WRY BREAD: A Slice of My Life in Pursuit of Dough

Dear Bill Clinton, My Mother Regrets to Inform You That There Are No Checkbooks in Heaven

By Gail Harlow

           My mother got a letter from Bill Clinton the other day. “Dear Nina, “ he began, “I hope you and your family are doing well. It’s been a long time since I wrote to you last. . . .” He was writing to update her on his, and Hillary’s and Chelsea’s activities since they moved out of the White House (perhaps because he knows of my mother’s love for animals, he didn’t mention Buddy the dog's sad passing), and to ask for her continued generous support of the Democratic National Committee “at this critical time. Your dedication and support motivated me throughout my Presidency—and continue to inspire me today,” he wrote.

            My mother’s dedication and support motivated me throughout my growing-up years, and my memories of the smart, resilient, funny, warm-hearted and generous woman that she was continue to inspire me today. Like Bill Clinton, there are days when I wish that she were still here to offer me monetary support. But my mother died two years ago, and there are no checkbooks in heaven.

            As executor of my mother’s estate, I still get her mail—which is somewhat of a mixed blessing. Early on, these missives were sharp reminders of what I had so recently lost. And many of the envelopes were bills relating to the estate, which I had to pay.  Grief and money intertwined. Now, though, when I see her mail mixed in with my own daily quota of bills, solicitations and catalogues, they seem like little “Love you, my darling daughter” notes. They remind me of the Hallmark cards she would send from time to time just to let me know that she was thinking about me. I half expect, one of these days, to receive a postcard from her, out of the blue: “Dear Lali, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here!”

            The mail that my mother gets runs a comical gamut. In the last two months, she has received an offer to renew her Reader’s Digest subscription (at a very attractive three-year rate) and an appeal to renew her New Yorker subscription. The New Yorker seems to think that she spells her name “Nika.” No respect for the dead! The American Cancer Society has sent her an opportunity to contribute to its 2002 annual fund. Do they somehow know that my mother died of cancer and hope that whoever receives the solicitation will contribute again in her memory? (Checks were sent to them in her name in lieu of flowers when she died, after all, and there is no end to the ways that databases can be manipulated to target prospects.) The retired military officer’s association that my parents belonged to mailed her a ballot so that she can vote on its new name. They want to remove the word “retired” from its title. I suspect, from her current vantage point, that she’d get a laugh out of that.

             Most puzzling and intriguing of all is the newsletter sent to my mother from a nonprofit organization called “Transport for Christ.” It’s called “Open Road” and appears to be aimed at those who seek to convert truck drivers who have strayed from the straight and narrow path.  Its “driving force” is spreading the Gospel, and its stated mission is “winning truck drivers to Jesus Christ.” My mother was an extremely spiritual woman, but organized religion was not her cup of tea.  Nor did she frequent truck stops—though I can picture her holding forth at one, regaling truckers and waitresses alike with fascinating stories of the many roads she traveled and making everyone laugh. How she got on their mailing list is a mystery that I suppose I will never solve.

            All of this makes me wonder: is there method to their madness when corporations, politicians and charities  “sell to the dead’?  How long does it take organizations to purge their databases of “dead” or inactive names?  Could they purposely be retaining those names, hoping that someone at the other end will not be able to ignore their message? Is this “selling to the dead” a conscious part of the American marketing machine—using the most emotional of connections to appeal for donations—or just an ironic accident? When do they stop trying to get money out of you?  Giving my cynical streak a rest, I am willing to accept that most of these appeals that keep on coming in the hope that someone will keep on giving are unintentional. And I have to admit that when the trickle of mail that I get for my mother dries up, I will miss it.  Still, I’ve gotta wonder. . .

            The Democratic National Committee is my mother’s most faithful and ardent suitor. Not content to rely on Bill’s persuasive charms, they have sent numerous solicitations, including autographed photos and flag decals, to win her back into their fold. Their latest mailing includes a birthday card, which they have asked Mom to sign and send to Bill, with a check, in honor of his 56^th birthday on August 19. I may send a check to Bill in memory of my mother, in honor of his birthday, because I know that, like me, she believed passionately in the social principles that the liberal Democrats of the ‘60s stood for. And because I know that giving money to the causes that you belief in is one way to begin to make a small difference in the world.

            But, from here on out, the truckers are on their own.

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Gail Harlow is the founding editor of MAKING BREAD: The Magazine for Women Who Need Dough. E-mail her with your comments at gail@makingbreadmagazine.com .

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