A small white envelope was delivered to my mailbox a few weeks ago. I recognized the penmanship on its face right away — my mom's.
I wondered what she was sending. It wasn't my birthday. Not an anniversary. The envelope was so light, it was almost impossible that there'd be something inside it.
When I tore it open, I found a single faded Post-It note. It read, in slightly familiar, blue-inked cursive: "This coupon is good for the cleaning of one room of your choice by any one of your 3 children."
At the bottom, there was a handwritten line above the words "your sig." Which my mom had signed and dated: "P. Haugen 6/20."
It took me a good minute to realize that I was the author of the coupon, which I'd likely created sometime in the mid- to late- '80s. And that my mother was redeeming it. Now. Some 30-plus years later.
I texted my mom a picture of the coupon. "I need to check management's expiration policies," I typed.
"No expiration date," she replied. "I pick the pantry."
She was right about the expiration date. When I arrived in my hometown last week to make good on the decades-old offer, she showed me the worn envelope from which she'd pulled the coupon. Along with a collection of other Post-Its — like "Good for the practicing of any instrument (flute, piano or violin)" and "Good for bringing up all the dirty clothes from our rooms" — there was one slip that clearly stated the coupons never expire.
Still, though. I never would've predicted I'd someday be driving across the state to fulfill one of them. In 2020. At age 48.
But if that's what was going down, then I was going to do this thing right. I started by emptying every last item out of my parents' pantry, which also serves as a small appliance catch-all and storage room.
I filled their living room with crockpots and cutlery and cleaning supplies and cans of cream of mushroom soup and boxes of Minute Rice and a rogue coupon for Milk-Bone dog biscuits that expired in August 1992.
Once that was done, I painted the walls and shelves with paint leftover from the kitchen. And then, after the oscillating fan did its work for a few hours, I put everything back in — with modifications. Like the three opened bags of butterscotch chips that I combined into one. Or the four brown sugars that I streamlined to three.
"But I can soften it!" my mom protested as I made a case for tossing the opened package of brown sugar that I could've used to hammer in a nail.
"But you don't need to," I argued. "Because you already have THREE OTHER BAGS."
In the end, I think my parents were happy with how it turned out. And they should be, because it's really something to behold — a marvel of organization, if I do say so myself.
Which I did, repeatedly. Along with: "Where are you going? Are you putting something in the pantry?!" every time they headed down the hallway.
So it may be a while before I'm asked to return to practice my violin or deliver my dirty clothes.
I wondered what she was sending. It wasn't my birthday. Not an anniversary. The envelope was so light, it was almost impossible that there'd be something inside it.
When I tore it open, I found a single faded Post-It note. It read, in slightly familiar, blue-inked cursive: "This coupon is good for the cleaning of one room of your choice by any one of your 3 children."
At the bottom, there was a handwritten line above the words "your sig." Which my mom had signed and dated: "P. Haugen 6/20."
It took me a good minute to realize that I was the author of the coupon, which I'd likely created sometime in the mid- to late- '80s. And that my mother was redeeming it. Now. Some 30-plus years later.
I texted my mom a picture of the coupon. "I need to check management's expiration policies," I typed.
"No expiration date," she replied. "I pick the pantry."
She was right about the expiration date. When I arrived in my hometown last week to make good on the decades-old offer, she showed me the worn envelope from which she'd pulled the coupon. Along with a collection of other Post-Its — like "Good for the practicing of any instrument (flute, piano or violin)" and "Good for bringing up all the dirty clothes from our rooms" — there was one slip that clearly stated the coupons never expire.
Still, though. I never would've predicted I'd someday be driving across the state to fulfill one of them. In 2020. At age 48.
But if that's what was going down, then I was going to do this thing right. I started by emptying every last item out of my parents' pantry, which also serves as a small appliance catch-all and storage room.
I filled their living room with crockpots and cutlery and cleaning supplies and cans of cream of mushroom soup and boxes of Minute Rice and a rogue coupon for Milk-Bone dog biscuits that expired in August 1992.
Once that was done, I painted the walls and shelves with paint leftover from the kitchen. And then, after the oscillating fan did its work for a few hours, I put everything back in — with modifications. Like the three opened bags of butterscotch chips that I combined into one. Or the four brown sugars that I streamlined to three.
"But I can soften it!" my mom protested as I made a case for tossing the opened package of brown sugar that I could've used to hammer in a nail.
"But you don't need to," I argued. "Because you already have THREE OTHER BAGS."
In the end, I think my parents were happy with how it turned out. And they should be, because it's really something to behold — a marvel of organization, if I do say so myself.
Which I did, repeatedly. Along with: "Where are you going? Are you putting something in the pantry?!" every time they headed down the hallway.
So it may be a while before I'm asked to return to practice my violin or deliver my dirty clothes.