Opening the mail became a special event in my Dad’s later years. He would carefully slice open an envelope, study the plea, and write a check.
Every month he’d send back several $15 checks.
“Dad, why don’t you pick one charity and give it most of your donation budget?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I like my way better.” And he connected with many charities that way.
But the backlash came after he passed. Not only did these organizations spend more than $15 a year to get more money from Dad, they sometimes sold their lists to others.
My parents had their mail delivered to their house and I was surprised their mailman didn’t lodge claims of back injury from hauling the daily pile of envelopes.
While my mom was able, she went through the mail, but after her stroke, I got the duty.
I’ve spent months now returning requests with a request: “Deceased. Please remove.”
Some have faded; some haven’t.
All that paper in the trash can sometimes saddens me. I wish Dad had picked his favorite and poured his heart into that one.
But I will admit this: the avalanche of envelopes is a hassle to go through, however, all those requests are a frequent reminder and a sweet monument to my Dad’s tender heart.