Author Archives: wendywelch

Got Postcards?

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Every once in awhile I ask blog readers for something. I try not to do it often, but it seems like a good reason this time; it’s for Jack.

So…. got postcards?

Jack and my friend Elizabeth (she’s in Little Bookstore) do prison visits, along with a few other Friends from the Quaker meeting at our bookstore. Each month they sit chatting with two or three federal prisoners who don’t have visitors for some reason. The prisoners have requested someone through the Prison Visiting Service, an ecumenical group.

Jack and E go out at 8 a.m. and return home about 1 p.m., drained. It’s hard to make these visits; I don’t go; I know my limits. Two weeks in and I’d be contacting lawyers and media, mounting campaigns to improve food, ensure funeral visits, all that stuff. I’m an empathic listener, internalizing everything.

Jack is not; he’s a smart, sympathetic listener with common sense. One man Jack visits was brought to America illegally as a seven-year-old, lived his life without papers and then, at the age of 32, was the passenger in a car stopped for running a red light. He’s doing six years. The other guy Jack visits has killed two people and stolen things. He’s doing life.

About ten days before their next visit, Elizabeth and Jack send prison-required postcards to their guys, telling them they’ll be there. The prisoners decorate their cells with these cards and trade duplicates with fellow inmates.

So…. if you have some cool postcards from your area, and it wouldn’t cost you much to slip half a dozen into an envelope, Jack and E and the other Quakers doing prison visits would get new views to send, and the guys would get cool cards to post on their wall. We’re running out of Wise County postcards.

We don’t know what it would cost those of you in Korea, Britain, and some other countries to mail six unused cards, so if it’s expensive, forget it and thanks anyway. American views from anyplace would be very appreciated, and if international posting can be done, yippee! Send them to 404 Clinton Ave E, Big Stone Gap, VA 24219. And thank you, on behalf of visitors and visitees alike.

Things not to do in a Small Town

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In a small town, you don’t flip anyone off for bad driving, ever. The other driver will guaranteed turn out to be your child’s Sunday School teacher, your dentist, or your boss’s spouse.

In a small town, you don’t announce on Facebook that you’ve been diagnosed as diabetic, then try to pick up cupcakes at the grocery deli. The clerk will refuse to sell them to you unless you can prove they’re for someone else’s birthday. And you can’t lie about the birthday, because the grocery deli women know EVERYONE’s birthdays. By heart.

In a small town, you can’t buy cheap wine as a gift. Everyone shops at the same wine store.

In a small town, when you admire clothing someone else is wearing, you don’t ask where they got it; you know it came from either the expensive boutique at the top of the hill, or the thrift store on the corner, because Walmart doesn’t sell it. So don’t ask.

In a small town, if you’ve already eaten when you realize you’ve forgotten your wallet, odds are good you’re going to know at least two other diners who will bail you out–just in case the restaurant owner won’t wait for you to pay next time you’re in.

In a small town, you don’t forget your wedding anniversary, since the local florist makes courtesy calls two weeks before.

In a small town, it is unwise to hold a yard sale. Everything you want to get rid of was a gift from someone else, who will attend or have a relative attending. This is why God invented eBay.

In a small town, walking for exercise requires prior planning; distributing a flyer before you start your new regimen can avoid hurt feelings later, when you wave your neighbors and fellow church members away as they stop to pick you up.

In a small town, when you hand the clerk a hundred dollar bill, she doesn’t stroke it with a counterfeit detection pen.  Instead she checks the serial number, laughs, and says, “Yep, ends in 003. I gave this to Judy at the diner last week.”

In a small town, you don’t lock your doors at night — except in August. That’s zucchini season.