days of vacation and bought two tickets on an Alaskan cruise. Well, it was an inner cabin without a balcony or window, but you only sleep there, right?

* * *

The cruise ship arrived in British Columbia in the evening. Lynn booked the shortest and cheapest excursion Canadian land could offer, “The City Lights,” for two hours. The double-decker city bus drove through the dark city lit by lamp posts and huge house windows.

The tour guide told stories about famous architects, the gold rush times, and a famous painter who left thousands of sketches, paintings, and murals. Her work was placed in museums and private collections.

Lynn only half-listened as he always did. He didn’t buy an internet package for the cruise and, now using bus Wi-Fi, checked his current eBay sales.135 packages in 7 days. They would be busy when they got home.

He perked his head up when he heard the name Woo. Where had he heard that name before? Was it someone of Asian origin from work? Was it one of his frequent clients?

The tour guide continued her story: “Finally, Emily trained her monkey to serve tea and open the door for visitors. But Emily’s favorite trick was dressing up Woo as a baby, putting him inside the baby stroller, and rolling around the city. When strangers stopped them to compliment the baby, they were shocked to see the grinning monkey inside. That tells you something about Emily’s cruel sense of humor.”

Emily. Tea. Door. Woo. Now he remembered that text on the old handmade postcard from his great-great-grandmother’s chest. Instead of the stroller, the sender used the old-fashioned word “pram.” Could it be the same Emily? Where did he last see that card?

The tour guide’s voice continued over the speakers, “Today, Emily Carr is a well-recognized worldwide painter and Canadian icon. Emily’s paintings from the last decade of her life were dedicated to the impact of deforestation by the Canadian industry on the British Columbia landscape. Environmentalist and indigenous people protector, she always loved nature.”

Emily Carr? He’d never heard that name. Lynn opened the browser and typed “Emily Carr paintings,” then switched the view to images.

The prettiest paintings of forests, nature at different seasons, totem poles, and majestic trees flooded the screen, just like on that piece of cardboard that Lynn used as a bookmark for his creative thinking class.

Lynn listened carefully to the tour guide’s story, hanging on every word.

“The British Columbia Archives holds Emily’s records, photographs, and drawings. However, the most significant collection of her early work is still sitting in some attics and drawers around Canada. Emily religiously sent her drawings as postcards to her friends and family, who laughed and discarded them. Now, those postcards are worth millions of dollars. And not Canadian dollars. American dollars.”

The tour guide’s last sentences hit Lynn like a sucker punch.

Lynn’s chest tightened, and heat flushed through his body. Did they just get rich? Like a million dollars richer? He dreamt of hitting the jackpot selling vintage items, searching estate sales, and rummaging through trunks in old houses, while that treasure card was there all along. But where was it now? And why did he never check the card out or even try an image search on Google? The last time he used that piece of cardboard as a bookmark for his creative thinking class was the summer that changed his life.

“Brooke,” Lynn turned to his wife, who was snapping pictures of the night city through the bus window. “Do you know where the box with my old textbooks went?”

“College textbooks? The living room got too cluttered, and I gave the Salvation Army a few bags of old clothes. Your textbooks were part of the donation. Don’t worry; I checked online before giving them away. They were worthless. The edition was too old…”

He was still looking at Brooke, but he didn’t hear her anymore. A storm of feelings and emotions swept through his body.

For four years, he searched for something special, a golden goose, and it was always at home, in his textbook, just within an arm’s reach. He had the postcard, and now he didn’t.

He knew that the landscape card painted by Emily Carr would outbid the “Titanic” card a few dozen times over.

Granny passed away without fulfilling her dream of cruising to Alaska. Lynn’s dream of finding something rare and valuable dissipated with a donation box to the Salvation Army. But Brooke’s dream was still on the table.

Something hot and wet rolled down Lynn’s cheek. He touched his face to find a drop of water. He lifted his eyes, expecting a leaking pipe or condensation in the hot bus, and realized it was his first tear in a lifetime. An absolutely real tear ran down from his dry as desert sand eyes. Lynn rubbed his face and looked at his moist fingers. The tear dried out fast. But he believed if his eyes produced one tear, the rest would come, too.

He turned to Brooke.

“You know, darling, I think we should sell Granny’s house and move to Draper. You need more space for ‘Brooke’s Eco-Fashion Emporium.’ You need a place where you belong.”

# # #