Who ordered these magazines

Just Passing Through

My neighbor Wanda June slumped onto the kitchen stool and lay her head on the counter.

“Three trees fell in a wood, and no one heard — except me and the mailman,” she moaned.

Wanda June is rather poetic, and so I am used to these moments of Shakespearian tragedy. You see, she never actually graduated with her degree in English literature, but she did take three-and-a-half courses before her plans were altered by an extended maternity leave back in the 1960s.

I got her a cup of coffee and a small slice of peach pie. I sat down across from her and gave her a minute to compose herself. The aroma of warm helped. I refilled my cup and got myself some pie. This was going to be a tough one.

“I didn’t go to the mailbox yesterday,” she explained. “So when I went this morning, it was jammed full.”

She saw the sad look in my eyes and explained, “Oh, no, not bills — magazines and catalogs.” According to Wanda June, every year when the leaves start to turn and the days cool, she starts to receive catalogs. She’s gotten used to actually ordering from some of the catalogs. Like cute little puzzles for the grandchildren, silly ties for her husband, Leonard, and a couple of things from the center of one catalog that she didn’t really order, but got the numbers mixed up.

“The mailman hasn’t looked at me the same since,” she said. “I buried that package in the bottom of the garbage, wrapped in three newspapers, and an air-tight plastic bag.”

I had seen those catalogues with cookie cutters in the front and “secret stuff” hidden under the folds in the mid-section. But this wasn’t Wanda June’s worry at the moment. For, in addition to the six Christmas catalogs, Wanda June had nine new magazine subscriptions, all in her name, for at least six months. Of course, Gentleman’s Quarterly and Golf Digest were obviously mistakes. Leonard hadn’t seen a golf club since he borrowed one to get that dead kitten out of the sewer line ten years ago. And fashion to Leonard meant wearing matching socks to church.

Wanda June pulled a paper sack from the floor and plopped it on the counter. Six new magazines, some sealed to prevent perfume leak. Most were featuring very unhappy young women on the covers. The few that weren’t fashion magazines were foody publications, touting lovely concoctions of hummus, quinoa and bitter herbs. Wanda June was taking it personally. I assured her that I, nor any other neighbors or relatives, was planning an intervention. We loved her just the way she was, and we had not ordered her a years’ subscription to Vogue to make her lovelier.

“I just hate the number of trees that are being sacrificed for “beauty,” she said. I told her that someone was buying the shoes, purses, and underwear featured in those magazines. If not, how would those companies pay for the ads. After all, that’s the only source of money for the publishers. Wanda June and I certainly were not buying subscriptions.

After a little more pie, and another trip through the ads, Wanda June said she was going home to talk it over with Leonard. If he was the one sending in the subscriptions, she was going to tell his doctor.