In the realm of social propriety, one is allowed certain lapses of time and judgement. One of the most forgiving rules is that of the wedding gift. You see, there have evolved so many different concepts of "correctness" around wedding gifts that almost anything goes. Nice Southern people believe that wedding gifts should be something beautiful; practical Northerners think they should be something useful. In many cases both beautiful and useful things are inherited or, in modern days, already owned since both parties have lived independently for several years. Tradition dictates that the gift should be sent, well before the Big Day, to the bride's parents' home. This has long since ceased to be even amusing, much less practical, since it is likely now that the bride's parents live in Richmond, the groom's parents in New Orleans, and the couple themselves in Savannah. One rule has held fast, thankfully: that one has a year after the wedding day to decently offer a present to the happy pair. I have invoked this repeatedly for a variety of reasons--either I don't have any idea what to get them, or the bride's pattern was discontinued in 1928, or I was completely broke when they got married, or there aren't any damned department stores left. In at least one case, I owe people a wedding present who are now pushing their tenth anniversary. (These people know that I'll get around to it; but as they're neither sticklers for convention nor silverholics, they're probably less bothered than I am.)

Convention is not so kind regarding correspondence. One must be prompt with it. I bemoan the death of RSVP -- everyone puts that little tag line on invitations, but no one feels compelled to actually respond. (If you don't, and you get to the party and there's not enough food for you, it's your fault, not the host's!) The minute you hear of a death, be it from a family member or the newspaper, hie yourself to your writing desk and send a note--please, not a sympathy card; they're trite and Hallmark makes enough money from Mother's Day. And thank-you notes? Gone the way of the dodo, it seems. I do still know a few nice people who actually write out their bread-and-butter notes before the party happens, so that they can drop them in the mailbox on the way home. If there is one thing that my mother drove home with a double-barrelled Manhattan, it was the need to send a thank-you note every time somebody did so much as tip his hat to me.

Thus, I am appalled at my own recent discrepancy, because I did not send a thank-you note to someone who gave me a very nice gift indeed. This person will hopefully read this (she does, periodically) , recognize my fault and hopefully forgive the gaffe.

The gift in question was a little checkbook cover. I had been griping for some time about checkbook covers; I wanted one of those nice leather ones with gilt edges that would look very official and important on my desk. This one was better.

It features old postcard views of Richmond. Now, every time I pay the bills or even dash off a twelve-dollar check to the grocery store, I can see pictures of my favorite city in her heyday. Here are the famous Broad Street theatres; and there the beautiful Hotel Richmond--as much as I love the Hotel Jefferson, the Richmond is my not-so-secret favorite. And right there on the front of the book is Richmond's Fashion Center--none other than Thalhimer Bros., the big department store that I once loved so well and (and which, for an all too short time, wrote me a paycheck). I wish that I were writing checks to Thalhimers, even now.

So, Lisa, my apologies for not writing the thank-you note. Every time I sit down to my desk I will be able to see pictures of the lovely city that I would like to call home--and will think of the wonderful people who live there, too.