Gift giving has become a dying art, and it’s all because of gift cards. I’ve used them only reluctantly because I think they reduce gift-giving to a thoughtless ritual.
A thoughtful gift is a beautiful thing. For example, one Christmas I surprised my siblings with framed pictures of the dog we had as kids. I gave my wife her engagement ring by putting it in a Cracker Jack box. I even had Jay Leno send a buddy a birthday greeting. There’s true joy when you give someone a great present.
What about Kelsey? She’s a sweet girl I’ve known since she wore diapers. So, when she graduated from college a few years ago, I wanted to give her something special. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind as I sat in my office. However, once I got up from my desk, I saw the answer staring at me from the bookshelf – my signed copy of To Kill A Mockingbird.
Kelsey was a huge fan of Mockingbird, so I decided to get her an autographed copy. I drove to Harper Lee’s hometown of Monroeville, and picked one up easily. I knew she supplied her friends with autographed books to sell at their businesses. All I had to do was go down there and buy the perfect present.
But, to my dismay, I learned Harper Lee had stopped signing books! What now? Those gift cards were starting to look pretty good.
I reached out to a friend who lived there, and he gave me the bad news. Harper Lee was residing in an assisted living facility near Monroeville. Furthermore, she was using an assumed name, and taking no correspondence. Maybe my quest was over.
No. I remembered Bluto’s speech in “Animal House.” “Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell, no!” I pressed on.
I composed a letter to Harper Lee, which was intimidating because it was like writing to Mark Twain. The content and grammar had to be perfect. I’d hate to think that my request was shot down because I improperly used a semi-colon.
I was happy with the end result, especially the first paragraph, which touched every hot button she might have: the South, the University of Alabama, and her father. Here’s what I wrote:
Dear Ms. Lee,
My name is Joe Hobby. I am a proud Southerner, a graduate of the University of Alabama, and a big fan of your book. I want you to know that composing this letter has been difficult for me. Finally, I decided to follow my father’s advice when asking for a favor: be polite and to the point. Enclosed is a copy of your work. If it pleases you, would you autograph it and return it to me?
I finished my request, put the contents in an envelope, and mailed it. If the book came back unsigned, at least I knew that I tried to do something extraordinary for a special someone.
Two weeks later, I was in Kansas City taking an afternoon walk when my phone rang. It was my wife.
“The book’s back! What do you want me to do?” she asked excitedly.
I was surprised. Normally, she would already have filleted the envelope, spilled its contents, and called all of her friends to tell them what was inside. Then it would be posted on social media. She might’ve sent out smoke signals. Finally, she’d call me. However, I made her swear not to open the package if it arrived while I was gone.
But I couldn’t stand it either.
“Go ahead, open it.”
There was a short pause followed by a shriek. “She signed it!” Then she gasped and added, “It’s personalized to Kels!”
This was a bases loaded, walk-off homer in Yankee Stadium. I pumped my fist and yelled, terrorizing two joggers. I didn’t care. I had completed the quest.
Upon returning home, we compared the signatures in both books. They matched perfectly.
Kelsey and I met the following week. I gave her the book. She glanced at it, thanked me, and put it aside.
I spoke up. “Wait! Take a look in the back.” Kels opened the back cover, picked out the folded paper, and read my letter to Harper Lee.
“Now, check inside the front cover,” I said.
She flipped open the book. Her eyes met the signature. Then… silence. Finally, she looked up at me in disbelief and said, “How did you do this?”
I told her the entire story, then got the best hug ever.
Both of us got a gift to remember.
There was one final thing to do. I sent Harper Lee a heartfelt, hand-written thank-you note. I even held out a silly notion that she would respond to me and we would become pen pals. No such luck.
Maybe it was because I enclosed a WalMart gift card.
